On March 10th, Miss Annie Adams (Mrs. Kiskadden) who had recently returned on a visit to Salt Lake after an absence of three years in San Francisco, assisted by the stock company, gave a production of "The Two Orphans," Miss Adams appearing as Louise and Miss Colebrook as Henriette, the writer in the character of Pierre. This was the first presentation of this play at this theatre and it proved a great drawing card.
The next star attraction was one of more than ordinary interest. The anniversary of Shakespeare's birth (and death) on April 23rd, Adelaide Neilson, the world acknowledged Juliet, was announced to appear in that character. Miss Neilson was well-known to our theatregoers by reputation as the greatest Juliet of the age, and the demand for seats was extraordinary. The prices were advanced, but not to exorbitant figures, the prices ranging from 25c to $1.50. Every seat in the house was filled, and numbers were glad to stand on both evenings rather than miss seeing the beautiful and popular actress. There was no dissatisfaction with this engagement; everybody was pleased and delighted, and Adelaide Neilson's praises were on everybody's lips. She could have remained a week and played to full houses, but engagements ahead precluded a longer stay; she only gave two performances, "As You Like It" being the second bill. There was only one opinion as to her Juliet, that it was the perfect embodiment of the character, her rich beauty of face and form, her exquisite grace, her melodious voice, and the marvelous power of expression in her soft tender eyes, equipped her completely for the part. As Rosalind she was equally as charming if not as brilliant as in Juliet. The playing of Romeo to her Juliet, the writer cherishes as one of the pleasantest memories of his long professional career. A year later the beautiful Neilson was dead. Alas! for the mutability of all that is mundane:
"She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time.
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more.
It is a tale told by an idiot;
Full of sound and fury; signifying nothing."
—Macbeth.
"The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth ere gave
Await alike the inevitable hour;
The paths of glory lead but to the grave."
—Gray's Elegy.
The next stellar attraction was Ben de Bar. Ben was the manager of one of the St. Louis theatres when the writer was a boy, and my first introduction to the stage was at De Bar's theatre. A young fellow who was our neighbor in St. Louis induced me to go with him and go on as a super. The play was "Sixtus V., Pope of Rome." Mr. and Mrs. Farren were the stars. I made my first acquaintance with the stage in that play, as one of the mob, little dreaming that I would one day be cast to play Sixtus V., which I was some years afterwards in the Salt Lake Theatre.
Ben De Bar was a popular comedian as well as manager at the time of which I am telling, but for some half dozen years now he has been starring in the character of Sir John Falstaff. He was very stout, and well suited to the character and confined himself to it exclusively, varying the monotony, however, by playing both the plays in which Sir John is so prominent, "Henry IV" and "The Merry Wives of Windsor."
Ben had been to San Francisco and had just played an engagement there, before coming to Salt Lake. He opened here on May 17th in "The Merry Wives." He complained of not feeling well and it was quite perceptible that something was the matter; he was uncertain and forgetful. On the second night in "Henry IV," his lapses of memory were still more perceptible. In short, it was palpable to all the company, if not the audience, that Mr. De Bar was suffering from some derangement of memory to such an extent as to in places mar the scenes, and very much embarrass those who had dialogue with him. The writer was playing Hotspur on the occasion, and had but little to do with the boastful Sir John, but noticing his lapses of memory in several places and his consequent and apparent distress, kindly inquired as to his trouble, when he feelingly told me he had suffered in San Francisco the same way, and he felt no confidence in himself whatever. He said his memory was deserting him and he feared his professional career was at an end. After the play was over he called me into his dressing room, and said: "Mr. Lindsay, I have made my last appearance on the stage. I am done, sir. I feel that I have subjected the entire company tonight to a great deal of embarrassment, and my lapses of memory must have been quite apparent to the audience. No, sir, I can no longer rely on my memory, and I shall never attempt to play again. I feel my career is ended." His words were pathetic, and as it proved, prophetic; he never did appear on the stage again. In less than a year dear old Ben de Bar died of softening of the brain. Ben de Bar was about sixty years of age when he died. "What old acquaintance! Could not all this flesh keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell! I could have better spared a better man." Prince Hal in "Henry IV," Part First.
Salt Lake seemed to be an attractive summer resort for a certain class of attractions, and quite a number found their way here during the very hottest of the weather. On July 24th Robert Heller, a very clever magician and an excellent pianist, assisted by Miss Helen (his sister), entertained the patrons of the theatre for a week with his very clever tricks and fine piano playing. His second sight business, in which he was ably assisted by Miss Helen, was wonderfully clever, and mystified the beholders very much indeed. He was the first to introduct a second-sight business here, and was as much of a wonder as Anna Eva Fay has since been.