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Coverage includes

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• Master all core SQL techniques including every type of join such as
equijoins, self joins, and outer joins
• Understand Oracle functions in depth, especially character, number, date,
timestamp, interval, conversion, aggregate, regular expressions, analytical,
and more
• Practice all types of subqueries, such as correlated and scalar subqueries,
and learn about set operators and hierarchical queries
• Build effective queries and learn fundamental Oracle SQL Developer and
SQL*Plus skills
• Make the most of the Data Dictionary and create tables, views, indexes,
and sequences
• Secure databases using Oracle privileges, roles, and synonyms
• Explore Oracle 11 g’s advanced data warehousing features
• Learn many practical tips about performance optimization, security, and
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• For every database developer, administrator, designer, or
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• ISBN-10 : 0137142838
• ISBN-13 : 978-0137142835
Table contents:
Foreword xxxi
Preface xxxiv
Chapter 1: SQL and Data 1
Chapter 2: SQL: The Basics 49
Chapter 3: The WHERE and ORDER BY Clauses 101
Chapter 4: Character, Number, and Miscellaneous Functions 133
Chapter 5: Date and Conversion Functions 189
Chapter 6: Aggregate Functions, GROUP BY, and HAVING Clauses 263
Chapter 7: Equijoins 285
Chapter 8: Subqueries 323
Chapter 9: Set Operators 377
Chapter 10: Complex Joins 399
Chapter 11: Insert, Update, and Delete 429
Chapter 12: Create, Alter, and Drop Tables 503
Chapter 13: Indexes, Sequences, and Views 571
Chapter 14: The Data Dictionary, Scripting, and Reporting 615
Chapter 15: Security 661
Chapter 16: Regular Expressions and Hierarchical Queries 695
Chapter 17: Exploring Data Warehousing Features 741
Chapter 18: SQL Optimization 803
Appendix A: Answers to Quiz Questions 839
Appendix B: SQL Formatting Guide 855
Appendix C: SQL*Plus Command Reference 859
Appendix D: STUDENT Database Schema 873
Appendix E: Table and Column Descriptions 875
Appendix F: Additional Example Tables 881
Appendix G: Navigating the Oracle Documentation 887
Appendix H: Resources 893
Appendix I: Oracle Data Types 897
Index 899
Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
Photograph by Falk. The Albert Davis Collection.
BELASCO, ABOUT 1880
 DAVID BELASCO AS FAGIN, IN “OLIVER TWIST”
Photograph by Bradley & Rulofson, San Francisco.
Original loaned by Mrs. David Belasco.

