Complete Fictional Works of Washington Irving (Illustrated) (206 page)

LETTER
V.

SIR,

As I was sitting quietly by my fireside the other morning, nursing my wounded shin, and reading to my cousin, Jack Stylish, a chapter or two from Chesterfield’s Letters, I received the following epistle from my friend Andrew Quoz; who, hearing that I talked of paying the actors a visit, and shaking my cane over their heads, has written the following letter, part of which is strongly in their defence.

To
Jonathan Oldstyle,
Gent.

My Dear Friend, I perceive by the late papers, you have been entertaining the town with remarks on the Theatre. As you do not seem from your writings to be much of an adept in the Thespian arcana, permit me to give you a few hints for your information.

The Theatre, you observe, begins to answer all the purposes of a coffeehouse. Here you are right; it is the polite lounge, where the idle and curious resort, to pick up the news of the fashionable world, to meet their acquaintances, and to show themselves off to advantage. As to the dull souls who go for the sake of the play, why, if their attention is interrupted by the conversation of their neighbours, they must bear it with patience; it is a custom authorized by fashion. Persons who go for the purpose of chatting with their friends are not to be deprived of their amusement;
they have paid their dollar,
and have a right to entertain themselves as well as they can. As to those who are annoyed by their talking, why they need not listen to it;
let them mind their own business.

You are surprised at so many persons using opera-glasses, and wish to know whether they were all near-sighted. Your cousin, Jack Stylish, has not explained that matter sufficiently, for though many
mount
glasses because it is
the go,
yet I am told that several do it to enable them to distinguish the countenances of their friends across our scantily illuminated Theatre. I was considerably amused the other evening with an honest tar, who had stationed himself in front of the gallery, and with an air of affected foppishness, was reconnoitring the house through a pocket telescope. I could not but like his notion, tor really the gods are so elevated among the clouds, that unless they are unusually strong of vision, I can’t tell how they manage to discern with the naked eye what is passing in the little painted world below them.

I think you complain of the deficiency of the music; and say that we want a greater variety, and more of it. But you must know that, though this might have been a grievance in old times, when people attended to the musicians, it is a thing of but little moment at present; our orchestra is kept principally for form sake. There is such a continual noise and bustle between the acts, that it is difficult to hear a note; and if the musicians were to get up a new piece of the finest melody, so nicely tuned are the ears of their auditors, that I doubt whether nine hearers out of ten would not complain on leaving the house, that they had been bored to death with the same old pieces they have heard two or three years back.: Indeed, many who go to the theatre carry their own music with them; and we are so often delighted with the crying of children by way of glee, and such coughing and sneezing from various parts of the house by way of chorus, not to mention the regale of a sweet symphony from a sweep or two in the gallery, and occasionally a full piece, in which nasal, vocal,
whistling and thumping
powers are admirably exerted and blended, that what want we of an orchestra? - In your remarks on the actors, my dear friend, let me beg of you to be cautious.
I
would not for the world that you should
degenerate
into a critic. The critics, my dear Jonathan, are the very pests of society; they rob the actor of his reputation — the public of their amusement; they open the eyes of their readers to a full perception of the faults of our performers, they reduce our feelings to a state of miserable refinement, and destroy entirely all the enjoyments in which our coarser sensations delighted. I can remember the time when I could hardly keep my seat through laughing at the wretched buffoonery, the merry-andrew tricks, and the unnatural grimaces played off by one of our theatric Jack Puddings; when I was struck with awful admiration at the roaring and ranting of a buskined hero, and hung with rapture on every word, while he was “tearing a passion to tatters — to very rags!” I remember the time when he who could make the queerest mouth, roll his eyes, and twist his body with the most hideous distortions, was surest to please. Alas! how changed the times, or rather how changed the taste; I can now sit with the gravest countenance, and look without a smile on all such
mimicry
; their skipping, their squinting, their shrugging, their snuffling, delight not me; and as to their ranting and roaring,

“I’d rather hear a brazen candlestick turned,

Or a dry wheel grate on the axletree,”

than any such fustian efforts to attain a shallow gallery applause.

Now, though I confess these critics have reformed the manners of the actors, as well as the tastes of the audience, so that these absurdities are almost banished from the New York stage, yet do I think they have employed a most unwarrantable liberty.

A critic, my dear sir, has no more right to expose the faults of an actor, than he has to detect the deceptions of a juggler, or the impositions of a quack. All trades must live and as long as the public are satisfied to admire the tricks of the juggler, to swallow the drugs of the quack, or to applaud the fustian of the actor, whoever attempts to undeceive them, does but curtail the pleasures of the latter, and deprive the former of their bread.

Ods-bud! hath not an actor eyes, and shall he not
wink
? — hath not an actor teeth, and shall he not grin? — feet, and shall he-not stamp? — lungs, and shall he not roar? — breast, and shall he not slap it? — hair, and shall he not
club
it: Is he not fed with plaudits from the gods? delighted with thumpings from the groundlings? annoyed by hisses from the boxes?

