PREFACE

My father’s plan ofThe Life of David Belascowas communicated, in detail, by him to me. He realized that whenever he might die he was certain to leave much work undone. He hoped and expected, however, to live long enough to complete this book. It was in his mind to the very end. The last entry in his “Journal” refers to it: “June. Saturday, 2. Cloudy and gloomy. Worked all day on the Memoir.” He spoke of it often during his agonized final illness. The last words he ever wrote are a part of it. I have, as well as I could, finished it for him, according to his plan, because I know that he wished me to do so.

This book was planned by Mr. Winter in 1913, as part of a comprehensive record of the American Stage which he purposed to write. Other kindred projects which he then had in view and on which he labored much include revised and augmented editions of hisLife and Art of Edwin BoothandLife and Art of Joseph Jefferson;joint biographies ofHenry IrvingandEllen Terry,and an encyclopedical work to be calledAlms for Oblivion,in which he intended to gather a vast mass of miscellaneous material relative to the Theatre. He also had in contemplation aLife of Augustin Daly,but he abandoned it because his friend the late Joseph Francis Daly (Augustin’s brother) had undertaken and in large part written a biography of that great theatrical manager and extraordinary man. All those projects languished because of lack of money: such books as those by William Winter issued since 1908 are, in every way, so costly to make that little commercial profit can be derived from them.

David Belasco, however, is the most conspicuous figure in the contemporary Theatre: his career has been long, picturesque, adventurous, and brilliant: “the present eye praises the present object,” and it was deemed certain that an authenticLifeof that singular, romantic person would prove remunerative as well as interesting, instructive, and valuable. In September, 1913, accordingly,—soon after Mr. Winter’sThe Wallet of Timehad been brought out,—I was, as his agent, easily able to make for him very advantageous arrangements for the publication of such a work,—first to be passed through a prominent magazine, as a serial, and then to be issued in book form. Mr. Winter was much pleased and encouraged by this arrangement, and he had begun togather and shape material forThe Life of David Belascowhen announcement was made that Mr. Belasco was writing and would presently publish, inHearst’s Magazine,anAutobiography.My father had met with a similar experience in 1893, when Jefferson’sAutobiography,published as a serial inThe Century,forestalled his authoritativeLifeof that great actor, rendering it, monetarily, almost profitless, and, therefore, he deemed it wise to lay aside this book.

Belasco’sThe Story of My Lifewas publishedinHearst’s Magazine,March, 1914, to December, 1915,—but, though it preëmpted the magazine field and made a work therein by my father impossible, it proved wholly inadequate and unreliable as a biography. In September, 1916, however,—soon afterShakespeare on the Stage—Third Serieshad been published,—Mr. Winter decided that the time was propitious for him to take up again the present Memoir, and, his publishers agreeing with him, he engaged to do so. He was then ill and weak; but he earnestly desired to work till the last, to be always doing, to overcome every obstacle by the force of his indomitable will, and, whatever he might suffer, never to yield or break under the pressure of adverse circumstance or the burden of age.

About the end of October, 1916, accordingly, he began the actual writing of this Memoir, and,although repeatedly urged by me to desist, he continued in it almost to the last day of his life. “I might better be dead,” he once exclaimed, “than to sit idle! I must go on: I must work at something: if it were not at this, it would be at something else. Moreover, I will not be beaten by anything: I will make this book the best thing of the kind I have ever yet done.”

If he had lived he would have done so; but his spirit was greater than his strength. When death came to him unconnected sections of this book, amounting to about three-fifths of the matter contained in Volume One and about one-third of that contained in Volume Two, were in type, awaiting his revision. Much of the remainder was in manuscript—some parts of it practically completed, some of it more or less roughly drafted. My task has been, substantially, to supply some dates, to fill some blanks, and to edit, coördinate, and join the material left by my father. That task I have performed with reverence and care, and if the errors and defects in this work—which I hope are few—be recognized as mine, and the merits and beauties in it—which I know to be many—be recognized as his, then the responsibility of authorship will be rightly divided.

Mr. Winter was of many moods,—and, when possible, he wrought at his writing as he felt inclined. That is the reason why some passages in this bookwhich stand near to its close were finished and polished by him, while others, much earlier, were left incomplete or isolated. The subject of The Theatrical Syndicate, for example, was thoroughly familiar to him, and he wrote the section devoted to that subject in intervals of his restudy of “The Return of Peter Grimm,” a play about which he had written, for this book, little but rough notes when the end came (I have, herein, reprinted his criticism of that play previously recorded in another place). The last passage in the text on which he worked is that treating of “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” He brought the revised manuscript of that passage to me on the afternoon of June 2 and asked me to type it for him, saying: “I like the earnestness of it, and if you will make a fair copy for me I will go over it once more in the morning and dismiss it: I am too tired to go on to-day.” On June 3, 4, and 5, although suffering acutely, he insisted on rising, each day, and attempted to work, but was unable to do so. On the morning of June 5 he was forced to take to his bed. That was the beginning of the end.