PART. PLAY.
(A)
Alfred Evelyn “Money.”
Antonio “The Merchant of Venice.”
Apothecary “Romeo and Juliet.”
Archibald Carlyle “East Lynne.”
Armand Duval “Camille.”
Avica, the Spirit of Avarice “A Storm of Thoughts.”
(B)
Baldwin “Ireland and America.”
Benvolio “Romeo and Juliet.”
Bernardo “Hamlet.”
Biondello “Katharine and Petruchio.”
Black Donald “The Hidden Hand.”
Bleeding Sergeant “Macbeth.”
Bloater “Maum Cre.”
Bob “The Black Hand.”
Bob Brierly “The Ticket-of-Leave Man.”
Bob Rackett “Help.”
Box “Box and Cox.”
Buddicombe “Our American Cousin.”
Butler “Man and Wife.”
(C)
Captain Blenham “The Rough Diamond.”
Captain Crosstree “Black-Ey’d Susan.”
Charles Oakley “The Jealous Wife.”
Château-Renaud “The Corsican Brothers.”
Claude Melnotte “The Lady of Lyons.”
Clifford “The Hunchback.”
Colonel Dent “The Governess.”
Conner O’Kennedy “Green Bushes.”
Cool “London Assurance.”
Cox “Box and Cox.”
Craven Lenoir “The Hidden Hand.”
(D)
Dan “The Streets of New York.”
Danny Mann “The Colleen Bawn.”
Darley “Dark Deeds.”
Dauphin “King Louis XI.”
De Mauprat “Richelieu.”
DeWilt “Under the Gas-Light.”
Dickory “The Spectre Bridegroom.”
Doctor of Hospital “The Two Orphans.”
Dolly Spanker “London Assurance.”
Don Cæsar “Donna Diana.”
Duke of Burgundy “King Lear.”
(E)
Earl of Oxford “King Richard III.”
(F)
Fagin “Oliver Twist.”
First Citizen “Julius Cæsar.”
First Dwarf “Rip Van Winkle.”
First Fury “Pluto.”
First Grave-Digger “Hamlet.”
First Officer “Macbeth.”
First Policeman “Little Don Giovanni.”
Fournechet, Minister of Finance “A Life’s Revenge.”
Francesco “Hamlet.”
Frank Breezly “Katy.”
Friar Lawrence “Romeo and Juliet.”
Furnace, the Cook “A New Way to Pay Old Debts.”
(G)
Galeas “The Enchantress.”
Gaspard “The Lady of Lyons.”
Gaston “Camille.”
Genius of the Ring “The Wonderful Scamp, or Aladdin No. 2.”
George Sheldon “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”
Gilbert Gates “The Dawn of Freedom.”
Gringoire “The Ballad Monger.”
Guildenstern “Hamlet.”
Gyp “Saratoga.”
(H)
Hamlet “Hamlet.”
Harvey “Out at Sea.”
Heinrich Vedder “Rip Van Winkle.”
Hon. Bob Penley “Fritz in a Madhouse.”
(I)
Idiot, the “The Idiot of the Mountain.”
(J)
James Callin “Across the Continent.” (Prologue.)
Jasper Pidgeon “Meg’s Diversion.”
Job Armroyd “Lost in London.”
John O’Bibs “The Long Strike.”
Johnson “The Lancashire Lass.”
Joseph Surface “The School for Scandal.”
(K)
King Louis the Eleventh “King Louis XI.”
(L)
Laertes “Hamlet.”
Lawyer Marks “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”
Lawyer Tripper “Solon Shingle” (“The People’s Lawyer.”)
Lieutenant “Don Cæsar de Bazan.”
Lieutenant Victor “The Lion of Nubia.”
Le Beau “As You Like It.”
Lorenzo “The Wife.”
Louis “One Hundred Years Old.”
(M)
Maffeo Orsini “Lucretia Borgia.”
Major Hershner “Twice Saved.”
Malcolm “Macbeth.”
Mandeville “The Young Widow.”
Marc Antony “Julius Cæsar.”
Marco “The Wife.”
Mark “The Prodigal’s Return.”
Mark Meddle “London Assurance.”
Marquis “The Pearl of Savoy.”
Master Walter “The Hunchback.”
Mateo, the Landlord “The Beauty and the Brigands.”
Melter Moss “The Ticket-of-Leave Man.”
Mercutio “Romeo and Juliet.”
Mr. Ellingham “Hearts of Oak.”
Mr. Honeyton “A Happy Pair.”
Mr. Trimeo “The Mysterious Inn.”
Mr. Toodle “The Toodles.”
Mrs. Cornelia “East Lynne.”
Mrs. Willoughby “The Ticket-of-Leave Man.”
Modus “The Hunchback.”
Mons. Deschapelles “The Lady of Lyons.”
Moses “The School for Scandal.”
Mother Frochard “The Two Orphans.”
(N)
Nathan “Leah the Forsaken.”
Nick o’ the Woods (the Jibbenainosay,
The Avenger, Reginald
Ashburn, Bloody Nathan, and The
Spirit of The Water) “The Jibbenainosay.”
Nick Vedder “Rip Van Winkle.”
Nurse “Romeo and Juliet.”
(O)
Our Guest “Our Mysterious Boarding House.”
(P)
Pablo, the Harpist “Across the Continent.”
Page “Mary Stuart.”
Paris “Romeo and Juliet.”
Pedro “A Yankee in Cuba.”
Peter “Deborah.”
Peter Bowbells “The Illustrious Stranger.”
Peter True “The Statue Lover.”
Peter White “Mr. and Mrs. Peter White.”
Phil Bouncer “The Persecuted Traveller.”
Philip Ray “Enoch Arden.”
Pierre “Robert Macaire.”
Pietre “The Enchantress.” (Prologue.)
Player Queen “Hamlet.”
Polonius “Hamlet.”
Polydor “Ingomar.”
Prince Saucilita “The Gold Demon.”
Pumpernickel “The Child of the Regiment.”
(Q)
Queen Gertrude “Hamlet.”
(R)
Ralph “The Lighthouse Cliff.”
Raphael (and Phidias) “The Marble Heart.”
Ratcliff “King Richard III.”
Reuben “Schermerhorn’s Boy.”
Richard Hare “East Lynne.”
Richmond “King Richard III.”
Robert Landry “The Dead Heart.”
Robert Macaire “Robert Macaire.”
Rory O’More “Rory O’More.”
Rosencrantz “Hamlet.”
Ruby Darrell “Hearts of Oak.”
Rudolph “Leah the Forsaken.”
Rudolphe “Agnes.”
(S)
Salanio “The Merchant of Venice.”
Sambo “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”
Santo “Gaspardo.”
Secretary “Richelieu.”
Second Player “Hamlet.”
Selim “The Forty Thieves.”
Signor Mateo “The Miser’s Daughter.”
Simon Lullaby “A Conjugal Lesson.”
Simon Legree “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”
Simon, the Cobbler “Marie Antoinette.”
Sir Francis Leveson “East Lynne.”
Slave “Pygmalion and Galatea.”
Spada “The Woman in Red.”
Stuttering Tailor “Katharine and Petruchio.”
Strale “Checkmate.”
Sylvius “As You Like It.”
(T)
Terry Dennison “Hearts of Oak.”
The Destroyer “The Haunted Man.”
Tim Bolus “My Turn Next.”
Timothy Tubbs “The Millionaire’s Daughter.”
Tony Lumpkin “She Stoops to Conquer.”
Topsy “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”
Trip “The School for Scandal.”
Tubal “The Merchant of Venice.”
(U)
Uncle Tom “Uncle Tom’s Cabin.”
(V)
 Valentine “Faust.” (Abridgment of).
Vasquez “The Wonder.”
(W)
Waiter “The Gamester.”
Waiter (Negro) “Fritz in a Madhouse.”
(Y)
Young Marlowe “She Stoops to Conquer.”

Other plays in which Belasco has performed,—as I have ascertained from newspaper
advertisements or notices and from miscellaneous records, without, however, finding
specification of the parts in them which he acted,—include “A Bull in a China Shop,”
“Damon and Pythias,” “The French Spy,” “A Hard Struggle,” “The Lone Pine,” “Mazeppa,”
“Medea,” “Mimi,” “Nobody’s Child,” “Pizarro,” and “The Red Pocketbook.” I have no
doubt that he made unrecorded and now unremembered appearances in many other plays
besides these.
To the catalogue previously given of readings and recitations frequently employed by
Belasco should be added “Tell Me Not in Mournful Numbers,” “The Maiden’s Prayer,”
“Little Jim, the Collier’s Lad,” “Scenes from ’King Louis XI.,’ ” “Shamus O’Brien,” “The
Little Hero,” “No One to Love Him,” “The Trial Scene, from ’The Merchant of Venice,’ ”
“Selections from ’Oliver Twist’ ” (the scene on London Bridge, scene wherein Fagin causes
Sikes to murder Nancy, and Fagin awaiting execution), “The Country Bumpkin’s
Courtship,” “Eliza,” “The Dream of Eugene Aram,” and “Jim Bludso.”
 BELASCO’S “THE STORY OF MY LIFE.”

