The Beginnings of Stage Careers.

By MATTHEW WHITE, Jr.

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

SHE BEGAN IN "1492."

Actress Who Will Have Stellar Rôle in "The Little Cherub" First Saw Thespian Light as a Chorus Girl.

When "The Little Cherub" is brought over from London to New York, in this month of August, and installed at the Criterion Theater, on Broadway, Hattie Williams's name will go up over the doorway in electric brilliancy as the star of this musical comedy from the Prince of Wales's Theater. She has won this distinction at the hands of Charles Frohman by the excellence of her work in the support of Sam Bernard during the exploitation of "The Girl from Kay's" and "The Rollicking Girl."

I called on Miss Williams the other afternoon and found her not in the least exalted in mind over her approaching launch into stellar spaces. Indeed, seldom have I encountered in the ranks of Thespis a more modest young woman.

Although she has been in musical comedy almost continuously throughout her career of thirteen years, she admits quite frankly that she cannot sing, and that she has placed herself in the hands of a good master to learn how. You see, she sets her standard of vocal attainments considerably higher than do those who talk their songs in the musical plays.

At Fifteen Dollars a Week.

"Yes," she said, in answer to my reminder about her start, "I began in the chorus of '1492,' at fifteen dollars a week. How did I get the job? Why, I was simply stage-struck. I saw in the newspapers that Mr. Rice wanted chorus-girls for his new production, so I went to the theater and asked for him. He saw me at once, and engaged me.

"You see, I was a Boston girl, and knew something of the show, as it had been given first by our crack regiment, the Boston Cadets. I remember among the girls with me in that special chorus group, which afterward made up the Daily Hints from Paris, were Grace Rutter (now Grace Elliston), who is the Mouse in 'The Lion and the Mouse,' and Minnie Ashley, who married Mr. Chanler a while ago and left the stage.

"When the show was brought to New York, the management gave me, in addition to my chorus specialty, the small part of the Infanta, and my pay was advanced to thirty-five dollars. Then A.M. Palmer, in whose theater we were having our long run, offered to make me the dancing girl in 'Trilby,' and I accepted. After that I went into the Hoyt farces and got up next to leading woman. And this reminds me of a funny experience—funny now to look back on, but rather exasperating at the time.

"I had been understudy to the lead in 'A Day and a Night' one season, and was getting fifty dollars a week. The next year they wanted me to go out as leading woman in the same piece, and offered me the same money. I naturally thought that I ought to have more, and told them so.

Those Elusive Sleepers.

"'Look here, Hattie,' said the manager, 'I tell you what we'll do. I'll make it fifty-five a week and your sleepers. How does that strike you?'

"I was delighted. With my sleeping-car berths settled for by the company, I stood to save a good bit at every jump, which was just like putting so much extra money in my pocket. I accepted, and, will you believe it, we never used sleepers once during the whole tour, for we did all our traveling by daylight. The joke was on me, all right, that time."

When "The Girl from Maxim's" exhausted its drawing power after a long run in town and was sent on the road the lead was awarded to Miss Williams, who acquitted herself so well that she was put into "The Rogers Brothers at Harvard," and played for the first time as a real principal on Broadway. Her imitations of different types, in this show were extremely clever, and she was engaged again for the Washington experiences of the Rogers Brothers the next season. In short, Hattie Williams had "arrived."

She has most peculiar views on applause.

"People come to the theater," she told me, "for relaxation and amusement. I do not see why, after they have paid to be entertained, I should expect them to go to the exertion of applause in tight gloves. If I have satisfied them—made them feel that they have had their money's worth—I should be content to let it go at that. Their being willing to come to see me again is the real test of their good opinion."

HYMN GOT WOODRUFF ON.

The Future "Brown of Harvard" Landed His First Engagement by Singing "Onward, Christian Soldiers."

It was his singing of the hymn "Onward, Christian Soldiers" that obtained for Henry Woodruff, the star in "Brown of Harvard," his first engagement. The play was "H.M.S. Pinafore," by a juvenile company; the line, chorus work; and the pay, two dollars a week. This was back in 1879, and Harry was only nine years old at the time.

