"GREEN GROW THE RUSHES, O!"
So well advertised in the village had been the theatrical company and
so greatly had the crusade against the play and players whetted public
curiosity that on the evening of the first performance every bench in
the dining-room--auditorium--of the tavern had an occupant, while in
the rear the standing room was filled by the overflow. Upon the
counter of the bar were seated a dozen or more men, including the
schoolmaster, an itinerant pedagogue who "boarded around" and received
his pay in farm products, and the village lawyer, attired in a
claret-colored frock coat, who often was given a pig for a retainer,
or knotty wood, unfit for rails.
From his place, well to the front, the owner of the private equipage
surveyed the audience with considerable amusement and complacency. He
was fastidiously dressed in double-breasted waistcoat of figured silk,
loosely fitting trousers, fawn-colored kid gloves, light pumps and
silk hose. Narrow ruffles edged his wristbands which were fastened
with link buttons, while the lining of his evening coat was of
immaculate white satin. As he gazed around upon a scene at once novel
and incongruous, he took from his pocket a little gold case, bearing
an ivory miniature, and, with the eyes of his neighbors bent
expectantly upon him, extracted therefrom a small, white cylinder.
"What may that be, mister?" inquired an inquisitive rustic, placing
his hand on the other's shoulder.
The latter drew back as if resenting that familiar touch, and, by way
of answer, poised the cylinder in a tiny holder and deliberately
lighted it, to the amazement of his questioner. Cigarettes were then
unknown in that part of the state and the owner of the coach enjoyed
the dubious distinction of being the first to introduce them there.
"Since which time," says Chronicler Barnes in his memoirs, "their use
and abuse has, I believe, extended."
The lighting of the aboriginal American cigarette drew general
attention to the smoker and the doctor, not a man of modern small
pills, but a liberal dispenser of calomel, jalap, castor-oil and
quinine, whispered to the landlord:
"Azeriah, who might he be?"
"The heir of the patroon estate, Ezekiel. I found the name on his
trunks: 'Edward Mauville.'"
"Sho! Going to take possession at the manor?"
"He cal'lates to, I guess, ef he can!"
"Yes; ef he can!" significantly repeated the doctor. "So this is
the foreign heir? He's got wristbands like a woman and hands
just as small. Wears gloves like my darter when she goes to
meeting-house! And silk socks! Why, the old patroon didn't wear
none at all, and corduroy was good enough for him, they say.
Wonder how the barn-burners will take to the silk socks? Who's the
other stranger, Azeriah?" Indicating with his thumb the soldier,
who, standing against a window casement in the rear of the room,
was by his height a conspicuous figure in the gathering.
"I don't exactly know, Ezekiel," replied the landlord, regretfully.
"Not that I didn't try to find out," he added honestly, "but he was so
close, I couldn't get nothing from him. He's from Paris, France; may
be Louis Philippe himself, for all I know."
"No; he ain't Louis Philippe," returned the doctor with decision,
"'cause I seen his likeness in the magazine."
"Might be the dolphin then," suggested the boniface. "He's so mighty
mysterious."
"Dolphin!" retorted the other contemptuously. "There ain't no dolphin.
There hasn't been no dolphin since the French Revolution."
"Oh, I didn't know but there might a been," said the landlord
vaguely.
From mouth to mouth the information, gleaned by the village doctor,
was circulated; speculation had been rife ever since the demise of the
last patroon regarding his successor, and, although the locality was
beyond the furthermost reach of that land-holder, their interest was
none the less keen. The old master of the manor had been like a myth,
much spoken of, never seen without the boundaries of his acres; but
the new lord was a reality, a creditable creation of tailor, hatter,
hosier, cobbler--which trades had not flourished under the old master
who bought his clothes, cap and boots at a country store, owned by
himself. Anticipation of the theatrical performance was thus relieved
in a measure by the presence of the heir, but the delay, incident to a
first night on an improvised stage, was so unusual that the audience
at length began to evince signs of restlessness.
Finally, however, when the landlord's daughter had gazed what seemed
to her an interminable period upon the lady and the swan, the lake and
the greyhound, painted on the curtain, this picture vanished by
degrees, with an exhilarating creaking of the rollers, and was
succeeded by the representation of a room in a cottage. The scenery,
painted in distemper and not susceptible to wind or weather, had
manifold uses, reappearing later in the performance as a nobleman's
palace, supplemented, it is true, by a well-worn carpet to indicate
ducal luxury.
Some trifling changes--concessions to public opinion--were made in the
play, notably in the scene where the duke, with ready hospitality,
offers wine to the rustic Lopez. In Barnes' expurgated, "Washingtonian"
version (be not shocked, O spirit of good Master Tobin!) the countryman
responded reprovingly: "Fie, my noble Duke! Have you no water from the
well?" An answer diametrically opposed to the tendencies of the
sack-guzzling, roistering, madcap playwrights of that early period!
On the whole the representation was well-balanced, with few weak spots
in the acting for fault finding, even from a more captious gathering.