My father died on June 30, 1917. The direct cause of his death was uræmic poisoning, sequent on angina pectoris. His personal reticence was extreme; he disliked strangers about him and depended on me; it was, therefore, my very great privilege to wait on and nurse him in his finalsickness. His suffering was indescribable and was exceeded only by his invariable patience and gentleness. The last thing he ever wrote was the Dedication of this book. At about eleven o’clock on the night of June 9 he endeavored to compose himself to sleep. I sat at the door of his bedroom until about midnight, when, as it was obvious that he could not sleep and that he was in terrible distress, I went to him. The next two hours were specially hard: there is little that can be done in such circumstances but to hope for the release of death. Anybody who has seen and heard the piteous restlessness and the dreadful, strangulated breathing characteristic of such a condition as my father’s then was is not likely to forget them. At about two o’clock in the morning, his breathing and his pulse both being so bad that I believed he was then to die, he asked to be helped out of bed into a chair. I lifted him into one, and, after a little while, he asked, with much difficulty, “Is there paper—pencil, here?” Supposing that he wished to write some request or message that he was not able to speak, I immediately gave him a pad of paper and a pencil. He sat for a few minutes with them in his lap, gathering his strength. Then he took them up and slowly, painfully, wrote the Dedication of this book, all except the four lines of verse with which it ends. He made a mark beneath the text and wrote there “Four lines of verse—not finished yet.” Awhile later he seemed to grow easier and presently asked to be got back to bed. The next day, June 10, in the forenoon, he asked me to help him to dress, which I did: it was the last time he ever had his clothes on. He read for a little while in one of his favorite books, Boswell’s “Life of Johnson,”—the passage relative to the execution of Dr. Dodd. He presently spoke to me, in his old, gentle, whimsical way, of “the touching resignation shown in Johnson’s letter to the fact that Dodd was going to be hanged.” Then, after an interval of acute and dreadful distress, he spoke of his illness. He said: “It is my principleto go on.I felt that I was going to die last night,—that’s why I wrote the Dedication to the ’Belasco.’ I feared I should die before I could complete that work and the three other books I have undertaken. But my principle is to go on: to hold on, till the end—and then, still hold on!I do not mean to break. But I am very sick.” Soon afterward he became so weak that it was necessary to get his clothes off and lift him back to bed. In the afternoon he roused himself again,—rising above the tide of poison which was slowly submerging him, as visibly as a drowning man rises in water,—and asked for the Dedication, which I had typewritten. He sat up in bed and revised it, as it now stands, and then added the four lines of verse. Although he had been suffering horribly for days he made but one mistake in writing the Dedication: he wrote “useless” instead of “useful“—and was much vexed with himself for doing so. In the last line of the verse he first wrote “boy”; in the evening he changed that word to “son.”

Among the manuscript notes left by my father I have found the beginning of aPrefaceto this book, which I think it desirable to print here because it gives in his words some intimation of his purpose and feeling in undertaking the writing of it:

David Belasco is the leading theatrical manager in the United States; the manager from whom it is reasonable to expect that the most of achievement can proceed that will be advantageous to the Stage, as an institution, and to the welfare of the Public to which that institution is essential and precious. I have long believed that a truthful, comprehensive, minute narrative of his career,—which has been one of much vicissitude and interest,—ought to be written now, while he is still living and working, when perhaps it may augment his prosperity, cheer his mind, and stimulate his ambition to undertake new tasks and gain new honors. In that belief I have written this book, not as a panegyric, but as a Memoir.

IN MEMORIAM“Earthly FameIs fortune’s frail dependent; yet there livesA Judge, who, as man claims by merit, gives:To whose all-pondering mind a noble aim,Faithfully kept, is as a noble deed;In whose pure sight all virtue doth succeed.”—Wordsworthphotograph by I. Almstaedt, Staten Island.Son of Jefferson Winter.

IN MEMORIAM

“Earthly FameIs fortune’s frail dependent; yet there livesA Judge, who, as man claims by merit, gives:To whose all-pondering mind a noble aim,Faithfully kept, is as a noble deed;In whose pure sight all virtue doth succeed.”—Wordsworth

photograph by I. Almstaedt, Staten Island.Son of Jefferson Winter.

