61 .* 5ARNAB, 1/ class TNza^ Book ZB*z M Copyright N° COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr. REMINISCENCES OF Henry Clay Barnabee Being an Attempt to Account for His Life, with Some Excuses for His Professional Career Edited by GEORGE LEON VARNEY "What's in a name? For the very targe majority, nothing whatsoever. As for the jew immortal ones, they were not born to die. because their holders came upon earth to do that which placed them as suns in the firmament of great deeds."—Barnabee BOSTON Chappie Publishing Company, Ltd. 1913 COPYRIGHT 1913 Chapple Publishing Company, Ivtd. Boston K#S-o ©CLA3516 si* Si * 2fa thp iHpnwrg of MY BELOVED WIFE WHO For Over Fifty Years WAS My "Guiding Star" and "Leading Lady" A Card of Thanhs TV/f R- BARNABEE acknowledges here, and •* * does so with a proper feeling of gratitude, the kindness of Mr. Henry Tyrrell of the Sunday Department, New York World, and wishes to state that the poem, "Parrhasius and the Captive," printed in this volume, is reproduced from Shoemaker's Best Selections, No. 3, by permission of The Penn Publishing Company, Philadelphia. CONTENTS Chapter I—The Cradle by the Sea Chapter II—The Early Dawn Chapter III—Historic Inns and Old Homes Chapter IV—Schooldays Chapter V—First Steps Chapter VI—Still Lingering in Old "Porchmouth" Chapter VII—Early Visit to Boston Chapter VIII—Tuning Up and Playing Chapter IX—Customers, Commuters and Costumes Chapter X—Waiting at the Church Chapter XI—First Operatic Awakenings Chapter XII—Harking Back to the Boston Theatre Chapter XIII—Awakening of Critical Appreciations Chapter XIV—"Too Late for the Train" Chapter XV—With William Warren at the Boston Museum Chapter XVI—"The Cork Leg" and "The Patent Arm" Chapter XVII—The Peace Jubilees and the Apollo Club Chapter XVIII—Melody in Music Chapter XIX—Are You a Mason? CONTENTS— Continued Chapter XX—Dickens, Thackeray and Other Worthies Chapter XXI—A Patchwork of Song and Story Chapter XXII —Invading the West Chapter XXIII—The Good Old Summer Times Chapter XXIV—Bound for "Yurrip" Chapter XXV—Doing Dear Old "Lunnon" Chapter XXVI—A Short Trip Through "Yurrip" Chapter XXVII—Birth of the Boston Ideals Chapter XXVIII—"H. M. S. Pinafore" Chapter XXIX—Rounding Out a Repertoire Chapter XXX—The Ideals During the Ober Regime Chapter XXXI—Fond Recollections Chapter XXXII—The Original and Only Bostonians Chapter XXXIII—To the Golden Gate Chapter XXXIV—"Robin Hood" Chapter XXXV—Touring in Semi-"Grand" Chapter XXXVI—The Oberammergau Passion Play Chapter XXXVII—"The Serenade" and Evening Shadows Chapter XXXVIII—Friendly Memories TO THE READER DEEM it hardly necessary for me to introduce to you I the "Grand Old Man" whose name has had a most familiar sound in the musical and operatic annals of this country. And yet for me to hesitate to avail myself of the opportunity of uttering a few words before the curtain is drawn, would but be making light of a debt which I owe our artist and friend. Today as I present his beloved name, the doors of the years back of us swing upon their hinges. From the low- vaulted chambers fragrant memories rise like sweet incense out of the smouldering embers of hallowed fires; stars that have long since been devoid of their brilliancy twinkle again in far-off heavens; silent temples that have mingled their dust with the ancient edifices of Rome and Athens are sil- houetted in space, and the shadowy forms of those who once crowded their prosceniums come singing and dancing to the strains of resurrected songs. I see, as in a vision, a procession of immortal bards and masters; I see a company of artists pass by in glorious array; I see vast assemblages shouting, beckoning and applauding; I hear celestial songs and I hear voices eloquent and pathetic ringing down dark corridors; I stand in the midst of buried hopes and dreams, and I touch the withered garlands that hang over crushed joys and tarnished expectations; I reach forth as a child to pick up a flower that's tossed by some admiring friend, but,—lo and behold, as though its petals were sacred to human caress, down falls the thin veil that separates the past from the present and I am caught in the folds of the darkened divide. ; TO THE READER No, it's not a dream! The name of Henry Clay Barnabee is the magical "open sesame" to the days and nights that lie buried beneath the sunshine and shadows of fallen years. Like the Ancient Mariner, the venerable exponent of the golden age of song and story takes us and leads us from the noises of the struggling present to where the mists and rain- bows gather o'er the slumbering past. And