_Great heat--doubts, dubitations, and debut._
I do not intend to bore my readers with a series of play-bills, or a
journal of my theatrical career; but I feel that on this head there may
be some little curiosity, and that it would on my part be an affectation
to eschew the subject, as well as an injustice to my American comrades
of the buskin, to whom I owe some kind mention, since it was my lot to
add considerably to their labours. I will therefore just notice my
appearance in each city as it occurred, and that as briefly as may be
consistent; when any fun turns up, I promise the reader the benefit of
it. I shall also give my impressions of the various audiences I
encountered; because I think there is no place where the characteristics
of a people are more clearly shown than at a theatre, where all mix upon
a footing more purely democratic than in any other whatever, and each
man having a right to evince his taste after his own fashion, opinion
becomes the only conservation of propriety.
To my first night at New York, then, I looked with much anxiety, and
not without reason. I had, contrary to the advice of many friends, given
up a large income, the continuance of which the increasing favour of the
public gave me reasonable promise of. I had vacated my seat and quitted
my country on no other engagement than one for twelve nights at New
York, the profits of which were wholly dependent upon my success, as
were my engagements in other cities dependent upon my reception in this.
One kind soul assured me that every drama I possessed had been already
anticipated; another, that they had no taste for Irish character, or
that accustomed, as they had long been, to associate with the
representative of my poor countrymen a ruffian with a black eye, and
straw in his shoes, the public taste was too vitiated to relish a quiet
portrait of nature undebased.
This was flattering, but not pleasant: the only man whose views appeared
sanguine was Mr. P----, who had been my companion on the voyage, and
whose cheering reply to all doubters was, "I tell you, sir, it must do."
The theatre was announced to be re-opened on the 28th of August, with
the "Irish Ambassador" and "Teddy the Tiler." The day was one of the
hottest we had known, and towards night it became oppressively close.
No strange actor of the least note could open in New York, to anything
short of a full house; it seems to be a hospitable principle to give the
aspirant for fame a cordial welcome and a fair hearing; let it not be
considered egotistical, therefore, when I say that the house was
crowded; from pit to roof rose tier on tier one dark unbroken mass; I do
not think there were twenty females in the dress circle; all men, and
enduring, I should imagine, the heat of the black hole at Calcutta. I at
the time regretted the absence of the ladies, when, had I been less
selfish, I should have rejoiced at it.
The moment came when "Sir Patrick" was announced; and amidst greetings
as hearty as ever I received in my life, I made my first bow to the Park
audience. I saw no coats off, no heels up, no legs over boxes--these
times have passed away; a more cheerful, or apparently a more English
audience, I would not desire to act before.
I was called for at the end of the play, and thanked the house for its
welcome. If the performance had not gone off with that electric and
constant laughter and applause to which I had grown accustomed at home,
I had received positive assurance that my new clients were intelligent
and very attentive, and I therefore no longer entertained fears for the
result.
Not so, however, one or two of my friends, whose anxiety and kind wishes
it would have been hard indeed for any measure of applause to have
satisfied: amidst the congratulations they brought me were therefore
mixed up little cautionary drawbacks.
"It was capital," said one; "but you must not be so quiet: give them
more bustle."
"In some other piece," replied I; "here it is not in the bond."
"You must paint a little broader, my dear fellow," says
another:--"you're too natural for them; they don't feel it."
"If it's natural they must feel it," said I, adding, "each of my
characters are, according to my ability, painted from nature; they are
individual abstractions with which _I_ have nothing to do; the colouring
is a part of each, and I can't change it as I change my audience:--'tis
only for me to present the picture as it is; for them to like or dislike
it."
For the six following evenings the houses, though not great, were equal
and good; each night I found my audience understanding me better, and
felt that I was grappling them closer to me. The arrival of Mrs. and Mr.
Wood earlier than the manager counted upon, created a difficulty; to
obviate which I waived my claim to six of my nights, as my acting must
have kept them idle.
A day or two before my departure for Philadelphia, I witnessed the first
appearance of this lady and her husband. Her reception was enthusiastic,
but Malibran had left impressions it was difficult to compete with; and,
although her brilliant talent was on all hands admitted, I am not sure
whether her husband's manly style of singing a ballad was not to the
full as much considered as her execution of the most brilliant scena.
