THE MAN WHO
BROUGHT ROYALTY TO AMERICA

All peoples yearn for royalty Creating it where they find none Tired of English monarchy We tried General Washington But like bees buzzing in a hive Who have no queen for whom to sting We searched out one to contrive To restore the order of things

His story starts in India Under shadows of Taj Mahal There he was born at Fort Agra His birth for mother was fatal And so his father cast him out From his already-hardened heart She had been his only soft spot From whom his son had made him part

Né Herbert Blyth, an Englishman Whose father revenued empire He grew into the black sheep son Of adventure he never tired Far too wild to please his papa Who invented consternation He found comfort in the fauna His dog Raj his best companion

When sent to Oxford for schooling The great Classics he did study But most lessons involved wooing Not as the wooer but woee Even then he was a treasure For the opposite sex to see He denied them not their pleasure As he charted their mystery

Instead of the civil service For which father arranged entrée Time behind the desk he would miss To go down to the wharves and play At amateur pugilism Knocking all challengers out cold As stinging with witticism His repartee became quite bold

At Blue Anchor in Shoreditch late Jabbing faces and punching hide Making all comers rue their fate A dandified Irishman spied Championship material Doffing his silk top hat and cane This hot upstart imperial Would eat an uppercut of pain

For this was the Ned Donnelly Royal Professor Self-Defense Boxing master to hoi polloi Who of the kid quickly dispensed Spying greatness in his future Just six weeks of intense training Made the Gentleman Amateur English Middle Weight Champion

In attendance at his crowning A theatrical producer Casting for provincial touring Spied pending stardom in Herbert Giving him a second reason For his given name to alter Boxing and acting were treason To his imperial father

And sure enough, the patriarch At the grave of Herbert’s great aunt: "You should not have come" his brows arched "We welcome not such miscreants Give up this foolishness at once Or threaten our fine lineage Better a hard-laboring dunce Than be an actor on the stage!"

Appropriating Barrymore From a stage story he enjoyed So the audiences would roar Frenchified Maurice he employed Thus disowned by his family He abandoned his law career And set sail for the Colonies Where a dynasty he would rear

Across the sea in Rebel Land Where the Liberty Bell lay cracked Arch Street Theatre at her command Thrilling Yankee houses jam-packed The New World's Queen Victoria English-born Louisa Lane Drew Darling of Philadelphia Never heard a "hiss" or a "boo!"

Her husband John Drew, the founder Of the playhouse she directed Was less an Irish bounder Than comedian perfected Thus matched with his talented wife Whose forebears played with Shakespeare They brought to the theatrical life An acting duo without peer

Son John, "First Gentleman Actor" Held close by High Society Every Yankee player before Had been barred from the property Their princess daughter Georgiana Comic beyond all reckoning Could become the new Regina If she could but find her a king

New York 1875 Could not know what it was in for This high-societal beehive Yearning to give strangers what-for Was to suffer a tidal wave With this so-dapper Englishman Inspiring journalistic raves Shining kudos blotting out the sun

"Spectacular looks, wit so keen!" They enthused at Vanity Fair "Completest courage ever seen Young women do nothing but stare At this fair Prince of the Purple They all flock to the Rialto To watch him pass by in a whirl!" Piquing an impresario

Augustin Daly, strutting by Catching his own awkward glances Knew at an instant he would try Giving this fair prince stage chances And this, his unknowing subjects Is where he met his destiny She made him a lifelong project And they brought to us royalty

The king and queen began their reign With little of fanfare at first Commoners manners they did feign Royal plumage later to burst They’d rule the stage as from a throne Matchless were their battles of wit Regally they’d pose their person Their kids’d be a dynastic hit

No one warned the king off Texas Not that he’d’ve listened had they so He set out to tame this nexus Between the wild and do-si-do At the train depot in Marshall He challenged a drunken bully To unarmed fistfight most formal But double-dealt Big Jim Currie

