occasion pointed out to me the great advantage of occasionally
purchasing five thousand consuls on time, knowing that I had
capital unemployed; the certain profits were placed before me in
such an agreeable point of view, that I could not resist the bait.
In the course of two days I received a check for fifty pounds, a
sum by no means unpleasant, considering that I had not advanced
one farthing. The natural consequence was that I repeated the dose
with various success until I was ultimately well plucked. I
sustained a loss of one thousand pounds. I then began to be very
uneasy, until I fortunately discovered that by one _coup_ I had
made two hundred pounds. My broker had waddled of course, without
being able to make up his differences. The parties of whom I had
purchased, through my agent, refused to pay me, as they had no
knowledge of a third person, and were themselves considerable
sufferers by the aforesaid broker. I could not understand the
justice of this measure, for I had always paid my losses to the
moment; so I walked to Temple-Bar, pulled off my hat most
gracefully to that venerable arch, and vowed never again to pass
it in the pursuit of ill-gotten wealth. I had always a perfect
horror of _gambling_, and little imagined I was pursuing it in a
wholesale manner. To satisfy my inordinate curiosity, for
sight-seeing, I have twice or thrice in my life passed the
threshhold of a gambling-house in London, but never felt the least
personal desire to embark the smallest sum, although keenly alive
to the dangerous excitement in others. On one of these occasions
it fell to my lot to witness a most affecting and trying scene.
The names of the parties came to my knowledge afterward, which
from delicacy I of course suppress. A gentleman had for some years
been separated from his wife, in consequence of infidelity on her
part with a man of high fashion, an officer of the Guards. An
action and divorce ensued; but two children whom he had previous
to this unfortunate event, he refused to acknowledge, thus
endeavoring to put the stain of illegitimacy upon them. Years
rolled on, and the father and son never met. Rouge-et-Noir was the
fashionable game of the day, and Pall-Mall and St. James-street
swarmed with gambling-houses. Two gentlemen were quarrelling upon
a point, each accusing the other of taking the stake. The younger
man was the officer on guard that day, and consequently in
uniform. High words ensued; cards were exchanged; and in one
moment, from the most ungovernable rage, they became motionless as
statues. The silence was at length interrupted by an explanation
of 'By Heaven! my son!' This remark was made from the impulse of
the moment, and probably struck a chord in the parent's heart that
let loose all his affections. They retired to another apartment;
explanations ensued; and a reconciliation was the result.'
Elsewhere Mr. ABBOTT describes the gambling-houses of Paris, 'those dens
of iniquity,' as he terms them. 'The varied scenes of frantic joy and
human debasement,' he writes, 'which I witnessed at FRASCATI'S, were truly
appalling. The extremes of excitement were as powerfully exhibited in the
loser of twenty francs as in the man who had lost his twenty thousand.'
The annexed sketch of the lamented career of poor CONWAY, who will be
'freshly remembered' by many of our readers in the Atlantic cities, is
authentic in every particular. It is not without its lesson, in more
regards than one:
'I find I have neglected to mention an actor, who stood
sufficiently forward, both by his position and his misfortunes, to
be entitled to a respectful notice; I mean Mr. CONWAY. He was said
to be the illegitimate offspring of a distinguished nobleman; but
whether his own pride prevented his making advances, and he was
resolved to lay the foundation of his own fame and fortune, or
whether he met with a check upon his natural feelings from one who
was bound to support him, I know not; but, gifted as he was with a
commanding person, a most gentlemanlike deportment, and advantages
peculiarly adapted for the stage, it is no wonder that the
histrionic art held forth inducements and hopes of obtaining a
brighter position than any other career open to him, without the
aid of pecuniary means, and the patronage which was withheld from
him. He made his appearance in 1813, the season previous to KEAN,
in the character of 'Alexander the Great.' He met with a very
flattering reception, and produced a great effect upon the fair
sex. Indeed, the actors, who are upon these occasions lynx-eyed,
could not avoid their remarks upon a certain Duchess, who never
missed one of his performances, and appeared to take the deepest
interest in his success. CONWAY was upward of six feet in height.