David Belasco and William Winter were friends for thirty-odd years. They did not always agree as to the course which should be followed in theatrical management; but their disagreements on that subject, such as they were, never estranged them nor lessened their mutual sympathetic understanding, respect, and regard. Belasco, undoubtedly, is what my father called him, “the last of the real managers,” the heir of all the theatric ages in America that have been led by Dunlap, Caldwell, Gilfert, Wood, the Wallacks, Booth, McCullough, Ford, Palmer, and Daly, and it is fitting that hisLifeshould have been written by the one man in all the world best qualified to perform the task. Belasco’s feeling about the matter, at once modest and appreciative, is shown in a letter from which I quote the following:

(David Belasco to William Winter.)

October 18, 1916.My dear William Winter:—I am greatly honored to know that you are really going to write the history of my life! I will not say “It is an honor that I dreamed not of,” because Ihavedreamed of it. But I never thought you would really undertake it. Of course I will, as you ask, very gladly doanythingandeverythingI can to assist you.But though my life has not been altogether an easy or uneventful one, in all sincerity I can hardly think of it asworthy of your brilliant pen. Yet you know how I have always looked up to you, and so you will know how much this means to me and how much I appreciate it. And because “I hold every man a debtor to his profession” I am more than delighted that you think the public will be interested in the life of a theatrical manager,—and that manager me. If only I had been able to do all that I wanted to, then there would have been a career worthy even of your pen.It pleases me so much whenever there comes a real, worthwhile tribute to the profession I adore—the Stage! It is great and wonderful to think that my name is to be written in the records of the American Theatre by you: that hereafter the name of Belasco (just a stroller from California in the dear old days of the pioneers) will be found written by you along with the names of those who made our Theatrepossibleas well as great. I mean the men and women who gave my profession of their best—long, arduous, weary years of hard, hard work, at the sacrifice of personal comfort; who studied and toiled and played their parts uncomplainingly night after night in the changing bills; the friends who were never too tired to learn something; who lived simply and poorly and yet had the courage to marry and bring up their children and give the Stage a new generation; the friends who found joy in the few hours they held sacred in the home—often a barren room or two. Beautiful! Those are the boys and girls I love—our pioneers. What pathetic figures—what noble examples many of them were! Such men and women I reverence—I salute them! And I thank you for the compliment you pay me, as a humble follower of the Theatre, when you write my name with theirs.... We must meet soon and have good, long talks about the golden days in California,—myCalifornia.FactsI can give you: exactdatesI will not promise. I have never kept a “Diary.”... As far as I possibly can I will make my convenience to suit yours....Faithfully,David Belasco.

October 18, 1916.

My dear William Winter:—

I am greatly honored to know that you are really going to write the history of my life! I will not say “It is an honor that I dreamed not of,” because Ihavedreamed of it. But I never thought you would really undertake it. Of course I will, as you ask, very gladly doanythingandeverythingI can to assist you.

But though my life has not been altogether an easy or uneventful one, in all sincerity I can hardly think of it asworthy of your brilliant pen. Yet you know how I have always looked up to you, and so you will know how much this means to me and how much I appreciate it. And because “I hold every man a debtor to his profession” I am more than delighted that you think the public will be interested in the life of a theatrical manager,—and that manager me. If only I had been able to do all that I wanted to, then there would have been a career worthy even of your pen.

It pleases me so much whenever there comes a real, worthwhile tribute to the profession I adore—the Stage! It is great and wonderful to think that my name is to be written in the records of the American Theatre by you: that hereafter the name of Belasco (just a stroller from California in the dear old days of the pioneers) will be found written by you along with the names of those who made our Theatrepossibleas well as great. I mean the men and women who gave my profession of their best—long, arduous, weary years of hard, hard work, at the sacrifice of personal comfort; who studied and toiled and played their parts uncomplainingly night after night in the changing bills; the friends who were never too tired to learn something; who lived simply and poorly and yet had the courage to marry and bring up their children and give the Stage a new generation; the friends who found joy in the few hours they held sacred in the home—often a barren room or two. Beautiful! Those are the boys and girls I love—our pioneers. What pathetic figures—what noble examples many of them were! Such men and women I reverence—I salute them! And I thank you for the compliment you pay me, as a humble follower of the Theatre, when you write my name with theirs.... We must meet soon and have good, long talks about the golden days in California,—myCalifornia.FactsI can give you: exactdatesI will not promise. I have never kept a “Diary.”... As far as I possibly can I will make my convenience to suit yours....

Faithfully,David Belasco.