The Park Theatre is, as well as I could judge, about the size of the old
Lyceum, of the horse-shoe form; has three tiers of boxes; is handsome,
and in all respects as well appointed as any theatre out of London.
The orchestra is at present excellent, and under the direction of a
very clever man--Penson, formerly leader at Dublin. The company I found
for my purpose a very fair one, my pieces requiring little save
correctness from most of those concerned, except where old men, like
"Aspen," "Frederick II." &c. occur, and all such parts found an
excellent representative in an American actor, called Placide. Descended
of a long line of talented players, he possesses a natural talent I have
rarely seen surpassed, together with a chastity and simplicity of style
that would do credit to the best school of comedy; yet he has never been
away from his own country. I trust the model may not be lost on those
who have to follow him.
There is a representative of old women here, too, a native, Mrs.
Wheatley, an inartificial charming actress, with a perfect conception of
all she does, and a humorous _espieglerie_ of manner that is admirable.
This lady has a daughter, a girl of fourteen, one of the cleverest
mimics I ever saw: she would imitate Miss Fanny Kemble throughout a
whole character, or think, talk, and walk, like her in private,--all
with a slight dash of caricature, but in a spirit of truth and acute
observation worthy of the inimitable Matthews himself.
With these exceptions, the company is, I think, made up of English
actors, many of whom have held respectable situations in the London
houses.
I had heard a good deal of the disorder of the American stage, and the
intractability of American actors; with this specimen I had therefore
every reason to be pleased. I am rather a hard drill, too; but I also
know how painful is the task of studying and practising long parts for
the star of the day, to be thrust out by some fresh stuff got up for his
successor: I am aware of this, and therefore strive to make the pill
less bitter by doing my "spiriting gently," where I see a desire to be
attentive on the part of my friends.
As I may not have occasion to revert to New York theatrically again, let
me here say that, after repeated renewal of my engagements during two
years, my last were amongst the greatest I made in this city: how, after
this, the American public can be called cold or fickle, I at least have
no means of judging.
After a stay of three weeks in New York, rendered as agreeable as fine
weather, kind friends, warm welcome, and success could make it, I took
my departure for Philadelphia by the Camden and Amboy line of steam-boat
and rail-road. Punctual to the minute advertised, we left the wharf;
and, although the day was cold for the season, I was charmed with our
trip across the harbour towards Raritan Creek.
From about half-way over this channel, which separates Staten Island
from the city, I should say, after some experience, the best general
view of New York and its most prominent environs may be obtained.
Behind you rise the heights of Brooklyn, undulating along your left to
the passage of the Narrows, through which you catch a glimmer of the sea
beyond; close on your right lies the picturesque-looking old city of
Jersey; and immediately beyond, the village of Hoboken, famous for
turtle and pistol-matches: its neighbourhood to the Elysian fields
renders it a singularly lucky site for the fire-eaters, since, if shot,
they have no Charon to pay; the turtle-eaters here find, no doubt, equal
facilities. Far to the north, the dark promontory of the Palisadoes
beetles broadly forth, marking the course of the Hudson.
In the middle distance lies the city, looking as though it floated deep
upon the bosom of the ready waters that encompass it about. It is
happier in its place of rest than most Dutch towns, and well merited the
name of New Amsterdam, given it by its founders. The ground it covers
was at one time divided into hill and dale; but with eyes wide open to
business, and close sealed against taste, the conscript fathers of our
infant Rome shaved smooth every ant-hill that rose in their path, and to
their inheritors have bequeathed a love of their trim lines of beauty,
for they are proceeding on the levelling system with a worthy
pains-taking that will in due time render the whole island as flat as a
tulip-bed.
The passage up the Raritan or Amboy Creek, between Staten Island and the
main, is uninteresting enough; the channel reminding one very much of
the left bank of the Thames about Erith,--swampy levels, with flat
barges, and river-side public houses. The village of Perth Amboy is the
first attractive object; it is built upon the face of a hill rising
gently from the water, and is well shaded, looking healthy, fresh, and
neat. Here the steamer stops for a minute to land or receive passengers,
and then makes for Amboy landing, about a couple of miles distant. Here
we left our boat, and were immediately transferred to the cars of the
new railroad connecting the Raritan with the Delaware, and pursued our
way to Bordentown, through a dreary, barren-looking country, whose only
attractions were occasional orchards of a most fruitful kind, if one
might judge by the plenteous gathering already in progress. In many
places were piled up little mountains of apples, destined chiefly for
the cider press.