To protect a lady’s honor The king stuck up his royal dukes As a page in theater lore Was written by this Texas kook He fired once, then twice his pistol At the shocked and unarmed Maurice When to mercy a friend appealed He shot and killed him like a beast

Convalescing, barely alive All around felt sure he would die Save Georgie, who in time arrived Wifely love and warmth to apply Saved by her from a cowboy death A playwriting career he launched With each bullet-punctured last breath Hot blood the dramatic words staunched

America’s leading actor To the top quickly he had zoomed Wanted most to be a writer Though his pursuit of it proved doomed A Russian play called "hope" held none As would a string of star-crossed shows Out of several, only one Survives today, though no one knows

That tragically-writ Nadjezda Of pot-boiling Slavic intrigue Once given to a French diva Would prove most worthy of her league Sarah Bernhardt, the star of France Passed copy to her quill Sardou Who about copyright laws danced Paying Barrymore not a sou

The French writer penned La Tosca From the Englishman’s masterwork Giving France’s beloved Sarah A master role that would much irk Kingly offspring each time they heard Puccini’s opera on high Knowing well wherefrom came each word Credit and royalties denied

Friends with all the day’s great boxers Impressing his sons with prowess He floored a great champion in spar The boys bragged on papa no rest Dressed eccentrically for his day What was at hand went on his frame Skinner wrote "Bedouin of Broadway" "Apollo in slop suit!" he claimed

His dogs and skunks and cockatiels An extra railroad car did fill Only the seediest hotels Would house him and his animals Much saddened when a drunken bear Ruined his flea bag out-of-town room He fell to the pit of despair When fire slew his amateur zoo

Adoring Lambs would shout when’ere House of Barrymore sire entered A man’s man he was hailed there Even by those his wit skewered Laughing most at their own expense His good-hearted keen satire won The felled knew well the recompense Their reigning king must have his fun

None could top his exceeding wit Save his long-suffering Georgie While she was home doing her bit He spent Friday’s pile by Sunday Arriving home at churchtime hour His face at sight of his wife fell "Where are you off to, my flower?" "To church, and you can go to Hell!"

Mother to his three fine children Much loved by all who knew her The country’s top comedienne Had reason to doubt his ardor But when consumption took her home He muttered her name tragically Her love for him had been a poem Ever more she was "my Georgie"

Much of his stage success came late Right at the mid-century mark A swashbuckler he did create Setting standards for younger sparks Our first real matinee idol When America’s leading man He would cross over to Vaudeville The first big star to cheer such fans

"Live by the sword, die by the sword!" Detractors might well proclaim A love life defining torrid Invites the chance of hateful shame The ravages of syphilis Destroyed far more than his fine mind History’s pages could now miss One lost to a fate so unkind

While he relived his stage glories On his makeshift doll-size playhouse Crones would mutter "Poor Barry" King no more of his royal house At times his wit he’d remember Suggesting this a baseless fright Predicting a West Coast temblor Hinted supernatural might

His dynasty long would be seen Regally commanding the stage Hailed first as princess then as queen Daughter Ethel was all the rage Some said Lionel was the best Judge his "It’s a Wonderful Life" Young John royally passed the test Good Night, Sweet Prince retells his strife

The fairest princess of them all Has proved great granddaughter Drew Blythe Her names set her to heed the call Future-shocking family might Against that old family curse She would bravely even the score Making fine movies in a burst Revealing a true Barrymore

We’ve had other dynasties since Most notably the Kennedys Kings and queens not in government Norma Jean and Elvis Presley But first to occupy the throne After we showed King George the door A man who came from the same zone His Highness, Maurice Barrymore!

With gratitudes to James Kotsilibas-Davis for writing the greatest actor biography of all time, Great Times, Good Times: the Odyssey of Maurice Barrymore, (Doubleday, 1977).

© 2000 by Michael J. Farrand