E. A. Sothern

A remarkably versatile actor, E. A. Sothern is nonetheless remembered primarily for the character he created and played for decades in Tom Taylor's Our American Cousin. Lord Dundreary, the prototypical "silly-ass" English gentry, (seen left in his 1858 incarnation and below right near the end of his remarkable career) made Sothern world famous.

He was a juvenile in Laura Keene's company in 1858 when he was offered the minor role of Lord Dundreary. He was reluctant to play it since it offered him little opportunity to shine. After considerable cajoling by his friend Joseph Jefferson, who was to play the much juicier role of Asa Trenchard, Sothern agreed to remain with the company if, as Keene promised him, he could do what he wanted with the role.

This is his son E. H. Sothern's account of his most famous starring role

Laura Keene is reported to have had a bad temper, which took possession of her to such an extent that on one occasion she is said to have thrown goldfish about the room in her frenzy. This may or may not be so, and it is not necessary to believe a fish story. However, my father, at that time playing as Mr. Douglas Stewart, became a member of Laura Keene's company about 1857. When that tempestuous lady undertook to discipline that audacious young man, she met her Waterloo. He out-manoeuvred her, outflanked her, and indeed defeated her completely. Mr. Stewart had incurred Miss Keene's displeasure at a rehearsal. She summoned him to her dressing-room, and as soon as he entered she began a violent tirade. Mr. Stewart stepped quickly to the gas-jet, which illuminated the sacred chamber, and, turning out the gas, plunged the room into darkness. "What do you mean, sir! How dare you!" stormed the lady.
"Pardon me, Miss Keene," said that impudent Mr. Stewart, "I can't bear to see a pretty woman in a temper," and under cover of the darkness he made his exit.
It was at Laura Keene's Theatre that Our American Cousin was first produced. My father, having now taken his own name of Sothern, since two other Stewarts, one a manager and the other an actor in the same company, created confusion. The story of this production has often been told, but a new light was thrown upon the history of Lord Dundreary when Joseph Jefferson related to me the following facts: It appears that Mr. Jefferson was at the time of this production supposed to be suffering from consumption. He told me that his doctors declared that his only hope was to be out in the fresh air as much as possible. That actually his life depended upon it. He was glad, therefore, when my father joined Laura Keene's company, to discover that he was passionately fond of riding. They hired a stable together and purchased two horses. They shared the expense, which was a serious matter, as they were both merely stock actors. When the play of "Our American Cousin" was read to the company, as was customary, my father was so disheartened with the part for which he was cast -- Lord Dundreary, a second old man with only a few lines -- that he determined to throw up his engagement and leave America. He had been acting for ten years, and had, he thought, made some impression, and he felt that if his years of labor had brought him no further reward, he would give up the struggle. He told Jefferson that he proposed to return to England and enter his father's office in Liverpool, to devote himself to mercantile pursuits. At once it occurred to Mr. Jefferson that if my father went away he would have to abandon the stable; he could not bear the expense alone. He used all his powers of argument to induce my father not to throw up his part. Joe Jefferson was the leading comedian of the company, and he promised my father that with Miss Keene's consent, he would permit him any liberty in the scenes they might have together.
"But I have no scenes," said my father; "I have only about ten lines."
"We will have scenes," said Jefferson; "we will make them."
He persuaded the dejected Mr. Sothern to at least attend the first few rehearsals, and he did so. Jefferson was as good as his word, of course, and Miss Keene was induced to allow Lord Dundreary much liberty. My mother played Georgina, the part opposite my father, and she and he worked up many lines and replies at home, and were allowed to introduce them into the play. If you have ever seen this comedy you may have remarked that nearly all of Dundreary's scenes are with Asa Trenchard or Georgina. Jefferson worked hard to help his fellow horseman, and day by day Dundreary was, as it were, superimposed upon the play. The success of the character was not so great at first, but it grew as the actor felt his way.