Many readers may suppose, because Belasco is still living and at the zenith of his career, that it was an easy task to compile and arrange a complete record of his life. The truth is far otherwise. There was once a vast amount of invaluable material for such a record,—comprising a copy of every programme in which his name appeared from 1871 to the end of the theatrical season of 1897-’98, together with every important article about him or his work in the same period, several scores of photographs of him in dramatic characters and many hundreds of interesting letters. But that unique collection, the property and pride of his mother, was destroyed in the great San Francisco earthquake-fire, April 18, 1906; and his dubiosity about exact dates proved to be more than justified. The comprehensive and authoritative Chronology of Belasco’s life which is included in this Memoir is, therefore, chiefly the product of Mr. Winter’s indefatigable, patient original research and labor: such parts of it as were not made by him were made entirely according to his plan and by his direction, specifying the sources of information to be consulted. And I would specially emphasize the fact that wherever this Memoir may be found to differfrom, or conflict with, other accounts of Belasco’s career those other accounts are erroneous.

The letters which appear in this Memoir were all selected by my father,—excepting a few of his, toward the end, which I have inserted. Mr. Winter requested Belasco to chose from his collection such letters as he would permit to be used, but received from him a reply in which he writes:

... I would be glad to go through my letters for you, as you requested, if I could; but the fact is I am so over-worked just now that I simply can’t take the time to do it. I am, therefore, sending over to you eight or nine old letter-books of mine and two boxes of old letters. I really don’t knowwhatis in them (for I haven’t looked at them for years), but I hope you will be able to find something useful and such as you want among them. If not, let me know and I will send over some more. All the other material you ask for in the list which Jefferson left at the theatre last week was destroyed in the [San Francisco] fire.... I don’t believe there are twelve pictures of me “in character” in existence. I had dozens made when I was young, but I don’t know of anybody who has any to-day, except my wife. She has a set of, I think, six, which I will ask her to lend us....

In assembling originals for pictorial illustration of this work I have been specially aided by Mr. Belasco, who has not only loaned me everything in his own collection for which I have asked but has also obtainedfor my use many photographs in the Albert Davis Collection, as well as the six very interesting and now, I believe, unique pictures of him, preserved by Mrs. Belasco, in the characters ofHamlet, Marc Antony, King Louis the Eleventh, Uncle Tom, Fagin,andRobert Macaire.For photographs of members of the Theatrical Syndicate I am indebted to my father’s friend and mine, Louis V. De Foe, Esq., of New York. My father was not altogether satisfied with the illustrations of his other books: every effort has been made to embellish this one as nearly as possible in the manner in which he would have had it done.

On behalf of my father and in accordance with a written note found among his papers I would here make grateful acknowledgment of the courtesy of Mr. Belasco’s sister, Mrs. Sarah Mayer; his brother, Mr. Frederick Belasco, and his nephew, Mr. E. B. Mayer, all of San Francisco, who endeavored to answer many inquiries by Mr. Winter and who were able to provide some necessary corroboration of details. Also, I would make acknowledgment of the obliging kindness shown him by the late James Louis Gillis (1857-1917), Librarian of the California State Library at Sacramento, and by his assistants, unknown, who searched for Mr. Winter various old California newspaper files which, otherwise, might have remained inaccessible.

For myself, I owe thanks to Mr. Gillis’ successor as State Librarian of California, Milton J. Ferguson, Esq.; to William Seymour, Esq., to James A. Madison, Esq., and to the several members of Mr. Belasco’s personal staff,—all of whom have assisted me in verifying for my father casts of plays long ago forgotten and in supplying or verifying dates. I wish, also, to thank Captain Joseph H. Coit, formerly Vice-President and manager of Moffat, Yard & Company,—now, I believe, on service somewhere in France,—without whose coöperation this work, perhaps, might not have been undertaken.

To Mr. Belasco I owe a debt of lasting gratitude—not only for his unquestioning, instant compliance with every request I have ventured to make of him, but far more for his simple, hearty sympathy in affliction and his great personal kindness, which is not less valued because I know that, primarily, it has been inspired by his reverence and affection for my father.

The Indices to this work I am chiefly responsible for. They have been prepared on the model of others made under my father’s direction and in large part by him: many of the biographical facts given in them were set down for the purpose by him. I trust that they will be found accurate and useful.

The delay in publishing this work has been due inpart to ill-health which compelled me long to neglect it; in part to technical and mechanical difficulties and mischances in its manufacture. I surmise that notwithstanding the great care which has been exercised some minor errors and slips will be found to have crept into this edition:[A]if any are observed I shall be glad to have them brought to my attention in order that they may be corrected in future issues.

Jefferson Winter.

46 Winter Avenue, New Brighton,Staten Island, New York.June 30, 1918.

THE LIFE OF DAVID BELASCO.