now, before we proceed on our memorable journey, allow me to say that nearly eighty long and eventful summers have passed through the hour glass of time since Mr. Barna- bee first saw the peep of dawn. Think what it all means. Think of the advancements and achievements that have been made in the arts and sciences since his chalice was first inverted ; think how the geographical world has changed think of the growth in the religious, scientific, medical, literary and historical fields; think of the losses, the crosses and the piles of pillaged plunder; think of the fall of king- doms and the clash of arms; think of the cost of human en- deavor and the price of our National laws; think if you will of the few honored names that have found a place on our lips, and think of the shafts reared "to our unknown dead." Yea, think of a thousand of things, too numerous to mention, that have had their birth and inception since the cradle gave us the namesake of Henry Clay. After you have done all this—searching records and studying cold statistics—and have scanned the present horizon, you have some faint idea of what Henry Clay Barnabee could point out to us or assist Clio in recording on the pages between these covers. But thanks be it, Mr. Barnabee, the sponsor, the father, the head, the guide and the pride of all Bostonians, does not make any effort to present us with such a voluminous record of historical facts and figures. His own particular field has been in the amusement world; and in the following pages he has simply attempted to place in our hands his TO THE READER last and final offering—the story of his own brilliant career and a record of some of the personal peculiarities of a host of noted singers, musicians and artists who have been his associates for over half a century. To you, as one of the vast number who shall accept these "immortal remains," I have but to say that the optimistic, humorous and quaintly philosophical traits which have en- deared Mr. Barnabee to the world so long are constantly in evidence throughout the work, and the language is sub- stantially his own. I refrain from placing here any slight tribute from my feeble pen. I have left it for others, more capable than my- self, to speak of the worth of Mr. Barnabee as a reader, a singer and a comedian. To me Henry Clay Barnabee wears no fancy costumes—he stands before my limelight as a dear friend from whom I have received many warm personal atten- tions. He is known to many as a prince of good fellows, and, in the fraternal spirit, as a brother; but I know him only as a man, the -kind of a man that I would call a gentleman. When his final curtain falls, hundreds of his admirers and acquaintances will forget him as a fellow-player and singer. In that hour when his voice will be hushed, and the stage will be darkened and the music will die away, of him it may be well said, aside from his great place and merit as a musician and friend, that His life was gentle, and the elements So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up And say to all the world, "This was a Man I" And now, dear reader, allow me to introduce to you that sterling character who has played many parts, but none better than the role of the Man—Henry Clay Barnabee. George Leon Varney. Reminiscences of Henry Clay Barnabee Chapter I THE CRADLE BY THE SEA BIRTH OF THE ONLY BARNABEE.—BIRTH OF OLD HOME CELEBRATIONS.—BIRTH OF FAMOUS SONS AND DAUGH- TERS. BIRTH OF BARNABEE IN FICTION. "My heart 'mid all changes, wherever I roam, Ne'er loses its love for the cradle at home." —Henry Clay Barnabee. THE fourteenth of November, 1833, the day ONfollowing the birth of Edwin Booth at Belair, Maryland, occurred the event which made a certain antique dwelling-house in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, marked in that town's annals as "the home of Willis Barnabee, father of Henry Clay Barnabee, the famous singer." Someone has remarked that when good Dame Nature ushered the Booth baby and the Barnabee baby into the world with but a few hours between the one and the other, she was only serving the prophets with another exemplification of the ancient proverb: "Mirth follows closely at the heels of Tragedy." If — — 2 REMINISCENCES OF this be true and in accord with the divine ordering of careers, Edwin Booth— (Alas! poor Yorick!)—was cradled to become a tragedian, and, as such, his life's work was to be the task of portraying the serious side of human nature—of interpreting the mad scenes, of strutting the stage as a hero robed in royal bearing, and of striving to win the laurels due a real dramatic genius.