Ten American Girls From History

K >> Kate Dickinson Sweetser >> Ten American Girls From History

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22

Having seen her a second time, he exclaimed, "That girl ought to be in
New York this very moment!" and he added, "I know the foreign
theaters--their schools and styles, as well as I know the home
theaters and their actors. I believe I have made a discovery!"

After seeing her in the "tearful part," he said firmly: "I shall never
rest till this Clara Morris faces New York. She need clash with no
one, need hurt no one, she is unlike any one else, and New York has
plenty of room for her. I shall make it my business to meet her and
preach New York until she accepts the idea and acts upon it."

As a result of that determination, at a later date, he met the object
of his interest and roused her to such an enthusiasm in his New York
project that she wrote to Mr. Ellsler, begging his aid in reaching New
York managers, and one day, shortly afterward, she held in her hand a
wee sheet of paper, containing two lines scrawled in an illegible
handwriting:

"If you send the young woman to me, I will willingly
consider proposal. Will engage no actress without seeing
her.--A. DALY."

It was a difficult proposition, for to obtain leave of absence she would
be obliged to pay a substitute for at least two performances--would have
to stop for one night at a New York hotel, and so spend what she had
saved toward a summer vacation. But the scheme was too compelling to be
set aside. That very night she asked leave of absence, made all other
necessary arrangements, and before she had time to falter in her
determination found herself at the Fifth Avenue Hotel in the great
bustling city of her dreams. She breakfasted, and took from her bag a
new gray veil, a pair of gray gloves and a bit of fresh ruffling. Then,
having made all the preparation she could to meet the arbiter of her
fate, in her usual custom she said a prayer to that Father in whose
protecting care she had an unfaltering trust. Then, she says, "I rose
and went forth, prepared to accept success or defeat, just as the good
Lord should will."

Having found Mr. Daly, she looked bravely into his eyes and spoke with
quick determination to lose no time: "I am the girl come out of the
West to be inspected. I'm Clara Morris!"

That was the preface to an interview which ended in his offer to
engage her, but without a stated line of business. He would give her
thirty-five dollars a week, he said (knowing there were two to live on
it), and if she made a favorable impression he would double that
salary.

A poor offer--a risky undertaking, exclaimed Clara. "In my pocket was
an offer which I had received just before leaving for New York, from a
San Francisco manager, with a salary of one hundred dollars, a
benefit, and no vacation at all, unless I wished it. This offer was
fairly burning a hole in my pocket as I talked with Mr. Daly, who,
while we talked, was filling up a blank contract, for my signature.
Thirty-five dollars against one hundred dollars. 'But if you make a
favorable impression you'll get seventy dollars.' I thought, and why
should I _not_ make a favorable impression? Yet, if I fail now in New
York, I can go West or South not much harmed. If I wait till I am
older and fail, it will ruin my life. I slipped my hand in my pocket
and gave a little farewell tap to the contract for one hundred
dollars; I took the pen; I looked hard at him. 'There's a heap of
trust asked for in this contract,' I remarked. 'You won't forget your
promise about doubling the contract?'

"'I won't forget anything,' he answered.

"Then I wrote 'Clara Morris' twice, shook hands, and went out and back
to Cincinnati, with an engagement in a New York theater for the coming
season."

As the tangible results of a benefit performance Clara was able to
give her mother a new spring gown and bonnet and send her off to visit
in Cleveland, before turning her face toward Halifax, where she had
accepted a short summer engagement. At the end of it she went on to
New York, engaged rooms in a quiet old-fashioned house near the
theater, and telegraphed her mother to come. "She came," says Miss
Morris, "and that blessed evening found us housekeeping at last. We
were settled, and happily ready to begin the new life in the great,
strange city."

From that moment, through the frenzied days of rehearsal with a new
company, and with a large number of untoward incidents crowded into
each day, life moved swiftly on toward the first appearance of Clara
Morris on the New York stage.

With a sort of dogged despair she lived through the worry of planning
how to buy costumes out of her small reserve fund. When at last all
her gowns were ready, she had two dollars and thirty-eight cents left,
on which she and her mother must live until her first week's salary
should be paid. Worse than that, on the last awful day before the
opening night she had a sharp attack of pleurisy. A doctor was called,
who, being intoxicated, treated the case wrongly. Another physician
had to be summoned to undo the work of the first, and as a result
Daly's new actress was in a condition little calculated to give her
confidence for such an ordeal as the coming one. She says, "I could
not swallow food--_I could not!_ As the hour drew near my mother stood
over me while with tear-filled eyes I disposed of a raw beaten egg;
then she forced me to drink a cup of broth, fearing a breakdown if I
tried to go through five such acts as awaited me without food. I
always kissed her good-by, and that night my lips were so cold and
stiff with fright that they would not move. I dropped my head for one
moment on her shoulder; she patted me silently with one hand and
opened the door with the other. I glanced back. Mother waved her hand
and called: 'Good luck! God bless you!' and I was on my way to my
supreme test."