Just what led up to this decisive step I shall let Woodruff tell for himself in a memorandum he sent me some years ago in response to a request for information in regard to his start behind the footlights. The Park Theater mentioned was in New York, at the corner of Broadway and Twenty-Second Street (where Brooks Brothers now stands), and I saw it destroyed by fire, as did Mrs. Langtry, who was watching from a window of the Albemarle and wondering where she was going to make her American début, for it had been arranged that she should appear at that theater on that very night. Woodruff's memorandum is as follows:

"In 1879 'Baby' was given at the old Park Theater, with Edwin Thorne in the cast. It was preceded by 'Old Love-Letters,' performed by Mrs. Agnes Booth and Joseph Whitney. Doubtless neither the actors nor the audience knew that the night was to prove itself an important one in dramatic history, nor that the words which were spoken and listened to in the careless fashion of every-day life were to inspire a young heart with an ambition as boundless as it was sincere.

Chorus Boy In "Pinafore."

"In the center of the orchestra, by the side of a dignified, stolid business man, sat a young boy whose golden hair, breathless face, and ardent eyes attracted the attention of more than one careless spectator. The boy was Henry Woodruff, nine years of age, spellbound at his first glimpse of the actor's world. The man was his father.

"The flushed cheeks and the tingling soul were not the effects of a mere holiday treat; no, they long outlasted the holiday time; they disturbed his lessons. The memory of that one night filled his dreams, kept him awake nights, sent him to the newspapers in the hope of finding he knew not what, and finally riveted his eyes on a paragraph advertising for children for the 'Pinafore' company at the Fourteenth Street Theater.

"Then the beating heart and the eager eyes realized their own purpose, and silently, without assistance from friend or foe, the little man made his plans, started from his home, asked his way patiently from Jersey City to Chickering Hall, and finally stood inside beside the big manager, who was examining a hundred or more children who had applied for the position. In time he turned to the newcomer.

"'What can you sing, my little man?'

"With a horrible sense of misfitness he remembered he knew nothing but Sunday-school hymns, but he answered bravely:

"'I can sing "Onward, Christian Soldiers."'

"'Try it,' said the man.

"They put him on the stage, and, fired by the great desire which had never left him since he had seen those noble actors, the little fellow sang out with all his soul."

How the Rungs Were Climbed.

He stayed in the chorus only three weeks, being promoted, first to the part of the boatswain, then to that of Ralph Rackstraw, leading man, in which capacity he went on the road. Daniel Bandmann then engaged him for the page in his production of "Narcisse."

The next year young Woodruff was with Adelaide Neilson, in her last engagement, presenting "Cymbeline." She took a great fancy to the little fellow, and used to make up his face for him and give him the flowers her admirers sent her. To the boy she seemed the wonder of the earth, and she was continually talking about the sunshine of his hair and the earnestness of his blue eyes.

After that, young Woodruff was for two seasons with Edwin Thorne, doing Ned in "The Black Flag"—the same Thorne who had inspired the boy with his great ambition. His longest step forward was made in 1887, when he joined the stock company maintained by the late A.M. Palmer, at the Madison Square Theater, starting with Jack Ralston in "Jim the Penman," and creating Lathrop Page in Augustus Thomas's first great success, "Alabama."

Afterward Mr. Thomas wrote for him the rôle of Arthur Hubbard in "Surrender," a war play which unhappily did not chance to hit the popular taste.

SELWYN LOST JOB AS USHER.

Grit, Self-Assurance, and Impudence Served Author-Playwright Faithfully in Long Up-Hill Struggle.

"Although I began as an usher, it was failure to do myself credit in the first part that I ever acted that determined me to take up the stage as a career."

This bit of personal history was whispered to me by Edgar Selwyn, the never-to-be-forgotten Tony of "Arizona," who is now the head of the prosperous play-broking firm of Selwyn & Co., the author of "It's All Your Fault," and two new farces to be brought out by George Cohan.

