Complete Fictional Works of Washington Irving (Illustrated) (207 page)

LETTER VI
I.

SIR,

I HAD just put on my spectacles, and mended my pen, to give you an account of a visit I made some time since, with friend Quoz and my sister Dorothy, to a ball, when I was interrupted by the following letter from the former.

My friend Quoz, who is what the world calls a
knowing man,
is extremely fond of giving his opinion in every affair. He displays in this epistle more than usual knowledge of his subject, and seems to exert all his argumentative talents to enforce the importance of his advice. I give you his letter without further comment, and shall postpone my description of the ball to another opportunity.

To
JONATHAN OLDSTYLE,
Gent.

My Dear Friend,

I once more address you on a subject that I fear will be found irksome, and may chafe that testy disposition (forgive my freedom) with which you are afflicted. Exert, however, the good humour of which, at bottom, I know you to have a plentiful stock, and hear me patiently through. It is the anxious fear I entertain of your sinking into the gloomy abyss of criticism, on the brink of which you are at present tottering, that urges me to write.

I would set before you the rights and wrongs of an
actor;
and by painting in strong colours the peculiarity of his situation, call your good sense into action. —

The world, my friend Oldstyle, has ever been prone to consider the theatrical profession in a degraded point of view. What first gave rise to this opinion, I am at loss to conceive; but I consider it as the relic of one of those ancient prejudices which the good sense of the world is daily discarding; and I flatter myself it will in a little time be totally exploded. Why the actor should be considered inferior in point of respectability to the poet, the painter, or any other person who exerts his talents in delineating character, or in exhibiting the various operations of the human mind, I cannot imagine. I know you, friend Oldstyle, to be a man of too liberal sentiments not to be superior to these little prejudices; and also one who regards an actor, provided his private character be good, with equal respect as the member of any other profession. \ et you are not quite aware of the important privileges solely attached to the dramatic performer. These I will endeavour to point out.

The works of a poet or painter you may freely criticise — nay, they offer them for that purpose — they listen attentively to your observations, and profit by your censures. But beware how you exercise such conduct towards an actor: he needs no instruction — his own
impartial
judgment is sufficient to detect and amend all his imperfections. Attempt to correct his errors, and you ruin him at once — he’ll
starve
to spite you; he is like a decayed substance, that crumbles at the touch.

No, Sir — when an actor is on the stage, he is in his own house — it is his castle — he then has yon in his power — he may there
bore
you with his buffoonery, or insult you with his pointed remarks, with perfect impunity.

You, my friend, who are rather apt to be dissatisfied, may call it hard treatment to be thus annoyed, and yet compensate the annoyer for his trouble. You may say, that as you pay an equivalent for your amusement, you should have the liberty of directing the actor in his attempts; and as the Chinese does his ear-tickler, tell him when his instrument offends, and how he overdoes himself in the operation. This is an egregious mistake: you are obliged to him for his
condescension
in exerting his talents for your instruction; and as to your money, why he only takes it to lessen
in part
the weight of your obligation. An actor is, as I before observed, competent to judge of his own abilities; he may undertake whatever character he pleases, tragedy, comedy, or pantomime, however ill adapted his audience may think him to sustain it: He may rant and roar, and wink and grin, and fret and fume his hour upon the stage, and “who shall say nay?” He is paid by the manager for using his lungs and limbs, and the more he exerts them, the better does he fulfil the engagement, and the harder does he w
ork
for his living — and who shall deprive him of his
hard-earned
bread?”

How many an honest, lazy genius, has been flogged by these unfeeling critics into a cultivation of his talents, and attention to his profession! — how have they doomed him to hard study and unremitting exertion! — how have they prejudiced the public mind, so that what might once have put an audience in convulsions of laughter, now excites nothing but a slight pattering from the hands of the little shavers who are rewarded with seals in the gallery, for their trouble in keeping the, boxes. Oh! Mr. Oldstyle, it cuts me to the soul to see a poor actor stamp and storm, and slap his forehead, his breast, his pocket holes, all in vain; to see him throw himself in some attitude of distraction or despair, and there wait in fruitless expectation the applauses of his friends in the gallery. In such cases, I always take care and clap him myself, to enable him to quit his posture, and resume his part with credit.