He was deficient in strong intellectual expression, yet he had the
reputation of being very handsome. His head was too small for his
frame, and his complexion too light and sanguine for the profound
and varied emotions of deep tragedy. There was a tinge of
affectation in his deportment, which had the effect of creating
among many a strong feeling of prejudice against him. His bearing
was always gentlemanly, and with the exception of a slight
superciliousness of manner, amiable to every body; and his talent,
though not of the highest order, was still sufficiently prominent
to enable him to maintain a distinguished position. And yet this
man, with so little to justify spleen, was literally, from an
unaccountable prejudice, driven from the stage by one of the
leading weekly journals, edited by a gentleman whose biting satire
was death to those who had the misfortune to come under his lash.
In complete disgust, he retired from the boards, and filled the
humble situation of prompter at the Haymarket-Theatre, but
afterward left for the United States, where he became a great
favorite. But the canker was at his heart. He again quitted the
stage, and prepared himself for the Church; but there again he was
foiled. The ministers of our holy religion refused to receive him,
not from any moral stain upon his character, but because he had
been an actor! What is to become of the priesthood, who in the
early periods were the only actors, and selected scriptural
subjects for representation? He left in a packet for Savannah,
overwhelmed with misery and disappointment. 'Ushered into the
world by a parent who would not acknowledge him; driven out of it
in the belief that he was the proscribed of Heaven!' At the moment
they were passing the bar at Charleston, he threw himself
overboard. Efforts were made to save him; a settee was thrown over
for him to cling to until they could adopt more decisive measures
for his rescue. He saw the object; but his resolution was taken.
He waved his hand, and sunk to rise no more. I have reason to
believe, that the gentleman to whom I have alluded as having made
such fearful use of his editorial powers, felt deep remorse when
the news of his ill-timed death arrived. He also is now no more!
Poor CONWAY! Had he possessed more nerve, he might still have
triumphed over the unkindness of his fate:
'Who has not known ill fortune, never knew
Himself or his own virtue.'
In the same chapter we find a bit of artistical grouping in a historical
picture, which the reader will agree with us is well worthy of
preservation:
'The world never witnessed such powerful scenes of exciting
interest as took possession of Great Britain about this period.
The people were drunk with enthusiasm. One victory followed so
rapidly on the heels of another, that they had not time to sober
down. The peninsular campaign had closed, and the hitherto sacred
soil of France was invaded. The restoration of legitimacy, and the
momentary enthusiasm of the French in favor of their exiled
monarch, disturbed the intellects of half mankind. The magnificent
entrée of LOUIS the Eighteenth into London from Heartwell Park,
where he had resided for some years, almost conveyed the idea that
it was his own capital he was entering, after his long and weary
exile. The silken banner with the _fleur de lis_ flaunting from
the walls of Devonshire-House and all the neighboring mansions in
Piccadilly; immense cavalcades of gentlemen superbly mounted, all
wearing the white cockade; the affectionate sympathy and profound
respect shown by all classes toward the illustrious representative
of the Bourbons, was touching in the extreme. On his route from
Heartwell, and through Stanmore, troops of yeomanry turned out to
give him an honorable escort; and what could be _more_ honorable
than the voluntary attendance of the farmers who represented the
very bone and sinew of the country? The large portly figure of the
KING perfectly disabused JOHN BULL of the long-cherished idea that
Frenchmen lived entirely upon frogs. Even that particular fact
interested them, and repeated huzzas greeted him throughout the
whole of his route to London. On his arrival at Guillon's Hotel in
Albermarle-street, which had been most splendidly prepared for his
reception, His Royal Highness the PRINCE REGENT received him with
that delicate attention so worthy of his high and gallant bearing;
and there LOUIS must have met with one of the most touching scenes
that ever thrilled the human heart. One hundred and fifty of the
ancient noblesse were waiting, after years of hopeless
expectation, to greet the head of that illustrious house, the
recollection of whose sufferings awakened the most painful
feelings. Not one of them but had shared in the horrors of that
bloody revolution; and not one of them but truly felt that the
happiness of that moment repaid them for all their sufferings.'