David Belasco, one of the most singular, characteristic, picturesque, and influential persons who have participated in the theatrical movement in America, is descended from an old Portuguese Hebrew family (the name of which was originally pronounced “Valasco”), members of which emigrated from Portugal to England in the reign of the Portuguese King Emanuel the First (1495-1521), at one time in which reign the Jews in Portugal were cruelly persecuted, so that all of them who could do so fled from that country. His father, Humphrey Abraham Belasco, was a native of England, born in London, December 26, 1830. His mother, whose maiden name was Reina Martin, was also of English nativity, born in London, April 24, 1830. Both were Jews. They were poor and their social position was humble. The father’s occupation was that of a harlequin. He was proficient in his calling and he pursued it successfully at various London theatres, but he did not find it remunerative. He wished to improve his condition, and affected, as many others were, by the “gold fever,”—which broke out and soon became epidemic after the discoveries of gold in California (1842-1848), and was almost everywhere acute during 1849 and the early fifties,—he determined to seek his fortune in that apparent Eldorado. This determination was approved by his wife, who, like himself, was a person of strong character and adventurous spirit, and, accordingly, in 1852-’53, they voyaged, in a sailing vessel, to Aspinwall (now Colon), crossed the isthmus to Panama, and went thence, by another sailing vessel, to San Francisco, California, arriving there almost destitute. Their first lodging was in a house, long ago destroyed, in Howard Street, where, in a room in a cellar, July 25, 1853, occurred the birth of their first child, David Belasco, the subject of this Memoir.

The residence of those adventurers in San Francisco continued for several years, Humphrey Belasco keeping a general shop and moderately prospering as a tradesman, but about the beginning of 1858 they migrated (travelling by sailing vessel) to the coast town of Victoria, then a trading post of the Hudson’s Bay Company,—later (1862)

From an old photograph.Belasco’s Collection.THE INFANT BELASCO AND HIS PARENTS, 1854Inscription:“Father and Mother andMe—during myfirst starringengagement.—D. B.”

From an old photograph.Belasco’s Collection.

THE INFANT BELASCO AND HIS PARENTS, 1854

Inscription:“Father and Mother andMe—during myfirst starringengagement.—D. B.”

Inscription:

“Father and Mother andMe—during myfirst starringengagement.—D. B.”

incorporated a city. There Humphrey Belasco continued in business, as a dealer in tobacco, fur, and other commodities, trading with miners and Indian hunters and trappers, and also he dabbled in real estate speculation and took part in mining operations, joining a party that explored the Cariboo Mines region. He was not fortunate in his real estate and mining ventures, nor did he specially prosper in trade,—though, as Macaulay says of Richardson, the novelist, “he kept his shop and his shop kept him.[B]” Humphrey Belasco is mentioned, in a record of that place, as keeping a tobacco shop there, in Yates Street, in 1862. He remained in Victoria for about seven years, and there three of his children were born: Israel, July 25, 1861; Frederick, June 25, 1862, and Walter, January 1, 1864. The elder Belasco was a social favorite, and so considerable was his popularity that he was more than once asked to accept public office,—a distinction which he declined. He is remembered as a modest, lovable person, genial in feeling and manner, a pleasant companion and a clever entertainer in the privacy of his home, and as having been specially fond of quietude.

In Victoria much of David’s childhood waspassed. From his mother, who was intellectual, imaginative, romantic, and of a peculiarly amiable disposition, he received the rudiments of education: she taught him neatness, self-respect, industry, and the importance of acquiring knowledge. I have heard him speak of her, with deep emotion, as the friend from whom he had derived those lessons of courage, energy, perseverance, and arduous labor that have guided him through life. He was early sent to a school called the Colonial, in Victoria, conducted by an Irishman named Burr, remembered as a person whose temper was violent and whose discipline was harsh. Later, he attended a school called the Collegiate, conducted by T. C. Woods, a clergyman. When about seven years old he attracted the attention of a kindly Roman Catholic priest, Father —— McGuire, then aged eighty-six, who perceived in him uncommon intelligence and precocious talent, and who presently proposed to his parents that the boy should dwell under his care in a monastery and be educated. Strenuous objection to that arrangement was at first made by David’s father, sturdily Jewish and strictly orthodox in his religious views; but the mother, more liberal in opinion and more sagaciously provident of the future, assented, and her persuasions, coincident with the wish ofthe lad himself, eventually prevailed against the paternal scruples. In the monastery David remained about two and a half years, supervised by Father McGuire, and he made good progress in various studies. The effect of the training to which he was there subjected was exceedingly beneficial: ecclesiastics of the Roman Catholic Church have long been eminent for scholarship and for efficiency in the education of youth: their influence endured, and it is visible in David Belasco’s habits of thought, use of mental powers, tireless labor, persistent purpose to excel, and likewise in his unconscious demeanor, and even in his attire. It would have been better for the boy if he had remained longer in the monastic cell and under the guidance of his benevolent protector, but he had inherited a gypsy temperament and a roving propensity, he became discontented with seclusion, and suddenly, without special cause and without explanation, he fled from the monastery and joined a wandering circus, with which he travelled. In that association he was taught to ride horses “bareback” and to perform as a miniature clown. A serious illness presently befell him and, being disabled, he was left in a country town, where he would have died but for the benevolent care of a clown, Walter Kingsley by name, who remained with him,—obtaininga scanty subsistence by clowning and singing in the streets, for whatever charity might bestow,—and nursed him through a malignant fever, only himself to be stricken with it, and to die, just as the boy became convalescent. Meantime Humphrey Belasco, having contrived to trace his fugitive son, came to his rescue and carried him back to Victoria, to a loving mother’s care and to his life at school.

