In 1896 Franklyn Fyles, dramatic editor of the New York Sun, wrote the following piece about the deceased actor:
VERSATILITY is a hindrance to popular success on the stage. Unvaried individuality is a help. The actor who disguises himself effectually in his assumed characters, and whose impersonations are actual creations of mimetic art, gets appreciation and praise from the few considerate observers; but to the great majority he has to introduce himself anew with every role, and is not remembered from one such achievement to another. . .
…Let me put the late John T. Raymond in evidence. He died as popular as any American comedian of his time, and he would have died rich if he had not fooled away his income. Still, if to be an actor is to be a mimic, he was not an actor at all. He was devoid of the smallest degree of versatility. Once, in a Saratoga hotel, the voice of Colonel Mulberry Sellers was raised behind me. Not only were the tones and inflections of the hopeful, enthusiastic speculator vocalized, precisely as I had heard them in theatres, but the words, too, were in kind. Sellers had been to the races that afternoon, so he was informing somebody, and he had bet on beaten horses only; but he could make good his loss next day, sure pop, on a tip given to him by—and the name was whispered confidentially. Meanwhile, he dared his companion to match silver dollars ten times. The challenge was accepted. Sellers lost eight times in ten, and remained blithesome. It is said that Mark Twain's father was the prototype of Sellers. Few who have seen the character in the play have been at a loss to find in him the likeness of an acquaintance. But of all the counterparts of Twain's hero, none can have been more perfect than Raymond; it was he who talked and matched dollars in the Saratoga hotel.
"See here," he exclaimed; "tell you what I'll do. Bet you ten dollars you can't guess within ten how many times I use the phrase, 'There's millions in it,' in one performance of my play."
"I'll go you," was the reply; and after a minute's thought, the man added, "my money goes on fifteen."
"Close call," the comedian cried. "Thirteen would have won. I say, 'There's millions in it,' just three times in the whole piece. Most folks—non-professionals—guess twenty or over;" and he pocketed the ten dollars as joyously as ever Sellers imagined a million. . .
…[Raymond was] a wonderfully entertaining actor. . . but it was only when a character fitted him that his value was realized. His own outlines were fixed, and he could not vary them. So he was brilliant sometimes, and dull at other times.
John T. Raymond won with Colonel Sellers. His prize consisted of a fame that made him known to and liked by the theatrical audiences of the land, and a fortune that with prudence of investment should have constituted him a millionaire. . .
…[Colonel Sellers] was a dramatic prototype, and he will not soon disappear from our stage. "The Gilded Age" may not be acted again; but its principal has been duplicated substantially in other dramas, and will be used essentially in many a drama to come.
If the power of imitation must be denied to Raymond, and his success ascribed to his exploitation of his own personality, compensation may be made to his memory by a record of the fact that he was a model for the imitators. Tribute was paid to him by the avowed mimics. From variety show to burlesque, and from amateur theatricals to the lyceum platform, no mimic omitted Raymond's Sellers from his set of portrayals. Further and deeper than that, however, is the influence of his success discernible in the best American comedians of the day. Sellers has become varioform on the stage…
…The last time I saw Raymond in Colonel Sellers' familiarly graphic attitude was at Long Branch. He was spending the summer at costly hotel. His vacation was longer than his purse. He had expended in personal luxuries and unfortunate speculations the great profits of "The Gilded Age." His last wager in Wall Street had used up the money with which he might have paid an overdue board-bill. He hadn't dollars enough left to pursue his favorite pastime of odd-or-even. He was as completely stranded as any penniless stroller at a cross-roads tavern, with the important difference that this landlord, a personal friend and admirer, was willing to be his host in the non-mercenary sense of the term. But Raymond was badly off, even when relieved of responsibility for board and lodging; for the time was near when he was to venture forth for a new season. Certain preliminary expenses were to be paid.
"Give a 'benefit' performance," the host suggested. "You may have the casino rent free."
The entertainment was given, and the house was crowded., The profit amounted to a thousand dollars.
"Now John," said the host, as he handed the receipted board-bill to the actor, "if you haven't enough money left to start the new play with, we'll let this account wait."
During the prior week or two the joviality of Raymond had been a little forced and unreal, but with money in his pocket he was restored to spontaneous buoyancy. Instinctively placing one hand on his hip, and holding the bill aloft, he proclaimed a return to affluence.
"My dear fellow," he cried, "my new play's the thing, 'with millions in it!'"
But it wasn't. (21)
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