A rich specimen of the pompous ignorance sometimes exhibited by theatrical
managers is afforded in the following anecdote, which has appeared in
England, but which we are sure will be relished by our readers. It may
seem extraordinary that a manager should be such an ignoramus; but 'half
the actors on the English stage,' says a recent writer, 'dare not address
a gentleman a note, lest they should 'show their hands:''
'WHEN I first became a member of Covent-Garden, Mr. FAWCETT held
the reins of management, in consequence of the retirement of Mr.
KEMBLE from that position. He had experience to guide him, but he
unfortunately possessed a dictatorial manner, and a want of that
refinement and education which had so distinguished his great
predecessor. In speaking of his public position, however, let me
pay homage to his private virtues. He was a tender husband, an
affectionate father, and a warm friend. During my first season a
play was produced called the '_Students of Salamanca_.' The author
was Mr. JAMIESON, a member of the bar, who had been particularly
successful in several light pieces produced at the Haymarket. Mr.
JONES and myself were 'The Students,' and it occurred to me in my
character to say, 'My danger was imminent.' These words had
scarcely passed my lips, when a dark and lowering look dimmed the
countenance of the manager. I saw that something was wrong, but
was quite at a loss to guess the cause. At the end of the scene,
unwilling to mortify me in the presence of the company, he
beckoned me aside, and said: 'Young man, do you know what you
said?' I changed color, feeling that something fearful had
occurred. I replied, very much agitated, that I was not aware of
any error. 'I thought so! Do you know where you are? You are in
_London_, not in Bath!' The fact was so self-evident that I did
not attempt to disprove it. 'You will be delivered up to scorn and
contempt; the critics will immolate you; the eyes of this great
metropolis are fixed upon you. I thought you were a well-educated
young man, but I have been deceived--grossly deceived!' The effect
of this tirade may be more easily conceived than described. My
face flushed, my heart beat, and I at length mustered courage to
say, 'For heaven's sake, Sir, pray tell me; I am extremely
sorry--deeply regret--but pray tell me!' The kindness of his
disposition got the better of his pedantry, and seeing the
agitation under which I was really suffering, he replied: 'Do you
remember that you said your danger was _imminent_'? Now, Sir,
there is no such word in the English language: it is _eminent!!_'
Need I mention the unbounded relief this explanation gave me? I
quietly suggested the difference of their significations, and was
never after troubled with any corrections. He was a man of
sterling qualities, somewhat like a melon, as his friend COLMAN
said; 'rough without, smooth within.''
In the way of a hoax, we remember nothing more cleverly performed, than
the rather cruel one whose execution is pleasantly recorded below:
'THERE was a lady attached to the Worthing Theatre, (mark me,
reader, I did not say attached to _me_,) who was very eccentric,
and who was, 'small blame to her,' as the Irishman says, also very
susceptible. I was on very intimate terms with Mr. HARLEY, who was
then at Worthing; and one day, while quietly dining together, we
mutually agreed that there was a fickleness about this lady which
deserved some reproof. We were really liberal in our feelings, and
would not have objected to her shooting an extra dart
occasionally; but it was not to be borne that she should let fly a
whole quiver at once. We had observed that by way of having two or
more strings to her bow, she had got up a flirtation with the
leader of the band, a most respectable man by the way, and of
considerable talent. After giving the affair all due
consideration, we decided upon a mock-duel, in which I was to
personate one of the heroes, my rival being the aforesaid leader.