The printed play as sold by French & Son represents the result of the first two seasons or so of performances. Every season that my father played the piece it was altered and added to; his work on it was constant and unremitting. Many actors played the part indeed it was commonly played by the stock companies of the day, but my father always kept ahead with fresh ideas. The play was gradually simplified from a drama of three acts of four scenes each to a play of four acts of one scene each, the first and last scene being the same. My father each year copied out his own prompt-books, or had them copied, and then wrote in his most recent additions. I have many such prompt-books, with most minute notes and directions. When I played the play, nearly thirty years after his death, these manuscripts were so perfect that I had no difficulty in recalling every movement of all the characters.
My father's genius was indeed the genius of infinite pains. I have heard him relate that the little skip he used in his gait in Dundreary originated simply from his habit of trying to keep in step with my mother as they walked up and down at the back of the stage arranging their lines. The skip and the stutter and other business grew and grew from performance to performance. As Jefferson says in his "Life," the character of Dundreary gradually pushed all the other characters out of the play.
Another unpublished incident of the history of this comedy came to me by accident, when one evening, while I was playing the piece in America, my manager told me that an old Englishman who kept the gallery door wished to see me. I asked him to come behind the scenes. He had, he said, occupied a position in the great dry-goods store of Marshall & Snellgrove in London at the time of the first production of "Our American Cousin," at the Haymarket Theatre. Mr. Buckstone was the manager of the Haymarket. It was his habit when business was bad to distribute a number of free seats among the employees of this establishment. One day Mr. Buckstone called and said: "This new play, 'Our American Cousin,' is an absolute failure. The house is empty, and I want to make an effort to fill it on Saturday night. I think this new man, Sothern, is very funny, and if he can get a house, I believe he will succeed." A great number of seats were given out, but curiously on that Saturday the fact that Lord Dundreary was an amusing personage had attracted a number of people to the pit. It was the pit that Mr. Buckstone especially desired to fill, for the pit to "rise at one," was then, as now, extremely desirable. Together with free tickets and those who wished to pay, there was such a crush at the pit entrance that a woman was thrown down and trampled to death in a panic which ensued. On Monday the papers were full of this accident. Correspondence ensued, much advertising was the result, and, said my new friend, "the success of the play was assured from that moment." To what untoward circumstance may we not owe our success or failure! That poor woman's death may have actually turned the fortune of the play, for if it had not drawn on the next Monday, it was Mr. Buckstone's intention to take it off. The play ran for four hundred and ninety-six nights at the Haymarket and made the fortune of Mr. Buckstone and my father.
Two curious circumstances happened during this English engagement. One night, after "Dundreary" had been triumphant for about a year, and my father felt more than assured of his great success, a weary swell in the first row of the stalls arose about the middle of the second act, deliberately put on his coat, stretched himself, yawned audibly, while people murmured "Hush!" "Sit down!" etc., and started unperturbed up the aisle. My father, greatly nettled, but feeling sure of sympathy from the disturbed spectators, went down to the footlights and said: "I beg your pardon, my dear sir, but there are two more acts after this."
"I know," said the weary one, "that's why I'm going."
It is dangerous to step out of one's part.
An old friend of my father, one Doctor Simpson, induced him to go out of town to play one matinee performance of "Dundreary." My father, feeling that he was conferring rather a favor on the small community, went with his company. This Simpson was a great joker, and went about telling the rustic auditors that this man Sothern, being an eminent London actor, they must be careful about their demeanor in the theatre. "This is no cheap kind of play," said he. "You must not let this man think we have no manners. Don't applaud, don't laugh; it isn't done, people of taste don't do it. Laugh when you get home, but remember, 'the loud laugh denotes the vacant mind.' If you like this man's acting, say so quietly when you meet him at the reception after the play."
Never was there such a night. The house crowded to the doors and not a sound of welcome, not a sound of laughter at this most comic of characters. For two acts my distracted father endured torture, the fiendish Simpson running around to him every now and again, hitting him on the back and whispering vehemently: "Isn't it great! I never saw such enthusiasm! They're simply mad about it!"
The devil they are!" said my wretched father. "They are as dumb as oysters."
It came to the third act where there is a long and most arduous monologue of nearly half an hour. Not a sound. My father could endure no more. He arose from the stool whereon he sat, walked down to the footlights and said: "Ladies and gentlemen, if you don't laugh, I can't go on." Pandemonium broke loose. People shouted and wept. My father for once was nonplussed, but he caught sight of Simpson in a box self-possessed and smileless, and a light broke in upon his darkness.

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(Below Sothern as David Garrick)