On Friday, the 24th inst., in the Court Room, will be attempted a tragedy called “The Orphan, or The Unhappy Marriage.”Tickets will be delivered out on Tuesday next, atMr.Shepheard’s, at 40s. each.
On Friday, the 24th inst., in the Court Room, will be attempted a tragedy called “The Orphan, or The Unhappy Marriage.”
Tickets will be delivered out on Tuesday next, atMr.Shepheard’s, at 40s. each.
Forty shillings would seem to be a high price at that time to pay for a ticket to a dramatic entertainment. But what the value of a shilling was then in South Carolina compared to the value of a pound sterling, I do not know. The price of a box ticket at Kean & Murray’s theater in Nassau street fifteen years afterwards was five shillings New York currency, which was about the value of two dollars at the present day, and if the value of the South Carolina currency at that day was anything near that of New York, this high price for admission would imply either that the Court House where the performance of Otway’s Orphan took place did not afford room for many spectators or that the number of persons who were expected to patronize the entertainment was small, so that a high price of admission was necessary to meet the expenses and afford some remuneration to the players, who, I infer, were a regular theatrical company, as a charge was made for admission, and the performances were continued once a week, from the 24th of January to March23, 1735-36, during which tragedies, comedies, farces, and other entertainments were given.
The writer in the “Times” says that the play announced in the advertisement, Otway’s “Orphan,” was performed, though the next “Gazette” took no notice of it, the “local” being of the briefest character; but the number of the “Gazette” of February, 1736, published the Prologue spoken on the opening night, which has at least the merit of easy versification and of being appropriate to such an occasion: He gives it as follows:
PROLOGUE.
When first Columbus touch’d this distant shore,And vainly hoped his Fears and Dangers o’er,One boundless Wilderness in view appear’dNo Champain Plains or rising Cities cheer’dHis wearied Eye.Monsters unknown travers’d the hideous Waste,And men more savage than the Beasts they chased.But mark! How soon these gloomy Prospects clear,And the new World’s late Horrors disappear.The Soil obedient to the industrious swains,What happy Harvests crown their honest Pains,And Peace and Plenty triumph o’er the Plains.What various products float on every Tide?What numerous Navies in our Harbors ride?Tillage and Trade conjoin their friendly Aid,T’ enrich, the thriving Boy and lovely Maid,Hispania, ’tis true, her precious mines engross’d,And bore her shining Entrails to its Coast.Britannia more humane supplies her wants,The British sense and British beauty plants.The aged Sire beholds with sweet surpriseIn foreign climes a numerous offspring rise,Sense, Virtue, Worth, and Honour stand confestIn each brave male, his prosperous hands have blessed,While the admiring Eye improved may trace,The Mother’s Charms in each chaste Virgin’s Face.Hence we presume to usher in those ArtsWhich oft have warm’d the best and bravest Hearts.Faint our Endeavours, wide are our Essays,We strive to please, but can’t pretend to Praise;Forgiving Smiles o’er pay the grateful task,Those all we hope and all we humbly ask.
The further information that this interesting article contains it will be more satisfactory to give in the author’s own words:
“The Orphan” was repeated January 28, and again February 4, with the addition of “a new Pantomime Entertainment in Grotesque Characters, called, ‘The Adventures of Harlequin and Scaramouch, with the Burgo-Master Trick’d.’”After this run of three nights it was necessary to change the programme, and so the “Gazette” for February 18, 1734-35, announces “‘The Opera of Flora; or, Hob in the Well,’ with the Dance of the two Pierrots and a new Pantomime Entertainment, etc., to begin at 6 o’clock precisely.”On Tuesday, March 25, they played the comedy called “The Spanish Fryar; or, The Double Discovery,” and on Thursday of the same week the play was repeated “for the benefit of Monimia.” Who was Monimia?
“The Orphan” was repeated January 28, and again February 4, with the addition of “a new Pantomime Entertainment in Grotesque Characters, called, ‘The Adventures of Harlequin and Scaramouch, with the Burgo-Master Trick’d.’”
After this run of three nights it was necessary to change the programme, and so the “Gazette” for February 18, 1734-35, announces “‘The Opera of Flora; or, Hob in the Well,’ with the Dance of the two Pierrots and a new Pantomime Entertainment, etc., to begin at 6 o’clock precisely.”
On Tuesday, March 25, they played the comedy called “The Spanish Fryar; or, The Double Discovery,” and on Thursday of the same week the play was repeated “for the benefit of Monimia.” Who was Monimia?
This benefit seems to have closed the season, but the people must have been pleased, for on May 3 the following advertisement appears:
Any gentlemen that are disposed to encourage the exhibition of plays next Winter, may have the sight of the proposals for a subscription atMr.Shepheard’s in Broad Street. And any persons that are desirous of having a share in the performance thereof, upon application toMr.Shepheard shall receive a satisfactory answer. N. B.—The subscription will be closed the last day of this month.
Any gentlemen that are disposed to encourage the exhibition of plays next Winter, may have the sight of the proposals for a subscription atMr.Shepheard’s in Broad Street. And any persons that are desirous of having a share in the performance thereof, upon application toMr.Shepheard shall receive a satisfactory answer. N. B.—The subscription will be closed the last day of this month.
There is not another word in “The Gazette” concerning theatrical affairs until January 24, 1735-36, when the proposals appear to have borne fruit, for it is announced that—
On Thursday, the 12th of February, will be opened the new theatre in Dock Street, in which will be performed the comedy called “The Recruiting Officer.”Tickets for the pitt and boxes will be delivered atMr.Charles Shepheard’s, on Thursday, the 5th of February. Boxes, 30s; pitt, 20s; and tickets for the gallery, 15s, which will be delivered at the theatre the day of playing.N. B.—The doors will be opened all the afternoon. The subscribers are desired to send to the stage door in the forenoon to bespeak places, otherwise it will be too late.
On Thursday, the 12th of February, will be opened the new theatre in Dock Street, in which will be performed the comedy called “The Recruiting Officer.”
Tickets for the pitt and boxes will be delivered atMr.Charles Shepheard’s, on Thursday, the 5th of February. Boxes, 30s; pitt, 20s; and tickets for the gallery, 15s, which will be delivered at the theatre the day of playing.
N. B.—The doors will be opened all the afternoon. The subscribers are desired to send to the stage door in the forenoon to bespeak places, otherwise it will be too late.
Dunlap evidently had never heard of the “new theatre in Dock Street,” for he says that “in 1773 the first theater was built in Charleston, S. C., David Douglass having gained permission from the magistrates, and being invited by the inhabitants. In September he went thither and the company followed him. They played fifty-one nights in that city, closing thecampaign in June, 1774. On October 24, 1774, the first Congress agreed to discountenance gaming, cock fighting, exhibition of shows, plays, and other expensive diversions and entertainments.”
The Charles Town “Gazette” does not notice so important an event as the opening of the first theater in the South, and probably on this continent, in its news columns, but the advertisements announce that on February 23 Otway’s “Orphan” was played, and the next “Gazette” announces:
By desire of the officers of the Troop and Foot Companies, at the new theatre, Queen street, will be acted on Tuesday next, a comedy called the “Recruiting Officer,” with several entertainments as will be expressed in the great bills.Tickets to be had atMr.Charles Shepheard’s and at the theatre.
By desire of the officers of the Troop and Foot Companies, at the new theatre, Queen street, will be acted on Tuesday next, a comedy called the “Recruiting Officer,” with several entertainments as will be expressed in the great bills.
Tickets to be had atMr.Charles Shepheard’s and at the theatre.
Charles Town was at that time a rapidly growing town, and plebeian “Dock” street, as shown by the advertisements, had been changed to “Queen” street, as it is still known.
Once a week seems to have been the rule for the plays, but the next piece, George Lillo’s famous “The London Merchant, or the History of George Barnwell,” was not put upon the boards until March 9. Seven days later it was repeated “for the last time,” with the addition of a farce, “The Devil to Pay, or the Wives Metamorphosed.” This was Coffey’s celebrated work, whose “female character Nell * * * made the fortunes of several actresses.”
The season seems to have closed with the perennial“Orphan” and the above-named farce, which were played March 23, 1735-36. This is all that can be gleaned from the “Gazette” as to the plays and theater, but the new venture seems to have very soon come to grief. The “Gazette” for May 22-29 contains this epigram:
ON THE SALE OF THE THEATRE.
How cruel Fortune, and how fickle, too,To crop the Method made for making you!Changes tho’ common, yet when great they prove,Make men distrust the care of Mighty Jove;Half made in thought (though not in fact) we findYou bought and sold, but left poor H. behind.P. S.—Since so it is ne’er mind the silly trick,The pair will please, when Pierrot makes you sick.