In making a critical examination of Belasco’s “The Story of My Life,”—a

document which, of course, it has been necessary for me to consult in
writing this Memoir,—I have observed many misstatements of fact in it, due
to defective memory or to haste and heedlessness in composition, and also
the assertion of various erroneous notions and mistaken doctrines as to the
art of acting, and as to the difference in the practice of that art between the
customs of the present and the past. Turning to that “Story” in the
expectation that it would prove helpful, I found only another specimen of the
irresponsible writing which is deemed permissible relative to the Theatre,
and viewing its formidable array of misstatements I have ruefully recalled
the remark of Artemus Ward that “it is better not to know so many things
than to know so many things that ain’t so.” Some of its errors I have
specified and rectified, in other places, in the course of this narrative. Others
of its errors and some of its errant notions and doctrines require passing
reference here.
Belasco records that he early observed and condemned “the incongruity
between the stage way of doing things and the way of life itself,”—the
implication being that, in acting, actual life should be literally copied. That is
an error. There always is, and from the nature of things always will be, a
certain incongruity between actual life and an artistic transcript of it. A literal
copy of actual life shown on the stage does not usually cause the effect of
actual life: it causes the effect of prolixity and tediousness. Belasco lays
much stress on his early and sedulous practice of making himself acquainted,
by observation, with all sorts of grewsome facts, assuring his readers that he
visited lunatic asylums in order to study madness; talked with condemned
murderers immediately prior to their execution and later witnessed the
hanging of them; observed the effects of surgical operations performed in
hospitals; contemplated deaths occurring there as the result of violence
elsewhere; obtained from a friendly, communicative physician knowledge of
the manner of death which ensues from the action of several sorts of poison,
and was favored, in a dissecting room, with a view of a human heart which
had just been extracted from a corpse,—his purpose in this line of inquiry
having been to ascertain the multifarious manners in which persons suffer
and die, and thus to qualify himself, as actor and stage manager, to imitate
them himself or instruct others in the imitation of them. His notion,
obviously, is that the actor ought to be acquainted with these things, and,
when depicting death, should correctly and literally simulate the particular
variety of the throes of dissolution which is appropriate as a climax to the
mortal ailment or lethal stroke that destroys him.
All this is well enough in its way, but it is only a little part of the
knowledge required by the actor, and a special objection to Belasco’s way of
introducing it is the implication that such minute preparation was peculiar
and original with him. The doctrine of “realism” is often oppugnant to
dramatic art, and an extreme adherence to it has been a primary cause of
whatever is defective in Belasco’s dramatic work. “Surely,” he exclaims,
“people do not die as quietly as they do upon the stage.” It all depends on the
“people” and the circumstances, whether on the stage or off. Death, in fact,
sometimes comes so gently that its coming is not perceived. On the other
hand, “people” do not always die quietly on the stage. Edwin Forrest, as the
dying Hamlet, made a prodigious pother in his expiration and was a long
time about it, and he maintained that a man of his size and massive physique
could not die from poison without manifestation of extreme agony. I many
times saw that muscular Hamlet die, and the spectacle, while
 From an old photograph. Author’s Collection.
HENRY J. MONTAGUE
(1844-1878)

it might have been correct (since the nature of the poison which kills Hamlet
is unknown the question is wholly assumptive), was never affecting. I
recollect the death of Camille, when that pulmonary courtesan was
impersonated by Matilda Heron: it was protracted, vulgar, obnoxious,
merely distressful, not the least pathetic, whereas the death of Camille when
Modjeska played the part or when Sarah Bernhardt played it was attended by
no spasms, no convulsions, no gurgitations, was almost instantaneous, and
was inexpressibly touching.
Belasco is not the only actor, by many, who has studied madness in
lunatic asylums, or observed the phenomena of death in hospitals, or
sounded the depths of human depravity in slums and bagnios, or looked at
human nature and human life through a microscope. The biographies of
Garrick, Kemble, Cooke, Kean, Macready, Forrest, and Booth, for example,
teem with evidence to the contrary. It is indisputably necessary that the
authentic actor should know, but it is equally essential that when he comes to
practise his art he should possess the judgment to select and the skill to use
his selected knowledge in such a way as to accomplish his purpose—not mar
or defeat it.
Another of Belasco’s completely mistaken and indeed comically errant
notions is set forth in the following paragraph from his “Story”:
“Coming to New York as a stranger, I knew I had a task before me to introduce the new
style of acting which I felt was destined to take the place of the melodramatic method.... For
a long time I had promised myself to give the public a new style of acting and playwriting,
all my own.... New York audiences had been trained in a school of exaggerated stage
declamation, accompanied by a stage strut, and large, classic, sweeping gestures, so, when
I introduced the quiet acting, we were laughed to scorn, and the papers criticised our ’milk
and water’ methods. It was all new, and those who saw went away stunned and puzzled. We
were considered extremists at the Madison Square Theatre, but we persisted, with the result
that our method prevails to-day.” [The italics are mine.—W. W.]