A blaze of lights, a hum of voices, a brilliant throng of exquisitely
gowned, bejeweled women and well-groomed men, in fact a house such as
Wood's leading lady had never before confronted! A chance for triumph
or for disaster--and triumph it was! Like a rolling snowball, it grew
as the play advanced. Again and again Clara Morris took a curtain call
with the other actresses. Finally the stage manager said to Mr. Daly,
"They want _her_," and Mr. Daly answered, sharply: "I know what they
want, and I know what I don't want. Ring up again!"

He did so. But it was useless. At last Mr. Daly said, "Oh, well, ring
up once more, and here, you take it yourself."

Alone, Clara Morris stood before the brilliant throng, vibrating to
the spontaneous storm of enthusiasm, and as she stood before them the
audience rose as one individual, carried out of themselves by an
actress whose work was as rare as it was unique--work which never for
one moment descended to mere stagecraft, but in its simplest gesture
was throbbing with vital human emotion.

As the curtain fell at last, while there was a busy hum of excited
voices, the young person whose place on the New York stage was assured
slipped into her dressing-room, scrambled into her clothes, and rushed
from the theater, hurrying to carry the good news to the two who were
eagerly awaiting her--her mother and her dog. "At last she saw the
lighted windows that told her home was near. In a moment, through a
tangle of hat, veil, and wriggling, welcoming dog, she cried:

"'It's all right, mumsey--a success! Lots and lots of "calls," dear,
and, oh, is there anything to eat? _I am so hungry!_'

"So while the new actress's name was floating over many a restaurant
supper its owner sat beneath one gas-jet, between mother and pet,
eating a large piece of bread and a small piece of cheese, telling her
small circle of admirers all about it, and winding up with the
declaration, 'Mother, I believe the hearts are just the same, whether
they beat against Western ribs or Eastern ribs!'"

Then, supper over, she stumbled through the old-time 'Now I lay me,'
and, adding some blurred words of gratitude, she says, "I fell asleep,
knowing that through God's mercy and my own hard work I was the first
Western actress who had ever been accepted by a New York audience,
and as I drowsed off I murmured to myself:

"'And I'll leave the door open, now that I have opened it--I'll leave
it open for all the others.'"

She did. Through that open door has passed a long procession from West
to East since the day when the young woman from Cleveland brought New
York to her feet by her unique ability and dramatic perception. A
lover of literature from childhood, a writer of books in later days,
Clara Morris moved on through the years of her brilliant dramatic
career to a rare achievement, not led by the lure of the foot-lights
or the flimsier forms of so-called dramatic art, but by the call of
the highest.

Well may the matinee girl of to-day, or the stage-struck young person
who responds to the glitter and glare, the applause and the
superficial charm of the theatrical world, listen to Miss Morris's
story of "Life on the Stage," and realize that laurels only crown
untiring effort, success only comes after patient labor, and great
emotional actresses come to their own through the white heat of
sacrifice, struggle, and supreme desire.

ANNA DICKINSON: THE GIRL ORATOR

A very well-known lawyer of Philadelphia was sitting in his private
office one morning when word was brought in to him that a young lady
wished to see him. The office-boy had never seen her before, and she
had not given her name, but she was very firm in her intention not to
be refused an interview.

"Show her in," said the lawyer, pushing back his chair with a bored
expression and a resolution to send the stranger away at short notice
if she was not a client. What was his surprise when a very young girl,
still wearing short dresses, was ushered in, and stood before him with
such an earnest expression in her bright eyes that she instantly
attracted him. Motioning her to take a seat, he asked her errand.

"I wish some copying to do," was the reply, in such a musical voice
that the lawyer became still more interested.

"Do you intend to do it yourself?" he asked.

She bowed assent. "Yes," she said. "We are in need of money and I must
help. I write a clear hand."

