This was, of course, a crusher. The young author moved away with a bleeding heart, and his armful of manuscript, and the stage to which his hopes and ambition had been attracted probably never offered him an opportunity to have his play damned on a first night. American dramatists are to-day pretty much in the same plight in regard to American managers and the American stage. Very few of our dramatic authors have received proper recognition, and few who have toiled at writing and dramatizing for years have much fame or money to show for their work. American managers have a rage for foreign works, and just now are pouring thousands of dollars into the pockets of English and French playwrights, whose work is by no means superior to that to be found in the home market. Some years ago that very successful play of "The Two Orphans" was purchased by an American from its French author for a mere song. Now, Sardou gets $10,000 for a play like "Odette," which has so far, I believe, failed to bring that amount back to Mr. French, the purchaser. Samuel Colville paid Messrs. Pettitt & Merritt, of London, an enormous sum for the melodrama of "The World," which, however, made $75,000 for him. Messrs. Brooks & Dickson bought "Romany Rye," an untried play, from Sims, for America, paying him $10,000 cash; Colville paid a high price for "Taken from Life," and D'Oyley Carte planks down $12,000 to Mr. Sims for a drama, before a line of it is written, and sells the American right to Lester Wallack on the same terms.
All the American actors, actresses and managers nowadays want foreign plays and are willing to pay exorbitant prices for everything that is offered. On the other hand it is the exception when an American playwright does well, or indeed when his work is accepted at all. Some few late successes this side of the water have set all the ambitious young men of play-writing proclivities to work. One day it will be announced that John McCullough has bought a tragedy from a rising journalist, and next day all the journalists will be writing plays for him. So, too, with Raymond, and Mary Anderson, and a score of others. But, few writers among journalists succeed in dramatic work. Robert G. Morris, of the New York Telegram, is among the latest successes with his "Old Shipmates," and probably one of the greatest is Bartley Campbell, who sprang into fame in a night, after plodding patiently and poorly paid for years. Fred. Marsden, who writes Lotta's plays, is also among the fortunate, having, according to report, during his career made something like $70,000.
Bartley Campbell may be taken as an excellent example of the manner in which the American dramatist works, and the almost despairing circumstances attending his long and weary chase of fortune. He is a man with a history. That history he made himself. From an office boy he has risen to a place of honor. Not that the position of office boy is dishonorable, but very few who begin life in that sphere ever attain as high a place as that now enjoyed by the greatest of our American dramatists. He was born at Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, some thirty-seven years ago, and as soon as he graduated from the lap of infancy he entered a lawyer's office with the view of studying for the bar. But the reading of law he soon discovered was not at all to his liking, and he was declared an unpromising student, being too poetic and sentimental. His next move was to the office of the Pittsburg Leader, where he himself says he received the munificent salary of $5 a week for the hardest work he has ever done. Here is another illustration of the old saying, that when you have failed at everything else make up your mind to adopt the profession of actor or journalist. Young Campbell chose the latter. He preferred the stationary drudgery of a newspaper Bohemian's existence to the wandering chance-life of the equally hard worked, and, at that time, poorly paid actor. By diligence and close application to study he rose rapidly, and soon was entrusted with the responsible position of dramatic critic. He must have been a good one. It is said that he was a faithful critic; so faithful, indeed, as to warrant the chastisement of a bad actor, and endanger the publication of the paper with libel suits. He deserted the Leader and commenced publishing the Mail, and it is here, while editing this journal, that he first attempted play-writing. His early effort was the sensational drama called "Through the Fire," brought out in 1871; then followed the comedy, "Peril," produced in 1872; the third was, "Fate," which was subsequently purchased by Miss Carlotta Leclerq, who played it with much success for several years; then followed, "Risks," now the property of John T. Raymond, and, in swift succession, the mill ground out "The Virginian," "On the Rhine," "Gran Uale," "The Big Bonanza," which, it will be remembered, was one of the successes of 1875. "A Heroine in Rags," "How Women Love" (later known as "The Heart of the Sierras," and still later as "The Vigilantes"), "Clio," "Fairfax," "My Partner," and lastly, "The Galley Slave." It was the success of "My Partner" that brought about the turning-point in Mr. Campbell's fortune. That he had suffered the severity of want, he confesses himself in a neat little Christmas story told by him to a newspaper correspondent, who met him at the door of Haverly's Theatre, New York, one night during the run of "The Galley Slave" in the metropolis. His tall figure, his slouch hat, rather dishevelled hair, twelve-cornered moustache, Prince Albert coat and disordered necktie looked just as they did when I first saw their owner some years ago, when his luck was away down. The statement of the night's receipts was brought him while we stood there, and his share was a few dollars more than six hundred.