It is difficult to understand how such emanations of error could have

proceeded from the pen of such an experienced actor, manager, dramatist,
and observer as David Belasco, and it is even more difficult to be patient
with them. New York audiences before his time had never been “trained in a
school of exaggeration,” and there was nothing in the least new,—unless,
perhaps, it were Sunday-school tameness,—in the style of acting that was
exhibited in the Madison Square Theatre. Long before Belasco’s advent the
New York audience had seen, enjoyed, admired, and accepted Edwin Booth
as Hamlet and Richelieu, Lester Wallack as de Vigny and as Don Felix,
Gilbert as Old Dornton, Blake as Jesse Rural, Chippindale as Grandfather
Whitehead, Henry Placide as Lord Ogleby, Couldock as Luke Fielding,
Jefferson as Rip Van Winkle, Salvini as Conrad and Sullivan, Owens as
Caleb Plummer, Walcot as Touchstone, Emery as Bob Tyke, Davenport as St.
Marc, Elizabeth Jefferson (Mrs. Richardson) as Pauline, Agnes Robertson as
Jeanie Deans, Mrs. Hoey as Lady Teazle, Laura Keene as Marco and as Peg
Woffington, Julia Bennett (Mrs. Barrow) as Hypolita and Cicely Homespun,
Mrs. Vernon as Lady Franklin, Mary Carr as Temperance, and Mary Gannon
as Prue,—all of whom (and many more might be mentioned) were
conspicuously representative of the most refined, delicate, “natural,” “quiet”
style of acting that has been known anywhere. That the New York audience
had seen “barnstormers” and “soapchewers” is true—but the educated,
intelligent part of it had laughed at them before Belasco’s time just as
heartily as it has since. I recollect evenings of frolic, many years ago, when I
repaired, with gay comrades, to the old Bowery Theatre, with no other intent
than to be merry over the proceedings of posers and spouters, of the
Crummles and Bingley variety, who were sometimes to be found there. That
tribe has always existed. Cicero derided it, in old Rome. In Shakespeare’s
“Hamlet,” written more than three hundred years ago, the Prince condemns
the “robustious, periwig-pated fellow,” who tears “a passion to tatters, to
very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings,” and utters his well-known,
wise counsel to actors that they should “acquire and beget a temperance”
that may give “smoothness” to their expression of even the most
tempestuous passion. The movement toward artistic acting has always,
apparently, been going on. Every student of theatrical history has read about
the elocutionary improvement effected by David Garrick, in 1741. It is a
matter of common knowledge that Macready was famous for the great
excellence of his “quiet acting,” his wonderful use of facial expression,
while never speaking a word. Edmund Kean, it has been authentically
recorded, moved his audience to tears, merely by his aspect, while, as the
Stranger, he sat gazing into vacancy, listening to the song,—sung for him,
when he acted in this country, by Jefferson’s mother:
 “I have a silent sorrow here,
A grief I’ll ne’er impart,
It breathes no sigh, it sheds no tear,
But it consumes my heart.”

I have seen many an audience in tears when the elder Hackett acted
Monsieur Mallet and when Jefferson, as poor old Rip, murmured the forlorn
question, “Are we so soon forgot when we are gone?” No modern manager
has invented “natural,”—by which I mean artistic,—acting. Belasco did not
invent it, nor did he introduce it at the Madison Square Theatre. He was
affected by what he saw around him in acting, precisely as he was affected
by what he saw around him in playwriting: like other workers in the Theatre,
he sought to better his instruction, and he has contributed to the development
of changes (not all of them beneficial) in the Theatre. At the Madison
Square, both as stage manager and dramatist, he dissipated the insipidity
with which a deference to clerical management was blighting the prospects
of a capital company at that house, so that from the moment he joined it its
fortunes began to improve.

THE EVIL OF INCOMPETENT CRITICISM.

It is one of the hardships under which actors are compelled to pursue their
vocation that the Theatre and its votaries are continually subject to the idle
comment, indiscriminate praise, and capricious censure of many
incompetent writers in the press. A few capable, well-equipped, earnest, and
thoughtful critics unquestionably there are, in various parts of the Republic,
but every little publication in the country parades its dramatic “critic,” and
most of those scribblers show themselves ignorant alike of dramatic
literature, dramatic art, the history of the Stage, human nature, and human
life. That statement is proved every day of the year, and it is folly to ascribe
it to the discontent of age or to lack of sympathy with contemporary life.
Any intelligent, educated person can put it to the test as often as desired. The
newspapers, as a rule, do not wish dramatic criticism: theatrical managers,
almost without exception, resent it and oppose it: the newspapers receive
paid advertisements and the theatrical advertisers assume to be entitled to
forbearance and to puffery in the “critical” columns. This is not true of all
newspapers, but it is generally true, and the writers, whether competent or
not, can bear testimony to its truth. I know of nothing more dreary than the
pages of drivel about the drama which periodically make their appearance in
many newspapers and magazines. A favorite topic of those commentators is
the immense superiority of the plays and the acting of To-day over the plays
and the acting that pleased our forefathers. There was, it appears, nothing
good in the Past: there is nothing but good in the Present. The old actors
were artificial “pumps,” stagey, declamatory, “spouters.” Shakespeare is
archaic. Old Comedy is a bore. The plays of Molière and Sheridan creak on
their hinges. The plays of twenty, fifteen, ten years ago have “aged”!
“Progress” has become of such celerity that the dramas of yesterday are “out
of date”—before the second season begins! The principles of art have
altered, and they alter afresh with the startling discoveries of each new batch
of collegiate criticasters. Human nature has changed. The forces of the
universe are different. The sun rises in the west and water runs uphill. Acting
now is smooth, flexible, natural, fluent. Behold, we have made a new
theatrical Heaven and Earth wherein dwelleth a NEW STYLE! It is lamentable
that these ignorant, frivolous babblers of folly should be able to cite even
one word from such an authority as David Belasco in support of their
ridiculous pretensions: it is the more deplorable since, if he were brought to
a serious consideration of his heedless assertions, he would certainly recant
them. I am not able to believe, for example, that he would stigmatize Edwin
Booth as a strutting exponent of exaggerated declamation,—an actor who
could speak blank verse as if it were the language of nature, and always did
so: an actor and manager, moreover, who did more than any other one person
of the Theatre to make possible the career of many who followed him,
including David Belasco. Nor can I believe that he would call Florence a
spouter,—Florence, who was one of the most adroit and delicate of artists,—
or deride such performances as John Nickinson’s Haversack, Blake’s
Geoffrey Dale, and Burton’s Cap’n Cuttle as specimens of flannel-mouthed
melodramatic rant. Yet such were the actors to whose style the New York
audience had been accustomed long before the time when Belasco declares
that he brought an entirely new and improved style of acting to the Madison
Square Theatre and thus,—by implication at least,—asserts that he reformed
the Stage.
Augustin Daly, who began theatrical management in New York, in 1869,
when Belasco was a schoolboy of sixteen, in San Francisco, constrained the
actors whom he employed to respect and emulate the best traditions of
acting, and, while he never sought to establish a school of acting, insisted on
Hamlet’s right doctrine of “temperance” and “smoothness”; and when he
carried his dramatic company to San Francisco, in 1875, at which time
Belasco saw and studied performances that were there given by it, “The
Evening Bulletin,” of that city, displeased by the delicate, refined, “quiet”
acting which had charmed New York, thus testified:
“The Fifth Avenue Theatre Company have a style of their own. It is emasculated of
vigor, force in action, and anything like declamation in reading. It is quiet, elegant, languid;
making its points with a French shrug of the shoulders, little graceful gestures, and rapid
play of features. The voice is soft, the tone low, and the manner at once subdued and
expressive. It pleases a certain set of fashionables, but to the general public it is acting with
the art of acting left out.”