It was about this time, 1862-’63, that David’s strong inclination for theatrical pursuits became specially manifest. His mother was fond of poetry, and she, and also his school teachers, had taught him to memorize and recite verses. His parents, the father having been a professional harlequin (one of David’s uncles, his namesake, it should be mentioned, was the admired English actor David James [1839-1893], and the whole family was histrionical), naturally sought the Theatre and affiliated as much as they could with whatever players came to Victoria or were resident there as members of the local stock company. David had been “carried on,” at the Victoria Theatre Royal, asCora’s Child, in “Pizarro,”—that once famous play,

From an old photograph.The Albert Davis Collection.JULIA DEAN (HAYNE)

From an old photograph.The Albert Davis Collection.

JULIA DEAN (HAYNE)

adapted from Augustus Frederick Ferdinand von Kotzebue’s “Die Spanier in Peru,” and rewritten by Sheridan. That incident probably occurred when the talented and beautiful Julia Dean (1830-1868), in the season of 1857-’58, first acted in Victoria,—“Pizarro” having been in her repertory andCoraone of the parts in which she was distinguished. In June, 1856, Julia Dean was lessee of the American Theatre, San Francisco; she made several tours in Pacific Coast towns. Belasco remembers having played the boy,William, in “East Lynne,” with her, but that appearance must have occurred later, because “East Lynne,” as a novel, was not published till 1861, and it was not launched earlier as a play. Julia Dean returned to the East in 1858, but made at least one subsequent tour of the Western States.

Belasco’s random recollections of the actors with whom he was brought in contact while in California and other parts of the West are those of a youthful enthusiast, generally injudicious, frequently incorrect, sometimes informative, always indicative of amiability. Julia Dean, who held little David in her arms when he was a child, and with whom heappeared in boyhood, remains to this day an object of his homage. She was one of the best actresses of her time. I saw her first at the Boston Museum, in 1854, asJulia, in “The Hunchback,” later in other characters, and was charmed by her exquisite beauty and her winning personality. I saw her for the last time, in New York, in July, 1867, at the Broadway Theatre (the house which had been Wallack’s Lyceum), where she was playing,—with peculiar skill and fine effect,—Laura FairlieandAnne Catherick, in “The Woman in White.” She was a scion of a theatrical family. Her maternal grandfather, Samuel Drake (1772-1847), an English actor, was highly esteemed on our Stage a hundred years ago. Her mother, Julia Drake (first Mrs. Thomas Fosdick, later Mrs. Edmund Dean), was a favorite in the theatres of the West and was accounted exceptionally brilliant. Julia Dean went on the stage (1845) at Louisville, Kentucky, made her first appearance in New York in 1846, at the old Bowery Theatre, and continued in practice of her art till the end of her life. She was lovely in person and not less lovely in character. Her figure was tall and slender, her complexion fair, her hair chestnut-brown, her voice sweet, her movement graceful, and she had sparkling hazel eyes. The existing portraits of her give no adequate reflection of herbeauty. In acting, her intelligence was faultless, her demeanor natural, her feeling intense. Her every action seemed spontaneous. Her imagination was quick, she possessed power and authority, and she could thrill her audience with fine bursts of passion,—as notably she did in the Fifth Act of “The Hunchback”; but, as I recall her, she enticed chiefly by her intrinsic loveliness. Her performance of Knowles’sJuliawas perfection. She played many exacting parts,—such asBianca, in “Fazio”;Mrs. Haller, in “The Stranger”;Margaret Elmore, in “Love’s Sacrifice”;Griseldis, andAdrienne Lecouvreur. She was the primaryNorma, in Epes Sargent’s “Priestess,” which was first acted in Boston, and she was the primaryLeonor, in George Henry Boker’s tragedy of “Leonor de Guzman,” first produced at the original Broadway Theatre, New York, April 25, 1854. Whatever she did was earnestly done. Her soul was in her art, and she never permitted anything to degrade it. A marriage contracted (1855) with Dr. Arthur Hayne,—son of Robert Young Hayne, United States Senator from South Carolina, whose semi-seditious advocacy of “State Rights” prompted Daniel Webster’s great oration in the Senate (1830),—resulted unhappily, somewhat embittering her mind and impairing the bloom of her artistic style. She obtained a divorceand (1866) became the wife of James Cooper. She died suddenly, in childbirth, March 6, 1868. At her funeral, two days later, at Christ Church, Fifth Avenue and Thirty-first Street, New York, the service was performed by Rev. Ferdinand Cartwright Ewer (1826-1883), a noted Episcopalian ritualist, who in early life had been a dramatic critic,—one of competent intelligence, good judgment, and considerate candor,—associated with the newspaper press of San Francisco, had known her in the season of her California triumphs, and well knew her worth both as actress and woman.

