  Why, oh why, do beautiful women marry Nat Goodwin?" I shall endeavor to answer that query so frequently put to me by the newspapers, not from any sense of obligation but simply in the spirit of anecdote. Time and again impertinent printed remarks have been made about my plunging into matrimony and there have appeared flaming headlines such as, "Bluebeard Goodwin Anticipates a Marriage" (or divorce!), "Red Headed Nat Contemplates Matrimony!" etc. These polite and complimentary references in the yellow journals appear as a rule annually. Generally they occupy half a page and are illustrated with pictures of the poor misguided creatures who had the misfortune to bear my name with my photograph stuck up in one corner (with a countenance suggesting more the physiognomy of a Bill Sykes than a Romeo!). Then some extremely clever reviewer of prize fights comes forth with this headline:— "Why do Beautiful Women Shake Nat Goodwin?" The scoffers, the envious, who know nothing about me except the fact that I have furnished paragraphers much material anent my "matrimonial forays," are inclined to credit my succession of beautiful wives for any success that I have attained. Matrimony may Is it a crime to be respectable? Is it a crime to have an honest fireside? I never stole any of my wives, neither were they ever forced into matrimony—with me. My friends who have been privileged to visit any home of mine will tell you that it was the abode of a lady and gentleman! This will jar my vilifiers. I have no right to be respectable and have a home. I am a brawler and a reveler, a drunkard and a gambler. Maybe. Yet with all these alleged vagaries I fail to remember any time when I dined a mistress at the same table with my wife and children—an incident in the career of a most conspicuous member of our profession who has the reputation of being possessed of supreme chastity. He prefers marshmallows to champagne—stick licorice to Havana cigars. He married at the beginning of his career and is quite content to stand pat—with his head in the sand. I have often wondered if these self-elected critics of my actions would have refused any of the women whom I have had the privilege of marrying! Does it ever occur to them that a woman must first be interested in a man (in some little degree!) before allowing him the privilege of taking her hand in marriage? If she has a brain she understands his motives and even if moved by other reasons than that of affection it is still she who decides to meet the issue. The women who married me had the reputation of being possessed of brain as well as beauty and all of them had tasted the sweets of matrimony before I came along. I wonder what these ebony-tipped-fingered gentlemen It has never been chronicled that the heads of the theatrical profession were my constant visitors. Statesmen, diplomats, lawyers, conspicuous public men from abroad, multi-millionaires (not forgetting one President) and some of the nobility have graced my board. This may have been the reason why one of the beautiful women married me! Fancy any of my critics writing that Lord —— had visited me, Senator —— dined with me, Marchioness —— accompanied me on a hunting trip! That would not be news—it's too clean! But they do cable to the remotest corner of the globe my presence at a prize fight. That is interesting matter—and news! How considerate of the feelings of one's aged parents who are forced to bear the brunt of their unwholesome lies! How I loathe these mephitic hounds who burglarize men's firesides, the pestilential pirates of women's homes who invade the sanctity of loving hearts, who write with pens steeped in venom! Wm. H. Thompson An artist to his finger tips |
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