Who sold and who bought is a mystery, but the transaction did not change the theater to other uses, for the “Gazette” announces: “A ball at the play-house in Queen street on February 3 next. To begin at 6 o’clock.” In the paper for January 8-15, 1737, and in May of the same year: “At the request of the Ancient and Honorable Society of Free and Accepted Masons, at the theatre in Queen Street, on Thursday next, the 26th instant, will be performed a comedy, called ‘The Recruiting Officer,’ with a prologue, epilogue and song suitable to the occasion, to which will be added a new dance called ‘Harlequin,’ and the clown and the song, ‘Mad Tom’ in proper habiliments, by a person that has never yet appeared upon the stage.”
This performance seems to have been a great success, for the next “Gazette” accords it this most extended notice:
Charlestown, May 28.On Thursday night last “The Recruiting Officer” was acted for the entertainment of the ancient and honorable society of Free and Accepted Masons, who came to the Play House about 7 o’clock, in the usual manner, and made a very decent and solemn appearance; there was a fuller house on this occasion than ever had been known in this place, and the entered apprentice and masters songs, sung upon the stage, which were joined in chorus by the Masons in the pitt to the satisfaction and entertainment of the whole audience.After the play the Masons returned to the lodge atMr.Shepheard’s, in the same order observed in coming to the Play House.
Charlestown, May 28.
On Thursday night last “The Recruiting Officer” was acted for the entertainment of the ancient and honorable society of Free and Accepted Masons, who came to the Play House about 7 o’clock, in the usual manner, and made a very decent and solemn appearance; there was a fuller house on this occasion than ever had been known in this place, and the entered apprentice and masters songs, sung upon the stage, which were joined in chorus by the Masons in the pitt to the satisfaction and entertainment of the whole audience.
After the play the Masons returned to the lodge atMr.Shepheard’s, in the same order observed in coming to the Play House.
Mad Tom’s song must have been taken from “King Lear,” and, if so, is the first recorded instance of the production of any of Shakespeare’s works on this continent.
The most careful search has failed to find any mention of plays for some years, but a map of Charlestown dated 1738 marks the site of the theater on the south side of Queen, a little west of Church street, on the lot of land now occupied by the rear portion of the old Planters’ Hotel, within less than a hundred yards of the Huguenot and St. Philip’s Churches, and in October, 1743, a ball is advertised to take place at the theater in Queen street.
A similar notice appears in the paper for November 19, 1774, and the next link is an advertisement in the “Gazette,” October 3, 1748, of a school “over against the Play House,” and the following extract from“an exhortation to the inhabitants of South Carolina,” written by a Quakeress, Sophia Hume, in 1748, and published in London in 1752.
The good lady, after setting forth the sins of the people of the province, says: “You have no masquerades nor music gardens to entertain you, neither are theatrical entertainments frequent among you,” which implies that they took place sometimes.
May her shade grant pardon for the use of her book in an article on the play-house.
But Sophia Hume exhorted in vain, for the “Gazette,” in its issue for October 3, 1754, contains this rather contradictory advertisement:
“At the New Theatre on Monday next, (by a company of comedians from London,) a tragedy called the ‘Fair Penitent.’ Tickets to be had ofMr.John Remington and at the printer’s. Price, stage box 50s.; front and side boxes, 40s.; pitt, 30s., and gallery, 20s.”
The “Gazette” dramatic reporter says of the play: “Last Monday evening the New Theatre in this town was opened, when a company of comedians performed the tragedy called the ‘Fair Penitent,’ much to the satisfaction of the audience.”
The theatrical history of Charleston from this time on, however, is familiar.[19]
In the paucity of information about the drama in America at this early period, it may be admissible to refer to what fiction has attempted respecting it in a novel by John Esten Cooke, entitled “The VirginiaComedians,” in which he describes the Williamsburg theater, and the representation in it of a play of Shakespeare’s. As Shakespeare expressed it, “imagination bodies forth the form of things unknown,” and men of genius, like Sir Walter Scott and the elder Dumas, could, in the exercise of this faculty, represent scenes and incidents of the past more vividly and apparently as truthfully as can be derived from the scant material usually left for the historian—an illustration of which will be found in Dumas’s account of the trial and execution of Charles I., in his sequel to “The Three Musketeers,” “Twenty Years After”; and in Scott’s novels there are many like illustrations. “This history,” says Fielding, in the preface to his celebrated novel which he calls “The History of Tom Jones,” “differs from other histories in this, that in other histories nothing is true but the names, whilst in this everything is true but the names”; and the author of “The Virginia Comedians,” though not ranking with the great masters of fiction that have been referred to, appears to have been well informed respecting Colonial Virginia, and may be accepted as having given what is probably a fair picture of a night in the Williamsburg theater during the Colonial period.[20]
One of the principal characters in the novel is a young Virginian,Mr.Effingham, who, after a visit and some stay at Oxford and in London, has returned to the paternal home, Effingham Hall, in Virginia, and whilst riding on horseback to visit a manorial estate ona plantation known as Riverhead, of a gentleman called Lee, the father of two very attractive daughters, draws up suddenly in the road, seeing a young lady on horseback in the center of it apparently awaiting his approach, who is thus described:
The lady was mounted on a tall white horse, which stood perfectly quiet in the middle of the road, and seemed to be docility itself, though the fiery eyes contradicted the first impression. Rather would one acquainted with the singular character of horses have said that this animal was subdued by the gentle hand of the rider, and so laid aside, from pure affection, all his waywardness.The rider was a young girl about eighteen, and of rare and extraordinary beauty. Her hair—so much of it as was visible beneath her hood—seemed to be dark chestnut, and her complexion was dazzling. The eyes were large, full, and dark—instinct with fire and softness, feminine modesty and collected firmness, the firmness, however, predominating. But the lips were different. They were the lips of a child—soft, guileless, tender, and confiding; they were purity and innocence itself, and seemed to say that however much the brain might become hard and worldly, the heart of this young woman never could be other than the tender and delicately sensitive heart of a child.She was clad in a riding-dress of pearl color, and from the uniformity of this tint, it seemed to be a favorite with her. The hood was of silk, and the delicately gloved hand held a little ivory-handled riding-whip,which now dangled at her side. The other gloved hand supported her cheek; and in this position the unknown lady calmly awaitedMr.Effingham’s approach still nearer, though he was already near touching her.Mr.Effingham took off his hat and bowed with elegant courtesy. The lady returned the inclination by a graceful movement of the head.“Would you be kind enough to point out the road to the town of Williamsburg, sir?” she said, in a calm and clear voice.“With great pleasure, madam,” repliedMr.Effingham. “You have lost your way?”“Yes, sir, and very strangely; and as evening drew on I was afraid of being benighted.”“You have but to follow the road until you reach Effingham Hall, madam,” he said,—“the house in the distance yonder; then turn to the left, and you are in the highway to town.”“Thanks, sir,” the young girl said, with another calm inclination of her head, and she touched her horse with the whip.“But cannot I accompany you?” askedMr.Effingham, whose curiosity was greatly aroused, and found his eyes, he knew not why, riveted to the rare beauty of his companion’s face; “do you not need me as a guide?”“Indeed, I think not, sir,” she said, with the same calmness. “Your direction is very plain, and I am accustomed to ride by myself.”“But, really,” beganMr.Effingham, somewhatpiqued, “I know it is intrusive—I know I have not the honor—”She interrupted him with her immovable calmness.“You would say you do not know me, and that your offer is intrusive. I believe, sir, I do not consider it so—it is very kind; but I am not a fearful girl, and need not trouble you at all.”And so bowed.“One moment, madam,” saidMr.Effingham; “I am really dying with curiosity to know you. ’Tis very rude to say so, of course—but I am acquainted with every lady in the neighborhood, and I do not recall any former occasion upon which I had the pleasure—”“It is very easily explained, sir,” the young girl said.“Madam!”“I do not live in the neighborhood.”“Ah! no?”“And I am not a lady, sir. Does not that explain it?”Mr.Effingham scarcely believed his ears. These astounding words were uttered with such perfect calmness that there was no possible room to suppose that they were meant for a jest.“You are surprised, sir,” the young girl said quite simply and gravely.“Upon my word, madam,—never have I,—really—”“Your surprise will not last long, sir.”“How, madam?”“Do you ever visit the town of Williamsburg?”“Frequently.”“Well, sir, I think you will see me again. Now I must continue my way, having returned my sincere thanks for your kindness.”With which words, uttered in that wondrous voice of immovable calmness, the young girl again inclined her head, touched her white horse with the whip, and slowly rode out of sight.The young man continued his journey to Riverhead; arrived there, and after an animated conversation with the two attractive young ladies, he encountered the father, a fine, portly old gentleman, who met him.“Good morning, glad to see you.”Effingham bowed and said:“The morning was so fine that I thought I could not spend it more agreeably than in a ride to Riverhead, sir.”“Delightful! These August days are excellent for the corn; what news?”“Nothing, sir. I have not seen the ‘Gazette.’”“Oh, the ‘Gazette’ never contains any intelligence; sometimes, it is true, we hear what is going on in Parliament, but it never condescends to afford us any news from Virginia. The tobacco on the south side may be all gone to the devil for anything you read in the ‘Gazette.’ Here it is—an abominable sheet! Ah, I see we are to have a theatrical performance in Williamsburg next week,” added the old gentleman, on glancing over the paper. “Mr.Hallam and his Virginia company of comedians—very politic that addition of Virginia—are to perform ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ by permission of his worship, the Mayor, attheoldtheater near the capital, he announces. Truly we are improving, really becoming civilized, in this barbarousterra incognita.”Mr.Effingham winced; he had more than once expressed a similar opinion of Virginia in good faith, not ironically, and the good old gentleman’s words seemed directed to himself. A moment’s reflection, however, persuaded him that this could not be the case; He had not visited Riverhead a dozen times since his arrival from Oxford and London, and on these occasions he never touched upon the subject of Virginia and its dreadful deficiencies.“A play,” he said; “that is really good news; but the ‘Merchant of Venice,’ that is not one of my acquaintances.”“Ah! you young men are wrong in giving up Will. Shakespeare for the Steeles, Addisons, and Vanbrughs.Mr.Addison’s essays are very pleasant and entertaining reading, and surely there never was a finer gentleman than Sir Roger; but in the drama Will. Shakespeare distances him all to nothing.”“Let us go to the play,” said Henrietta.“Oh, yes,” said Clara.The old gentleman tenderly smoothed the bright golden hair.“Certainly, if you wish it,” he said.“And may I request permission to accompany the party, ladies,” saidMr.Effingham, languidly.“How modest,” said Henrietta, laughing; “certainly you may go, sir. You will tell us when to hiss or applaud, you know, as you are just from London.”“What a quick tongue she has,” saidMr.Lee, fondly; well, we will all go, and see what the Virginia company of comedians is like; not much I fear.”
