 Cavalcade of America, starring Walter Hampton and featuring Ivan Curry in Footlights on the Frontier, presented by the DuPont Company, makers of better things for better living through tennis. Good evening and welcome to Cavalcade. This is Bill Hamilton. Now, Footlights on the Frontier, a story about the boyhood of Joseph Jefferson, one of America's greatest actors of the last century. As Joseph Jefferson, Walter Hampton will tell the story. It's a reckless thing for a man to write his own biography. The present goes glimmering and all the yesterday's troop in. The eye no longer looks about, but inward and backward. And instead of the gossip and the small talk and the tittle-tattle of our day, the ear can hear the voices of the forgotten and the far off and the long ago. That's my father, dead these 40 years. There I am, Joseph Jefferson III, aged 10. There's my mother, singing as I heard her sing that song a thousand times. Not in her own parlor, by her own fireside, mind you, but singing in the only home I ever knew when I was a boy. Any theater we happen to be playing. My father's little company played them all, from Maine to Georgia to the wilds of Illinois. Home Sweet Home is in the play Clary, the Fair Maid of Millen. And it always brought the curtain down to a fine round of applause. Oh, there was one night I remember especially. And I'm going to tell you about it now. Lovely, Joe. Hey, we're brisk all right. Did you hear him during my big speech? I thought there was rain on the roof. But no, there's only the spittoons working overtime. Well, you can't expect people in a little place like this to behave too genteel, Joseph. This is the frontier, practically. This is Chicago. Well, someday we'll play real cities, New York, Philadelphia, maybe even Boston. Boston, Pa? In Boston, Joe will even own our own theater. Honest, Pa? Yes, sir, he's son, our own theater. Oh, don't pay any attention to your father, Joey. Why, to own a theater in Boston would cost hundreds and hundreds of dollars, maybe even thousands. There's other places in this country, besides Boston, where a man can build a playhouse, and where it ain't so costly. What are you talking about, Joseph Jefferson? The state capital of Illinois is right down the river, Mary, a place called Springfield. In a few weeks, the state legislature's going to be in session there, be there for months. A company couldn't help but do first-rate business there. And the only trouble is there's no fit theater in the town. Well? I, uh, I had in mind we might build our own theater in Springfield. Joseph Jefferson! Golly, Pa, can we? Can we? Oh, of course we can't. We've nothing to use for money. Ah, wait a minute, Mary. Timber and labor are cheap out this way. If we took the profit we've made here in Chicago, we could swing it. But, Joseph, that's every penny we have in the world. We'll make a good thing out of it, Mary. Ah, you say, nah. And it isn't just the money. It's for once owning our own place and being our own masters. It'd be a nice feeling, wouldn't it? Shall we do it? Please, Ma, let's, let's. Why ask me? Your father will do justice he has mine to anyhow. Go ahead then, build your theater in Springfield. What do I care if we all starve? I knew you'd talk her around, Pa. Hmm, your mother's a wonderful woman, Joe. But like all women, she hates to take chances. She said we should go ahead and build it, didn't she? I don't think she really meant it, Joe. What are we going to do? We are going to build our theater. I hope your mother won't mind too much. I've trod the boards in all the capitals of the known world, and I've appeared on more stages than I can count. But never a stage or a theater has meant to me what that one did in Springfield those many years ago. You see, I helped build that one the entire company did. Lad, lad. What's the matter, Mr. Featherstone? To think. But I, who Mrs. Siddon said held the future of English acting in the palm of my hand, should be reduced to pounding nails in the forsaken American jungle. The pity of it, lad. The pity of it. Cheer up, Mr. Featherstone. We're almost done. Well, if we're done, for well, we're done quickly, lad. Gosh, our theater's going to be beautiful, isn't it? I have played Covent Gardens. Don't expect me to enthuse over this inverted shoebox. I'll bet we make a pile of money here. The whole town's waiting for us to open. Yes, if we ever do. What do you mean? The town council of this metropolis, Springfield, has so far not seen fit to grant us permission to play. You mean Pa hasn't got the license yet? In a word, precisely. But they promised it before we started