SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR, WITH PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS.
“The Inception of Negro Minstrelsy.”
Let me begin by saying that I am not a “Monarch of Minstrelsy,” not even a duke or prince; as a matter of fact I am a mere subject, perhaps it would be more exact to say I am a slave, for I cannot recall the time when the curtain having been rung up on the first part, the interlocutor saying, “Gentlemen, be seated,” that it did not thrill me through and through; in all probability they would have been seated without his invitation, but still, disappointment would have been keen had he not have done so. Then the overture accompanied by the bones and tambos; but that part of the performance seems to be obsolete now; and how I yearn for it. The second son of the late Wm. Henry Rice, who put on cork for nearly fifty years, I was born in New York City, August 24, 1871, on Fourteenth Street, nearly opposite the Armory, above Sixth Avenue. If you happen to see a crowd around there at any time, you will know it is part of the excited populace trying to carry away portions of the building which housed me on my first appearance in any country.
I can remember, as a youngster even before my school days began, my father asking me if I wanted to be a minstrel? I knew that my mother was averse to it and, as they both looked at me awaiting my reply, I vehemently said NO; that was the first lie I ever told. I have done better subsequently, but they have no bearing on this matter. When I was about six or eight years of age, my father, wishing to celebrate the occasion in a fitting manner, took me down town (Philadelphia) and giving me my choice to go in one direction and see “Jack the Giant Killer,” or take another route and see the minstrels. I had heard a whole lot about the youthful prodigy who made a business of trimming big husky gents for the sake of getting an appetite that he might better enjoy his meals, and confess to a feeling of curiosity; but it was the “nigger singers” for mine, and it was there that I obtained my first recollection of any individual performer. It was Bobby Newcomb doing Topsy. Whether it was an “Uncle Tom” show, with which the late minstrel was prominently identified at one time, or whether it was a burletta on Mrs. Stowe’s immortal work, I never learned, but Newcomb’s dress, a ragbag affair, I remember distinctly, subsequently, one made from an American flag, finishing with the well-known suit of white duck in knee-breeches. That was the beginning. I decided then that a minstrel’s life was the life for me, and for years I importuned my father to take me on the road with him, finally obtaining a promise to go the next time he took a show out. This was somewhat hazy, but I clung to it tenaciously, and when in July, 1890, he organized the World’s Fair Minstrels, my happiness was unbounded. I was in Philadelphia at the time, passing cigars and tobacco over the counter of a Smoke Emporium presided over by Lew Simmons, one of the oldest active minstrels in harness to-day; observe the date again, please. July, 1890, was it not? At that time Lew had given up the minstrel business entirely. I recall Lew Dockstader dropping in one day and inquiring how he (Simmons) liked the business? “Like it?” said the senior Lew, “why I am perfectly happy; I wouldn’t go back in the business again for $100 per week.” (I remember it was PER week.) But he did, a couple of years later, and from all appearances looks good for a few more. I joined my father’s troupe. We opened at Elizabeth, N. J., on July 17th. In the company were Billy Birch, Frank Moran, Frank Kent and Bob Slavin; all since passed away.
Old minstrel habitues will recall that nigger-act wherein one of the performers declares loudly to his friends that he is boss in his own home, how he rules the ranch and so on; and just as he is saying it his wife would show up then he would inflict dire punishment upon her, she comes running down the aisle from the front of the house saying, “Where’s my husband?” gathers her lesser half by the ear and amidst the jeers of his companions, carries him away.
Being a Truthful Portrayal of the Author’s First Appearance on Any Stage; Morristown, N. J., July 18, 1890.
At the second performance, at Morristown, N. J., I was cast for the enraged spouse. I believe I was made up for the part fully an hour before the house opened. How nervous I was awaiting my cue, but when it came, my ears seemed to hear nothing but wife, wife, wife, and instead of saying, “Where’s my husband?” I said, “Where’s my wife?” * * * I won’t repeat what my father said, but what with the tears of mortification that flowed from my eyes and the perspiration from the pores of my face, almost made washing-up a superfluity.
After that awful first night I got away with the part without any trouble, and even indulged in conversations while awaiting my cue, which I had always thought to be a physical impossibility.
Billy Birch, who was with us, used to suffer severely from rheumatism, and just before parade would say to me, “‘Cully,’ would you mind going over to the hotel, on the bureau, right hand side, and get my medicine?” Would I go? I felt honored.
At the opening performance we had a song and dance team who, like myself, were just breaking into the business. Their act was not an unqualified success and extra tickets to Morristown were not purchased. Some one asked Bob Slavin what he thought of the act, to which he replied: “As a success, they’re a failure; as a failure, they’re a success.”