"House not as good as last night," he said, "within a couple of dollars. Fact is, the business, although good, has not been better than it might be."
"Why, Bartley, you don't quarrel about a couple of dollars, now you are in the height of success? What is your income from plays, anyway?"
"I don't growl about a few dollars; but now is the time—see? When you can growl about them do it. Well, I'm getting on an average $1,500 a week now."
"You'll soon be rich, Bartley."
"Well, I am so accustomed to bad luck, perhaps I may meet some—see?"
Bartley Campbell always says "see" in an interrogative way without much or any desire for an answer. In a rambling conversation about his varied career that followed, the drift of the talk got Christmas and poverty mixed, and Bartley told this story of his early struggles: "I had just gone to New Orleans with my wife, arriving there just when a newspaper had suspended, and twelve writers were, like myself, seeking journalistic work—only, unlike myself, they had acquaintances and friends; I neither; nor money, except five cents—see? The row was a hard one. After various 'shifts'—one of which was starting the Southern Magazine, which was brought out—we found ourselves, just before Christmas time, with nothing of importance except a grocery bill—see? I wrote a poem about Eddystone Light, and sent it to the Nineteenth Century, then published in Charleston, S. C., by Felix de Fontaine & Co. It was the small beginning of which the present Nineteenth Century is the great result—see?"
"Well, I marked on the MS.—price $15. Commercial poetry—see? We confidently expected that money before Christmas. Why, we took it as a matter of course that the money must come. If it didn't—well, that was a view of things that we couldn't take for a moment—see? Well, the day before Christmas came, but that money did not. I visited the post-office again and again that day, but no letter. The situation was gloomy then, and in the evening I said to my wife, 'I guess I'll have to go to the grocery, anyway.' 'I wouldn't go, Bart,' she said; 'I am afraid he'll say something about the account.' 'I can't help it—I am going, anyhow,' I answered, and grabbed the basket and rushed out, for fear that my wife's fears would deter me from going at all—see? He didn't say anything about the account, and I ordered sparingly. When he got the things all in the basket, he slipped in with them a bottle of nice liquor, and he said: 'Now, Mr. Campbell, this is Christmas Eve.' I went home, and I drank some of the liquor, and when we went to bed things looked a little brighter. I got up in the morning, and they were gloomy again—see? I started down to the post-office, my wife saying it was a fruitless errand, and got there just before the Christmas rule of closing at 10 A. M. shut down the delivery window. The clerk ran through every letter, and when he had got to the last one, and as I half turned to leave, he threw me down a letter which bore the date mark 'Charleston.' I opened it, and there was a check for $15. My legs couldn't carry me home fast enough. I got there, and my wife met me, her face all aglow. 'Well, Bart,' she said. 'Well,' I said, and I felt that she had heard the news—that some one had told her my check had come, for to me it was the biggest piece of news ever was, and that it was common talk was perfectly natural. 'Bartley, I have got $10,' she cried. 'And I have got $15,' I yelled; and she, not noticing it, went on, 'I sold the war book about women, that nobody would buy before, to some people who wanted it. Now, don't be extravagant, Bartley, please.' We had a bottle of champagne that day, and presently I got the position of official reporter of the Legislature at $16 a week; but Christmas time never comes that I do not wonder if I will have as merry and happy a day as the one we celebrated in New Orleans just after the war."