Nat Goodwin's Book. Goodwin Nathaniel Carll

      "Come thou with me, tonight, and sit awhile,

      To see the mummers; not at the Museum:

      'Tis laughter's Tomb. The Park's a dull Te Deum;

      The Globe's a Morgue. Mayhap there be a smile

      That lurketh somewhere in the dingy Athenaeum."

      Thus spake my friend, Joe Bradford: Rest his soul!

      I'd known him then a day, and we were chumming,

      As though we'd been for years Love's lute-strings thumbing.

      We'd told each other's lives; each ope'd his soul,

      And drank the other's health 'till riotous becoming.

      To his beloved Athenaeum, then,

      We almost reeled, and in a trice were seated,

      So close that we could scent the footlights heated.

      We laughed indeed, again, again, again,

      As clownish Mummers ancient songs and quips repeated.

      Then came into the light a slender boy,

      And Bradford yelled with lusty acclamation:

      "That's Nat, God bless him!" Then, without cessation,

      The stripling held each hearer like a toy,

      And thrilled him now with song, then wondrous imitation.

      First Farce, then Opera, now broad Burlesque,

      Then e'en in tragic realms majestic soaring,

      And each attempt success prodigious soaring;

      (Be it pathetic, tuneful, or grotesque,)

      Till every palm was bruised with ravenous encoring.

      The youth had scarce outgrown his spelling book,

      And yet tho' oft some honored name defaming,

      By matchless ridicule, his pure declaiming

      Came easily as ripples to a brook,

      Or thrills to lover's souls when latest sweethearts naming.

      "Who is this boy?" I cried. "He's clever, quite;

      Whence came he? Where began his gentle schooling?

      'Tis pity there's no art in such tomfooling,

      And much I fear this youth I've seen, tonight,

      Is but a clever clown! Alas! Such kindless ruling!"

      "Then thou'rt a weakling Judge to so decide!"

      Cried Joseph, redd'ning in his indignation.

      "A clown? No art? Why 'tis no imitation

      That we have heard; nor can it be denied

      This callow boy is that one genius of a nation!"

      "You smile; you purse your lips; and even doubt.

      E'er I have drunk myself into perdition,

      Nat Goodwin will have filled with inanition

      The fame of every actor hereabout: —

      For Nature gave him the Creator's tireless mission!"

      He reproduced no song, no speech, no jest,

      But it was lustered by some hidden power

      That comes to Genius born with Fortune's dower.

      Youth in his veins, ambition in his breast,

      This boy will be one day the hero of his hour.

      More than a decade passed. Unlike to me,

      Joe lived not to fulfill that night's foretelling;

      Yet oft adown the years there comes a welling

      From that Somewhere, to green prophecy

      Which in my doubting soul that night usurped a dwelling.

      Today, I saw an eager, jostling throng,

      Like some greed-laden human panorama,

      Surround a playhouse door with vulgar clamour,

      To honor Bradford's star. "Seats! Seats!" their song: —

      To witness his, Nathaniel's, show of laurelled glamour.

      Oh, gentle friend of mine, thou art no more;

      But lend thy spirit ear while I am spinning

      My admiration's tale of endless winning

      Nat ever made. He never failed to score

      Since we together saw his modest first beginning.

      I hid thy prophecy within my breast,

      And ever and anon its force recalling,

      Watched Goodwin stride with speed that was appalling;

      Till now his very foes proclaim him best

      Amongst his votaries, thy very words forestalling.

      And I am glad to know, my spirit chum,

      That I long since let honest admiration

      Be leavened by a Friendship's adulation

      For him who in these decades hath become

      No artless clown, but that one genius of a nation.

      Drink deep with us, thou gentle Friendship's wraith; —

      If thou hast aught to drink where thou'rt abiding,

      And Nat and I'll recall thy stalwart faith

      Which met my doubting with indignant chiding,

      That night when you a new star's orbit were deciding.

      "Come thou with me, tonight, and sit awhile,

      To see the Mummers (not at the Museum.

      'Tis laughter's tomb; the Park's a dull Te Deum;

      The Globe's no more): for I would see thee smile,

      While thousands laud the star of thy loved Athenaeum!"