The company closed early in November and a couple of weeks before Christmas I consented to wrap parcels at Wanamaker’s store in Philadelphia for a small weekly stipend. It was hard to work for wages after having received a salary.
Various mercantile positions were mine until the Fall of 1894, when the late Harry Mann opened the old Arch Street Theatre in Philadelphia for the production of the old farces such as “Box and Cox” and others of a like nature. I had heard that there were to be specialties between the acts, wrote for an engagement and shortly afterwards received a reply from Mr. Mann asking me to call. (I have that letter yet.) I told him that I had a black-face monologue that was absolutely original; he told me that he could get Willis P. Sweatnam, but decided to give me the preference, I was quick to reply that I wasn’t as good as Sweatnam. (I was frightfully modest those days.) However, I was engaged, and was to receive $10 for my week’s services; I was certain he could not get Sweatnam for less than $12.50 or possibly $15. Monday, September 24, we opened; I wore a pale-blue suit and a pleasant expression; on Tuesday I still had the suit, but had lost the expression, caused by the sudden closing of the house. I have always maintained that if I had been billed stronger, the house might have remained open longer; possibly another night; the $1.67 due me for my one performance, I never received, but as compensation, one of the papers said that my monologue, besides being good in itself, was excellently rendered. It’s not true that the reporter who wrote this, attended a prizefight that evening. I banked a whole lot on that blue suit; it was part of my plan to be different from any other monologist, and I still think I was. Instead of making my entrance in the conventional manner, I hit upon the idea of having one of the scenes part in the centre, and then walk on saying, “I just blew in,” carelessly pointing to my blue suit at the same time.
The more I thought of this, the greater the sensation I was sure I would create; I pictured the reserves being called upon to quell the riot; I saw myself taking encore after encore, and conjured the immense audience rising in their seats as one, begging for just one more glimpse of that blue suit; I was so sure of my success to be, that in a burst of confidence, I told a friend about my idea, and was horrified to learn that George Thatcher had done the self-same thing some time before. Here was a dilemma, what was I to do? I had known Thatcher from boyhood, and the idea of utilizing any of his ideas was not to be thought of; fortunately, about this time, he (Thatcher) played an engagement at the National Theatre (Philadelphia), and I decided to see him and explain the situation thoroughly. I found him one evening standing on the steps of the theatre; I told the whole story, reserving nothing, and explained that I was willing to relinquish my idea if he thought it would conflict with him in any way, but with rare generosity he agreed not to prosecute me for plagiarism or piracy.
A week later I opened at Easton, Pa. I had a cold in the head and an old wig; the cold I obtained in Philadelphia, the wig in Easton, it was an old one (the wig) having lost my good one in Philly the week previous. * * * An uncle of mine graciously advanced me the price of a ticket to Philadelphia. * * * The watch was worth considerably more than $2. Six months later I might have been seen doing my specialty in Paterson, N. J.; provided you came Monday afternoon. * * * A performer in the same dressing-room asked me how much I paid for my trunk, which was a duplicate of his; $6 I said; why, I paid $12 for mine, he averred. And that was all I got out of the engagement. But that suit, little did the young lady who made it for me dream it would one day become historical; she is now a sedate matron in Detroit. Wonder if she still remembers it?
In the fall of 1898 I was a member of one of the many California Minstrel organizations that have invaded the country in the past fifty years. The Spring and Summer of 1900 found me selling pasteboards to the Southerners while with the Primrose & Dockstader Minstrels; in the Fall of 1900 I was agent for Andrew Robson in “The Royal Box;” 1901-02, agent for “Pud’dnhead Wilson,” with William S. Gill in the name part, Walker Whiteside, and a return to Primrose & Dockstader; 1902-03, manager, Western Alphonse & Gaston Co.; 1903-04, treasurer, Great Lafayette Company.
At various times I acted as usher and lithographer at the Park, Walnut and Arch Street Theatres in Philadelphia; Columbus Theatre, New York City, and the Park in Brooklyn.
In July, 1907, I conceived the idea of appearing daily at the ball games in New York City, and in the following afternoon’s paper give an accurate account of the conversations entered into, together with the description of the parties spoken to; in addition having my own features reproduced daily together with an accurate description of myself; to any party who could single me out was given a free pass to all the ball games on the ground where I was detected.
Under the title of the “Man in the Bleachers” I ran those on the New York Evening World with great success for five weeks.
Then came the idea of giving to the world the lives and careers of the minstrels, thus “presenting to the public and preserving to posterity the peculiarities and personalities of prominent performers of the past and present;” and here it is, after three years’ exhaustive and patient labor. Now for the big show.