Complete Fictional Works of Washington Irving (Illustrated)

by Washington Irving

  Our conversation was here interrupted by the ringing of a bell. Now for the play, said my companion. No, said I, it is only for the musicians. These worthy gentlemen then came crawling out of their holes, and began, with very solemn and important phizzes, strumming and tuning their instruments in the usual style of discordance, to the great entertainment of the audience. What tune is that? asked my neighbour, covering his ears. This, said I, is no tune; it is only a pleasing symphony, with which we are regaled; as a preparative. For my part, though I admire the effect of contrast, I think they might as well play it in their cavern under the stage. The bell rung a second time — and then began the tune in reality; but I could not help observing, that the countryman was more diverted with the queer grimaces and contortions of countenance exhibited by the musicians, than their melody. What I heard of the music, I liked very well; (though I was told by one of my neighbours, that the same pieces have been played every night for these three years;) but it was often overpowered by the gentry in the gallery, who vociferated loudly for Moll in the Wad, Tally ho the Grinders, and several other airs more suited to their tastes.

  I observed-that every part of the house has its different department. The good folks of the gallery have all the trouble of ordering the music; (their directions, however, are not more frequently followed than they deserve).

  The mode by which they issue their mandates is stamping, hissing, roaring, whistling; and, when the musicians are refractory, groaning in cadence. They also have the privilege of demanding a bow from John, (by which name they designate every servant at the theatre, who enters to move a table or snuff a candle); and of detecting those cunning dogs who peep from behind the curtain.

  By the by, my honest friend was much puzzled about the curtain itself. He wanted to know why that carpet was hung up in the theatre? I assured him it was no carpet, but a very fine curtain. And what, pray, may be the meaning of that gold head, with the nose cut off, that I see in front of it? The meaning — why, really, I can’t tell exactly — though my cousin, Jack Stylish, says there is a great deal of meaning in it. But surely you like the design of the curtain? The design, — why really I can see no design about it, unless it is to be brought down about our ears by the weight of those gold heads, and that heavy cornice with which it is garnished. I began now to be uneasy for the credit of our curtain, and was afraid he would perceive the mistake of the painter, in putting a harp in the middle of the curtain, and calling it a mirror; but his attention was happily called away by the candle-grease from the chandelier, over the centre of the pit, dropping on his clothes. This he loudly complained of, and declared his coat was brand new. How, my friend? said I; we must put up with a few trifling inconveniences, when in the pursuit of pleasure. True, said he; but I think I pay pretty dear for it; — first to give six shillings at the door, and then to have my head battered with rotten apples, and my coat spoiled by candle-grease; by and by I shall have my other clothes dirtied by sitting down, as I perceive every body mounted on the benches. I wonder if they could not see as well if they were all to stand upon the floor.

  Here I could no longer defend our customs, for I could scarcely breathe while thus surrounded by a host of strapping fellows, standing with their dirty boots on the seats of the benches. The little Frenchman, who thus found a temporary shelter from the missive compliments of his gallery friend, was the only person benefitted. At last the bell again rung, and the cry of down, down — hats off, was the signal for the commencement of the play.

  If, Mr. Editor, the garrulity of an old fellow is not tiresome, and you choose to give this view of a New-York Theatre a place in your paper, you may, perhaps, hear further from your friend,

  JONATHAN OLDSTYLE.

  LETTER IV.

  SIR,

  I SHALL now conclude ray remarks on the Theatre, which I am afraid you will think are spun out to an unreasonable length; for this I can give no other excuse, than that it is the privilege of old folks to be tiresome, and so I shall proceed.

  I had chosen a seat in the pit, as least subject to annoyance from a habit of talking loud that has lately crept into our theatres, and which particularly prevails in the boxes. In old times, people went to the theatre for the sake of the play and acting; but I now find that it begins to answer the purpose of a coffeehouse, or fashionable lounge, where many indulge in loud conversation, without any regard to the pain it inflicts on their more attentive neighbours. As this conversation is generally of the most trifling kind, it seldom repays the latter for the inconvenience they suffer, of not hearing one half of the play. I found, however, that I had not much bettered my situation; but that every part of the house has its share of evils. Besides those I had already suffered, I was yet to undergo a new kind of torment. I had got in the neighbourhood of a very obliging personage, who had seen the play before, and was kindly anticipating every scene, and informing those that were about him what was to take place; to prevent, I suppose, way disagreeable surprise to which they would otherwise have been liable. Had there been any thing of a plot to the play, this might have been a serious inconvenience; but, as the piece was entirely innocent of every thing of the kind, it was not of so much importance. As I generally contrive to extract amusement from every thing; that happens, I now entertained myself with remarks on the self-important air with which he delivered his information, and the distressed and impatient looks of his unwilling auditors. I also observed, that he made several mistakes in the course of his communications. “Now you’ll see,” said he, “the queen in all her glory, surrounded with her courtiers, fine as fiddles, and ranged on each side of the stage, like rows of pewter dishes.” On the contrary, we were presented with the portly gentleman and his ragged regiment of banditti. Another time he promised us a regale from the fool; but we were presented with a very fine speech from the queen’s grinning counsellor.