You was much irritated the other evening, at what you termed au ungenerous and unmanly attempt to bring forward an ancient maiden in a ridiculous point of view. But I don’t see why that should be made a matter of complaint. Has it not been done time out of mind? Is it not sanctioned by daily custom in private life? Is not the character of Aunt Tabitha, in the farce, the same we have laughed at in hundreds of dramatic pieces? Since, then, the author has but travelled in the same
beaten track
of character so many have trod before him, I see not why he should be blamed as severely as if he had all the
guilt of originality
upon his shoulders.

You may say that it is cruel to sport with the feelings of any class of society; that folly affords sufficient field for wit and satire to work upon, without resorting to misfortune for matter of ridicule; that female sensibility should ever be sacred from the lash of sarcasm, &c. But this is all stuff — all cant.

If an author is too indolent or too stupid to seek new sources for remark, he is surely excusable in employing the ideas of others for his own use and benefit. But I find I have digressed imperceptibly into the “rights of
authors,”
so let us return to our subject.

An actor, when he “holds the mirror up to nature,” may, by his manœuvres, twist and turn it so as to represent the object in any shape he pleases — nay, even give a caricature where the author intended a resemblance; he may blur it with his breath, or soil it with his dirty fingers, so that the object may have a colouring from the glass in which it is viewed, entirely different from its natural appearance. To be plain, my friend, an actor has a right, whenever he thinks his author not sufficiently explicit, to assist him by his own
wit
and
abilities;
and if by these means the character should become quite different from what was originally intended, and in fact belong more to the
actor
than the
author,
the actor deserves high credit for his ingenuity. And even though his additions are
quaint
and fulsome, yet his
intention
is highly praiseworthy, and deserves ample encouragement.

Only think, my dear sir, how many snug little domestic arrangements are destroyed by the officious interference of these ever dissatisfied critics. The honest
King of Scotland,
who used to dress for market and theatre at the same time, and wear with his kelt and plaid his half boots and black breeches, looking half king, half cobbler, has been obliged totally to dismiss the former from his royal service; yet I am happy to find, so obstinate is his attachment
to old habits,
that all their efforts have not been sufficient to dislodge him from the strong hold he has in the latter. They may force him from the boots — but nothing shall drive him out of the breeches, Consider, my friend, the puerile nature of such remarks. Is it not derogating from the elevated character of a critic, to take notice of clubbed wigs, red coats, black breeches, and half boots! Fie! fie upon it! I blush for the critics of the day, who consider it a matter of importance whether a Highlander should appear in breeches and boots, or an Otaheitan in the dress of a New York coxcomb. Trust me, friend Oldstyle, it is to the
manner,
not the
appearance
of an actor, we are to look; and as long as he performs his part well, (to use the words of my friend Sterne,) “it shall not be inquired whether he did it in a black coat or a red.” —

Believe me, friend Oldstyle, few of our modern critics can shew any substantial claim to the character they assume. Let me ask them one question — Have they ever been in Europe? Have they ever seen a Garrick, a Kemble, or a Siddons? If they have not, I can assure you, (upon the words of two or three of my friends,
the actors
,) they have no right to the title of critics. —

They may talk as much as they please about judgment, and taste, and feeling, but this is all nonsense. It has lately been determined,
(at the Theatre,)
that any one who attempts to decide upon such ridiculous principles, is an arrant
goose,
and deserves to be
roasted.
—

Having thus, friend Oldstyle, endeavoured in a feeble manner to show you a few of the rights of an actor, and of his wrongs; having mentioned his constant and
disinterested
endeavours to please the public, and how much better he knows what will please them, than they do themselves; having also depicted the cruel and persecuting nature of a critic; the continual restraint he lays on the harmless irregularity of the performer, and the relentless manner in which he obliges him to attend sedulously to his professional duty, through fear of censure — let me entreat you to pause! Open your eyes to the precipice on which you are tottering, and hearken to the earnest warning of —

Your, loving friend,

ANDREW Quoz.