THE NATURE OF BELASCO’S TALENTS AND SERVICES.

There has always been a desire and endeavor to act truly, and, side by
side with that desire and endeavor, there has always been abuse of the art by
incompetents and vulgarians. If you were to attend rehearsals at some of our
theatres now, you would behold coarse and blatant bullies, of the Mr.
Dolphin order, blaring at the actors “More ginger!” It is the way of that tribe
and the custom in those temples of intellect. But while Belasco has not
invented any new style of acting he has done great service to the Stage, and
his name is written imperishably on the scroll of theatrical achievement in
America. As an actor his experience has been ample and widely diversified.
He possesses a complete mastery of the technicalities of histrionic art. As a
stage manager he is competent in every particular and has no equal in this
country to-day. His judgment, taste, and expert skill in creating appropriate
environment, background, and atmosphere for a play and the actors in it are
marvellous. His attention to detail is scrupulous; and his decision is prompt
and usually unerring. No theatrical director within my observation,—which
has been vigilant and has extended over many years,—has surpassed him in
the exercise of that genius which consists in the resolute, tireless capability
of taking infinite pains. Many of the performances which have been given
under his direction are worthy to be remembered as examples of almost
perfect histrionic art. As a dramatist he is essentially the product of that old
style of writing which produced “Venice Preserved,” “Fazio,” “The
Apostate,” “The Clandestine Marriage,” “The Jealous Wife,” etc.,—a style
with which his mind was early and completely saturated,—and of the
example and influence of Dion Boucicault, whose expertness in
construction, felicity in fashioning crisp dialogue, and exceptional skill in
creating vivid dramatic effect he has always much and rightly admired. He
has written many
 Photograph by Sarony. Author’s Collection.
AUGUSTIN DALY, ABOUT 1870-’75

plays and he has co-labored with other authors in the writing of many more.
He has exerted a powerful influence upon the Stage in every part of our
country. He has battled successfully against the iniquitous Theatrical Trust
and in a great measure contributed to the curtailment of its oppressive power.
He has developed and made efficient several stars who, without his
assistance, would never have gained the prominence which, with it, they
have attained. He has established and now (1917) maintains one of the finest
theatres in the world. To have done all this,—to have raised himself from
indigence and obscurity to honorable distinction and actual leadership in an
intellectual calling, to have made his way by force of character, native talent,
indomitable resolution, patient, continuous, indefatigable labor; to have
borne, with unshaken fortitude, hardships, trials, disappointment, enmity,
and calumny, and to have risen above all the vicissitudes of fortune,—this
surely is to have shown the steadfast man of the old Roman poet and to have
merited the reward of prosperity and the laurel of fame. His eminence in his
vocation, accordingly, and the obligation to him of the Theatre and the
Public do not require the claim of imaginary achievements to enhance his
reputation. There never was any need that he should have claimed that he
had introduced a new style of acting. I do not doubt, judging from what I
have read of his many impersonations, that Betterton, who performed on the
London stage more than two hundred years ago, could and did exemplify
“quiet acting” as thoroughly as John Mason does, performing on the New
York stage to-day. Changes, modifications of all kinds, have occurred, many
varieties of personality have been exhibited, in many varieties of speech and
bearing, but the radical, structural change in method that has been effected,
the change from extravagance and elaborate artifice to refined simplicity, has
not been wrought by any one person but by many persons, actuated by the
same influences that have changed the physical investiture of the Theatre,
and by the advance of intelligence, sense, and taste. It is peculiarly
deplorable that the authority of Belasco should even seem to sustain such
carping criticasters as I have indicated (writers who, ignorant of theatrical
history and, apparently, of much else, seek to exalt the Present by impudent
disparagement of the Past), because many of that tribe have, recently, taken
to publishing idle and stupid detraction of Belasco himself, on the ground
that he is “unprogressive” and belongs to “the old fashion.” He has done
more by a single production such as “The Darling of the Gods” than the
whole swarm of his detractors has ever done, or ever will do, in a lifetime of
scribbling, and his name will live as a beacon of achievement, in life as well
as in the Theatre, generations after they are all vanished and forgotten, like
wind-blown dust.

CONCERNING MATTERS OF FACT.