You censure his follies, does he not complain? If you take away his bread, will he not starve? If you starve him, will he not die? And if you kill him, will not his wife and seven small infants, six at her back and one at her breast, rise up and cry vengeance against you? Ponder these things seriously my friend Oldstyle, and you will agree with me that, as the actor is the most meritorious and faultless, so is the critic the most cruel and sanguinary character in the world—” as I will show you more fully in my next. Your loving friend, ANDREW QUOZ.

From the tenor and conclusion of these remarks of my friend, Mr. Andrew Quoz, they may not improperly be called the “Rights of Actors;” his arguments are, I confess, very forcible, but, as they are entirely
new
to me, I shall not hastily make up my mind. In the mean time, as my leg is much better, I believe I shall hobble to the theatre on Monday evening, borrow a seat in a side box, and observe how the actors conduct themselves. —

JONATHAN OLDSTYLE.

LETTER V
I.

SIR,

I MENTIONED in my last my intention of visiting the Theatre on Monday night. I accordingly reached there, with the assistance of Jack Stylish, who procured for me in one of the boxes an uncomfortable and dirty seat, which, however, I found as good as any of my neighbours. In the pit I was determined never again to venture. The little Frenchman, mentioned in my former remarks, had adopted the same resolution; for, on casting my eyes around the Theatre, I recognised his sharp phiz, and pinched up cocked hat, peering over the ledge of the Shakespeare. The poor little fellow had not changed his place for the better; a brawny Irishman was leaning with his arms a-kimbo on his shoulders, and coolly surveying the audience, unmindful of the writhings and expostulations of the irritated little Gaul, whose chin was pressed hard upon the front of the box, and his small black eyes twinkling with fury and suffocation. How he disengaged himself I do not know, for my attention was just then called away by a different object; and on turning around some time afterwards, Monsieur had disappeared.

I found every thing wore its old appearance. The same
silence, order,
and
regularity
prevailed, as on my former visit. The central chandelier hung unmolested in the heavens, setting off to advantage the picture of Mr. Anybody, with which it is adorned, and shedding a melancholy ray into that den in which (if we may judge from the sounds that issue thence) so many troubled spirits are confined.

I had marched into the Theatre through rows of tables heaped up with delicacies of every kind — here, a pyramid of apples or oranges, invited the playful palate of the dainty; while there, a regiment of mince pies and custards, promised a more substantial regale to the hungry. I entered the box, and looked around with astonishment — not a grinder but had its employment. The crackling of nuts, and the craunching of apples, saluted my ears on every side. Surely, thought I, never was an employment followed up with more assiduity, than that of gormandizing; already it pervades every public place of amusement; nay, it even begins to steal into our churches, where many a mouthful is munched in private; and few have any more objection to eat than laugh
in their sleeves.

The eating mania prevails through every class of society; not a soul but has caught the infection. Eating clubs are established in every street and alley, and it is impossible to turn a corner without hearing the hissing of frying-pans, winding the savoury steams of roast and boiled, or seeing some hungry genius bolting raw oysters in the middle of the street. I expect we shall shortly carry our knives and forks, like the Chinese do their chop-sticks, in our pockets.

I was interrupted in my meditations by Jack Stylish, who proposed that we might take a peep into the
lounging-room,
the dashing appearance of which Jack described in high terms; I willingly agreed to his proposal. —

The room perfectly answered my expectations, and was a-piece with the rest of the Theatre: the high finish of the walls, the windows fancifully decorated with red baize and painted canvas, and the
sumptuous
wooden benches placed around it, had a most inviting appearance.

I drew the end of one of them near to an elegant stove that stood in the centre of the room, and seating myself on it, stretched my lame leg over a chair; placing my hands on the head of my cane, and resting my chin upon them, I began to amuse myself by reconnoitring the company, and snuffing up the delightful perfume of French brandy, Holland gin, and Spanish segars.

I found myself in a circle of young gentry, who appeared to have something in agitation, by their winking and nodding; at the same time I heard a confused whispering around me, and could distinguish the words, smoke his wig — twig his silver buckles — old quiz — cane — cock’d hat — queer phiz — and a variety of others, by which I soon found I was in bad quarters. Jack Stylish seemed equally uneasy with myself, for though he is fond of fun himself, yet I believe the young dog has too much love for his old relation, to make him the object of his mirth. To get me away, he told me my friend Quoz was at the lower end of the room, and seemed, by his looks, anxious to speak with me; we accordingly joined him, and finding that the curtain was about rising, we adjourned to the box together. —

In our way, I exclaimed against the indecorous manner of the young men of the present day; the impertinent remarks on the company in which they continually indulge; and the cant phrases with which their shallow conversation is continually interlarded. Jack observed, that I had popp’d among a set of
hard boys;
yes, master Stylish, said I, turning round to him abruptly, and I observed by your winks and grins, that you are better acquainted with them than I could wish. Let me tell you, honest friend, if ever I catch you indulging in such despicable fopperies, and hankering after the company of these disrespectful youngsters, I will discard you from my affections entirely. By this time we had reached our box, so I left my cousin Jack to digest what I had just said; and I hope it may have weight with him; though I fear, from the thoughtless gaiety of his disposition, and his knowledge of the strong hold he has in my foolish old heart, my menaces will make but little impression.