  My country neighbour was exceedingly delighted with the performance, though he did not half the time understand what was going forward. He sat staring, with open month, at the portly gentleman, as he strode across the stage, and in furious rage drew his sword on the white lion. “By George, but that’s a brave fellow,” said he, when the act was over; “that’s what you call first-rate acting, I suppose.

  Yes, said I, it is what the critics of the present day admire, but it is not altogether what I like; you should have seen an actor of the old school do this part; he would have given it to some purpose; you would have had such ranting and roaring, and stamping and storming; to be sure, this honest man gives us a bounce now and then in the true old style, but in the main he seems to prefer walking on plain ground to strutting on the stills used by the tragic heroes of my day. This is the chief of what passed between me and my companion during the play and entertainment, except an observation of his, that it would be well if the manager was to drill his nobility and gentry now and then, to enable them to go through their evolutions with more grace and spirit. This put me in mind of something my cousin Jack said to the same purpose, though he went too far in his zeal for reformation. He declared,” he wished sincerely one of the critics of the day would take all the slab-shabs of the theatre, (like cats in a bag,) and twig the whole bunch.” I can’t say but I like Jack’s idea well enough, though it is rather a severe one.

  He might have remarked another fault that prevails among our performers (though I don’t know whether it occurred this evening,) of dressing for the same piece in the fashions of different ages and countries, so that while one actor is strutting about the stage in the cuirass and helmet of Alexander, another, dressed up in a gold-laced coat and bag-wig, with a chapeau de bras under his arm, is taking snuff in the fashion of one or two centuries back, and perhaps a third figures in Suwarrow boots, in the true style of modern buckism.

  But what, pray, has become of the noble Marquis of Montague, and Earl of Warwick? (said the countryman, after the entertainment was concluded). Their names make a great appearance on the bill, but I do not recollect having seen them in the
course of the evening. Very true — I had quite forgot those worthy personages; but I suspect they have been behind the scenes, smoking a pipe with our other friends incog., the Tripolitans. We must not be particular now-a-days, my friend. When we are presented with a battle of Hexham without fighting, and a Tripolitan afterpiece without even a Mahometan whisker, we need not be surprised at having an invisible marquis or two thrown into the bargain.—”But what is your opinion of the house?” said I; “don t you think it a very substantial, solid-looking building, both inside and out? Observe what a fine effect the dark colouring of the wall has upon the white faces of the audience, which glare like the stars in a dark night. And then, what can be more pretty than the paintings in the front of the boxes, those little masters and misses sucking their thumbs, and making mouths at the audience?” —

  “Very fine, upon my word. And what, pray, is the use of that chandelier, as you call it, that is hung up among the clouds, and has showered down its favours upon my coat?”

  “Oh, that is to illumine the heavens, and set off to advantage the little periwig’d cupids, tumbling head over heels, with which the painter has decorated the dome. You see we have no need of the chandelier below, as here the house is perfectly well illuminated; but I think it would have been, a great saving of candle-light, if the manager had ordered the painter, among his other pretty designs, to paint a moon up there, or if he was to hang up that sun with whose intense light our eyes were greatly annoyed in the beginning of the afterpiece?”

  “But don’t you think, after all, there is rather a — sort of a — kind of a heavyishness about the house? Don’t you think it has a little of an under groundish appearance?”

  To this I could make no answer. I must confess I have often thought myself the house had a dungeon-like look; so I proposed to him to make our exit, as the candles were putting out, and we should be left in the dark. Accordingly, groping our way through the dismal subterraneous passage that leads from the pit, and passing through the ragged bridewell-looking antechamber, we once more emerged into the purer air of the park, when bidding my honest countryman good night, I repaired home, considerably pleased with the amusements of the evening.

  Thus, Mr. Editor, have I given you an account of the chief incidents that occurred in my visit to the Theatre. I have shown you a few of its accommodations and its imperfections. Those who visit it more frequently may be able to give you a better statement.

  I shall conclude with a few words of advice for the benefit of every department of it. I would recommend —

  To the actors — less etiquette, less fustian, less buckram.

  To the orchestra — new music, and more of it.

  To the pit — patience, clean benches, and umbrellas.

  To the boxes — less affectation, less noise, less coxcombs.

  To the gallery — less grog, and better constables; — and,

  To the whole house, inside and out, a total reformation.

  And so much for the Theatre.

  JONATHAN OLDSTYLE.

  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.