The loco-motives not being in condition to do duty, the horses occupied
as yet their legitimate station, going at the rate of about eight miles
per hour.
Near the entrance to Bordentown, the present mansion of the ex-king of
Spain was pointed out: it does not appear to be very happily located,
but commands, I understand, an extensive view of the broad Delaware, and
affords room enough to bustle in, even for one whose domain was once
royal.
Here we once more embarked; and hence to Philadelphia the Delaware is a
broad placid stream, with low banks of alternate wood and meadow, having
sprinkled along them numbers of well-built houses of all sizes, from
the shingle cottage to the imposing-looking mansion with its lofty
portico of painted pine.
The boat touches on its way at two very charming-looking villages,
Bristol and Burlington, situated at opposite angles of a fine bend of
the river. On the quay of the latter I noticed, as we halted, a group of
fairy-looking lassies watching for the landing of some friend; and their
animated expression, delicate proportions, and graceful _tournure_, did
much to bespeak favour for the girls of Pennsylvania.
It was night before we gained the Quaker city, and exceeding dark
withal; so that the long dotted lines of lights, regularly intersecting
each other until lost in distance, had the effect of a general
illumination, whilst it gave evidence of a widely-spread and populous
city.
We drove to Mr. Head's hotel, the Mansion House, where we were welcomed
by the worthy host in person; although he had not bed-rooms for us that
night, for we were three in company. We were, however, soon furnished
with a most excellent supper; and after, two of us got, not "three
chairs and a bolster," but a couple of camp bedsteads with good
mattresses, and sheets white as snow. Our senior companion, Mr. P----,
was provided with a bed-chamber; and what could the heart of weary
traveller wish for more?
On the morrow I also was installed in a capital chamber; and if those
incarnate demons the musquitoes would have made peace with me, I should
have scorned comparisons with the Nabob of the Carnatic. But, oh!
immortal gods, how they did hum and bom, and bite and buzz! and how I
did fume, and slap, and snatch, and swear, partly in fear, and partly
through sheer vexation of spirit, at having no means of vengeance
against a foe whose audacity was open and outrageous, whose trumpets
were for ever sounding a charge, yet who were withal, as impassable as
Etna.
I would rather hear the roar of lions about my resting-place than the
vicious hum of these infernal wee beasts; and I may be allowed to
decide, having listened to both: the latter never failed to keep me
wakeful through fair fright; but when well worn with fatigue, after a
shiver and a start or two, I have slept sound, in safe company, although
the crunch and roar of the nobler _varmint_ sounded near enough to make
our terrified horses press to the watch-fire with breathings thick and
loud,--a neighbourhood anything but agreeable, but, I swear, infinitely
preferable to an incursion of hungry musquitoes.
The next morning, Sept. 12th, rose early, took a hot bath, and dressed
for a hot day; but the day was resolute not to be hot: a north-east wind
had set in after breakfast, and down went the thermometer from
seventy-nine to forty-five. "Zooks, what a tumble!" as Mister Poll says:
all the time too the sky was cloudless, and the sun shining most
treacherously. I wasn't to be done, however; so, after an hour, jumped
again into my broad-cloth for comfort.
During my first week here I occupied private apartments,--which may be
had at every hotel, by the way,--and being in company with a friend, we
had our meals at our own hours, all of which were excellent and well
served, with wines most unexceptionable. My friend leaving me, however,
I took the advice of my good host, Mr. Head, and, quitting my sulky
solitude, joined the public table,--a change I had every reason to be
satisfied with, since, however, unpleasant the bustle occasioned by a
hundred or a hundred and fifty persons dining _ensemble_, no such
objection can apply here, where the guests rarely exceed twenty-five or
thirty, including from time to time men of the first rank and
intelligence in the States. This dinner-table indeed is as well
appointed in every way as any gentleman could desire; the attendants
numerous and well ordered; the service, including every luxury the
season can furnish, is of three courses; and the cloth is never drawn
under an hour. I am thus particular, because, as much has been said of
the badness of hotels in America, it is but fair to give place to a
notice of those which are good; and so essentially good a _table d'hote_
as that of the Mansion House at Philadelphia, whether for variety,
cooking, wine, or all these things combined, I never yet met in any
country of Europe.