We carefully and ostentatiously avoided all appearance of
communication, and in such a way that it always reached her
knowledge. Thus by gentle innuendoes she discovered that something
serious was in contemplation, and of course she was not a little
flattered, as she was the object of dispute. Our duelling-pistols
were one day ostentatiously paraded, and evident anxiety took
possession of the company, who were carefully excluded from the
secret. The following morning at five o'clock we each left our
lodgings, accompanied by our seconds, the rain pouring in
torrents. HARLEY then went to the lodgings of the frail or rather
fair one, knocked at the door most violently, and at length she
appeared at the window, in evident alarm. He urged her if she had
the feelings of a woman immediately to accompany him, and prevent
murder; briefly stating, that her 'beauties were the cause and
most accursed effect.' In a state of real excitement, mixed up
with woman's vanity, she rushed out of the house, and accompanied
that wag of wags. A white beaver hat, sweet emblem of her purity,
was on her head, and partially concealed her disordered ringlets,
hastily gathered together. We arranged with HARLEY always to keep
ourselves a certain distance in advance on the pathway bordering
the sands. The first thing that occurred was a sudden gust of wind
which swept the white beaver a considerable distance and covered
it with mud; her flowing locks then fell upon her alabaster neck,
and her romantic appearance was perfect. We most cruelly led her
on a distance of at least two miles, and took our station near
some lime-kilns, close to the sea. When she was sufficiently near,
one of the seconds stepped forward and gave the signal by dropping
a blood-stained handkerchief, prepared for the occasion. Bang!
bang! went the pistols; when she gracefully sank into the arms of
HARLEY, who held her in a fine melo-dramatic attitude. The report
was soon over all the town, and of course in the newspapers. My
adversary put his arm in a sling, and whenever I happened to be
near her, in a perfect state of despair I vowed that I could never
forgive myself for having shot my friend. We mutually repulsed her
by severe looks whenever she approached us; and she soon left the
Worthing Theatre to seek for victims of less sensibility in other
places.'
We once more take our leave of Mr. ABBOTT'S agreeable manuscript volume;
by no means certain, however, that its entertaining pages may not again
tempt us to share with our readers the enjoyment they have afforded us.
GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.--Will the author of '_Public
Concert-Singing_' favor us with his address? We are desirous of
communicating with him, although he does _not_ 'find his hastily-jotted
thoughts in the pages of the KNICKERBOCKER,' for reasons which perhaps he
can partly divine from the present number, and which we could impart more
directly in a private note. We agree with him entirely in his views; and
if he will permit us, we will here quote a passage from an article which
we penned upon a subject collateral to his general theme, many years ago,
before we were hampered with the professional '_we_,' and could write out
of our 'company dress.' It is a little sketch of the first public singing,
save that of the church, to which we had ever listened: 'How well do I
remember it! It was at the theatre of a country village; a rough,
barn-like edifice, at which several Stentor-lunged Thespians 'from the
New-York and Philadelphia Theatres' split the ears of the groundlings, and
murdered SHAKSPEARE'S heroes and the King's English. I had been watching
with boyish curiosity the play which had just concluded: the mottled,
patched, yellowish-green curtain had descended upon the personages whose
sorrows were my own; and I was gazing vacantly at the long row of tallow
candles placed in holes bored for the purpose in the stage, and at the two
fiddlers who composed 'the orchestra,' and who were reconnoitering the
house. Presently a small bell was rung, with a jerk. There was a flourish
or two from 'the orchestra;' another tinkle of the bell; and up rose the
faded drapery. An interval of a moment succeeded, during which half of a
large mountain was removed from the scenery, and a piece of forest shoved
up to the ambitious wood that had been aspiring to overtop the Alps. At
length a young lady, whom I had just seen butchered in a most horrid
manner by a villain, came from the side of the stage with a smile, which,
while it displayed her white teeth, wrought the rouge upon her face into
very perceptible corrugations, and made a lowly courtesy. She walked with
measured step three or four times across the stage, in the full blaze of
the flaring candles, smiling again, and hemming, to clear her voice.
Presently a perfect stillness prevailed; 'awed Consumption checked his
chided cough;' every urchin suspended his cat-call; and 'the boldest held
his breath for a time.' Our vocalist looked at the leader of the orchestra
and his fellow-fiddlers, and commenced, in harmony with their instruments.
How touching was that song! I shall never have my soul so enrapt again.
