January 1827
Noah Miller Ludlow (1795–1886), a native of New York City, began his actor-manager career in Kentucky in 1815. Later he managed theaters in New Orleans, St. Louis, and Mobile, as well as being the first actor to play in the more isolated towns of the Old Southwest. He partnered with Sol Smith from 1835 to 1853. Not only was he an excellent comedic actor himself, but he also presented outstanding actors to his audiences. Dramatic Life As I Found It chronicles his thirty-eight years as an actor and manager. The excerpted passage reveals something of the theater in early Montgomery. His theatrical offerings were dignified and respectable. Although he was a rather unhappy man, this excerpt reveals Ludlow’s love of the absurd and appreciation of practical jokes—qualities almost exclusively confined to actors and entertainers in this book.
N. M. Ludlow, Dramatic Life As I Found It (St. Louis: G. I. Jones and Co., 1880), 298–303.
CHAPTER XXIX
. . . About the 10th of December we started for Montgomery, Alabama, then a small town of about fifteen hundred inhabitants, situated on the Alabama River, near the head of navigation. It has since become a city of considerable importance. I was induced to visit this town by a gentleman who assured me we would be well supported there in proportion to the limited population; but as he was landlord of the principal hotel, and had the only room large enough for us to perform in, I had some misgivings as to the beneficial result, knowing that a man’s interest will sometimes warp his judgment. However, the Black Warrior River was not at that particular time in good boating condition, and there was no boat then at Tuscaloosa ready to depart for Mobile; therefore I concluded to go to Montgomery, where the chances of getting to Mobile, via the Alabama River, were more frequent, and at the same time ascertain what the town might be able to do in the way of theatricals, having an eye to a future and more lengthened season than I could now make in that town. To accomplish this journey to Montgomery we were obliged to hire land-conveyances, such as a heavy road-wagon with two horses, light wagons and saddle-horses. The journey, if I remember rightly, occupied three days, and was rather a rough one; yet not without some fun attached to it, in the minds of young and adventurous persons. As an instance of this kind I will relate an occurrence that took place on the evening of our second day’s journey. We halted about sundown of this day at a residence on the roadside, consisting of two or three log-cabins, surrounded by cotton-fields, everything having the appearance of a well-to-do farming homestead. We asked if we could obtain “entertainment” there for the night,—meaning supper and beds for ourselves, and stabling and feed for our horses; to our question the reply was, we could. The owner of the house—who was the man we addressed—was a tall, huge-proportioned man, with a good-natured face; and his wife—whom we saw as we entered—was as tall in proportion, for a woman, as he was for a man. This tall pair were comfortably clad in home-made linsey-woolsey; and Ned Caldwell, who was always ready with some apt quotation, eyeing them from head to foot, whispered in my ear, “There were giants in those days.” We observed here and there, dodging around, five or six children, and as many black ones of different sizes and ages, and all staring at the odd cavalcade entering the doors of the log cottages, quite as strange-looking to them as they were to us. An immediate onslaught was commenced upon the chickens, and negroes were dispatched to the barn and out-houses in search of eggs; in short, a general stir commenced at once to provide supper for a small army of hungry people. In the meantime there was a general washing and cleaning away of the dust of the road, preparatory to our evening meal. It was a tedious time ere supper was ready, but when it came it was abundant and substantial, consisting of sundry dishes of chicken fried in cream, eggs and ham at one end of the table and ham and eggs at the other,—no great variety, but all good; added to which were hot biscuit, fresh from the oven, delicious, sweet butter, and coffee that was a nosegay of most delicate flavor, especially to hungry people. All being seated at the table, the landlady took her position at a side-table and served out the coffee. As I was being seated, I discovered one of my company, Mr. “Ned” Caldwell, at the opposite end of the table, with his hair standing up like porcupine quills; his shirt-collar unbuttoned and spread back, and his eyes in “fine frenzy rolling,” surveying the scene around him. On each side of and a little way behind him were two young negro boys, one about eight, the other about twelve years of age; behind my chair were, in like manner, two somewhat younger than the others. These four had each a torch of “light-wood,” to speak the vernacular of that country, or as I would say, pitch-pine knots; and these being lighted, cast a wild and weird appearance upon the faces and objects around.