We found the play already commenced.

I was particularly delighted with the appearance and manners of one of the-female performers. What ease, what grace, what elegance of deportment — this is not acting, cousin Jack, said I — this is reality.

After the play, this lady again came forward, and delivered a ludicrous epilogue. I was extremely sorry to find her step so far out of that graceful line of character, in which she is calculated to shine; and I perceived, by the countenances around me, that the sentiment was universal.

Ah! said I, how much she forgets what is due to her dignity. That charming countenance was never made to be so unworthily distorted; nor that graceful person and carriage to represent the awkward movements of hobbling decrepitude. Take this word of advice, fair lady, from an old man, and a
friend:
Never, if you wish to retain that character of elegance you so deservedly possess — never degrade yourself by assuming the part of a mimic. ——

The curtain rose for the afterpiece. Out skipped a
jolly Merry Andrew.
Aha! said I
,
here is the
Jack-pudding.
I see he has forgot his broomstick and gridiron; he’ll compensate for these wants, I suppose, by his wit and humour. But where is his master, the Quack? He’ll be here presently, said Jack Stylish; he s a queer old codger; his name’s Puffaway; here’s to be a rare roasting match, and this quizzical looking fellow turns the spit. The Merry Andrew now began to deal out his speeches with great rapidity; but, on a sudden, pulling
off
a black hood that covered his face, who should I recognize but my old acquaintance, the
portly gentleman.

I started back with astonishment.
Sic transit gloria mundi!
exclaimed I, with a melancholy shake of the head. Here is a
dreary
, but true picture, of the vicissitudes of life one night paraded in regal robes, surrounded with a
splendid train
of nobility; the next, degraded to a poor
Jack-pudding,
and without even a
gridiron
to help himself. What think you of this, my friend Quoz? said I; think you an actor has any right to sport with the
feelings
of his audience, by presenting them with such
distressing
contrasts. Honest Quoz, who is of the melting mood, shook his head ruefully, and said nothing. I, however, saw the tear of
sympathy
tremble in his eye, and honoured him for his
sensibility.

The
Merry Andrew
went on with his part, and my pity increased as he progressed; when, all of a sudden, he exclaimed, “And as to
Oldstyle
, I wish him to old Nick.” My blood mounted into my cheeks at this insolent mention of my name. And what think you of
this,
friend Quoz? exclaimed I, vehemently: I presume this is one of your “rights of actors.” I suppose we are now to have the stage a vehicle for lampoons and slanders; on which our fellow citizens are to be caricatured by the clumsy hand of every dauber who can hold a brush! Let me tell you, Mr. Andrew Quoz, I have known the time when such insolence would have been hooted from the stage.

After some persuasion, I resumed my seat, and attempted to listen patiently to the rest of the afterpiece; but I was so disgusted with the Merry Andrew, that in spite of all his skipping, and jumping, and turning on his heel, I could not yield him a smile.

Among the other original characters of the dramatis personae, we were presented with an ancient maiden; and entertained with jests and remarks from the buffoon and his associates, containing equal
wit
and
novelty.
But jesting apart, I think these attempts to injure female happiness, at once cruel and unmanly, I have ever been an enthusiast in my attachment to, the air sex — I have ever thought them possessed of the strongest claims to our admiration, our tenderness, and our protection. But when to these are added still stronger claims — when we see them aged and infirm, solitary and neglected, without a partner to support them down the descent of life — cold indeed must be that heart, and unmanly that spirit, that can point the shafts of ridicule? at their defenceless bosoms — that can poison the few drops of comfort heaven has poured into their cup.

The form of my sister Dorothy presented itself to my imagination; her hair silvered by time, but her face unwrinkled by sorrow or care. She “hath borne her faculties so meekly,” that age has marked no traces on her forehead. Amiable sister of my heart! cried I, who hast jogged with me through so many years of existence, is this to be the recompense of all thy virtues; art thou, who never, in thought or deed, injured the feelings of another, to have thy own massacred, by the jarring insults of those to whom thou, shouldst look for honour and protection?

Away with such despicable trumpery — such shallow, worn-out attempts to obtain applause from the unfeeling. I’ll no more of it; come along, friend Quoz; if we stay much longer, I suppose we shall find our courts of justice insulted, and attempts to ridicule the characters of private persons! Jack Stylish entreated me to stay, and see the addition the manager had made to his live stock, of an ass, a goose, and a monkey. Not I, said I, I’II see no more. I accordingly hobbled off with my friend, Mr. Andrew Quoz. Jack declared he would stay behind and see the end of the joke. On our way home, I asked friend Quoz, how he could justify such clumsy attempts at personal satire. He seemed, however, rather reserved in his answers, and informed me, he would write his sentiments on the subject.

The next morning, Jack Stylish related to me the conclusion of the piece. How several actors went into a wheel one after another, and after a little grinding, were converted into asses, geese, and monkeys, except the
Merry Andrew,
who was found such a
tough jockey,
that the wheel could not digest him, so he came out as much a Jack-pudding as ever.