That _freshness_ of young admiration possessed my spirit which can come
but once. The air was '_The Braes of Balquither_,' a charming melody,
meetly wedded to the noble lines of TANNEHILL; and enthusiasm was at its
height when the singer had concluded the following stanza, almost sublime
in its picturesque beauty:
'When the rude wintry wind wildly raves round our dwelling,
And the roar of the lion on the night-breeze is swelling,
Then so merrily we'll sing, while the storm rattles o'er us,
Till the dear shealing ring with the light-lilting chorus!'
The air was old as the hills, but like all Scottish melodies, as lasting
too. To every body the songs of Scotland are grateful; and the universal
attachment to them arises from their beautiful simplicity, deep pathos,
and unaffected, untrammelled melody. The romantic sway of the songs of
Scotland over her sons when 'far awa' is to me no marvel. If they possess
the power to thrill or to subdue the hearts of those who have never
stepped upon the soil of that glorious country, is it at all surprising
that they should exert a powerful influence over the native-born, who
associate those airs with the purple heath, the blue loch, the hazy
mountain-top, and the valley sleeping below?
'What sweet tears dim the eyes unshed,
What wild vows falter on the tongue,
When 'Scots wha ha' wi' WALLACE bled,'
Or 'Auld Lang Syne' is sung!'
The association however is touching, not _alone_ because it awakens old
recollections, but because the music is _natural_; it is the language of
the heart. Affectation has not interpopolated tortuous windings and trills
and shakes, to mar its beauty, and to clip the full melodious notes of
their fair proportions. It is pleasant to think that fashion, though never
so potent, can neither divert nor lessen the popular attachment to the
simpler melodies. We have the authority of the WOODS, WILSON, SINCLAIR,
POWER, and other eminent artists for stating that 'Black-eyed Susan,'
'John Anderson my Jo,' 'The Last Rose of Summer,' and kindred airs, could
always 'bring down the house,' no matter what the antagonistical musical
attraction might be. We could wish that the VENERABLE TAURUS, or 'OLD
BULL,' as many persons call him, would take a hint from this. Let him try
it once; and we venture to say that no one, however uninitiated, will
again retire from his splendid performances as a country friend of ours
did lately, assigning as a reason: 'I waited till about ha'-past nine; and
_then_ he hadn't got done _tunin' his fiddle_!' A touch of 'music for the
general heart' would have enchained him till morning. CHRISTOPHER NORTH,
we perceive, in the last BLACKWOOD, fully enters into the spirit of our
predilection. He has just returned from a concert of fashionable music,
where he 'tried to faint, that he might be carried out, but didn't know
how to do it,' and was compelled to sit with compressed lips, and listen
to 'sounds from flat shrill signorinas, quavering to distraction,' for two
long hours. When he gets _home_, however, he 'feeds fat his grudge'
against modern musical affectations. Let us condense a few of his
objurgations:
'It is a perfect puzzle to us by what process the standard of
music has become so lowered, as to make what is ordinarily served
up under that name be received as the legitimate descendant of
harmony. There is but one step from the sublime to the ridiculous,
and this entrancing art, it seems, has taken it; sorely
dislocating its graceful limbs, and injuring its goodly
proportions in the unseemly escapade. We hate your crashing,
clumsy chords, and utterly spit at and defy chromatic passages,
from one end of the instrument to the other, and back again;
flats, sharps, and most appropriate 'naturals,' spattered all over
the page. The essential spirit of discord seems to be let loose on
our modern music. Music to soothe! the idea is obsolete. There is
music to excite, much to irritate one, and much more to drive a
really musical soul stark mad; but none to soothe, save that which
is drawn from the hiding-places of the past. There is no repose,
no refreshment to the mind, in our popular compositions. There is
to us more of touching pathos, heart-thrilling expression, in some
of the old psalm-tunes, feelingly played, than in a whole batch of
modernisms. The strains go _home_, and the 'fountains of the great
deep are broken up;' the great deep of unfathomable feeling, that
lies far, far below the surface of the world-hardened heart; and
as the unwonted yet unchecked tear starts to the eye, the softened
spirit yields to their influence, and shakes off the moil of
earthly care; rising, purified and spiritualized, into a clearer
atmosphere.'
* * * * *