Paradoxically my most conspicuous failures, barring one or two, have been my greatest successes notwithstanding the reports which perhaps will be handed down to posterity. The best instance of this is my production of "The Merchant of Venice." The critics condemned it harshly; some before they saw it and more cruelly after. Maybe it was deserved. I say maybe because against those cowardly assaults I have the comforting knowledge that there were a few, including myself, who disagreed with those enlightened gentlemen. Among the minority I might mention Henry Watterson, Mr. Clapp of the Boston "Advertiser," William Ball, Stillson Hutchins, George Riddel, George P. Goodale of the Detroit "Free Press" and a few actors of intelligence.

Many of the sapient censors of my work objected most strenuously to the disguising of my known methods and a loss of personality. I presume they would have preferred me to play Shylock as it was played by the predecessors of Macklin, but why should I copy "tradition" before tradition was born?

Nobody with human intelligence could ever discover humor in the dignified Shylock, a Jew, but, nevertheless, the only gentleman in the play. Possessed of subtlety? Yes. Humor? No. A THOUSAND TIMES, NO!

Had the learned critics who assailed my efforts known anything regarding the motives that prompted Shakespeare to adapt the play from a Spanish source, written only to please the vagaries of the Elizabethan court, they might not have marvelled at my efforts to dignify the character of Shylock. I would not venture to assert how easy was the rendering after I had absorbed the character nor would I even dare whisper what the performances throughout the country yielded.

As a matter of fact history tells me that they were the largest returns, at the prices, of any series of performances ever given in America up to that time.

The same results marked my production of "A Midsummer Night's Dream"—which is written down as "another Goodwin failure." If more than five thousand dollars on the day (which were the receipts of the last Saturday at the New Amsterdam Theatre) spells failure, mine was unmitigated.

The same story of successful failure may be told of my production of "Nathan Hale." It was greeted by packed houses and condemned by the press for my "audacity." It was audacious to play characters in serious plays.

My performance of Nick Bottom in "A Midsummer Night's Dream" was supposed to be funny, but Shakespeare's name was on the front door and "knocking" was forbidden until the door was opened. Then how the iconoclasts did knock! They even found fault with the anatomy of the ass's head! However, that is easily accounted for—one sees oneself reflected in a brook and an ass never looks down.

Two failures I concede—"Beauty and the Barge" and "Wolfville." The former, a splendid play, was inadequately cast. The other, a bad play, was perfectly cast. The net results—both hopeless. I knew that "Beauty and the Barge" was lost with all on board before I made my entrance. "Wolfville" was wiped off the map at the dress rehearsal. They met deserving ends but I honestly believe that "Beauty and the Barge" could be resuscitated and, properly cast, run the allotted span.

So sanguine was I regarding the reception of those plays, barring "Wolfville," that I was fearful lest the critics would not be present.

I regret to say that they were!

They strangled my Shylock, crucified my Beauty, sank my Barge, burned my Wolfville, spanked my Bottom and relegated me to the sage brush of farce comedy, gaining their ends by withholding their praises—for business gradually decreased. Up to the period of my return to farce comedy I broke every record at the Knickerbocker Theatre with "Nathan Hale"—much to the discomfiture of "Willie" Winter and his satellites; and of course I was condemned by the critics who shine in the reflected light of that hypocritical, self-seeking Thersites.

Shortly after I appeared in a farce called "The Genius" at the Bijou Theatre, New York, and never in my life have I been the recipient of such commendatory notices for my work. I was "absolutely perfect" from the critics' point of view. Even the Hebraic gentleman who writes for the New York "American" was courteous—aye, even complimentary, as was also the dainty critic of the "Evening Sun"—and receipts never reached $4,000 during any given week!

Truly a wonderful picture is that painted by Reynolds of Garrick between the Muses, Tragedy and Comedy. To which does he turn?

I wonder!

Which leads me to remark—

Give the average American critic a mirror and a hammer and he will demonstrate his prowess as an iconoclast.

Chapter XVI