building. I don't say they won't give it to him. I only say they haven't so far. Golly. Don't worry, lad. Things will work out. There's a divinity that shapes our ends. Refuse them how we may. Ow! Tammy! What's the matter, Mr. Featherstone? I've masked my finger. Oh, it's bleeding real bad, ain't it? Yes. Who would have thought the old man had so much blood in him? I'll get Ma. Ma! Ma! What is it, Joey? Mr. Featherstone's hit his finger. Oh, again? Again, fair lady. And, unfortunately, this is the finger I use in the last act to point at my betrayer. I'm afraid my performance will be ruined. Here, let me tie this around. There's not so deep as a well nor so wide as a church door. But is enough twill serve. That's funny, Mr. Featherstone. I shall go then. Always exit on a lap. He's funny. Where's Pirate Ma? Oh, I think he's seeing some of the councilmen about the permit. We're sold out the opening night already. Yes, and we haven't got our permit yet. But they promised it. And on top of everything else, Rosalind has a bad cold. We can't open without someone to play the girl's part. Oh, she'll be all right. Oh, you're just like your father. Everything's always going to be all right. Ma, I wish you wouldn't be mad at Pa. He feels real bad about it. Then why did he come here? Because he thought it was best for all of us. I don't hear any hammering. Here he is. Is the Jefferson Theatre all built? Just about, Pa. We'll be all finished today. Just in time, too. We're opening Friday night. Hear that, dear? I hear. Did you get the permit? Here it is. Oh, look, Ma. I see. Well, I better go Dr. Rosalind some more. If her throat don't get better, there won't be any show Friday permit or no permit. I wish Ma wouldn't take on so. She's worried that's all, Joe. Not about what's going to happen to herself, but to you and me, Joe. Especially about you. She thinks the world of your son. Yes, I know, but I wish he'd be happy again. Well, just as soon as that hard silver starts rolling in the box office every night, your mother will be happy as a lock again. You'll see. I know her. What if Rosalind doesn't get better soon? It won't be so good, son. We've got to have her. Couldn't we get somebody in Springfield maybe to take her place? You're wonderful if we could, but I doubt it. They grow lots of things around here, but not actors. Well, let's get on with our building, Joe. You know what Mr. Featherstone did, Pa? Get hammering there, get hammering. What were you saying about Mr. Featherstone? It was funny, Pa. He... Ouch! What's the matter? I hit my thumb! Dammit! So there we were in Springfield for the first time in our lives we owned the roof over our heads. It was a wonderful feeling, but I kept worrying about Rosalind, our Angelo. Would she be well in time for the opening night? How's your throat, Rosalind? Pretty good. I think you'll be all right by Friday. I hope so. You shouldn't use your voice. Then don't keep asking me questions. Featherstone. Yes, lad? Most girls like to act, don't they? All women fancy themselves actresses, lad. That holds true from the Thames to the banks of the Congo. What about Springfield? What do you mean? Pa and Ma are worried about Rosalind's voice. I was wondering if I could find some girl here. Who could maybe take her place? Put up a placard in the public square, my lad. Tomorrow you will have young ladies at the stage door in droves. I'll do it, Mr. Featherstone. Well, don't tell Pa and Ma. I want to surprise them. So I made a sign and put it up in town where it could be viewed by all. And sure enough, several young ladies did appear at the theater the next day. That is, some were young and some weren't. And some were ladies, and some I wasn't exactly sure about. The one thing I know is that none of them were any great shakes as actresses. Farewell. Even Mr. Featherstone was discurring. And when five days are told, Forbes' help, bear he be, I fear I'm aligned Rosalind's land. Did Miss Splendid? Wasn't she, Joe? Well, uh, yes. Unfortunately, my dear, I think you'd make our leading lady jealous. But thank you, just the same. Oh, that's all right. You have wise parents, my dear. Farewell, is there anyone here who hasn't yet favored us with a demonstration of her Pespian gift? Meeks, and I'm the best reciter in our school. The teacher says so. Recite something, Betsy. Something brief. Yes, sir. Stranger, I said, and she tapped at my half-open door. While the blanket pulled over her head, just reached to the basket she bore. A look full of innocence fell from her modest and pretty blue eye. As she said, I have matches to sell, and I hope you are willing to