The lady was mounted on a tall white horse, which stood perfectly quiet in the middle of the road, and seemed to be docility itself, though the fiery eyes contradicted the first impression. Rather would one acquainted with the singular character of horses have said that this animal was subdued by the gentle hand of the rider, and so laid aside, from pure affection, all his waywardness.
The rider was a young girl about eighteen, and of rare and extraordinary beauty. Her hair—so much of it as was visible beneath her hood—seemed to be dark chestnut, and her complexion was dazzling. The eyes were large, full, and dark—instinct with fire and softness, feminine modesty and collected firmness, the firmness, however, predominating. But the lips were different. They were the lips of a child—soft, guileless, tender, and confiding; they were purity and innocence itself, and seemed to say that however much the brain might become hard and worldly, the heart of this young woman never could be other than the tender and delicately sensitive heart of a child.
She was clad in a riding-dress of pearl color, and from the uniformity of this tint, it seemed to be a favorite with her. The hood was of silk, and the delicately gloved hand held a little ivory-handled riding-whip,which now dangled at her side. The other gloved hand supported her cheek; and in this position the unknown lady calmly awaitedMr.Effingham’s approach still nearer, though he was already near touching her.
Mr.Effingham took off his hat and bowed with elegant courtesy. The lady returned the inclination by a graceful movement of the head.
“Would you be kind enough to point out the road to the town of Williamsburg, sir?” she said, in a calm and clear voice.
“With great pleasure, madam,” repliedMr.Effingham. “You have lost your way?”
“Yes, sir, and very strangely; and as evening drew on I was afraid of being benighted.”
“You have but to follow the road until you reach Effingham Hall, madam,” he said,—“the house in the distance yonder; then turn to the left, and you are in the highway to town.”
“Thanks, sir,” the young girl said, with another calm inclination of her head, and she touched her horse with the whip.
“But cannot I accompany you?” askedMr.Effingham, whose curiosity was greatly aroused, and found his eyes, he knew not why, riveted to the rare beauty of his companion’s face; “do you not need me as a guide?”
“Indeed, I think not, sir,” she said, with the same calmness. “Your direction is very plain, and I am accustomed to ride by myself.”
“But, really,” beganMr.Effingham, somewhatpiqued, “I know it is intrusive—I know I have not the honor—”
She interrupted him with her immovable calmness.
“You would say you do not know me, and that your offer is intrusive. I believe, sir, I do not consider it so—it is very kind; but I am not a fearful girl, and need not trouble you at all.”
And so bowed.
“One moment, madam,” saidMr.Effingham; “I am really dying with curiosity to know you. ’Tis very rude to say so, of course—but I am acquainted with every lady in the neighborhood, and I do not recall any former occasion upon which I had the pleasure—”
“It is very easily explained, sir,” the young girl said.
“Madam!”
“I do not live in the neighborhood.”
“Ah! no?”
“And I am not a lady, sir. Does not that explain it?”
Mr.Effingham scarcely believed his ears. These astounding words were uttered with such perfect calmness that there was no possible room to suppose that they were meant for a jest.
“You are surprised, sir,” the young girl said quite simply and gravely.
“Upon my word, madam,—never have I,—really—”
“Your surprise will not last long, sir.”
“How, madam?”
“Do you ever visit the town of Williamsburg?”
“Frequently.”
“Well, sir, I think you will see me again. Now I must continue my way, having returned my sincere thanks for your kindness.”
With which words, uttered in that wondrous voice of immovable calmness, the young girl again inclined her head, touched her white horse with the whip, and slowly rode out of sight.
The young man continued his journey to Riverhead; arrived there, and after an animated conversation with the two attractive young ladies, he encountered the father, a fine, portly old gentleman, who met him.
“Good morning, glad to see you.”
Effingham bowed and said:
“The morning was so fine that I thought I could not spend it more agreeably than in a ride to Riverhead, sir.”
“Delightful! These August days are excellent for the corn; what news?”
“Nothing, sir. I have not seen the ‘Gazette.’”
“Oh, the ‘Gazette’ never contains any intelligence; sometimes, it is true, we hear what is going on in Parliament, but it never condescends to afford us any news from Virginia. The tobacco on the south side may be all gone to the devil for anything you read in the ‘Gazette.’ Here it is—an abominable sheet! Ah, I see we are to have a theatrical performance in Williamsburg next week,” added the old gentleman, on glancing over the paper. “Mr.Hallam and his Virginia company of comedians—very politic that addition of Virginia—are to perform ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ by permission of his worship, the Mayor, attheoldtheater near the capital, he announces. Truly we are improving, really becoming civilized, in this barbarousterra incognita.”
Mr.Effingham winced; he had more than once expressed a similar opinion of Virginia in good faith, not ironically, and the good old gentleman’s words seemed directed to himself. A moment’s reflection, however, persuaded him that this could not be the case; He had not visited Riverhead a dozen times since his arrival from Oxford and London, and on these occasions he never touched upon the subject of Virginia and its dreadful deficiencies.
“A play,” he said; “that is really good news; but the ‘Merchant of Venice,’ that is not one of my acquaintances.”
“Ah! you young men are wrong in giving up Will. Shakespeare for the Steeles, Addisons, and Vanbrughs.Mr.Addison’s essays are very pleasant and entertaining reading, and surely there never was a finer gentleman than Sir Roger; but in the drama Will. Shakespeare distances him all to nothing.”
“Let us go to the play,” said Henrietta.
“Oh, yes,” said Clara.
The old gentleman tenderly smoothed the bright golden hair.
“Certainly, if you wish it,” he said.
“And may I request permission to accompany the party, ladies,” saidMr.Effingham, languidly.
“How modest,” said Henrietta, laughing; “certainly you may go, sir. You will tell us when to hiss or applaud, you know, as you are just from London.”
“What a quick tongue she has,” saidMr.Lee, fondly; well, we will all go, and see what the Virginia company of comedians is like; not much I fear.”
At the appointed day the young man appears atMr.Lee’s mansion and the young ladies come down to meet him, the elder, Henrietta, being described as “radiant in a dress of surpassing elegance—flowered satin, yellow lace, jewels, powdered hair, with pendants and rich furbelows,—the bright beauty of her laughing face assorting well with her flashing and glittering costume,” while the costume of the younger sister was more subdued, as her manner was more quiet.
A lively conversation follows, the subject of which ends with an inquiry on the part of the young man to the elder sister.
