A
Glimpse of Theater History
SOLOMON
(SOL) SMITH, Yankee Actor-Manager (1801-69)
Much of what we know about what making a living as an actor/manager in the hinterlands of the United States in the middle of the Nineteenth Century comes the the memoirs of Sol Smith (left). A man of extraordinary resourcefulness and humor emerges from the delightful tales he spins.
Born in a log cabin on land granted his father by the government for
his service in the Revolutionary war (so called "military land"-his
father had been a fifer at Bunker Hill!), young Solomon ended up in Albany
in the company of his elder brothers. It was there that he had his first
taste of the theatre in the 1814-15 season. It was a good experience.
He saw John Bernard, an English actor/manager who had played at Covent
Garden and managed his own theatre in Boston (unsuccessfully), and Henry
and Tom Placide (sons of famous actor/manager/rope-dancer) in O'Keefe's
comic opera The Highland Reel. Said Solomon Smith, "The impression
made upon my youthful mind was strong and lasting, and I remember the
airs of that opera to this day. My head was full of acting from that time
forward; my duties at the store became irksome to me; in brief, I became
as thousands had become before me, and thousands will become after me-stage
mad!" His elder brothers forbade him to visit the theater again,
so he struck up the acquaintance of a couple of members of the company
and got in backstage. Of course, he had to sneak out of the house by letting
himself down on a sheet-rope and get back before he was discovered. This
he managed to do, until one night he came home after a performance of
Three-Fingered Jack in which he had walked on in black face. When he returned
home, he had neglected to wash his face. As he recounts the story, a servant
came in the next morning only to find a black in Sol's bed and run screaming
the news through the household. This stopped the visits to the theatre
for the season.
The following season, the company had been replaced, so there was no free admission for young Sol. Instead he sneaked in backstage where he could watch the comings and goings from a hiding place. "Always fertile in resource, he now managed to sneak into the fly lofts and a least hear what went on. On a night when Richard III was announced, he sneaked in at six and hid in a large box, from which he emerged to hear the play. Presently stage hands drew near, and he pooped back into his hiding-place, only to be lifted up and carried on the stage, as the defunct Henry VI. His further statement, that the bearers were so terrified that all of them fled the theatre and son of them turned preacher, may be taken for what it is worth. (Eaton)
"The next season, (1816-17) was evidently rather disastrous for the management, and ended in a row and the breakup of the company, some of whom moved on to Troy. Sol meanwhile had learned the role of young Norval, and off to Troy he posted after them, 'not doubting for an instant that I would be received with open arms by actors and manager.' Alas for his hopes! The actors wanted money, not an addition to their number; and there was no money. The boy of sixteen found himself stranded, penniless, not daring to go back to his brothers. Accordingly, he walked to Saratoga, and thence west to his old home in Solon, earning what he could at odd jobs by the way.
Eventually, Sol ended up in Cincinnati where he joined a Thespian Society. The experience was not of the best. In his own words:
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Toward Spring, finding I had a little time to spare, I joined a Thespian Society, who held their meetings in a building belonging to Elmore Williams, in upper Market Street. I was the hero of the corps, and enacted Young Norval. A Mr. Sweeney--afterward justice of the peace--was Lady Randolph, and he acted the character very well, considering that his voice was decidedly a baritone, and he had not shaved for a week! The "meditating maid," Anna, was personated by Mr. George Row, a tall lank carpenter, who chewed tobacco and was obliged to turn aside every now and then to spit. Glenalvon, Mr. Davis, who afterward attached himself to the stage, but with no success. Of all the members of that society, I know of but one--leaving myself out of the count for the others to judge of--who did not go to the devil! And it may not be improper here for me to say a word of two on the subject of amateur theatricals. I have never known any good to come from Thespian societies; and I have known them to be productive of much harm. Performing a character with success--and Thespians are always successful--inevitably begets in the performer a desire for an enlarged sphere of action. If he can please his townsmen and friends, why should he not delight a metropolitan audience? He becomes dissatisfied with his profession or business, whatever it may be, applies to a manager for a first appearance in a regular theatre--appears--fails--takes to drink, and is ruined. Then to see the inordinate vanity of those amateurs who occasionally volunteer for some charitable purpose: the airs of consequence they give themselves; the ignorance they betray of a profession which they degrade by adopting even for a single night; the consummate impudence with which they strut before the public in the highest characters; not a shadow of fright about them--oh no! Their friends are in the house to applaud them whether they deserve applause or not. Their success is not doubtful; the thing is settled; they must succeed; and they generally do, for applause is bountifully and indiscriminately showered upon them; and they are, in their own minds, immensely great actors before they have the slightest knowledge of the first rudiments of the profession. |
In the winter of 1820, Actor/managers Collins and Jones built the new Columbia Street Theatre in Cincinnati, but when the theatre closed in the Spring, Sol set out with his friends the Drakes to play a summer season. One of the members of the tiny little company drowned in the Wabash river, but the company, now consisting of seven men, two women and "three of four little female Fishers," played Pizarro, an epic play with eighteen speaking parts:
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...Sam Drake, (as Pizarro), after planning an attack on the unoffending Peruvians while engaged in worship "at their ungodly altars," and assigning his generals (me) their "several posts," in the next Act is seen (as Ataliba) leading the Indian warriors to battle, declaring that "straight forward will he march until he sees his people free, or they behold their monarch fall!" He is victorious, and goes to offer up thanks to the gods therefor--when, presto! on comes the same man again (as Pizarro), smarting under the stings of defeat! Fisher (as Las Casas) calls down a curse on the heads of the Spaniards, throws off his cloak, drops his cross, doffs his gray wig, and appears in the next scene as the gallant Rolla, inciting his "brace associates" to deeds of valor! Alexander Drake, as Orozembo, in the first scene gives an excellent character of the youth Alonzo, pronouncing him to be a "nation's benefactor"; he is stuck under the fifth rib by a Spanish soldier (that's me again) and is carried off by his murderer; he then slips off his shirt and skullcap, claps on a touch of red paint, and behold, in the next scene, he is the blooming Alonzo, and is engaged in a quiet tête-à-tête with his Indian spouse! For my own part, I was the Spanish army entire! but my services were not confined to that party. Between-while I had to officiate as High Priest of the Sun; then lost both of my eyes, and feel my way, guided by a little boy, through the heat of the battle, to tell the audience what was going on behind the scenes; afterward, my sight being restored and my black cloak dropped, I was placed as a sentinel over Alonzo. Besides, I was obliged to find the sleeping child, fight a blow or two with Rolla, fire off three guns at him while crossing the bridge, beat the alarm drum, and do at least two thirds of the shouting! Some may think my situation was no sinecure; but, being a novice, all my exertions were nothing in comparison with those of the Drakes, particularly Sam, who frequently played two or three parts in one play, and after being killed in the last scene, was obliged to fall far enough off the stage to play slow music as the curtain descended! The Our stage was ten feet wide and eight feet deep. When we played pieces that required bridges and mountains, we had not much room to spare; indeed, I might say, we were somewhat crowded. |
Some years later, Sol endured an even more exotic incident with this now-forgotten play:
| Pizarro was one of our most popular stock plays. My brother Lem's Rolla was his best tragic character; when dressed for the part he looked every inch an Indian chief. At Columbus we produced this tragedy with real Indians for the Peruvian army. The effect was very striking, but there were some unrehearsed effects not set down in the bills. I had bargained with a chief for twenty-four Creek Indians (to furnish their own bows, arrows, and tomahawks), at fifty cents each and a glass of whisky. Unfortunately for the entire success of the performance, the whisky was paid and drank in advance, causing a great degree of exhilaration among our new supes. They were ranged at the back of the theatre building, in an open lot, during the performance, of the first act, and on the commencement of the second they were marshaled into the back door, and posted upon the stage behind the scenes. The entrance of Rolla was the signal for a "shout" by the company, carpenters, and scene-shifters; the Indians, supposing their time had come, raised such a yell as I am sure had never before been heard inside of a theatre. This outburst being quelled, the scene between Alonzo, Cora, and the Peruvian chief was permitted to proceed to its termination uninterrupted; but when the scene changed to the Temple of the Sun, disclosing the troops of Rolla (his "brave associates, partners of his toil, his feelings, and his fame") drawn up on each side of the stage in battle array, the plaudits of the audience were answered by whoops and yells that might be, and no doubt were, heard a mile off. Order being partially restored, Rolla addressed his army, and was greeted with another series of shouts and yells even louder than those which had preceded. Now came my turn to take part in the unique performance. As High Priest of the Sun, and followed by half a dozen virgins and as many priests, with measured step, timed to the slow music, I emerged from behind the scenes, and "with solemn march" perambulated the stage, in dumb show called down a blessing on the swords of King Ataliaba and General Rolla, and in the usual impressive style, looking up into the front of the gallery, commenced the Invocation to the Sun. Before the time came for the joining in of the chorus, I found I was not entirely alone in my singing. A humming sound, at first low and mournful, and rising gradually to forte, greeted my ear; and when our chorus did join in the strain, it was quite overpowered by the rising storm of fortissimo sounds which were issuing from the stentorian lungs of the savages; in short, the Indians were preparing for battle by executing, in their most approved style, the Creek war-song and dance! To attempt stopping them we found would be a vain task; so that, after a moment or two of hesitation, the virgins made a precipitate retreat to their dressing-rooms, where they carefully locked themselves in. The King, Rolla, and Orano stood their ground, and were compelled to submit to the new order of things. The Indians kept up their song and war-dance for full half an hour, performing the most extraordinary feats ever exhibited on a stage, in their excitement scalping King Ataliba (taking off his wig), demolishing the altar, and burning up the sun! As for Lem and I (Rolla and the High Priest), we joined in with them, and danced until the perspiration fairly rolled from our bodies in large streams, the savages all the time flourishing their tomahawks and knives around our heads, and performing other little playful antics not by any means agreeable or desirable. At last, to put an end to a scene which was becoming more and more tiresome as it proceeded, an order was given to drop the curtain. This stroke of policy did not stop the ceremonies, which proceeded without intermission until the savages had finished their song and dance, when, each received his promised half dollar, they consented to leave the house, and our play proceeded without them. Next night the same troupe came to the theatre and wanted to assist in the performance of Macbeth, but I most positively declined their "valuable aid." |
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