buy. I asked what your name, little girl, is, Mary, she said, Mary Dowell, and carelessly tossed off a curl that played on her delicate brow. My father was lost on the deep. The ship never got to the shore, the wind blow and sea roar. She said, Sarah, at home without food, beside our poor sick Willie's bed, she paid all her money for wood, and so I sell matches for red. Stop her, lad. I'll go mad. I'll go mad. I'll go mad. I'll go mad. I'll go mad. I'll go mad. I'll go mad. I'll go mad. I'll go mad. My dear young lady, there should be a law against it. Well, that's the way you feel. Maybe there ought to be a law against you play actors. My father's on the Springfield Town Council. He'll fix you. He'll fix us how? He'll see that you won't get a permit. My father's already got one. Then my father'll take it away from him. You'll see if he don't. You'll just... Do you think her father could take our permit away, Mr. Featherstone? No. We'd be ruined if they did. At least I hope it won't. Oh... You mean we could lose the permit? Lad, in the theatrical profession, anything can happen. And usually, done. Joseph Jefferson. One of the most beloved and captivating actors ever seen on the American stage. Now we continue our story. Oh, that day, long ago, dragged on and on. And nothing happened, like Mr. Featherstone once said it might. By the next morning, I was beginning to think that Miss Betsy Jikes had been talking hot air as the saying went. Then I heard Pa calling me. Joseph! I knew something was wrong. He was calling me Joseph. Yeah, Joseph. Here I am, Pa. A gentleman on the town council by the name of Mr. Jikes informs me that you enticed several young ladies of Springfield into our theatre and asked them to recite for you. Is that true? I didn't entice them. I just put a sign up. By what right do you take it upon yourself to manage the affairs of my company? I only did it to help. I thought I'd surprise you. Yes, you did, Joseph. Thanks to you, we've lost our permit. Oh, gee. Honest? Yes. Oh, Dad, I'm sorry. Josh, I didn't mean it. Is there anything I can do? Yes, son. You can go out and take down the playbills announcing the opening of the new Jefferson Theatre in Springfield. I feel terrible about it, Pa. How do you suppose I feel? I've got to tell your mother. Like all men, I've had my share of difficult days, but I can't ever remember one as bad as that. Every time I pulled one of our playbills off a fence or a barn wall, it was like taking a piece off my hide. Finally, when I was off, where I thought nobody'd see me, I really let go and cried enough tears to work the rain effect in Romulus the Shepard King. What's the trouble, boy? I looked up to see the tallest, skinniest, ugliest man I ever saw in my whole life. But here's the funny part. I never saw a face I liked better. Something eating you, boy? I'm sorry, a boy like this. Well, everybody's got to cry some. If a body don't like it, stay in and you're inside rust. I never trust a man who can't cry or a man who can't laugh. You can cry, all right? I can laugh, too. Can you? Not now. Are you with the play actors opening up here Friday night? Yep, only we ain't opening. You ain't? And it's all my fault. Well, now. There's a problem. Now, suppose you tell me about it, boy? So between my sobs, I got the whole story out. Then the stranger asked me a lot of questions. Who I was, did I like play acting, and why, and a lot of things like that. None of them seem to have anything to do with getting our permit back, either. Joe, what do you need to get your permit back? It's a good lawyer. Where can we find one? Right here. I'd be mighty pleased to take your case. Can't pay no lawyer, mister. Don't you worry about that. All I want is to see you get a fair deal. Gee, thanks, mister. Only one thing I want you to do for me, Joe. What's that? Well, seeing we're going in this case together, I want to be sure you're the kind of fella I can trust. Let me hear you laugh, Joe. Come on. Come on. That's it. That's a nice laugh, Joe. You'll do. So then the tall man and I went up to where the town council was meeting. They seemed to know him, and they all seemed to like him. Except Betsy Jikes' father, that is. He looked like the kind of fellow who didn't like anything. Right away he was mad because the lawyer brought me there. I don't see any call for you to butt in. What are you here for, anyhow? I told you, Mr. Jikes, I'm Mr. Jefferson's lawyer. Well, I don't see Mr. Jefferson. I mean young Mr. Jefferson here. Say hello to the council, Joe. How do you do it? And now Joe feels mighty bad because you gentlemen have taken the permit away from