So pleased was he with her manner and her quiet words, "We are in need
of money and I must help," as well as touched by her self-reliance at
an age when girls are generally amusing themselves, that he gave her
some copying which he had intended to have done in the office. With a
grateful glance from her brilliant dark eyes, she thanked him, and,
promising to bring the work back as soon as possible, she left the
office.

As the door closed behind her the lawyer opened a drawer and took
from it a little faded photograph of a young girl with dark eyes and
curly hair, looked at it long and sadly, then replaced it in the
drawer and went on with his work.

On the following day, when the office-boy announced "the young lady
with the copying," she was summoned to his office at once and given a
hearty hand-clasp.

"I am glad to see you again," the lawyer said. "I had a daughter you
remind me of strongly. She died when she was twelve years old. Be
seated, please, and tell me a little about yourself. You are very
young to be doing such work as this. Is your father living, and why
are you not in school?"

Compelled by his kindly interest, the young girl talked as freely with
him as if he were an old friend. Her name, she said, was Anna
Elizabeth Dickinson, and she was born in Philadelphia, thirteen years
before, on the 28th of October. Her father, John Dickinson, and her
mother, who had been Mary Edmundson before her marriage, were both
persons who were interested in the vital questions of the day, and
Anna had been brought up in an atmosphere of refinement and of high
principles. All this her new friend learned by a series of friendly
questions, and Anna, having begun her story, continued with a degree
of frankness which was little less than surprising, after so short an
acquaintance. Her father had been a merchant, and had died when she
was two years old, leaving practically no income for the mother to
live on and bring up her five children. Both mother and father were
Quakers, she said, and she was evidently very proud of her father, for
her eyes flashed as she said: "He was a wonderful man! Of course, I
can't remember it, but mother has told me that the last night of his
life, when he was very sick, he went to an anti-slavery meeting and
made a remarkably fine speech. Yes, father was wonderful."

"And your mother?" queried her new friend.

Tears dimmed the young girl's eyes. "There aren't any words to
express mother," she said. "That is why I am trying to work at night,
or at least part of the reason," she added, with frank honesty. "We
take boarders and mother teaches in a private school, too, but even
that doesn't give enough money for six of us to live on, and she is so
pale and tired all the time." She added, with a toss of her curly
head: "And I must have money to buy books, too, but helping mother is
more important."

Entirely absorbed in her own narrative now, she continued to pour out
a flood of facts with such an eloquence and persuasive use of words
that her hearer was lost in amazement over a young girl who was so
fluent in her use of language. From her frank tale he gathered that
she had been a wayward, wilful, intense, and very imaginative child,
who, despite her evident devotion to her mother, had probably given
her many hours of worry and unhappiness. It was evident also that as a
younger child she had been considered an incorrigible pupil at school,
for she seemed to have always rebelled against discipline which she
thought unnecessary.

"They could punish me all they liked," she said, with flashing eyes.
"I would never obey a rule that had not been explained to me and that
wasn't fair--never! Teachers and mothers were always telling good
little girls not to play with me, and I was _glad_! Girls the teachers
call 'good' sometimes are not that at all; they just know how to hide
things from the teachers." As her hearer made no comment, but listened
with an amused smile curving his lips, Anna continued: "I _adore_
books, but, oh, how I hate school, when the rich girls laugh at my
clothes and then at me if I tell them that my mother is poor and we
work for all we have! It isn't fair, because we can't help it, and we
do the best we can. I never would say it to them in the world--never!
In the first school I went to they used to tease the children who
were timid, and bother them so much that they would forget their
lessons and get punished when it was not their fault. But _I_ looked
after them," declared Anna, proudly. "I fought their battles for them,
until the others left them alone, because they were afraid to fight
me, I was so strong. Oh, sir," she cried, "why can't people always be
fair and square, I wonder?"

As if mesmerized by the intensity of this remarkable young reformer,
the lawyer found himself repeating, "I wonder!" as if he had no
opinions on the subject, but at the same time he was doing some
thinking in regard to such a unique character as this one before him.
When she had finished speaking he rose and put a bundle of work in her
hand. "I will help you and your brave mother all I can," he said.
"While you are doing that copying I will speak to other lawyers, who,
I am sure, will give you more to do. I have looked over what you have
done, and can warmly recommend you as a copyist. I hope we shall have
many more long talks together."

So with her package under her arm, and a warm feeling of satisfaction
in her heart because she had found a new friend who said she could do
good work, she hurried home.