In the costumes, it is true, the carping observer might have detected
some flaws; notably in Adonis, a composite fashion plate, who strutted
about in the large boots of the Low Countries, topped with English
trunk hose of 1550; his hand upon the long rapier of Charles II, while
a periwig and hat of William III crowned his empty pate!
Kate was Volante; not Tobin's Volante, but one fashioned out of her
own characteristics; supine, but shapely; heavy, but handsome; slow,
but specious. Susan, with hair escaping in roguish curls beneath her
little cap; her taper waist encompassed by a page's tunic; the trim
contour of her figure frankly revealed by her vestment, was truly a
lad "dressed up to cozen" any lover who preferred his friend and his
bottle to his mistress. Merry as a sand-boy she danced about in russet
boots that came to the knee; lithe and lissome in the full swing of
immunity from skirts, mantle and petticoats!
Conscious that his identity had been divined, and relishing, perhaps,
the effect of its discovery, the young patroon gazed languidly at the
players, until the entrance of Constance as Juliana, when he forgot
the pleasing sensations of self-thought, in contemplation of the
actress. He remarked a girlish form of much grace, attired in an
attractive gown of white satin and silver, as became a bride, with
train and low shimmering bodice, revealing the round arms and
shoulders which arose ivory-like in whiteness. Instead of the
customary feathers and other ornaments of the period, specified in the
text of the play, roses alone softened the effect of her dark hair.
Very different she appeared in this picturesque Spanish attire from
the lady of the lane, with the coquettish cap of muslin and its
"brides," or strings.
The light that burned within shone from her eyes, proud yet gay; it
lurked in the corners of her mouth, where gravity followed merriment,
as silence follows laughter when the brook sweeps from the purling
stones to the deeper pools. Her art was unconscious of itself and
scene succeeded scene with a natural charm, revealing unexpected
resources, from pathos to sorrow; from vanity to humility; from scorn
to love awakened. And, when the transition did come, every pose spoke
of the quickening heart; her movements proclaimed the golden fetters;
passion shone in her glances, defiant though willing, lofty though
humble, joyous though shy.
Was it the heat from the lamps?--but Mauville's brow became flushed;
his buoyancy seemed gross and brutal; desire lurked in his lively
glances; Pan gleamed from the curls of Hyperion!
The play jogged on its blithesome course to its wonted end; the duke
delivered the excellent homily,
"A gentle wife
Is still the sterling comfort of a man's life,"
and the well-pleased audience were preparing to leave when Barnes, in
a drab jacket and trunks, trimmed with green ribbon bows, came forward
like the clown in the circus and addressed the "good people."
"In the golden age," said the father of Juliana, "great men treated
actors like servants, and, if they offended, their ears were cut off.
Are we, in brave America, returning to the days when they tossed an
actor in a blanket or gave a poet a hiding? Shall we stifle an art
which is the purest inspiration of Athenian genius? The law prohibits
our performing and charging admission, but it does not debar us from
taking a collection, if"--with a bow in which dignity and humility
were admirably mingled--"you deem the laborer worthy of his hire?"
This novel epilogue was received with laughter and applause, but the
audience, although good-natured, contained its proportion of timid
souls who retreat before the passing plate. The rear guard began to
show faint signs of demoralization, when Mauville sprang to his feet.
Pan had disappeared behind his leafy covert; it was the careless,
self-possessed man of the world who arose.
"I am not concerned about the ethics of art," he said lightly, "but
the ladies of the company may count me among their devout admirers. I
am sure," he added, bowing to the manager with ready grace, "if they
were as charming in the old days, after the lords tossed the men, they
made love to the women."
"There were no actresses in those days, sir," corrected Barnes,
resenting the flippancy of his aristocratic auditor.
"No actresses?" retorted the heir. "Then why did people go to the
theater? However, without further argument, let me be the first
contributor."
"The prodigal!" said the doctor in an aside to the landlord. "He's
holding up a piece of gold. It's the first time ever patroon was a
spendthrift!"
But Mauville's words, on the whole, furthered the manager's project,
and the audience remained in its integrity, while Balthazar, a
property helmet in hand, descended from his palace and trod the aisles
in his drab trunk-hose and purple cloak, a royal mendicant, in whose
pot soon jingled the pieces of silver. No one shirked his admission
fee and some even gave in excess; the helmet teemed with riches; once
it had saved broken heads, now it repaired broken fortunes, its
properties magical, like the armor of Pallas.
"How did you like the play, Mr. Saint-Prosper?" said Barnes, as he
approached that person.
"Much; and as for the players"--a gleam of humor stealing over his
dark features--"'peerless' was not too strong."
"'Your approbation likes me most, my lord,'" quoted the manager, and
passed quickly on with his tin pot, in a futile effort to evade the
outstretched hand of his whilom helper.
Thanking the audience for their generosity and complimenting them on
their intelligence, the self-constituted lord of the treasury vanished
once more behind the curtain. The orchestra of two struck up a negro
melody; the audience rose again, the women lingering to exchange their
last innocent gossip about prayer-meeting, or about the minister who
"knocked the theologic dust from the pulpit cushions in the good old
orthodox way," when some renegade exclaimed: "Clear the room for a
dance!"