his father. And his father ain't going to get it back either. We don't want no play actors in this town. You know, Mr. Jikes, the gentleman of the council, I'm reminded of a dog a friend of mine had who lived on buttermilk. That dog wouldn't so much as touch a bone, but she lapped up buttermilk by the churn form. Nice, peaceful, friendly dog, too, except for one thing. Just let her see some other dog gnawing on a bone, and she'd go plumb crazy. She didn't like bones, and she wasn't going to let other dogs happen. If you ask me, I think we ought to have a little more sense than that old dog. Now there was another thing going on. Well, the stranger went on talking, and I never heard his equal anywhere. It wasn't that he talked louder or softer or used bigger words than other folks. It was that he somehow made everything he said seem truer than anybody else could make it. He could have said the moon was made of pie crust, and we'd all have believed it. But he didn't talk about the moon. He talked about me first and how I caused all the trouble because I wanted to help my father. Then he told how we all came that hard way out to Illinois doing our plays for folks, how we'd play any place there was. He got them interested. Then he got them smiling. And when he got around telling about the time we did Hamlet in the barn with the pink pen underneath, they all got laughing right out loud. So instead of Hamlet's father crying swear, from beneath the stage those hogs went, if they were more severe as critics of the drama than Mr. Jilts. Then the stranger got talking about plays and how they first happened to be active. He knew more about it than Pa even. He told about the Greeks and how the actors dressed up like gods and spoke words even gods would be proud to speak. And he told how in the dark ages people were ignorant and the priests to teach them came before their altars and acted out the stories of the birth and the death and the rising up again of Lord Jesus. And he told of Shakespeare who wasn't only the sweetest writer of them all but a play actor too, just like Pa, me. Somehow it made me proud the way he said it. Then all of a sudden he stopped talking and turned to me. Pillar dropped and I couldn't say it as well as Joe here says to me a while back. Joe, I want you to repeat for these gentlemen what you said to me about why you loved acting. You mean about the audience? I mean about the audience. Well, if the play is good, they always look so happy like somebody giving them a wonderful present or something. And it's a nice feeling to be able to do that for people. Gentlemen, we rest our case. The council voted and after a few days we got a permit and what an opening night we had. And that night before Ma sang her big solo she stepped down to the footlights and made an announcement. Ladies and gentlemen, with your kind permission I shall gratefully dedicate the singing of my song to that young lawyer without whom we could not be playing here in Springfield tonight. Mr. Abe Lincoln. But I can still hear the voices. I'm able to see the play tonight. I'm like you. I love a good play. I love to go to this... Mr. Hamden, to Ivan Curry and the Cavalcade players our thanks for tonight's play Footlights on the Frontier. On this occasion may we extend our special congratulations to Mr. Hamden whose birthday is being celebrated this month and whose distinguished career in the American theater should serve as an inspiration to those young players who hope to follow the acting profession. As president of the Players Club in New York City Mr. Hamden succeeds the illustrious actors of another day and age and may we express the hope that for many years to come he'll continue the tradition of Edwin Booth, John Drew and Joseph Jefferson. Tonight's Cavalcade play Footlights on the Frontier was written by Frank Gabrielson. Appearing with Mr. Hamden and Master Curry were Agnes Young, his mother, Stotscotsworth, his father, John Griggs, his featherstone and Bill Adams as A. Blinken. The music for the Dupont Cavalcades composed by Arden Cornwell, conducted by Donald Borey. This is Ed Pearson speaking. Next week Cavalcade will present the popular Broadway and Hollywood star Ralph Bellamy. Our story, Raiden Shotgun, is an exciting drama of suspense and romance on the Western Frontier. Be sure to join us next week for Cavalcade and our star, Ralph Bellamy. Cavalcade of America's directed by John Zoller comes to you each week from the stage of the Longacre Theatre on Broadway in New York and is presented by the Dupont Company of Wilmington, Delaware. This is NBC, the national broadcasting company.