Almost from baby days it had been evident that Anna Dickinson was no
ordinary child, and how to curb the restless spirit and develop the
strong nature into a fine woman was a great problem for the already
over-burdened mother. Even as a young child Anna had an iron will, and
discipline, of which she later learned the value, so chafed her
independent nature that she was generally in a state of rebellion.
From her own story it was clear that she must have been a terror to
unjust teachers or pupils; but she did not mention the many devoted
friends she had gained by her championship of those who were not being
treated fairly according to her ideas. Hers was a strong, talented,
courageous, fearless nature, which was bound to be a great power for
good or evil. The scales were turned in the right direction by her
passionate love for her mother and an intense desire to lift some of
the burden of financial worry from her shoulders, as she saw Mrs.
Dickinson, with tireless industry, struggle to make ends meet, and to
feed, clothe, and educate her fatherless children. Her one
determination was to have them grow up into noble men and women, but
in Anna's early life it seemed as if the tumultuous nature would never
be brought to any degree of poise and self-control. She showed a
marked love of books, even when she was only seven years old, and
would take one of her mother's volumes of Byron's poems and, hiding
under a bed, where she would not be disturbed, read for hours.

When she was about twelve years old Anna went to the "Westover
Boarding-school of Friends," where she remained for almost two years,
and from which she went to the "Friends' Select School" in
Philadelphia, where she was still studying when she applied for
copying and found a new friend. Both of the schools were free Quaker
schools, as her mother could not afford to send her elsewhere, and in
both she stood high for scholarship, if not for deportment. In the
latter institution she was noted for never failing in a recitation,
although she was taking twelve subjects at one time, and was naturally
looked upon with awe and admiration by less brilliant pupils. A new
scholar once questioned her as to her routine of work, and the reply
left her questioner speechless with wonder.

"Oh, I haven't any," said Anna, with a toss of her curly head. "And I
don't study. I just go to bed and read, sometimes till one o'clock in
the morning--poetry, novels, and all sorts of things; then just before
I go to sleep I look my lessons over." Evidently the new-comer was a
bit doubtful of being able to follow her leader, for Anna added,
reassuringly: "Oh yes, you can, if you try. It's easy when you get the
habit!" and went off, leaving a much-amazed girl behind her.

At the time of her visit to the lawyer's office Anna begged to be
allowed to leave school to try and add to the family income, but her
practical mother persuaded her not to do this for at least a year or
so, and, seeing the wisdom of the advice, Anna remained in the
"Friends' School." So active was her mind that for weeks at a time she
did not sleep over five hours a night; the remaining time she spent in
doing all the copying she could get and in reading every book on which
she could lay her hands. Newspapers, speeches, tracts, history,
biography, poetry, novels and fairy-tales--she devoured them all with
eager interest. A favorite afternoon pastime of hers was to go to the
Anti-Slavery Office, where, curled up in a cozy corner, she would read
their literature or listen to arguments on the subject presented by
persons who came and went. At other times she would be seized with a
perfect passion for a new book, and would go out into the streets,
determined not to return home until she had earned enough to buy the
coveted prize. At such a time she would run errands or carry bundles
or bags for passengers coming from trains until she had enough money
for her book. Then she would hurry to a bookstore, linger long and
lovingly over the piles of volumes, and finally buy one, which she
would take home and devour, then take it to a second-hand bookshop and
sell it for a fraction of what it cost, and get another.

Among her other delights were good lectures, and she eagerly watched
the papers to find out when George William Curtis, Wendell Phillips,
or Henry Ward Beecher was going to lecture in the city; then she would
start out on a campaign to earn the price of a ticket for the lecture.

One day when she had read much about Wendell Phillips, but never
heard him, she saw that he was to lecture in Philadelphia on "The Lost
Arts." It happened that there was no copying for her to do at that
time, and she had no idea how to earn the twenty-five cents which
would give her the coveted admittance; but go to the lecture she must.
As she walked past a handsome residence she noticed that coal had just
been put in and the sidewalk left very grimy. Boldly ringing the bell,
she asked if she might scrub the walk, and as a result of her exertion
a triumphant young girl was the first person to present herself at the
hall that night, and quite the most thrilled listener among the throng
that packed the house to hear Wendell Phillips. Although her career
was so soon to find her out, little did Anna dream on that night, as
she listened spellbound to the orator of the occasion, that not far in
the future many of that audience were to be applauding a young girl
with dark eyes, curly hair, and such force of character and personal
magnetism that she was to sway her audiences even to a greater extent
than the man to whom she was listening.