Genest, in his exceedingly valuable “Account” of the Theatre in Great

Britain,—a work to which every later writer on the subject finds himself
more or less indebted and which ought to be reprinted,—sagely remarks that
“In giving an account of the Stage a good story may sometimes be admitted
on slender authority, but where mere matters of fact are concerned the
history of the Stage ought to be written with the same accuracy as the history
of England.” The attainment of accuracy, however, exacts scrupulous
attention, ceaseless vigilance, patient inquiry, and hard work, and only a few
writers about the Stage have ever taken the trouble to be thorough and exact.
I had expected that Belasco’s “Story” could be depended upon in every
particular and that it would prove of invaluable aid in writing this Memoir. I
do not doubt that he designed it to be literally true, but, as a conscientious
biographer, I am compelled to mention its errors of fact, and I deem it my
duty to specify and correct some of them, as an act of justice alike to him
and to his, and my, readers.
Belasco, as I have ascertained and stated, was born not in 1858 or 1859,
as various accounts of him have declared, but in 1853. He has himself
affirmed that in 1865, in San Francisco, he walked in a funeral procession
expressive of the public grief for the death of Abraham Lincoln and at that
time wrote a play, on the tragic and pathetic fate of that illustrious American,
expositive of his views of the motives of Lincoln’s murderer. If we were to
accredit the dates which are given as authentic in various published sketches
of his life,—which appear to have been formally sanctioned,—we should
find him to have reached only to the age of five years and nine months when
he walked in that procession and wrote that play; we should find him,—
according to such wild statements,—when he acted, in Victoria, with Julia
Dean and Charles Kean, performing with those distinguished players about
three years after both of them had died; we should admire him when, before
the age of eleven, he was critically estimating the histrionic style of Walter
Montgomery; and when, between the ages of thirteen and fourteen, he was
giving counsel, which Raymond the comedian had solicited, relative to the
play of “The Gilded Age,” and also as acting as amanuensis to Dion
Boucicault. He states that Lawrence Barrett loved John McCullough “like
his son.” Barrett, born in 1838, was six years younger than McCullough,
born in 1832, and he could not have viewed that stalwart comrade with
anything like a paternal—or a filial—feeling. In fact, though they dwelt in
amicable association as managers and actors (it would have been hard for
anybody to dwell in association with McCullough in any other way), there
was no special affection between them, as I personally know. Belasco’s
statement that McCullough was at one time Forrest’s dresser is incorrect. He
admired Forrest and he imitated him (until the veteran gruffly told him to
leave off “making a damned fool” of himself by so doing), but he never was
Forrest’s servant or lackey. Belasco says that Barrett’s first appearance as
Cassius, in “Julius Cæsar,” was made in 1870, in San Francisco, and that he
“hated” the part and wished to play Antony, but could not because it was
Walter Montgomery’s part,—the fact being that he played Cassius for the
first time about 1855, when he was about seventeen years old, at the
Metropolitan Theatre, Detroit; that he loved the part; that his affinity with it
was very strong, and that he esteemed it, as what indeed it is, the moving
impulse of the whole tragedy. Barrett first played Cassius in San Francisco
March 9, 1869, at the California Theatre, Edwards acting Antony; that is,
about one year before Montgomery visited San Francisco. I have talked with
Barrett for hours and hours about acting, and especially about the play of
“Julius Cæsar,” but I never heard him speak with enthusiasm about the part
of Marc Antony, or express any desire to act that part, though he thoroughly
understood it and knew its value. Another of Belasco’s mistaken assertions is
the assurance that Walter Montgomery,—who acted Antony with Barrett as
Cassius and McCullough as Brutus,—was enamoured of an actress named
Rose Massey; that he (Belasco) witnessed their first encounter, on the stage
of the California Theatre, when Montgomery was smitten speechless at the
sight of the young woman; that he soon married her; and that, after a quarrel
with her, he committed suicide, aboard a ship bound for England. Inquiry
would have corrected his memory. Poor Montgomery (a genial fellow and a
fine actor) was easily and often enamoured: as was said of the poet Heine,
“His heart was a good deal broken in the course of his life.” Rose Massey
was an ordinarily pretty woman, one of the many devotees of the Blonde
Troupe
LAWRENCE BARRETT AS CAIUS CASSIUS.
IN “JULIUS CAESAR”
 “If we do meet again, we’ll smile indeed;
If not, ’tis true this parting was well made!”
—Act V. sc. 1

From a steel engraving.

Author’s Collection.

manager, Alexander Henderson, and I remember her as a female at whom it

was easily possible to gaze without blinking. Montgomery never married
her. Walter Montgomery (Richard Tomlinson, 1827-1871: Montgomery was
his mother’s name) married an actress called Winnetta Montague. Her real
name was Laleah Burpré Bigelow. She had been the wife of a Boston
gentleman, Arnold W. Taylor. Montgomery met her on the stage at the
Boston Theatre. She was attracted by him, followed him to England, and
captured him. Their marriage occurred on August 30, 1871, and on
September 2, in a lodging in Stafford Street, Bond Street, London, he
committed suicide, by shooting, and he was buried in Brompton Cemetery.
Winnetta Montague returned to America, resumed acting, allied herself with
an Irish comedian named James M. Ward, died in New York, in abject
poverty, in 1877, and was buried by charitable members of the dramatic
profession.
The excellent and famous personation of Fagin which was shown
throughout our country by J. W. Wallack, the Younger, is ascribed by
Belasco to “Lester’s father,” J. W. Wallack, the Elder, who was “Jim”
Wallack’s uncle, and by whom the part was never played. The movable stage
introduced at the Madison Square Theatre in 1879 is designated “an
innovation” invented by Steele Mackaye, whereas, in fact, it was a variant of
the movable stage scheme introduced at Booth’s Theatre, in 1869, by Edwin
Booth.
“Looking over theatrical history,” Belasco exclaims, “has it ever occurred to you how
many players have based their fame on just one rôle?—Salvini as Othello, Irving as
Mathias, in “The Bells”; Booth as Hamlet, Raymond as Mulberry Sellers, Sothern as
Dundreary, Emmet as Fritz, Jefferson as Rip, Mayo as Davy Crockett, Chanfrau as Kit?...
Most of these men struggled a lifetime and gained recognition as creditable actors. Then,
suddenly, they struck a particular part, a sort of entertainment, a combination of all the
excellent things they had done throughout their lives but never before had concentrated on
one rôle. And there you are! Any other actor might have become just as famous if Fate had
thrown the part first in his way. I have seen three Rips,—that of Jefferson, that of Robert
McWade, and finally that of James A. Herne. This last was a wonderful characterization,
with all the softness and pathos of the part. I was a Dwarf, to Herne’s Rip, in the Maguire’s
Opera House days. But Fate chose to thrust forward Jefferson as the only Rip that ever was
or ever could be. I happen to know better. Jefferson was never the Dutchman; he was the
Yankee personating the Dutchman. But James A. Herne’s Rip was the real thing.... These
actors of one part are like the favored children of heaven; they are handed something on a
golden platter, already created by the author. It is to the author, the director, the stage
manager, that the true credit of the creation belongs. Jefferson did not really create Rip;
through a certain undeniable art of his he simply put into visible form what Washington
Irving in the story suggested and Dion Boucicault so cleverly fitted to his personality for the
stage; he utilized every bit of the descriptive business of the tale.”