“Do you anticipate much pleasure?” referring to the play, to which the other replies:“Oh, it will be delightful.” Then to the younger, “And you, Cousin Clara, do you think that these Virginia Comedians, as they call themselves, will afford you a very pleasant entertainment?”“Oh, yes—I am sure I shall be pleased—you know I have never seen a play.”“But read a plenty?”“Oh, yes; and I like the ‘Merchant of Venice.’ The character of Portia is so delicate and noble.”“Quite true; an excellent criticism; better than anything in Congreve I think, though I should hesitate to advance such an opinion in London.”“Who will act Portia?”“I don’t know, but can tell you without much difficulty. Here is a play-bill that I sent to town for yesterday.”AndMr.Effingham drew daintily from his coat pocket a small, roughly printed hand-bill, which he spread out before the eyes of Clara.“‘Virginia Company of Comedians,’” he read, “‘by permission of his worship the Mayor—in the old theatre near the capitol, on Thursday evening—a tragedy called ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ byMr.William Shakespeare, boxes seven shillings sixpence’—‘Vivat Rex et Regina’—here it is, ‘Shylock,Mr.Rigby; Portia, Miss Beatrice Hallam.’ The part of Portia is to be performed by Miss Beatrice Hallam—I have never seen or heard of her.”“Which means,” said Henrietta, laughing, “that Miss Beatrice cannot be very well worth seeing, asMr.Champ Effingham, just from London, and conversant with all the celebrities there, has never heard of her existence.”“My dear Cousin Henrietta,” saidMr.Effingham, languidly, “you really seem to sit in judgment on my wearisome conversation. I do not profess to know anything about celebrities. True, I very frequently lounged into the theater in London, but I assure you took very little interest in the plays or performers. Life itself is enough of a comedy for me, and I want nothing more. I know nothing of Miss Hallam. She may be a witch of Endor, or as beautiful as Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, for all that I know. That I have not heard of her proves nothing. The best actors and actresses are often treated with neglect and indifference.”“Well,” said Clara, smiling, “we soon shall see for ourselves, for there is papa coming, all ready dressed to go, and I hear the wheels of the chariot.”
“Do you anticipate much pleasure?” referring to the play, to which the other replies:
“Oh, it will be delightful.” Then to the younger, “And you, Cousin Clara, do you think that these Virginia Comedians, as they call themselves, will afford you a very pleasant entertainment?”
“Oh, yes—I am sure I shall be pleased—you know I have never seen a play.”
“But read a plenty?”
“Oh, yes; and I like the ‘Merchant of Venice.’ The character of Portia is so delicate and noble.”
“Quite true; an excellent criticism; better than anything in Congreve I think, though I should hesitate to advance such an opinion in London.”
“Who will act Portia?”
“I don’t know, but can tell you without much difficulty. Here is a play-bill that I sent to town for yesterday.”
AndMr.Effingham drew daintily from his coat pocket a small, roughly printed hand-bill, which he spread out before the eyes of Clara.
“‘Virginia Company of Comedians,’” he read, “‘by permission of his worship the Mayor—in the old theatre near the capitol, on Thursday evening—a tragedy called ‘The Merchant of Venice,’ byMr.William Shakespeare, boxes seven shillings sixpence’—‘Vivat Rex et Regina’—here it is, ‘Shylock,Mr.Rigby; Portia, Miss Beatrice Hallam.’ The part of Portia is to be performed by Miss Beatrice Hallam—I have never seen or heard of her.”
“Which means,” said Henrietta, laughing, “that Miss Beatrice cannot be very well worth seeing, asMr.Champ Effingham, just from London, and conversant with all the celebrities there, has never heard of her existence.”
“My dear Cousin Henrietta,” saidMr.Effingham, languidly, “you really seem to sit in judgment on my wearisome conversation. I do not profess to know anything about celebrities. True, I very frequently lounged into the theater in London, but I assure you took very little interest in the plays or performers. Life itself is enough of a comedy for me, and I want nothing more. I know nothing of Miss Hallam. She may be a witch of Endor, or as beautiful as Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, for all that I know. That I have not heard of her proves nothing. The best actors and actresses are often treated with neglect and indifference.”
“Well,” said Clara, smiling, “we soon shall see for ourselves, for there is papa coming, all ready dressed to go, and I hear the wheels of the chariot.”
Upon which they go to the play-house, which the novelist thus describes:
The “old theatre near the capitol,” discoursed of in the manifesto issued byMr.Manager Hallam, was so far old that the walls were well browned by time, and the shutters to the windows of a pleasant neutral tint between rust and dust color. The building had, no doubt, been used for the present purpose in bygone times, before the days of the “Virginia Gazette,” which is our authority for many of the facts here stated, and in relation to the “Virginia Company of Comedians”—but of the former companies of “players,” as my Lord Hamlet calls them, and their successes and misfortunes, printed words tell us nothing, as far as the researches of the present “Chronicle” extend. That there had been such companies before, however, we repeat, there is some reason to believe; else why that addition “old” applied to the “theatre near the capitol.”Within, the play-house presented a somewhat more attractive appearance. There was “box,” “pit,” and “gallery,” as in our own day; and the relative prices were arranged in much the same manner. The common mortals—gentlemen and ladies—were forced to occupy the boxes raised slightly above the level of the stage and hemmed in by velvet-cushioned railings—in front a flower-decorated panel extending all aroundthe house—and for this position they were moreover compelled to pay an admission fee of seven shillings and sixpence. The demigods—so to speak—occupied a more eligible portion in the “pit,” from which they could procure a highly excellent view of the actors’ feet and ankles, just on a level with their noses; to conciliate the demigods this superior advantage had been offered, and the price for them was further still reduced to five shillings. But “the gods,” in truth, were the real favorites of the manager. To attract them he arranged the high upper “gallery” and left it untouched, unencumbered by railing, velvet cushions, or any other device; all was free space and liberal as the air; there were no troublesome seats for “the gods,” and three shillings and ninepence all that the manager would demand. The honor of their presence was enough.From the boxes a stairway led down to the stage, and some rude scenes, visible at the edges of the curtain, completed the outfit.WhenMr.Lee and his daughters entered the box, which had been reserved for them next to the stage, the house was nearly full, and the neatness of the edifice was lost sight of in the sea of brilliant ladies’ faces and showy forms of cavaliers which extended, like a sea of glittering foam, around the semicircle of the boxes. The pit was occupied by well-dressed men of the lower class, as the times had it, and from the gallery proceeded hoarse murmurs and the unforgotten slang of London.Many smiles and bows were interchanged between the parties in the different boxes and the young gallants,following the fashion of the day, gathered at each end of the stage, and often walked across, to exchange some polite speech with the smiling dames in the boxes nearest.Mr.Champ Effingham was, upon the whole, much the most notable fop present, and his elegantpetit maîtreair as he strutted across the stage attracted many remarks, not invariably favorable. It was observed, however, that when the Virginia-bred youths, with honest plainness, called him “ridiculous,” the young ladies, their companions, tookMr.Effingham’s part, and defended him with great enthusiasm; but when they returned home he was more unmercifully criticized than he would otherwise have been.A little bell rang, and the orchestra, represented by three or four foreign-looking gentlemen, bearded and moustached, entered with trumpet and violins. The trumpet made the roof shake indifferently in honor of thePrince of Morocco, orKing Richard, or any other worthy whose entrance was marked in the play-book “with a flourish.” But before the orchestra ravished the ears of every one, the manager came forward in the costume ofBassanio, and made a low bow.Mr.Hallam was a fat little man, of fifty or fifty-five, with a rubicund and somewhat sensual face, and he expressed extraordinary delight at meeting so many of the “noble aristocracy of the great and noble colony of Virginia” assembled to witness his very humble representation. “It would be the chief and sole ambition of his life,” he said, “to please the gentry who so kindly patronized their servants—himself and hisassociates”—and then the smiling worthy concluded by bowing lower than before. Much applause from the pit and gallery and murmurs of approbation from the well-bred boxes greeted the address, and the orchestra having struck up, the curtain slowly rolled aloft, the young gallants scattered to the corner of the stage, seating themselves on stools or chairs or standing, and the “Merchant of Venice” commenced.Bassanio, having assumed a dignified and lofty part, embracedGratianowith courteous and lordly art, his friendAntoniooffered him his fortune with grand magnanimity in a loud, singing voice, worthy the utmost commendation, and the first act proceeded on its way in triumph.The first act ends, the scene betweenPortiaandNerissabeing omitted, the audience being highly pleased, and the actors receiving a “grateful guerdon of applause.” What transpires between the inmates of the box occupied by Effingham’s father and the Squire, as he is called, is manifest, consisting mainly of the conversation between the Squire and the local parson that the Squire had invited to witness the play, who sits on the front seat beside the Squire with solemn gravity and rubicund nose, surveying from his respectable position the agitated pit.“Not so bad as you predicted, eh, parson?” says the Squire. “I don’t think that fellowAntonioacts so badly.”“Very well—very well,” is the latter’s response.“The audience seems delighted. Look at the scamp of a son of mine, strutting up to friend Lee’s boxand smoothing those enormous ruffles like a turkey cock.”Effingham leaves the companions with whom he had been seated on the stage, interchanging remarks during the performance to the great disgust of the pit, and approaching Miss Clara, who sits nearest the stage, looking very beautiful and radiant with pleasure, asks:“And how does my fair cousin relish the performance?”“Oh, I was never more pleased with anything. And how do you like it?”“Tolerably. But I never had a great relish for these things.”“Because, to wit, life itself is a comedy,” said Henrietta, laughing.“Yes,” replied Effingham, “and a very brilliant one it would be if all the world were Miss Henriettas. I hope, my dear cousin, the compliment is sufficiently broad.”“Thank you, sir. I know how to take your fine speeches. Don’t think they deceive me.”“I’m rather a poor hand at compliments,” replied Effingham; “but, really, it is hard to do you the injustice, my fair cousin, of withholding them. Come, no reply, for I see my Cousin Clara is going to say something more flattering than what you are about to utter.”“Oh, no,” says Clara, slightly blushing; “I was only going to say thatShylockreally frightened me.”“It was very well done; much like Shuter at CastleGarden. How did you like it, Cousin Henrietta? Come, your criticism.”“Oh, what could you expect from a country girl like me?” and broke off the conversation by announcing the approach of a fox-hunter, who was an admirer.“How I envy them,” he says to Clara, applying to his nostrils, with a listless air, a delicate kind of snuff, “they are so gay.”Then after some conversation with Clara preparatory to making her the proffer of his hand, he describes his condition as “out of sorts,” as “rusting.”“Yes, more than rusting—I take interest in scarcely anything; I am wearied to death—with everything. What is life worth? Here are some hundreds of persons and they all seem delighted with the play, which tires me to death. I take no interest in it.ShylockandAntoniostrut and spout without amusing me. I am already weary and everybody else seems to be impatient for the reappearance of the wonders. Why are they so much amused? For my part I am sick of all this and only stay because you stay. The nearest approach to happiness I make is in your presence,” at which, of course, the young lady blushes, and after this near approach he follows it up by declaring “how beautiful she is,” that he really thinks that she could charm away his melancholy if she desired, upon which she asks:“How, pray?”“By smiling at me.”Clara smiled and said:“Be merry then; indeed, Cousin, you could become so again if you chose. Do not determine to find fault with everything and think everything means you. Seek novelty; you say that all here seem to take pleasure in the play while you do not. They are pleased because it is new to them. I have never seen a play, and I am highly pleased. If you have been often to the theater there is nothing strange in your thinking this poor one excellent, though it seems beautiful to me. But you will find usually an interest in other things. Try it, and see if my philosophy is not true.”His response is that he knew but one means.“What is that?”“To have a companion.”The meaning suddenly flashed upon her, and she turned away.“Clara, dearest Clara, if you take such an interest in my welfare why—”Sh-h-h-h came in a loud murmur from the audience, the curtain having risen, which Effingham recognizes, and ejaculates:“How ridiculous, here in the theater.” Upon which his eye suddenly fell upon one of the actresses, and he almost uttered an exclamation. It was the unknown lady of the wood.