I sought him out in his offices, the other day, to obtain from his own lips for The Scrap Book the story of his start, and it certainly proved to be one full of incident and bristling with disappointments. I will give it here in his own words, prefacing the narrative with the remark that Mr. Selwyn is dark and good-looking, with the white teeth and swarthy skin that instantly suggest him for such rôles as Tony and José, whose "Pretty Sister," a few years since, was Maude Adams.

"I was born in California, but I always had an idea of getting to the city where the money was—New York. During the World's Fair I had a job in a store in Chicago, and afterward managed to get to New York, where I landed with scarcely a cent in my clothes. Then I started in to tramp the streets in search of a position. I went into store after store on a block, not picking out the most likely places, but taking them all in. You see, my need was desperate, and I wasn't taking any chances.

How a Job Was Captured.

"Well, one Saturday I went into a men's furnishing store on Fulton Street. There wasn't anything doing there, they told me. But as I was going out a fellow was bringing in some fresh stock, carrying a high-piled heap of collar-boxes. He over-balanced them, and over they went on the sidewalk. It was raining, and I made a quick dash and picked up the lot, carrying them back into the store.

"Of course, the proprietor couldn't very well ignore this, and as I had put in a very earnest plea for a job he now came forward and said that he would give me two dollars if I cared to stay and help them through that busy Saturday. On Monday morning I reported for duty again. The proprietor wasn't there when I arrived, and his brother asked me if I had been regularly engaged.

"'I think so, sir,' I said shamelessly.

"When the boss turned up, he looked at me in amazement.

"'I didn't hire you regularly,' he said.

"'But I need the job,' I told him.

"He looked at me hard for a minute, then he said: 'See here, Selwyn, I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll give you five per cent on all the goods you sell to-day.'

An Energetic Salesman.

"Well, I didn't need any more than that. I started in to work, and any man who came in that store to buy a collar was lucky if he escaped from my clutches without leaving a dollar or two behind him for several other articles—shirts, neckties, any old thing. Whether he needed them or not was all one to me, so long as I got my five per cent. When the day was over, the proprietor found he owed me three dollars and eighty-five cents.

"Accordingly, he proceeded to make a new deal.

"'I engage you,' he said, 'at eight dollars a week.'

"He raised me later to ten dollars, and then to twelve. At length the firm failed; but meantime I was getting into the theatrical atmosphere. That came about in this way:

"Among the chaps I met where I boarded was one who knew somebody who knew somebody else who was connected with the Herald Square Theater, which was about to be opened. I needed the money, so I decided to put in a plea for the job of usher in the new house. I got it, and used to linger after the show to watch any rehearsals that might be put on.

"Then I took to imitating the actors for the benefit of my comrades on the usher staff—and sometimes to the enjoyment of those higher up in the government of the theater. I remember that once while Mansfield was playing in the house I was doing a travesty on him for the edification of the Slocum brothers, his managers at the time, when the mighty Richard himself walked into the room and discovered me. What he said I don't remember now, but it went home at the time all right, and it's a wonder I didn't go there too.

"After Mansfield, 'Rob Roy,' the comic opera, held the boards at the Herald Square for quite a time. Joe Herbert, one of the comedians, left the cast, and Dave Warfield was picked to succeed him. But he couldn't seem to remember the lines and business of the part. I was pat on it from seeing the show every night from the front, so I remember one time after the performance Warfield got me to coach him in a sort of parlor off to the left of the auditorium.

A Series of Discouragements.

"Naturally, my imitations of other people suggested to some of the boys that I might be able to act myself, and one fellow I had met got up a performance in a town on Long Island. Well, I went on, and when I came off they shipped me back to New York as the worst actor they had ever seen—and it was a sort of amateur show at that. This touched my pride and fired my determination, so when I lost my job as usher by 'grafting' on seats, I made up my mind that I would be a regular actor and show my critics that they had been mistaken.

"But how to get a chance? That was the mighty question. In this emergency I turned to Ben Roeder, manager for David Belasco, whom I had met when 'The Heart of Maryland' was at the Herald Square. I went up to the offices, which were then in Carnegie Hall, told Mr. Roeder that I was out of a job and must get something as quickly as possible.