When she was seventeen Anna left school for good, feeling that she
could not afford to give any more time to study while her mother
needed so many comforts and necessities which money could buy. So she
left the "Friends' Select School," and in her unselfish reason for
this, and the fact that she was forced to support herself and others
at such an early age, when she longed for a more thorough education,
lies an appeal for kindly criticism of her work rather than a verdict
of superficiality, which some gave who did not understand or
appreciate the nature, the inspiration, or the real genius of the
young and enthusiastic girl.

She was offered a position as teacher in a school in New Brighton,
Beaver County, and accepting it she spent a few months there, but as
she did not like it she applied for a district-school position that
was vacant in the same town. When she had made all but the final
arrangements with the committee she asked, "What salary do you give?"

A committeeman replied: "A man has had the position until now. We gave
him twenty-eight dollars a month, but we should not think of giving a
_girl_ more than sixteen." Something in his manner and words stung
Anna like a lash, and, drawing herself up to her full height, she
turned to leave the room.

"Sir," she said, "though I am too poor to-day to buy a pair of cotton
gloves, I would rather go in rags than degrade my womanhood by
accepting anything at your hands!" And off she went, to try her fate
in some other place and way, absolutely sure that in some unknown
manner she was to wrest success from the future. Young, inexperienced,
penniless, and with few friends, she passed weeks looking for a
situation in vain. At last she was offered work in a store, but when
she found that she must tell what was not true about goods to
customers rather than lose a sale, she put on her hat and left at
once, and again began her weary quest of work. Everywhere she found
that, if she had been a boy, she could have secured better positions
and pay than she could as a girl. Also in her wide range of reading
she discovered that many of the advantages of life and all of the
opportunities, at that time, were given to men rather than to women.
Her independent nature was filled with determination to do something
to alter this, if she ever had a chance. It came sooner than she would
have dared to hope.

One Sunday she was sitting at home, reading a newspaper, when she saw
a notice of a meeting to be held that afternoon in a certain hall by
the "Association of Progressive Friends," to discuss "Woman's Rights
and Wrongs." She would go. Having decided this, she went to the home
of a young friend and persuaded her to go, too, and together they
walked to the hall and were soon deeply engrossed in the arguments
presented by the speakers. The presiding officer of the afternoon was
a Doctor Longshore, who announced before the meeting began that at the
close of the formal discussion ladies were requested to speak, as the
subject was one in which they were especially interested.

"One after another, women rose and gave their views on the question.
Then, near the center of the house a girl arose whose youthful face,
black curls, and bright eyes, as well as her musical voice and subdued
but impressive manner, commanded the attention of the audience. She
spoke twice as long as each speaker was allowed, and right to the
point, sending a thrill of interest through her listeners, who
remembered that speech for many a long day. At the close of the
meeting more than one in the audience came forward and spoke to the
beaming girl, thanking her for her brilliant defense of her sex, and
asking her to surely come to the meeting on the following Sunday."
Flushed with triumph and excitement, she received the praise and
congratulations and promised to be present the next week. When the
time came she again rose and spoke in glowing language of the rights
and privileges which should be given to women as well as to men. As
soon as she sat down a tall, nervous man, with an air of proud
assurance that the world was made for his sex, rose and spoke firmly
against Anna's arguments, voicing his belief that men were by right
the lords and masters of creation. While he spoke he fixed his eyes on
Anna, as if enchanted by the sight of her rapidly crimsoning cheeks
and flashing eyes, which showed emotions at white heat. The moment he
finished she stood again, and this time, young and inexperienced
though she was, with little education and less knowledge of the great
world, she held her audience spellbound by the clear ideas which she
poured out in almost flawless English, and by her air of conviction
which carried belief in her arguments with it. She spoke clearly,
steadily, as she summed up all the wrongs she had been obliged to
suffer through a struggling girlhood, as well as all she had seen and
read about and felt in her soul to be true, although she had no
tangible proofs. On flowed the tide of her oratory in such an outburst
of real feeling that her hearers were electrified, amazed, by the rare
magnetism of this young and unknown girl. As she spoke she drew nearer
to the man, whose eyes refused now to meet her keen dark ones, and who
seemed deeply confused as she scored point after point in defense,
saying, "_You_, sir! said so and so," ... with each statement sweeping
away his arguments one by one until he had no ground left to stand on.
When her last word had been said and she took her seat amid a storm of
applause, he swiftly and silently rose and left the hall, to the great
amusement of the audience, whose sympathies were entirely with the
young girl who had stated her case so brilliantly.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22