The “old theatre near the capitol,” discoursed of in the manifesto issued byMr.Manager Hallam, was so far old that the walls were well browned by time, and the shutters to the windows of a pleasant neutral tint between rust and dust color. The building had, no doubt, been used for the present purpose in bygone times, before the days of the “Virginia Gazette,” which is our authority for many of the facts here stated, and in relation to the “Virginia Company of Comedians”—but of the former companies of “players,” as my Lord Hamlet calls them, and their successes and misfortunes, printed words tell us nothing, as far as the researches of the present “Chronicle” extend. That there had been such companies before, however, we repeat, there is some reason to believe; else why that addition “old” applied to the “theatre near the capitol.”
Within, the play-house presented a somewhat more attractive appearance. There was “box,” “pit,” and “gallery,” as in our own day; and the relative prices were arranged in much the same manner. The common mortals—gentlemen and ladies—were forced to occupy the boxes raised slightly above the level of the stage and hemmed in by velvet-cushioned railings—in front a flower-decorated panel extending all aroundthe house—and for this position they were moreover compelled to pay an admission fee of seven shillings and sixpence. The demigods—so to speak—occupied a more eligible portion in the “pit,” from which they could procure a highly excellent view of the actors’ feet and ankles, just on a level with their noses; to conciliate the demigods this superior advantage had been offered, and the price for them was further still reduced to five shillings. But “the gods,” in truth, were the real favorites of the manager. To attract them he arranged the high upper “gallery” and left it untouched, unencumbered by railing, velvet cushions, or any other device; all was free space and liberal as the air; there were no troublesome seats for “the gods,” and three shillings and ninepence all that the manager would demand. The honor of their presence was enough.
From the boxes a stairway led down to the stage, and some rude scenes, visible at the edges of the curtain, completed the outfit.
WhenMr.Lee and his daughters entered the box, which had been reserved for them next to the stage, the house was nearly full, and the neatness of the edifice was lost sight of in the sea of brilliant ladies’ faces and showy forms of cavaliers which extended, like a sea of glittering foam, around the semicircle of the boxes. The pit was occupied by well-dressed men of the lower class, as the times had it, and from the gallery proceeded hoarse murmurs and the unforgotten slang of London.
Many smiles and bows were interchanged between the parties in the different boxes and the young gallants,following the fashion of the day, gathered at each end of the stage, and often walked across, to exchange some polite speech with the smiling dames in the boxes nearest.
Mr.Champ Effingham was, upon the whole, much the most notable fop present, and his elegantpetit maîtreair as he strutted across the stage attracted many remarks, not invariably favorable. It was observed, however, that when the Virginia-bred youths, with honest plainness, called him “ridiculous,” the young ladies, their companions, tookMr.Effingham’s part, and defended him with great enthusiasm; but when they returned home he was more unmercifully criticized than he would otherwise have been.
A little bell rang, and the orchestra, represented by three or four foreign-looking gentlemen, bearded and moustached, entered with trumpet and violins. The trumpet made the roof shake indifferently in honor of thePrince of Morocco, orKing Richard, or any other worthy whose entrance was marked in the play-book “with a flourish.” But before the orchestra ravished the ears of every one, the manager came forward in the costume ofBassanio, and made a low bow.Mr.Hallam was a fat little man, of fifty or fifty-five, with a rubicund and somewhat sensual face, and he expressed extraordinary delight at meeting so many of the “noble aristocracy of the great and noble colony of Virginia” assembled to witness his very humble representation. “It would be the chief and sole ambition of his life,” he said, “to please the gentry who so kindly patronized their servants—himself and hisassociates”—and then the smiling worthy concluded by bowing lower than before. Much applause from the pit and gallery and murmurs of approbation from the well-bred boxes greeted the address, and the orchestra having struck up, the curtain slowly rolled aloft, the young gallants scattered to the corner of the stage, seating themselves on stools or chairs or standing, and the “Merchant of Venice” commenced.Bassanio, having assumed a dignified and lofty part, embracedGratianowith courteous and lordly art, his friendAntoniooffered him his fortune with grand magnanimity in a loud, singing voice, worthy the utmost commendation, and the first act proceeded on its way in triumph.
The first act ends, the scene betweenPortiaandNerissabeing omitted, the audience being highly pleased, and the actors receiving a “grateful guerdon of applause.” What transpires between the inmates of the box occupied by Effingham’s father and the Squire, as he is called, is manifest, consisting mainly of the conversation between the Squire and the local parson that the Squire had invited to witness the play, who sits on the front seat beside the Squire with solemn gravity and rubicund nose, surveying from his respectable position the agitated pit.
“Not so bad as you predicted, eh, parson?” says the Squire. “I don’t think that fellowAntonioacts so badly.”
“Very well—very well,” is the latter’s response.
“The audience seems delighted. Look at the scamp of a son of mine, strutting up to friend Lee’s boxand smoothing those enormous ruffles like a turkey cock.”
Effingham leaves the companions with whom he had been seated on the stage, interchanging remarks during the performance to the great disgust of the pit, and approaching Miss Clara, who sits nearest the stage, looking very beautiful and radiant with pleasure, asks:
“And how does my fair cousin relish the performance?”
“Oh, I was never more pleased with anything. And how do you like it?”
“Tolerably. But I never had a great relish for these things.”
“Because, to wit, life itself is a comedy,” said Henrietta, laughing.
“Yes,” replied Effingham, “and a very brilliant one it would be if all the world were Miss Henriettas. I hope, my dear cousin, the compliment is sufficiently broad.”
“Thank you, sir. I know how to take your fine speeches. Don’t think they deceive me.”
“I’m rather a poor hand at compliments,” replied Effingham; “but, really, it is hard to do you the injustice, my fair cousin, of withholding them. Come, no reply, for I see my Cousin Clara is going to say something more flattering than what you are about to utter.”
“Oh, no,” says Clara, slightly blushing; “I was only going to say thatShylockreally frightened me.”
“It was very well done; much like Shuter at CastleGarden. How did you like it, Cousin Henrietta? Come, your criticism.”
“Oh, what could you expect from a country girl like me?” and broke off the conversation by announcing the approach of a fox-hunter, who was an admirer.
“How I envy them,” he says to Clara, applying to his nostrils, with a listless air, a delicate kind of snuff, “they are so gay.”
Then after some conversation with Clara preparatory to making her the proffer of his hand, he describes his condition as “out of sorts,” as “rusting.”