My friend Quoz certainly writes with
feeling
; every line evinces that
acute sensibility
for which he has ever been remarked. X am, however, perfectly at a loss to conceive on what grounds he suspects me of a disposition to turn critic. My remarks hitherto have rather been the result of immediate impression than of critical examination. With my friend, Mr. Andrew Quoz, I begin to doubt the motives of our New-York critics; especially since I have, in addition to these arguments, the assurances of two or three doubtless
disinterested
actors, and an editor, who, Mr. Quoz tells me, is remarkable for his
candour
and
veracity
, that the critics are the most ‘presumptuous,’ ‘arrogant,’ ‘malevolent,’ ‘illiberal,’ ‘ungentlemanlike,’ ‘malignant,’ ‘rancorous,’ ‘villainous,’ ‘ungrateful,’ ‘crippled,’ ‘invidious,’ ‘detracting,’ ‘fabricating,’ ‘personal,’ ‘dogmatical,’ illegitimate,’ ‘tyrannical,’ ‘distorting,’ ‘spindle-shanked moppets, designing villains, and upstart ignorants.’ These, I say, and many other equally
high polished
appellations, have awakened doubts in my mind respecting the sincerity and justice of the critics; and lest my pen should unwittingly draw upon me the suspicion of having a hankering after criticism, I now wipe it carefully, lock it safely up, and promise not to draw it forth again till some new department of folly calls for my attention.

JONATHAN OLDSTYLE.

LETTER VII
I.

SIR,

I WAS calmly enjoying my toast and coffee some mornings ago, with my sister Dorothy and Jack Stylish, when we were surprised by the abrupt entrance of my friend, Mr. Andrew Quoz. By the particular expression of his
knowing phiz,
as cousin Jack calls it, I immediately perceived he was labouring with some important intelligence.

In one hand he held the Morning Chronicle, and with the forefinger of the other, pointed to a particular paragraph. I hastily put on my spectacles, and seized the paper with eager curiosity. Judge my surprise, Mr. Editor, on reading an act of our legislature, pronouncing any citizen of this State who shall send, bear, or accept a challenge, either verbal or written, disqualified from holding any office of honour or confidence, or of voting at any election within this State, &c. &c.

The paper fell from my hands — I turned my eyes to friend Andrew in mute astonishment. Quoz put his finger on his nose, and winking significantly, cried, “what do you think of this, my friend Jonathan?”

“Here is a catastrophe,” exclaimed I, in a melancholy tone. “Here is a damper for the mettlesome youths of the age. Spirit of chivalry, whither hast thou flown! Shade of Don Quixote, dost thou not look down with contempt on the degeneracy of the times!”

My sister Dorothy caught a sympathetic spark of enthusiasm; — deep read in all the volumes of ancient romance, and delighted with the glowing description of the heroic age, she had learned to admire the gallantry of former days, and mourned to see the last spark of chivalric fire thus rudely extinguished.

Alas! my brother, said she, to what a deplorable state are our young men reduced! how piteous must be their situation — with sensibilities so
easily injured,
and bosoms so
tremblingly alive
to the calls of honour and etiquette!

Indeed, my dear Dorothy, said I, I feel most deeply for their melancholy situation.

Deprived, in these dull, monotonous, peaceable times, of all opportunities of evincing, in the hardy contest of the tented field, that heroic flame that burns within their breasts; they were happy to vent the lofty fumings of their souls, in the more domestic and
less dangerous
encounters of the duel: — like the warrior in the fable, who, deprived of the pleasure of slaughtering armies, contented himself with cutting down cabbages. —

Here a solemn pause ensued. I called to mind all the tales I had heard or read of ancient knights; their amours, their quarrels, and their combats; how, on a fair summer’s morning, the knight of the Golden Goose met the knight of the Fiery Fiddle; how the knight of the Fiery Fiddle exclaimed in lofty tones, “whoever denies that Donna Fiddleosa is the most peerless beauty in the universe, must brave the strength of this arm!” how they both engaged with dreadful fury, and, after fighting till sunset, the knight of the Fiery Fiddle fell a martyr to his constancy; murmuring, in melodious accents, with his latest breath, the beloved name of Fiddleosa.

From these ancient engagements, I descended to others more modern in their dates, but equally important in their origins. I recalled the genuine politeness and polished ceremony with which duels were conducted in my youthful days; when that gentlemanly weapon,
the smallsword,
was in highest vogue. A challenge was worded with the most particular complaisance; and one that I have still in my possession, ends with the words, “
your friend and affectionate servant, Nicholas Stubbs
.” When the parties met on the field, the same decorum was observed; they pulled off their hats, wished one another a good day, and helped to draw off each other’s coats and boots, with the most respectful civility. Their fighting, too, was so handsomely conducted; no awkward movements; no eager and angry pushes; all cool, elegant, and graceful. Every thrust had its
sa-sa;
and a
ha-hah
lunged you gently through the body. Then nothing could equal the tenderness and attention with which à wounded antagonist was treated; his adversary, after wiping his sword deliberately, kindly supported him in his arms, examined his pulse, and inquired, with the most affectionate solicitude, “how he felt himself now?” Thus every thing was conducted in a well-bred, gentlemanly manner.