Young David Belasco was frequently utilized for infantile and juvenile parts at the Victoria Theatre. In 1864, when Charles Kean, in his farewell “tour round the world,” filled a short engagement there, the lad appeared as the littleDuke of York, in “King Richard III.” His age was then eleven, but he was diminutive and therefore he suited that part. During Kean’s engagement he also appeared as a super in “Pauline.” About 1865 Humphrey Belasco, his fortunes not improving as he had hoped, removed his family from Victoria and established residence in San Francisco, where he opened a fruit

From photographs by Brady.The Albert Davis Collection.“THE KEANS”Charles John KeanEllen Tree, Mrs. Kean(1811-1868)(1805-1880)Taken during their last American tour, 1864-’65, soon after Belasco appeared with them in “King Richard III”

From photographs by Brady.The Albert Davis Collection.

“THE KEANS”

Charles John KeanEllen Tree, Mrs. Kean(1811-1868)(1805-1880)

Taken during their last American tour, 1864-’65, soon after Belasco appeared with them in “King Richard III”

shop, fraternized with players at the theatres, gaining friends and popularity, and where he spent the rest of his life. David was sent to the Lincoln Grammar School, which for some time he continued to attend. There he was studious, and there, in particular, he was trained in elocution,—that art having been specially esteemed by his teachers. Among the persons who, at various times, instructed him in elocution were Dr. Ira G. Hoitt, Miss—— James, Professor Ebenezer Knowlton, and Miss “Nelly” Holbrook, once an actress of distinction (she figures among the oldtime female players ofHamletandRomeo), mother of the contemporary actor (1917) Holbrook Blinn. The boy’s talent for declamation had been quickly perceived, and a judicious endeavor was made to foster and develop it. Among the poems he was taught to recite, and which, in the esteem of his teachers, he recited well, were “The Vagabonds,” by John Townsend Trowbridge; “The Maniac,” by Matthew Gregory Lewis; “Curfew Must Not Ring To-night,” by Rosa Hartwick Thorpe, and “Bernardo del Carpio,” by Felicia Hemans. Those poems were well chosen for the purpose in view, because each of them contains a dramatic element propitious to a declaimer.

At one time, in his boyhood, at Victoria, Belasco was adopted by the local Fire Department as “a mascot,” and when parades of the firemen occurred,—the hook and ladder vehicle being drawn with ropes by the men,—the little lad either walked at the head of the line or rode, perched high upon the wagon, arrayed in a red shirt, black trousers and boots, and a fire-helmet. After removing, with his parents, from Victoria to San Francisco, he was sent to a school called the Fourth Street, and it was from there that he went to the Lincoln. He took the honors for penmanship, being assigned to keep the school “rolls,” and sometimes his “compositions” were framed and hung in the halls, for the edification of other pupils. There, also, he was awarded a gold medal, as being the best reader and performer of Tragedy,—a prize which he pawned for the benefit of the family,—while his chum, James O. Barrows, obtained a silver medal for special cleverness in Comedy. As a schoolboy he was particularly fond of reading “dime novels,” which, for convenience of surreptitious perusal, he customarily concealed in his boots. For some time after their return to San Francisco the Belascos dwelt in a house in Harrison Street; later, they resided in Louisa Street.

The first play, apparently, that David wrote was concocted later, after the family had removed to No. 174 Clara Street, and was entitled “Jim Black; or, The Regulator’s Revenge!” Another of his early pieces of dramatic writing (and, perhaps, it may have been the first) was called “The Roll of the Drum.” Belasco is very positive that he wrote this soon after the death of Abraham Lincoln (April 15, 1865),—at which time he was less than twelve years old. His recollection regarding this may be correct; there is no doubt that he was an extraordinarily precocious child, and such children do, sometimes, write astonishing compositions even at an earlier age than twelve. Belasco is equally positive that his play, while it was, at various times, acted outside of San Francisco, was never played in that city. A play of the same name was performed, by Mme. Methua-Scheller and associates, at Maguire’s Opera House, for the benefit of “Sue” Robinson, on November 26, 1869, announced as “The new military drama”; this was not Belasco’s play, but one wholly different from it. Belasco’s custom, as a lad, was to keep a table by his bedside, with writing materials, candle and matches upon it, in order to note at once any idea that might occur to him as likely to be of service in his theatrical work, and he was often rewarded for this precaution. Inall my study of theatrical history I have not encountered a person more downright daft, more completely saturated in every fibre of his being, with passion for the Stage and things dramatical than was young David Belasco.