“Yes, more than rusting—I take interest in scarcely anything; I am wearied to death—with everything. What is life worth? Here are some hundreds of persons and they all seem delighted with the play, which tires me to death. I take no interest in it.ShylockandAntoniostrut and spout without amusing me. I am already weary and everybody else seems to be impatient for the reappearance of the wonders. Why are they so much amused? For my part I am sick of all this and only stay because you stay. The nearest approach to happiness I make is in your presence,” at which, of course, the young lady blushes, and after this near approach he follows it up by declaring “how beautiful she is,” that he really thinks that she could charm away his melancholy if she desired, upon which she asks:
“How, pray?”
“By smiling at me.”
Clara smiled and said:
“Be merry then; indeed, Cousin, you could become so again if you chose. Do not determine to find fault with everything and think everything means you. Seek novelty; you say that all here seem to take pleasure in the play while you do not. They are pleased because it is new to them. I have never seen a play, and I am highly pleased. If you have been often to the theater there is nothing strange in your thinking this poor one excellent, though it seems beautiful to me. But you will find usually an interest in other things. Try it, and see if my philosophy is not true.”
His response is that he knew but one means.
“What is that?”
“To have a companion.”
The meaning suddenly flashed upon her, and she turned away.
“Clara, dearest Clara, if you take such an interest in my welfare why—”
Sh-h-h-h came in a loud murmur from the audience, the curtain having risen, which Effingham recognizes, and ejaculates:
“How ridiculous, here in the theater.” Upon which his eye suddenly fell upon one of the actresses, and he almost uttered an exclamation. It was the unknown lady of the wood.
The novelist continues:
The unknown lady was no gentle Virginia maiden, no “lady,” as she had said with perfect calmness at their meeting—only one of the company of comedians. Her singular expression when she uttered the words,“I think you will see me again,” occurred to the young man, and he wondered that this easy solution of the riddle had not occurred to him at once.“What was her name?”Mr.Effingham drew forth his bill and saw opposite the name ofPortia, Miss Beatrice Hallam.“Ah, yes,” he said, carelessly, “the same we were speculating upon this morning. Let us see howPortialooks, and what change the footlights work in her face.”He sat down in the corner of the stage upon a wicker chair and scannedPortiacritically. Her costume was faultless. It consisted of a gown and underskirt of fawn-colored silk trimmed with silver, and a single band of gold encircled each wrist, clearly relieved against the white, finely-rounded arm. Her hair, which was a beautiful chestnut, had been carried back from the temples and powdered after the fashion of the time, and around her beautiful, swan-like neck the young woman wore a necklace of pearls of rare brilliancy. Thus the costume of the character defied criticism, andMr.Effingham passed on to the face and figure. These we have already described. The countenance of Beatrice Hallam wore the same simple, yet firm and collected expression, whichMr.Effingham had observed in their first interview, and her figure had the same indefinable grace and beauty. Every movement which she made might have suited a royal palace, and in her large, brilliant eyesMr.Effingham sought the least trace of confusion. She surveyed the audience, whilst thePrince of Moroccowas uttering his speech, with perfect simplicity, but her eyes not for a single moment rested on the young men collected at the cornerof the stage. For her they seemed to have no existence, and she turned to thePrinceagain. That gentleman having uttered his prescribed number of lines,Portiaadvanced graciously towards him and addressed him. Her carelessness was gone. She no longer betrayed either indifference or coldness; she was the actress, with her rôle to sustain. She commenced in a voice of noble and queen-like courtesy, a voice of pure music and clear utterance, so to speak, such as few lips possess the power of giving forth. Every word rang and told; there was no hurry, no slurring, no hesitation. It was not an actress delivering a set speech, but the noblePortia, doing the honors of her beautiful palace at Belmont. The scene ended with great applause—the young woman had evidently produced a most favorable impression on the audience. But she seemed wholly unconscious of this compliment, and made her exit quite calmly.A buzz ran through the theater; the audience were discussing the merits ofPortia. On the stage, too, she was the subject of many comments, and this continued untilLancelotmade his appearance and went through his speech; thenPortiareappeared with thePrince, and was greeted with great applause.Mr.Effingham leaned forward and touched the young woman’s sleeve.“Come,” he said with easy carelessness, and scarcely moderating his voice; “come, fairPortia, while that tiresome fellow is making his speech, and talk to me a little. We are old acquaintances, and you are indebted to me for directing you home.”“Yes, sir,” said Beatrice, turning her head slightly; “but pardon me—I have my part to attend to.”“I don’t care.”“Excuse me, sir; but I do.”“Really, madame, you are very stiff for an actress. Is it so very unusual a thing to ask a moment’s conversation?”“I know that it is the fashion in London and elsewhere, sir, but I dislike it. It destroys my conception of the character,” she said, calmly.Mr.Effingham laughed. “Come here again, and talk to me,” he said. “Did you not say we should meet again?”“Yes, sir; and I also said I was not a lady.”“Well, what is the meaning of that addition?”“It means, sir, that being an actress I am not at liberty to amuse myself here as I might were I a lady in a drawing room. Pardon me, sir,” she added, calmly, “I am neglecting what I have engaged to do—playPortia.”And the young woman, quietly disengaging her sleeve fromMr.Effingham’s fingers, moved away to another part of the stage.“Here is a pretty affair,” saidMr.Effingham to himself, as he fell back languidly into the chair from which, however, he had not deigned to rise wholly when addressing the young actress. “What are things coming to when an actress treats a gentleman in this manner. I really believe the girl thinks I am not good enough for her. ‘Pardon me, sir,’ was there ever such insufferable prudery and affectation. No doubt she wishesto catch me, and commences with this piquant piece of acting, or, perhaps,” added the elegant young gentleman, smoothing his frill, “she fell in love with me the other day when we met and is afraid she will betray herself. Not talk when I desire to talk with her, indeed, and yonder all of these people have seen her careless treatment of me and are laughing at me. Fortunately I am proof against these jeers. Come, come, let us see if Miss Portia will treat me as badly next time.”Portiaentered next with thePrince of Arragon, and while that gentleman was addressing the caskets,Mr.Effingham again applied himself to the task of forcing the young woman to converse with him.“Why did you treat me so just now?” he said, with abrupt carelessness.“How, sir.”“You refused to talk to me.”“I had my part to perform.”“That is no excuse.”“Besides, sir,” added the young woman, surveyingMr.Effingham with an indifferent glance, “I know you only very slightly.”“Know me only slightly!” saidMr.Effingham affecting surprise.“A chance meeting is very slight acquaintance, sir; but I offer this as no apology for refusing to do what I am now doing, converse with you on the stage.”“Really, one would say you were a queen speaking to a subject instead of an actress—”“Honored with the attentions of a gentleman, you would add, sir,” she interrupted, quite calmly.“As you please.”“Pray speak to me no more, sir. I forget my part, and the audience are looking at you.”“Let them.”“I see some angry faces,” said the young woman; “they do not understand the fashions of London, sir.”“What care I.”“Please release my sleeve, sir—that is my line.”The gallery uttered a prolonged hiss asPortiadisengaged her arm.Mr.Effingham turned around and looked up to the gallery from which the hiss came; this glance of haughty defiance might have provoked another exhibition of the same sort, butPortiaat that moment commenced her speech.Thereafter the young woman came no more nearMr.Effingham, and treated that gentleman’s moody glances with supreme disregard. What was going on inMr.Effingham’s mind, and why did he lose some of his careless listlessness, when, clasping her beautiful hands, the lovely girl, raising her eyes to heaven like one of the old Italian pictures, uttered that sublime discourse on the “quality of mercy”; and how did it happen that she sobbed, almost, in that tender, magical voice:But mercy is above this sceptered sway;It is enthroned in the hearts of kings;It is an attribute of God himself.How did it chance thatMr.Effingham led the enthusiastic applause and absolutely arose erect in the excess of his enthusiasm?As she passed him in going out he made her alow bow and said, “Pardon me! You are a great actress.”The play proceeded and ended amid universal applause.Mr.Hallam led outPortiain response to uproarious calls, and thanked the audience for their kindness to his daughter. Beatrice received the applause with her habitual calmness, inclining her head slightly as she disappeared, and the audience separated, rolling well pleased to their homes.[21]
The unknown lady was no gentle Virginia maiden, no “lady,” as she had said with perfect calmness at their meeting—only one of the company of comedians. Her singular expression when she uttered the words,
“I think you will see me again,” occurred to the young man, and he wondered that this easy solution of the riddle had not occurred to him at once.
“What was her name?”Mr.Effingham drew forth his bill and saw opposite the name ofPortia, Miss Beatrice Hallam.
“Ah, yes,” he said, carelessly, “the same we were speculating upon this morning. Let us see howPortialooks, and what change the footlights work in her face.”