Seldom has so much error and injustice been packed into so small a
space! It is true that, in many instances, individual actors have abundantly
prospered by the long-continued repetition of a single performance: this fact,
I remember, was impatiently noticed many years ago by Don Piatt, who
testily expressed in a Washington newspaper an ardent wish that old Rip Van
Winkle and old Fanchon would get married and both retire. It is not because
the individual actor finds “a particular part, a sort of entertainment, a
combination of all the excellent things” he has done throughout his life, that
he often becomes most famous in one part; it is because, in every art, the
artist’s range of supreme merit is, comparatively, narrow; no matter how well
he can do fifty things, he can, as a rule, do one thing best of all,—that thing
being always one for which, whether he happens to like it or not, he
possesses a peculiar capacity, one with which he possesses a close artistic
and physical affinity, so that, in the doing of it, he can make an ampler and
more effective display of his talents than he can make in any other way; and
also because the public (with a generally sound instinctive preference for
seeing an actor in the thing which he can do best) insists on seeing him in it
and will not go in large numbers to see him in anything else.
How much judgment is there in a statement which classifies
performances of Othello, Mathias, and Hamlet among “entertainments”?
Salvini had played nothing like Othello, Irving nothing like Mathias, Booth
nothing like Hamlet before, respectively, they played those parts. (Such
performances as Sellers, Fritz, Crockett, and Kit, well enough in their way,
do not deserve thoughtful consideration as the basis of histrionic “fame.”)
“Any other actor might have become just as famous if Fate had thrown the
part first in his way!” That is, according to this careless commentator,
although a “one-part actor” achieves his greatest success in a part which
happens to combine “all the excellent things,” the peculiar, individual merits,
of that special actor, nevertheless any other actor could have achieved the
same success if he had been fortunate enough to receive the golden
opportunity first. Charles Harcourt played Mathias, under the name of Paul
Zegers, at the Alfred Theatre (the old Marylebone), London, in a version of
“The Polish Jew” by Frank Burnand, several months before Irving ever
played it—and Harcourt utterly failed in it. Othello and Hamlet had been
played by scores of contemporary actors before Salvini and Booth,
respectively, played those parts,—yet the effect produced by those actors in
those parts was not the less unique and extraordinary. Irving’s fame as an
actor, moreover, rested and rests at least as much on his Hamlet, Shylock,
King Louis, Mephistopheles, and Benedick as on his Mathias. Hamlet
certainly was Booth’s most typical performance, but also certainly he was
more popular as Richelieu than as Hamlet, and his fame rests on that part
and on his Brutus, Shylock, King Richard the Third, and Iago as much as on
his Hamlet. Salvini’s fame rests as much on his Corado, Niger, King Saul,
and Orosmane as on his Othello—and in all of those parts he was finer than
he was in Othello. Salvini, Irving, and Booth were not “one-part actors,” nor
does their fame rest on any one performance, nor should the credit for their
achievement be given to any author, director, or stage manager—or to
anybody but themselves. Booth, Irving, and Salvini were stage directors and
managers, and though they did not write the parts which they acted, they
certainly arranged them, and as to some of them they supplied vital
suggestions. The character of Mathias, in “The Bells,” for instance, was
completely reconstructed by Leopold Lewis, at Irving’s suggestion, to adapt
it to his mysterious personality and peculiarities of style. Lord Dundreary,
when first given to Sothern by Laura Keene, was a wretched part, about
seventeen lines in length,—“a dyed-up old man” she called it, asking him to
accept it,—but the comedian eventually expanded it till it dominated the
play, and it is fair to say that, literally, he “created” it.

THE FACTS ABOUT JEFFERSON’S RIP.

Jefferson was a youth when he was first attracted to the part of Rip Van
Winkle. He had seen it played by his half-brother, Charles St. Thomas Burke,
who was esteemed by his contemporaries a great comedian, and had acted in
the play with him, as Seth. He has himself told me that long before he
attained a position in which he could publicly assume it he frequently made
up for it and rehearsed it in private. The play that he at first used was one
Burke had made, which Jefferson tinkered and improved. There were at least
ten plays on the subject in existence before Jefferson ever appeared as Rip,
and eight recorded performers of that part. The first Rip was Thomas Flynn,
the second was Charles B. Parsons; both of them acted it in 1828,—a year
before Jefferson was born. Their successors were William B. Chapman,
1829; James Henry Hackett, 1830; Frederick Henry Yates, 1831; William
Isherwood, 1833-’34; Joseph Jefferson, the second (our Jefferson’s father),
about 183(8?), and Charles Burke, 1849-’50, or earlier. Jefferson first acted
Rip at Caruso’s Hall, in Washington, in 1859, and he continued to act it for
forty-five years. I first saw him in it, in the season of 1859-’60, at the Winter
Garden Theatre, New York, and was deeply impressed by his performance,
which almost ever since I have extolled in the press as one of the greatest
pieces of acting that have been seen in our time. Down to 1865, Hackett, by
birth a Hollander, was highly esteemed as Rip, but neither he nor either of
the actors above mentioned was ever “just as famous” in it as Jefferson
became, though “Fate” had thrown it in their way long before that deity had
thrown it in his. His achievement has been more or less disparaged ever
since he first won the public suffrage in it. His success has been ascribed to
almost anything except the real cause,—for example, to Chance, to “Fate,”
to Dion Boucicault, and to me,—which is mere nonsense. Jefferson’s
wonderful artistic triumph as Rip Van Winkle was due to just one person—
himself. He would have gained it if all the persons who have been credited
with “making him” had never lived. His impersonation was entirely his own
conception and construction—a work of pure genius. The play that
Boucicault, in 1865, in London, made for him, on the basis of the old version
which he had used for more than six years, was largely fashioned after
suggestions made by Jefferson himself, the most important of which being
that in the mysterious, supernatural midnight scene on the lonely mountain
top the ghosts should remain silent and only the man should speak. Jefferson
had the soul of a poet, the mind of a dreamer, the eye of a painter, the
imagination and heart of a genius, and he was a consummate actor. As an
executant in acting he operated with exquisite precision, and his art was
infiltrated with light, geniality, and humor. “It is to the author, the director,
the stage manager that the true credit of the creation belongs,” writes
Belasco, himself an author, a director, and a stage manager, and therefore not
an altogether impartial witness; forgetful, also, that Jefferson was
experienced in all those callings. The author of a play provides the soul of a
part, the actor provides the body and vitalizes it with all his being, and
shapes and adorns it, revealing the soul, with all his art:

“But by the mighty actor brought,

Illusion’s perfect triumphs come,—
Verse ceases to be airy thought,
And Sculpture to be dumb!”

Jefferson used only the skeleton of the story of Rip Van Winkle as told by
Washington Irving, in “The Sketch Book” (1819): the character, as he
portrayed it, is quite different from the commonplace sot designated by
Irving. As to Boucicault’s version of the play—that dramatist disparaged it,
did not believe in it, and actually assured Jefferson, just before the curtain
rose on its first performance (September 4, 1865, at the Adelphi Theatre,
London), that it would fail; and after he had seen Jefferson’s performance he
said to that comedian, “You are shooting over their heads,” to which
Jefferson answered, “I am not even shooting at their heads—I am shooting
at their hearts.” He hit them. Later, Boucicault discovered what Jefferson
meant (he could see a church by daylight as well as another!), and paid him
the compliment of devising for himself an Irish Rip Van Winkle, under the
name of Conn, the Shaughraun, which he admirably acted, as nearly as he
could, in Jefferson’s spirit and manner. “Jefferson,” writes Belasco, “was the
Yankee personating the Dutchman.” Another mistake. “Yankee” is an epithet
of disparagement which the British contemptuously applied to the rural
inhabitants of New England in the time of the American Revolutionary War.
Jefferson did not possess any of either the physical or mental qualities of a
New Englander. He was of English, Scotch, and French lineage. His
grandfather was a Yorkshire man; his father a Pennsylvanian; his mother a
French lady (born in the Island of San Domingo); himself a native of
Philadelphia—and no more a “Yankee” than J. A. Herne was, whose lineage
was Irish, who was born at Cohoes, New York, and whose performance of
Rip (a respectable one) was based in part on Jefferson and in part on
Hackett. It is idle to disparage Jefferson as Rip Van Winkle. That
impersonation will live in theatrical history when all the Hernes, McWades,
etc., are lost in oblivion!
 A LEADING LADY IN A PET.

Prior to presentment of “The Millionaire’s Daughter” (May 19, 1879) at

the Baldwin Theatre Maguire had made a contract requiring production
there, on May 24 and 25, of a play entitled “Cupid’s Lawsuit”: the
prosperous though not protracted career of Belasco’s melodrama was,
accordingly, interrupted on those dates and resumed on the 26th; it ended on
June 1. June 2 was signalized by the
 JOSEPH JEFFERSON AS RIP VAN WINKLE
“Und see, I come back, und my vife is gon’ und my home is gon’. My home is gon’, und my chil’—
my chil’ look in my face und don’ know who I am!”
—Act V.
Photograph by Sarony.
Author’s Collection.

primary appearance in San Francisco, made at the Baldwin, of the dashing,

sparkling actress Rose Coghlan, then in the flush of opulent beauty and the
pride of bounteous success. Miss Coghlan came to the American Stage when
she was a girl of twenty, performing at Wallack’s Theatre, New York (the
Thirteenth Street House), September 2, 1872, as Mrs. Honeyton, in “A
Happy Pair,” and in association with the Lydia Thompson Troupe, as Jupiter,
in a revival of “Ixion; or, The Man at the Wheel.” She played many parts
during the ensuing seven years,—gaining a memorable triumph at Wallack’s,
September 21, 1878, as Lady Teazle, when “The School for Scandal” was
revived there with a cast including John Gilbert as Sir Peter, John Brougham
as Sir Oliver, Mme. Ponisi as Mrs. Candor, and Charles F. Coghlan as
Charles Surface. Miss Coghlan’s emergence on the California Stage was an
event which inspired eager public interest. She had been engaged by
Maguire (who paid her $500 a week for her services, a large salary at any
time and an immense one in those days) in compliance with the fervent
importunity of Belasco, and the latter was somewhat disconcerted at finding
her attitude toward him that of arrogant disdain. “Maguire brought her to the
stage, for the first rehearsal,” Belasco has said, describing to me their
meeting: “and she took her stand near the stage manager’s table, where I sat.
I rose to greet her, but she looked over me, past me, and through me; then
she turned to Maguire and asked if she might meet the stage manager. I was
introduced to her, and at last she condescended to see me. ’What!’ she
exclaimed: ’this boy to be my director, after I have come from Wallack’s!
Never!’ It was rather an embarrassing situation for me, but I had had too
much experience of the ways of leading ladies to take offence. ’Is it
possible,’ she continued, ’that men like James O’Neill and Lewis Morrison
act under the direction of a boy! For my part, I won’t do it!’—and she turned
toward where Maguire had been standing, only to find that he had slipped
away,—delighted with my predicament,—leaving me to deal as best I could
with the celebrated actress I had induced him to engage! ’Miss Coghlan,’ I
said, ’I trust you will find our stage competently managed; at any rate, we’ll
try to please you: for my part, I shall be most thankful for any suggestions
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