Perhaps I should explain here that the using of these torch-lights was in consequence of these people not having just then any candles at their command. Caldwell, who had taken two or three extra drinks of whiskey, of some he had brought with him, was just in the humor to imagine himself some great potentate, surrounded by his court, at a banquet. The first remark that he made was: “This likes me well! This is feasting in the Oriental, the Eastern style,—Tippoo Sahib with his retainers on a foraging excursion.” At the same moment his eye rested on the largest negro boy, who stood near him, and who was clad in the most primitive kind of costume, namely, a cotton shirt scarcely long enough to be decent, over which was a coarse woollen jacket, and this was all. Caldwell surveyed him from head to foot, then said in a pompous, tragic manner, “Friend, what is thy name?” To which the negro replied, “Sip, massa” “Sip,” repeated Caldwell, “meaning Scipio?” The darkey smiled and nodded, yes. “Surnamed Africanus?” The boy nodded again. “Scipio Africanus, stand further from the presence; [with his hand waving him back] for, to say the truth, I like not the contiguity nor the superfluity of the perfume of thy epidermis; it partakes not of the ‘Sabeau odors from the spicy shores of Araby the blest;’ [then drawing his chair nearer the table] nevertheless, [quoting from “King Lear”] ‘I retain you as one of my hundred!’ But I do not like the fashion of your garments; you will say they are Persian attire,—let them be changed!” During this harangue the company generally had paused and put on serious faces, in order to humor the joke. The landlord and his wife stared in wonderment, and the darkeys tried to smile, but looked frightened rather than amused. Supper was soon over, and all retired for the night to such accommodations as the family could afford them. These were rough, but clean; and, being tired, all slept soundly. I arranged overnight with our host to let us have breakfast by the time the sun rose the next day. At the time appointed it was ready, and so were we, and all sat down to a substantial breakfast, similar to the meal of the previous night. Before getting breakfast, Ned Caldwell had discovered that his horse was lame, or rather the horse he had hired at Tuscaloosa, and which was to be sent back with the return of the teamster of the baggage-wagon that I had hired. This discovery was annoying Caldwell very much, and he had been talking with our host about hiring a horse from him to perform the remainder of the journey, leaving his lame horse with him, to be exchanged on the return of the wagoner; and the fresh animal’s hire was to be paid in advance. Noticing that I seemed to be the head of the party, the man came to me to ask what he had best do; saying he would be willing to let the gentleman have the horse, and had partly promised him he would, but that one of the friends of the gentleman (pointing to Sam Jones, one of my company, who was then walking at a short distance) had just then told him he must not regard what that man (meaning Caldwell) said, for he was a little deranged; and that he (Jones) was taking him on to the insane asylum at Philadelphia; that he had fallen in with this company on the road, and purposed to continue with them as far as Montgomery, after which he should proceed alone with him. I saw at once that there was some joke on foot among the young men, which they were playing off on Ned Caldwell. Our host was a kind-hearted man, and said: “I would let the poor gentleman have the horse, but his friend told me that I must positively refuse to let the horse go; that the lameness complained of was only temporary; that the horse would frequently limp after standing all night; but once on the road, in a little while the lameness would disappear, and he would get along as well as usual.” While we were talking, Caldwell stepped up to get a final answer from our host, and I went to the stable to learn what was the real difficulty, should there be any at all. Jones, seeing me go towards the stable, followed; and when there I said, “Jones, what is the matter with Caldwell’s horse?” He burst into a hearty laugh, and replied, “Nothing is the matter with him.” “Well,” I said, “what is the matter with Ned?” “O, nothing; it is only a joke we are playing off on him, to pay him for some of his own; you know he is addicted to practical joking. The fact is, while we were dressing this morning he said, ‘I’ll bet ten dollars my horse is lame, for I dreamed last night he was.’ We all laughed at him.” And Jones continued, “I went out quickly to the stable, and hunting round, found a thorn from a locust tree, which I stuck into one of the hind feet of his horse, but in such a way that I could easily pull it out again, leaving the horse without any real injury, but causing him to limp while it was there, as soon as he pressed his foot to the ground. I had not been out of the stable many minutes when Caldwell came to the house and said, ‘Now, what do you think of dreams? I told you I should find my horse lame, and he is lame.’” Having heard Jones’s explanation, I returned to the house, he having promised me he would immediately pull the thorn from the horse’s foot. I found Caldwell fretting and fuming, and angrily censuring our host for making a promise to him and then breaking it; to which the other returned no reply, but walked away, looking at Ned pitifully, and pointing to his own forehead, nodded to me, as much as to say, “Poor fellow! mad as a March hare!” As I then understood the real state of the affair, I finally succeeded in persuading Caldwell to have his horse brought out, telling him it was probably only a little stiffness, that would be removed by exercise; to which he replied, he supposed there was no other way left for him, and as we had but one short day’s journey then to make, if the horse continued lame he would get off his back and lead him the remainder of the journey. We were soon ready to start, and in the meantime I had talked with our landlord,—but saying nothing in regard to Caldwell,—giving him my name and telling him I was going to Montgomery to open a theatre there, and should he visit that town within the next two weeks he would probably find me at the principal hotel. He said he had some law business to attend to in Montgomery in a few days, and he thought we might meet again there. And so away we started, Ned on his supposed lame horse, that now hardly limped at all; our host standing in the door, looking at Ned and then at me, and pointing to his forehead, as though saying, “Poor fellow! mad! mad!”
We reached Montgomery about sundown of that day,—Caldwell’s horse not in the least lame after the first half-mile of travel; but this lameness was a mystery to Caldwell until one night about a week after our opening at Montgomery, when, our evening’s entertainment being over, three or four of the performers, with myself, were passing through the barroom of the hotel, when suddenly I came in contact with my tall host of the road, who had come, as he had previously said he would. He seemed glad to see me, and said he had been present at the evening’s performance, and had been very much amused. After a few minutes’ conversation, he said: “What became of the crazy man that was travelling with you? Do you know, I saw a man that showed with you to-night who reminded me of him? I never saw two men more alike. I would be glad to see that man, just to ask him if he hasn’t a crazy brother.” “Well,” I said, “you can do that; here he stands behind you.” With this I called Caldwell to me, and said: “Here is our host with whom we stayed the night before we reached Montgomery.” “Oh, yes,” said Ned; “this is the man that first would, and then he wouldn’t?” The tall man stared, and seemed dumbfounded, but at last said: “Why! you are not the crazy man, are you?” “Crazy? d—n no! what put that into your head?” Just then Jones, who was standing at my elbow, made a start to go away; but I caught him by the coat-tail, held him, and compelled him to reveal the whole hoax he had passed upon Ned. We all had a hearty laugh, and Jones only got off by paying for a game supper for the party of four.
The room that we performed in at Montgomery was, perhaps, the most inconvenient place that ever the descendants of Thespis had to encounter. It was in the upper story of a very large, roughly built frame house, that was called a “hotel;” the garret, or topmost portion of which had been fitted up by some amateurs to perform plays in. The only way of reaching this attic temple of the muses, for either actors or audience, was by a flight of rough stairs on the outside of the building, and these seemed almost interminable; then, when you had reached the top of them, you had to make your entrance through a window, so low that a person of ordinary height had to stoop to get into the room. This room was fitted up with rough seats without any covering, and all on a dead level. There were no dressing-rooms contiguous to the stage; therefore the performers were compelled to dress in their own rooms of the stories below, and, wrapped in cloaks, thread their way among the audience to the stage. If a change of dress was required during the progress of a play, it had to be done behind a temporary screen across one corner of the room, and behind the back scene. I was told the room had been fitted up for some amateur actors of the town; of these the principal ones were a Mr. G——, a lawyer, and two schoolmasters, a Mr. V—s and a Mr. B—k. The first-named gentleman afterwards became a judge, and subsequently to that a United States senator. I believe all three are now dead.
Our season consisted of only two weeks, for the town did not pay; and those two weeks were the first performances by a regular dramatic company in Montgomery. I am told that town has now a very well arranged theatre, a largely increased population, and in years not long past, supported the Drama very well.