He sat down in the corner of the stage upon a wicker chair and scannedPortiacritically. Her costume was faultless. It consisted of a gown and underskirt of fawn-colored silk trimmed with silver, and a single band of gold encircled each wrist, clearly relieved against the white, finely-rounded arm. Her hair, which was a beautiful chestnut, had been carried back from the temples and powdered after the fashion of the time, and around her beautiful, swan-like neck the young woman wore a necklace of pearls of rare brilliancy. Thus the costume of the character defied criticism, andMr.Effingham passed on to the face and figure. These we have already described. The countenance of Beatrice Hallam wore the same simple, yet firm and collected expression, whichMr.Effingham had observed in their first interview, and her figure had the same indefinable grace and beauty. Every movement which she made might have suited a royal palace, and in her large, brilliant eyesMr.Effingham sought the least trace of confusion. She surveyed the audience, whilst thePrince of Moroccowas uttering his speech, with perfect simplicity, but her eyes not for a single moment rested on the young men collected at the cornerof the stage. For her they seemed to have no existence, and she turned to thePrinceagain. That gentleman having uttered his prescribed number of lines,Portiaadvanced graciously towards him and addressed him. Her carelessness was gone. She no longer betrayed either indifference or coldness; she was the actress, with her rôle to sustain. She commenced in a voice of noble and queen-like courtesy, a voice of pure music and clear utterance, so to speak, such as few lips possess the power of giving forth. Every word rang and told; there was no hurry, no slurring, no hesitation. It was not an actress delivering a set speech, but the noblePortia, doing the honors of her beautiful palace at Belmont. The scene ended with great applause—the young woman had evidently produced a most favorable impression on the audience. But she seemed wholly unconscious of this compliment, and made her exit quite calmly.
A buzz ran through the theater; the audience were discussing the merits ofPortia. On the stage, too, she was the subject of many comments, and this continued untilLancelotmade his appearance and went through his speech; thenPortiareappeared with thePrince, and was greeted with great applause.
Mr.Effingham leaned forward and touched the young woman’s sleeve.
“Come,” he said with easy carelessness, and scarcely moderating his voice; “come, fairPortia, while that tiresome fellow is making his speech, and talk to me a little. We are old acquaintances, and you are indebted to me for directing you home.”
“Yes, sir,” said Beatrice, turning her head slightly; “but pardon me—I have my part to attend to.”
“I don’t care.”
“Excuse me, sir; but I do.”
“Really, madame, you are very stiff for an actress. Is it so very unusual a thing to ask a moment’s conversation?”
“I know that it is the fashion in London and elsewhere, sir, but I dislike it. It destroys my conception of the character,” she said, calmly.
Mr.Effingham laughed. “Come here again, and talk to me,” he said. “Did you not say we should meet again?”
“Yes, sir; and I also said I was not a lady.”
“Well, what is the meaning of that addition?”
“It means, sir, that being an actress I am not at liberty to amuse myself here as I might were I a lady in a drawing room. Pardon me, sir,” she added, calmly, “I am neglecting what I have engaged to do—playPortia.”
And the young woman, quietly disengaging her sleeve fromMr.Effingham’s fingers, moved away to another part of the stage.
“Here is a pretty affair,” saidMr.Effingham to himself, as he fell back languidly into the chair from which, however, he had not deigned to rise wholly when addressing the young actress. “What are things coming to when an actress treats a gentleman in this manner. I really believe the girl thinks I am not good enough for her. ‘Pardon me, sir,’ was there ever such insufferable prudery and affectation. No doubt she wishesto catch me, and commences with this piquant piece of acting, or, perhaps,” added the elegant young gentleman, smoothing his frill, “she fell in love with me the other day when we met and is afraid she will betray herself. Not talk when I desire to talk with her, indeed, and yonder all of these people have seen her careless treatment of me and are laughing at me. Fortunately I am proof against these jeers. Come, come, let us see if Miss Portia will treat me as badly next time.”
Portiaentered next with thePrince of Arragon, and while that gentleman was addressing the caskets,Mr.Effingham again applied himself to the task of forcing the young woman to converse with him.
“Why did you treat me so just now?” he said, with abrupt carelessness.
“How, sir.”
“You refused to talk to me.”
“I had my part to perform.”
“That is no excuse.”
“Besides, sir,” added the young woman, surveyingMr.Effingham with an indifferent glance, “I know you only very slightly.”
“Know me only slightly!” saidMr.Effingham affecting surprise.
“A chance meeting is very slight acquaintance, sir; but I offer this as no apology for refusing to do what I am now doing, converse with you on the stage.”
“Really, one would say you were a queen speaking to a subject instead of an actress—”
“Honored with the attentions of a gentleman, you would add, sir,” she interrupted, quite calmly.
“As you please.”
“Pray speak to me no more, sir. I forget my part, and the audience are looking at you.”
“Let them.”
“I see some angry faces,” said the young woman; “they do not understand the fashions of London, sir.”
“What care I.”
“Please release my sleeve, sir—that is my line.”
The gallery uttered a prolonged hiss asPortiadisengaged her arm.Mr.Effingham turned around and looked up to the gallery from which the hiss came; this glance of haughty defiance might have provoked another exhibition of the same sort, butPortiaat that moment commenced her speech.
Thereafter the young woman came no more nearMr.Effingham, and treated that gentleman’s moody glances with supreme disregard. What was going on inMr.Effingham’s mind, and why did he lose some of his careless listlessness, when, clasping her beautiful hands, the lovely girl, raising her eyes to heaven like one of the old Italian pictures, uttered that sublime discourse on the “quality of mercy”; and how did it happen that she sobbed, almost, in that tender, magical voice:
But mercy is above this sceptered sway;It is enthroned in the hearts of kings;It is an attribute of God himself.
How did it chance thatMr.Effingham led the enthusiastic applause and absolutely arose erect in the excess of his enthusiasm?
As she passed him in going out he made her alow bow and said, “Pardon me! You are a great actress.”
The play proceeded and ended amid universal applause.Mr.Hallam led outPortiain response to uproarious calls, and thanked the audience for their kindness to his daughter. Beatrice received the applause with her habitual calmness, inclining her head slightly as she disappeared, and the audience separated, rolling well pleased to their homes.[21]
In 1886 a large quarto volume was published entitled “A History of the American Theatre before the Revolution,” by George O. Seilhamer. There appeared to be no occasion for a special history of this particular period of twenty-nine years, that is from 1749 to the Revolution, as Dunlap’s history extended from 1752 to about 1817, and what was known at the time ofMr.Seilhamer’s publication respecting the theater in North America before 1752 had already been published in Ireland’s “History of the New York Stage,” and in the paper here reprinted, except one item to be referred to hereafter.
There were some further corrections to be made to Dunlap’s history, but they were not very important or numerous, and some additional information to be added respecting theatrical performances in Maryland and Pennsylvania that was new and interesting. This was included in this special history, which, in addition to what had been previously published, was largely made up of the full casts, as they are called in theatrical parlance, of plays given at particular dates during the Colonial period; that is, the name of the performer of each part, taken from the small play-bills that are printed for the use of the audience. As it is the custom in theaters for the prompter to keep a file of these bills each season, and the habit of some persons to keep the play-bill of any performance they have seen, considerable collections of these small play-bills have been preserved, and exist in private collections or in institutions or clubs, of whichMr.Seilhamer has made copious use, and has also inserted in this volume long lists of the performances given at particular dates and tabulated statements of the leading parts of actors andactresses, and the statements of performances, culled from the Colonial newspapers, by all of which insertions the volume is augmented to the magnitude of a large quarto.
Dunlap, while stating that play-bills and theatrical advertisements are of assistance, or, as he expressed it, “throw light” (that is, they may assist the historian in the construction of his narrative), evidently thought that this minute information, or detail, of this kind was not, save in exceptional instances, to be inserted bodily in a history, for he apologizes to his readers for inserting three full casts of plays that were performed in the years 1752, 53, and 54, in these words: “Particularity of this kind would be unnecessary in regard to events of more recent date andout of place in a history of a theatre, but in this early stage of the work before us, we think a play-bill a valuable source of information and gladly insert it,”[22]and in this respect we incline to the opinion of Dunlap.
But Seilhamer does not. In this age of many books, the aim of able historical writers is condensation with clearness, but with him it appears to have been expansion with plenty of material; for while Dunlap, in a history extending over sixty-five years, inserts but three full casts of plays, Seilhamer, in one extending over only twenty-nine, years, inserts 253, and adds also one-fifth of that number of theatrical advertisements and numerous lists of performances at different dates, and tables of prominent performers’ leading parts, which are all incorporatedwith the text, and form a part of the narrative. I apprehend that it was the chief material that he had; that he meant to supplant Dunlap as the future historian of the American Theater, and that the amount of other information that was new, that is, that had not previously been published, would have been for such a purpose so insufficient that it was necessary to swell the book out to the dimension of a large quarto with material of this kind, connected together by a slight thread of narrative; material of which there was an abundant supply, for he followed up this publication by two more of the same kind in the years 1889 and 1891, each, however, distinguished from the other by a different title, the whole ending in 1797.