Our present customs, I cannot say I much admire;
— a twelve inch barrel pistol,
and
ounce ball,
are blunt, unceremonious affairs, and prevent that display of grace and elegance allowed by the small sword; besides, there is something so awkward, in having the muzzle of a pistol staring one full in the face, that I should think it might be apt to make some of our youthful heroes (feel rather disagreeable; unless, as I am told has been sometimes the case, the duel was fought by twilight.

The: ceremony of loading, priming, cocking, &c has not the most soothing effects on a person s feelings; and I am told that some of our warriors have been known to tremble, and make wry faces, during these preparations; though this has been attributed, and doubtless with much justice, to the violence of their wrath, and fierceness of their courage.

I had thus been musing for some time, when I broke silence at last, by hinting to friend Quoz, some of my objections to the mode of fighting with pistols.

Truly, my friend Oldstyle, said Quoz, I am surprised at your ignorance of modern customs; trust me, I know of no amusement that is, generally speaking, more harmless. To be sure, there may now and then a couple of determined fellows take the field, who resolve to do the thing in good earnest; but, in general, our fashionable duellists are content with only one discharge; and then, either they are poor shots, or their triggers pull hard, or they shut the wrong eye, or some other cause intervenes, so that it is ten, ay, twenty chances to one in their favour.

Here I begged leave to differ from friend Andrew. I am well convinced, said I, of the valour of our young men, and that they determine, when they march forth to the field, either to conquer or die; but it generally happens, that their seconds are of a more peaceable mind, and interpose after the first shot; but I am informed, that they come often very near being killed, having bullet holes through their hats and coats; which, like Falstaff’s hacked sword, are strong proofs of the serious nature of their encounters.

My sister Dorothy, who is of a humane and benevolent disposition, would, no doubt, detest the idea of duels, did she not regard them as the last gleams of those days of chivalry, to which she looks back with a degree of romantic enthusiasm. She now considered them as having received their deathblow; for how can even the challenges be conveyed, said she, when the very messengers are considered as principals in the offence?

Nothing more easy, said friend Quoz; — a man gives me the lie — very well; I tread on his toes in token of challenge; — he pulls my nose by way of acceptance; thus, you see, the challenge is safely conveyed without a third party. We then settle the mode in which satisfaction is to be given; as, for instance, we draw lots which of us must be slain to satisfy the demands of honour. Mr. A. or Mr. B., my antagonist, is to fall: well, madam, he stands below in the street; I run up to the garret window, and drop a brick upon his head; if he survives, well and good — if he falls, why nobody is to blame, it was purely accidental. Thus, the affair is settled, according to the common saying, to our mutual satisfaction.

Jack Stylish observed, that, as to Mr. Quoz’s project of dropping bricks on people’s heads, he considered it a vulgar substitute.

For his part, he thought it would be well for the legislature to amend their law respecting duels, and license them under proper restrictions; — That no persons should be allowed to fight, without taking out a regular license from what might be called the
Blood and Thunder Office;
— That they should be obliged to give two or three weeks notice of the intended combat in the newspapers That the contending parties should fight, till one of them fell; — and that the public should be admitted to
the show.
This, he observed, would, in some degree, be reviving the
spectacles
of antiquity, when the populace were regaled with the combats of gladiators. We have, at present, no games resembling those of the ancients, except, now and then, a bull or bear bait; and this would be a valuable addition to the list of our refined amusements.

I listened to their discourse in silence: yet I cannot but think, Mr. Editor, that this plan is entitled to some attention. Our young men fight, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, through
fear
of being branded with the epithet of
coward;
and since they fight to please the world, the world, being thus interested in their encounters, should be permitted to attend and judge in person of their conduct.

As I think the subject of importance, I take the liberty of requesting a corner in the Morning Chronicle, to submit it to the consideration of the public.

JONATHAN OLDSTYLE.