Jerusha's shawl straightway fell from her shoulders; Hannah's bonnet
was whipped from her head; Nathaniel paused on his way to the stable
yard to bring out the team and a score of willing hands obeyed the
injunction amid laughing encouragement from the young women whose feet
already were tapping the floor in anticipation of the Virginia Reel,
Two Sisters, Hull's Victory, or even the waltz, "lately imported from
the Rhine." A battered Cremona appeared like magic and
"In his shirt of check and tallowed hair
The fiddler sat in his bull-rush chair,"
while "'Twas Monnie Musk in busy feet and Monnie Musk by
heart"--old-fashioned "Monnie Musk" with "first couple join right
hands and swing," "forward six" and "across the set"; an honest dance
for country folk that only left regrets when it came to "Good Night
for aye to Monnie Musk," although followed by the singing of "Old
Hundred" or "Come, ye Sinners, Poor and Needy," on the homeward
journey.
In the parlor the younger lads and lasses were playing "snap and catch
'em" and similar games. The portly Dutch clock gazed down benignly on
the scene, its face shining good-humoredly like the round visage of
some comfortable burgher. "Green grow the rushes, O!" came from many
merry-makers. "Kiss her quick and let her go" was followed by
scampering of feet and laughter which implied a doubt whether the lad
had obeyed the next injunction, "But don't you muss her ruffle, O!"
Forming a moving ring around a young girl, they sang: "There's a rose
in the garden for you, young man." A rose, indeed, or a rose-bud,
rather, with ruffles he was commanded not to "muss," but which,
nevertheless, suffered sadly!
Among these boys and girls, the patroon discovered Constance, no
longer "to the life a duchess," with gown in keeping with the "pride
and pomp of exalted station," but attired in the simple dress of
lavender she usually wore, though the roses still adorned her hair.
Shunning the entrancing waltz, the inspiring "Monnie Musk" and the
cotillion, lively when set to Christy's melodies, she had sought the
more juvenile element, and, when seen by the land baron, was circling
around with fluttering skirts. Joyous, merry, there was no hint now in
her natural, girlish ways of the capacity that lay within for varied
impersonations, from the lightness of coquetry to the thrill of
tragedy.
He did not know how it happened, as he stood there watching her, but
the next moment he was imprisoned by the group and voices were
singing:
"There he stands, the booby; who will have him for his beauty?"
Who? His eye swept the group; the merry, scornful glances fixed upon
him; the joyous, half-inviting glances; the red lips parted as in
kindly invitation; shy lips, willing lips!
Who? His look kindled; he had made his selection, and the next moment
his arm was impetuously thrown around the actress's waist.
"Kiss her quick and let her go!"
Amid the mad confusion he strove to obey the command, but a panting
voice murmured "no, no!" a pair of dark eyes gazed into his for an
instant, defiantly, and the pliant waist slipped from his impassioned
grasp; his eager lips, instead of touching that glowing cheek, only
grazed a curl that had become loosened, and, before he could repeat
the attempt, she had passed from his arms, with laughing lips and
eyes.
"Play fair!" shouted the lads. "He should 'kiss her quick and let her
go.'"
"Oh, he let her go first!" said the others.
"'Kiss her quick,'" reiterated the boys.
"He can't now," answered the girls.
The voices took up the refrain: "Don't you muss the ruffles, O!" and
the game went on. The old clock gossiped gleefully, its tongue
repeating as plainly as words:
"Let-her-go!--ho!--ho!--one--two--three!"
Three o'clock! Admonishingly rang out the hour, the jovial face of the
clock looking sterner than was its wont. It glowered now like a
preacher in his pulpit upon a sinful congregation. Enough of
"snatch-and-catch'em;" enough of Hull's Victory or the Opera Reel;
let the weary fiddler descend from his bull-rush chair, for soon the
touch of dawn will be seen in the eastern sky! The merry-making began
to wane and already the sound of wagon-wheels rattled over the log
road away from the tavern. Yes, they were singing, and, as Hepsibeth
leaned her head on Josiah's shoulder, they uplifted their voices in
the good old orthodox hymn, "Come, Ye Sinners," for thus they courted
and worshiped in olden times.
"Good-night, every one!" said a sweet voice, as Constance passed
calmly on, with not a ruffle mussed.
"Good-night," answered the patroon, a sparkle in his eyes. "I was
truly a booby."
"What can you mean?" she laughed.
"There's many a slip 'twixt--lip and lip!" exclaimed Susan.
With heightened color the young girl turned, and as she did so her
look rested on the soldier. His glance was cold, almost strange, and,
meeting it, she half-started and then smiled, slowly mounting the
stairs. He looked away, but the patroon never took his eyes from her
until she had vanished. Afar, rising and falling on the clear air,
sounded the voices of the singers:
"Praise God from whom all blessings flow;
Praise Him all creatures here below;"
and finally, softer and softer, until the melody melted into silence:
"Praise Him above, ye Heavenly H-o-s-t--"
"One good turn deserves another," said Barnes to Saint-Prosper, when
Susan and Kate had likewise retired. "Follow me, sir--to the kitchen!
No questions; but come!"