To his manifest desire to supplant Dunlap there could be no objection, if he had the ability to produce a better and more interesting book. On the contrary, a history of the American Stage from the earliest knowledge we have of it to the time of publication, by a writer who had the leisure to make the necessary research, and the art so to arrange his material as to make the work reliable and readable, would be a contribution to literature. Seilhamer’s opinion of what he could do, and had done, is subsequently shown by his constant abuse of Dunlap throughout these three volumes, for Dunlap’s name rarely, if ever, occurs without his applying to it some derogatory, contemptuous, or other abusive epithet. Such as the “marvelous chronicler,” “the quality of blundering for which he was remarkable,” or some like term or phrase to belittle him. He says in respect to his history, that “neverwas a book written to throw light upon a subject that so completely confused it.” “His dates are always wrong.” “He presents to the world the remarkable example of a man who wrote the annals of the American Stage from some scattered memoranda, and out of his own head,” and refers to the “readiness of assumption he was apt to resort to in the absence of facts,” “the consequences of which are” he says, “that the stream of American theatrical history was poisoned at its source”; that “his inaccuracies are so many and so unreasonable that it is impossible not to wonder at the mental equipment of a man that could be guilty of them.” “His statements of facts are” declared to be “always misstatements in whole or in part.” He finds him “inexcusable for not knowing the date of the first appearance of a certain actress and for his want of knowledge of an early American play.” He is declared to have been a failure in everything; as an historian, a novelist, an artist, a theatrical manager, and as a dramatist. A drama of his is a failure for the want of skill in the management of the plot, and the insufficiency of the characters and the incidents; another is disposed of as a “turgid melodrama without action”; all his plays and adaptations of plays are condemned as having passed into deserved oblivion; but as regards the history something had to be conceded, and it is therefore said that, “full of mistakes as it is—mistakes for which it is impossible to forgive him,” it has some features that commend it; such as the account he was able to give from personal knowledge of the players that were on the Americanstage in the first quarter of the century after the Revolution, which it is conceded “the world could ill afford to lose,” and might well be conceded, as it is more interesting than anything in Seilhamer’s three volumes. But even this is qualified by his saying, in respect to the Dunlap Society being named after him, that “there probably never was a writer less deserving of such an honor than Dunlap,” that his plays were “without merit, either for stage representation or as literary productions,” and that his history was “at once dull and inaccurate,” with the further observation that he “might have been looked upon as an interesting character, had he not been at once jealous and abusive of every one outside of his circle of friends, ignoring the efforts of others not inferior to his own.”
It may be said of this array of accusations against Dunlap that, except in some matters of little importance, they are merely Seilhamer’s own conclusions or assumptions, and derive no additional weight from any facts stated in his volumes. It is a literary mistake for an historical writer to indulge in such continued abuse as this of a previous writer on the same subject. If the first historian has made errors or mistakes, it is sufficient quietly to correct them; but to constantly abuse and belittle him is objectionable and offensive on the part of the second, for it is continually reiterating his own superiority and importance as an historian.
It is especially so in this writer, for he is as prone to indulge in conjectures or assumptions that afterward prove to be unfounded, as he asserts Dunlap is, and in matters quite as important; with this difference, that,when he refers to anything of this kind on the part of Dunlap, it is stigmatized as “the blunder of an ignorant historian,” one example of which will suffice. When Dunlap stated that it was the Hallam Company that first introduced the drama in America, he also stated that this was communicated to him by one of that company, Lewis Hallam, Jr., and which he might reasonably suppose to be true, coming, as it did, from one of that company; but when Seilhamer states that “the history of the drama in this country may be said to begin with the production of Addison’s ‘Cato’ in Philadelphia in August, 1749,” he does so upon the authority only of the item before referred to, which is an entry in a manuscript journal kept by one John Smith of Philadelphia, of the date of August 12, 1749, recording that Smith had been at a friend’s house whose daughter was going, as one of a company, to hear the tragedy of “Cato,” which at that time was the earliest reference known to the performance of a play in the American Colonies, and which Seilhamer assumed to have been the commencement of the drama in this country. Now it had been previously shown in the paper here reprinted, that there was a play-house in New York in 1733, sixteen years before. This interfered with such a conclusion, and as he could not avoid referring to this fact, he did so very boldly, declaring that “as an attempt to transplant the drama to the Colonies, it had no effect upon the development of the American stage,” giving this opinion respecting a period of which he knew nothing, for we now know that many years before this performance of “Cato” in Philadelphia, there were play-houses inNew York, Virginia, and South Carolina; that a play was acted in the Colonies in 1718, and that plays may have been performed there as early as 1702.
It appears from “Watson’s Annals of Philadelphia” that there were theatrical performances in Philadelphia in January, 1749, seven months before this performance of “Cato” mentioned in Smith’s journal, and Dunlap also refers to theatrical performances there in 1749; and Watson and Dunlap were of opinion that these were performances by amateurs, for which Seilhamer takes Dunlap to account for, as he calls it, “a snap judgment” and “asserting what he knew nothing about”; “who,” he proceeds to say, “had made up his mind that the drama in America should begin with the Hallam Company, and so contemptuously ignored all previous theatrical efforts”; whilst he, Seilhamer, on the contrary was of the opinion that this performance of “Cato,” in August, 1749, was by Kean & Murray’s Company, who, it is known, came from Philadelphia to New York a year and a half afterwards; which may have been the fact, but there is no certainty about it, and for all that appears to the contrary, Dunlap and Watson may have been right; but Seilhamer evidently determined to dethrone Dunlap, and he therefore not only assumed this, but went much further, by stating that it was “certain” that Thomas Kean was the first actor to attemptRichard III.on the American stage. As Colley Cibber’s alteration of “Richard III.” was produced at Drury Lane in 1700, more than half a century before Thomas Kean played the character in New York, and as Cibber’s “Richard III.” was from thebeginning and for more than a century afterwards one of the most popular plays that was during that period produced upon the English stage, it is as likely to have been played at Williamsburg or Charlestown or in New York in 1733 as any other; a period when we know that they had theaters at these places, but have very little information as to what plays were performed in them. And in both these erroneous assertions, that is, that the history of the American theater began in 1749, and that Kean was the first to playRichard III.in the Colonies, Seilhamer appears to have been unconscious that he was doing the very thing for which he so severely censured Dunlap, that is, giving a “snap judgment by asserting what he knew nothing about.”
Dunlap was, it is true, not remarkable as a dramatist or otherwise as a writer, but he was quite equal to the average literary man in this country at that time. It was a period that gave rise to the query in the “Edinburgh Review,” “Who reads an American book?” Cooper, to whom Dunlap dedicated his history, had not yet appeared, nor Halleck, Drake, or Bryant as poets; and in what might be called American dramatic literature, such as it was, Dunlap was then the most prominent and the most industrious. He wrote, including adaptations from Kotzebue and others, no less than eighty-seven plays. The writer of the article in the “New-York Times,” from which I have quoted, respecting the theater in Charleston in 1736, mentions Dunlap as the “first and most painstaking of the historians of the American stage”; which is true, for if ithad not been for exertions of this nature on his part, a large portion of the early history of the American theater which is interesting would have been lost. He was also the historian of the arts of design in this country, which embraced an account of our painters, from William Watson in 1715 to William Page in 1832, which is full of material not elsewhere found, and which no one was so competent to gather as himself. He wrote a history of the State of New York, which, in the continuation of the narrative to the time of publication, supplied a want that it still continues to supply; and while, as a portrait painter, he was neither a Stuart nor a Jarvis, he was at least a respectable limner, and the statement of Seilhamer that “he painted numerous portraits with sketches of his theatrical contemporaries, most of them wretched caricatures,” is but an exhibition of the writer’s ignorance or of his malevolence.
The Dunlap Society was formed for the printing of papers connected with the history of the American theater, or reprinting what had become scarce upon that subject and was worth preserving. Societies of a like general nature have been formed in England and in this country, which have usually been named after some individual who at an early period was prominently identified with the subject matter in which the society is interested; and when what has been here stated respecting Dunlap is considered, with the fact that he was the first historian of the American theater, and the purpose for which the Dunlap Society was formed, it appears to me that the choice of his namefor it was as appropriate, if not more so, than that of any other American of that period.
The concluding illustration is a facsimile of the oldest American play-bill as far as known, the original of which is in the possession ofMr.Thomas J. McKee of New York. It is thought worthy of insertion as a curiosity, and not as approvingMr.Seilhamer’s extensive use of such material, which, he says, is “introduced as a part of the record which it is the aim of this work to preserve with as much completeness as possible,” and again, that “the monument of the actors is the record of their work in the newspapers,” and it is due in justice to him to state that in the two later volumes, and especially in the third, there is much information that is new and interesting, the result, evidently, of a very thorough examination of the Colonial and other newspapers until within a few years of the commencement of the present century.
King Richard II