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 find
You 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 at Mr. 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 of Mr.
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 Virginia
Comedians,” 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 on a 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
awaited Mr. 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,” replied Mr. 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?” asked Mr. 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,” began Mr. Effingham, somewhat piqued, “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,” said Mr. 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, at the
_old_ theater near the capital, he announces. Truly we are improving,
really becoming civilized, in this barbarous _terra 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,” said
Mr. 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,” said Mr. 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 at Mr. 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.”
And Mr. 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,’ by Mr.
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, as Mr. Champ Effingham, just from London,
and conversant with all the celebrities there, has never heard of her
existence.”
“My dear Cousin Henrietta,” said Mr. 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 by Mr. 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 around the 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.
When Mr. 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 elegant _petit maître_ air 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, took Mr. 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 the _Prince of Morocco_, or _King 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 of _Bassanio_, 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 his associates”--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, embraced _Gratiano_ with courteous and lordly art, his friend
_Antonio_ offered 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 between _Portia_ and _Nerissa_ being
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 fellow _Antonio_ acts 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 box and 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 that
_Shylock_ really frightened me.”
“It was very well done; much like Shuter at Castle Garden. 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. _Shylock_ and _Antonio_
strut 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 of _Portia_, Miss Beatrice Hallam.
“Ah, yes,” he said, carelessly, “the same we were speculating upon
this morning. Let us see how _Portia_ looks, and what change the
footlights work in her face.”
He sat down in the corner of the stage upon a wicker chair and scanned
_Portia_ critically. 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, and Mr. 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, which Mr. 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 eyes Mr. Effingham sought the least trace
of confusion. She surveyed the audience, whilst the _Prince of
Morocco_ was uttering his speech, with perfect simplicity, but her
eyes not for a single moment rested on the young men collected at the
corner of the stage. For her they seemed to have no existence, and
she turned to the _Prince_ again. That gentleman having uttered his
prescribed number of lines, _Portia_ advanced 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 noble _Portia_, 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 of _Portia_. On the stage, too, she was the subject of many
comments, and this continued until _Lancelot_ made his appearance and
went through his speech; then _Portia_ reappeared with the _Prince_,
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, fair _Portia_, 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--play _Portia_.”
And the young woman, quietly disengaging her sleeve from Mr.
Effingham’s fingers, moved away to another part of the stage.
“Here is a pretty affair,” said Mr. 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 wishes to 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.”
_Portia_ entered next with the _Prince 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, surveying Mr. Effingham with an
indifferent glance, “I know you only very slightly.”
“Know me only slightly!” said Mr. 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 as _Portia_ disengaged 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, but _Portia_ at that moment
commenced her speech.
Thereafter the young woman came no more near Mr. Effingham, and
treated that gentleman’s moody glances with supreme disregard. What
was going on in Mr. 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 that Mr. 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 a low bow and said,
“Pardon me! You are a great actress.”
The play proceeded and ended amid universal applause. Mr. Hallam led
out _Portia_ in 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 of Mr. 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 which Mr. 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 and actresses, 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 and _out 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 incorporated with 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 “never
was 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 American stage 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 in New 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 attempt _Richard 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 the beginning 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 play _Richard 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 it had 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 name for 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
of Mr. Thomas J. McKee of New York. It is thought worthy of insertion
as a curiosity, and not as approving Mr. 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.
[Illustration: New-York, November 12, 1753.
By a Company of COMEDIANS,
At the New-Theatre, in _Nassau-Street_,
This Evening, being the 12th of _November_, will be presented,
_(By particular Desire)_
An _Historical Play_, call’d,
King RICHARD III.