"After thinking a bit, he said that the only company not wholly filled, of which he knew, was that being gathered for William Gillette in 'Secret Service.' He gave me a card of introduction to the stage manager, and I hustled down to the Garrick Theater.

"'Nothing doing,' I was told. Everything was filled, even to the extra men.

How Selwyn Held Up Gillette.

"Then what do you think I did? I was desperate, you see. The fifty cents a performance I had been getting at the Herald Square as usher did not enable me to pile up a very big sum against a rainy day such as had now overtaken me. I determined to see Mr. Gillette himself. I found out that he was staying at the Plaza Hotel. I went up there, wrote on a card, 'Edgar Selwyn. Important,' and sent it up to him.

"Pretty soon the message came down that he would see me.

"'Well,' he said, when I appeared, 'what do you want?'

"'I want a job,' I answered.

"He was so taken aback at this that he hardly knew what to say for a minute. Then he told me that everything in the company was taken.

"'Oh, I don't want a regular part,' I explained. 'Just a chance to go on and work my way up.'

"'Oh, an extra man,' he said. 'I haven't anything to do with engaging those. You will have to see my stage manager about that.'

"I kept mum as an oyster about having already had an interview with that gentleman, and never turned a hair while Mr. Gillette took out his card and wrote on it an introduction to this individual for me. With this I went back to the Garrick, and handed it in with a lordly air; the stage manager thought it meant an order from Gillette to put me on, and he forthwith proceeded to dismiss some poor duffer he had already engaged, and put me on in his place at eight dollars a week.

Selwyn's Varied Make-Ups.

"Of course I had nothing to say, for I merely marched on as one of the soldiers. I used to amuse myself, though, by making up differently each night, sometimes as an old man, till I got a calling down for exceeding the age limit in the army. After a while I was made assistant stage manager, which meant that I had to ring up the curtain and look after the stage properties; but all the same my salary stuck at that little eight dollars a week. I thought I deserved more, but I didn't like to ask for it.

"One night I heard Gillette say to somebody that he wished Miss Busby and Odette Tyler, the two leading women in the cast, wouldn't delay him by talking to him as he came off. He was always in a hurry to get to his dressing-room to work on some plot of a play he had in hand.

"'Send somebody to me with a request that I am wanted,' he added.

"I made a mental note of the thing, and the next time I saw the ladies halt Gillette in the wings I made a bolt for him and blurted out: 'Oh, Mr. Gillette, I want to see you about something very particularly.'

"'Well, what is it?' he demanded when I had drawn him off to one side. He appeared to have forgotten all about his request of the stage manager, and I was up against it for a second. What should I tell him? Suddenly I had an inspiration.

"'Mr. Gillette,' I said very soberly, 'don't you think I am getting too little money?'

"'Well, I don't know,' he replied, when he recovered his breath.

"But the next pay-day I received a raise of four dollars.

The Turning of the Long Lane.

"The season approached its end, and then came the announcement that the whole company was to go to London. I went about on air for a while, just before the keenest disappointment of my life. One night I was told that it had been discovered that there was one too many in the party, and I was it. I was to be left behind.

"Well, of course I couldn't help myself any by kicking. I just had to grin and bear it, and hustle for another job. But this was mighty hard to find at that time of the year. I hunted the papers for ads of the summer snaps. Finally I landed on one from Louisville, which stated that the Cummings stock company wanted a juvenile man. I sat down and wrote to them at once, enclosing my picture and putting my salary at twenty-five dollars per week. And I had an answer telling me to come on.

"You ought to have seen that manager's face when he saw me! But he let me go on. I couldn't be discharged, because they weren't making enough to pay salaries. We finally went to Washington, by some hook or crook, where we didn't do any better. I was only getting my board and lodging, but after we shifted to Rochester we struck it big, and the manager nearly paralyzed me one day by paying me eight weeks' salary in advance. He also put on my first play—a one-act affair, 'A Night in Havana.'

Stranded in Chicago.