The following extract from a letter dated December 25, 1916, addressed to Belasco by one of his schoolmates, E. F. Lennon, Esqr., now (1917) City Clerk of Red Bluff, Tehama County, California, provides a glimpse of him as a schoolboy in San Francisco:

“ ... We drifted away from each other in old ’Frisco, in the early seventies, and chance has kept us distant from each other.... You and I lived near each other, in the old days,—you in Louisa Street, I, a block away, in Shipley. We went to the old Lincoln School and travelled through the same grades ... and in them all we were together. Do you remember when you and I started a Circulating Library, in your home? You had quite a collection of books and I had a number also, and we put them on shelves in your house. Not long after a fire came along and destroyed our good intentions.... We also had our theatrical performances, in the basement of my home, when the price of admission was a gunny-sack or a beer bottle. You were the star actor and our presentations were often attended by the grown-ups.... I remember when QueenEmma, of the Hawaiian Islands, visited our school, and the entire body of students were marched upstairs to the big hall to see and entertain her. You recited your famous selection, “The Madman” [Lewis’s “The Maniac”]. Another pupil and myself did a little better than the bunch: I think the other boy’s name was Moore. He and I kissed the Queen, and it was the talk of the school for some time. She took the kisses all right, and we got a lecture for our audacity, and perhaps a licking....”

The removal of the Belasco family from Victoria to San Francisco was not attended by material prosperity, and for several years the family suffered the pinch of poverty. Young David keenly felt the necessity of helping his parents, and by every means in his power he tried to do so. His conduct, in those troublous years, as it has been made known to me, not only in conversations with himself, but in communications by his surviving relatives, provides a remarkable example of filial devotion. As a lad, in Victoria, he had shown surprising facility in learning the Indian language and frequently had acted as interpreter for Indians who traded with his father; also, he had manifested that lively and shrewd propensity for trading which is peculiar to the Jew. As a lad, in San Francisco, while attending school as often as possible, he regularlyremained at home, after the morning session, every Friday, in order to assist his mother in washing clothes for the family, a labor which, being then of low stature, he could perform only by standing on a large box, thus being enabled to reach into the washtub. He would also help his mother in the drudgery of the kitchen, and then often do for her the necessary household marketing for the coming week; and he would make up, every week, the records and accounts of his father’s business in the shop. When neither at school nor occupied at home he would seek and perform any odd piece of work by which a trifle might be earned. He was by nature a book-lover and acquisitive of information: he had access to several public libraries, but he craved ownership of books, and from time to time he earned a little money for the purchase of them by recitations, sometimes given in the homes of his friends, sometimes at church entertainments, sometimes at Irish-American Hall and other similar places. For each of such recitations he received two dollars, and on some nights he recited two, three, or four times. As he grew older, especially after 1868, his efforts to obtain employment at theatres grew more and more constant, and, as already said, they were occasionally successful. His activities, indeed, were such that it is a wonder his health wasnot permanently impaired,—but he was possessed of exceptional vitality, which happily has endured. Once he worked for a while as a chore-boy in a cigar store and factory, where he washed windows, scrubbed floors, and rendered whatever menial service was required, opening the place at morning and closing it at evening. That was a hard experience, but it led to something better, because the keeper of the cigar-shop, taking note of him and his ways, procured for him a better situation, which for some time he held, in a bookstore. There he had access to many books, and he eagerly improved every opportunity of reading. A chief recreation of his consisted in haunting the wharves, gazing at the ships, and musing and wondering about the strange tropical lands from which they came and to which presently they would sail away.

There was one singular consequence of Belasco’s interest in ships and his somewhat extravagant and sentimental fancy which is worth special record. The tragedian John McCullough used frequently to recite, with pathetic effect, a ballad, once widely known, by Arthur Matthison (1826-1883), called “The Little Hero,”—originally named “The Stowaway,” and first published in “Watson’s Art Journal,” New York. The earliest record I have been able to find of McCullough’s delivery of this ballad in San Francisco states that he recited it on the occasion of a performance given for the benefit of Lorraine Rogers, director of the California Theatre, on November 30, 1869. Then or, perhaps, earlier (since McCullough was in San Francisco as early as 1866) Belasco heard him, and his febrile fancy, already superheated by excessive reading of morbid sensation stories, was so fired by the recitation that he felt impelled to submit himself to a similar experience. In his “Story” he gives the following account of his adventure as a Stowaway:

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