"He drew a small box from his pocket. 'A good girl and a good actress,' he said, 'needs and ought to own a'—he touched a spring, the box flew open—'a good watch,' he finished.
"Literally, I could not speak, having such agony of delight in its beauty, of pride in its possession, of satisfaction in a need supplied, of gratitude and surprise immeasurable. 'Oh!' and again 'Oh!' was all that I could cry, while I pressed it to my cheek and gloated over it. My thanks must have been sadly jumbled and broken, but my pride and pleasure made Mr. Ellsler laugh, and then the carriage was there, and laughter stilled into a silent, close hand-clasp. As I opened the door of the dusty old hack, I saw the first star prick brightly through the evening sky. Then the hoarse voice said, 'God bless you'—and I had left my first manager."
To say that Clara Morris made a success in Cincinnati is the barest truth. Her first appearance was in the rôle of a country girl, Cicely, a simple milkmaid with only one speech to make, but one which taxed the ability of an actress to the uttermost to express what was meant. Clara played this part in a demure black-and-white print gown, with a little hat tied down under her chin. On the second night, she played what is called a "dressed part," a bright, light-comedy part in which she wore fine clothes; on the third night hers was a "tearful" part. In three nights she completely won the public, and on the third she received her first anonymous gift, a beautiful and expensive set of pink corals set in burnished gold. "Flowers, too, came over the foot-lights, the like of which she had never seen before, some of them costing more than she earned in a week. Then one night came a bolder note with a big gold locket, which, having its sender's signature, went straight back to him the next morning. As a result it began to be whispered about that the new star sent back all gifts of jewelry; but when one matinée a splendid basket of white camelias came with a box of French candied fruit, it delighted her and created a sensation in the dressing-room. That seemed to start a fashion, for candies in dainty boxes came to her afterward as often as flowers."
On the night of her first appearance, a lawyer of Cincinnati who saw her play the part of Cicely was so delighted with her interpretation of the small rôle that he at once asked: "Who is she? What is her history?"—only to find that, like most happy women, she had none. She came from Cleveland, she lived three doors away with her mother—that was all.
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!"