"From the Cummings stock company I went with Sothern in 'The King's Musketeer.' I didn't care for the company, and began writing more plays. I got a man named Isham interested in my 'Rough Rider Romance,' and left the company to go to Chicago, where it was to be put on. I had just five dollars in my pocket when I arrived, to be greeted by the telegram: 'Isham committed to insane asylum.'

"There I was, stranded in the Windy City, with a fiver. I went to my friend, Edwin Arden.

"'What shall I do, Ed?' I said.

"'I'll lend you twenty-five to get back to New York on,' he replied.

"I took the money, calling blessings down on his head. 'Arizona' was playing in Chicago at the time, and passing the theater that evening I handed in my card at the box-office, and they passed me in. Vincent Serrano was Tony, and as I watched him I told myself that that was the part for me. I found out that Kirk La Shelle, the manager of the show, was in New York, and I was for starting East by the first train to see him; but for some reason I didn't, and I found out later that the train was wrecked.

"But there was more luck than that in my delayed departure, for when I finally walked into La Shelle's office in the Knickerbocker Theater Building, and said abruptly, 'I want to play Tony in "Arizona,"' he looked up with a funny smile on his face, and waved a telegram toward me.

"'That's queer,' he said. 'This message has only this instant arrived from my Chicago manager: 'Serrano wants more money. What shall I do?'

Striking the Iron While It Was Hot.

"You see, if I had turned up earlier he would simply have told me that he had a man for Tony, and there was nothing doing. As it was, he looked at me, and then asked:

"'Are you a Spaniard?'

"'No,' I answered, 'I am a Jew.'

"'Can you sing?' he went on.

"'Oh, yes,' I replied easily.

"Then he told me that Gus Thomas, the author of the play, had a big finger in picking out the people for it, and that I would have to see him.

"'Where is he?' I inquired.

"'In New Rochelle.'

"I left Mr. La Shelle and went straight down to the telegraph office in the same building, and wrote out this message to Augustus Thomas:

"'Be at office ten-thirty to-morrow. Important.'

"And I signed it boldly, 'Kirke La Shelle.'

"Well, the next day, a few minutes after ten-thirty, I turned up at the La Shelle offices, and there, sure enough, was Gus Thomas, with one of his boys in tow. I was introduced to him, he looked me over, and finally he and La Shelle agreed between them that if I was willing to go out to Chicago at my own risk and give a performance of Tony, they would promise to engage me for the part if I made good in it.

"'That's fair, Selwyn, I am sure,' added Mr. La Shelle.

"'Ye-e-s,' I answered hesitatingly. One of my hands was in my pocket; then I drew it out and deposited about twenty-three cents in silver on the desk.

"'That,' I announced, 'is my sole cash capital, gentlemen.'

"They saw the point and finally arranged to give me transportation to Chicago, declaring that it would do no good for me to give a reading of the part there in the office, which I wanted to do.

A Staggering Blow.

"I hurried back to Chicago by the first train, with a letter of introduction to Mr. Hammond, resident manager there. Rushing into the lobby of the Grand Opera House, I plumped the letter in front of him, breathlessly asking him when I could have my try-out.

"'But, my dear Mr. Selwyn,' was his reply, 'you have come too late. I am sorry to say that I have just engaged Mr. Perry for the part.'

"This was the last straw. I had gone through so much that this rebuff, just when my hopes were at their highest, was more than I could stand. Grown man that I was, then and there I began to cry, and hardly knowing where to go, and certainly not caring, I turned and went back into the lobby again, only to run up against Mr. Thomas, who must have come to Chicago by another road.

"'Why, my boy,' he said, after one look at me, 'what is the matter?'

"I seized him as a drowning man would clutch at a straw, and between my sobs I told him the dreadful truth. He settled matters, fixed it up with Perry, I had my trial, made good, and played Tony for three years. And seven years from the time I was getting eight dollars a week with Gillette in 'Secret Service' he was paying me one hundred and fifty to play a part in 'Sherlock Holmes.'

"I mustn't forget to add that Bleiman, who brought out my 'Rough Rider's Romance,' was the same man who dismissed me as an usher at the Herald Square."