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That night Mr. Effingham paced his room for more than
an hour in moody thought, troubled and out of humor, it
seemed, at something which had recently occurred. He kicked
out of his way every obstacle, and betrayed other unmistakable
evidences of ill-humor. At last, this annoyed state
of mind took to itself words and he muttered:

“An actress, forsooth, to so treat a gentleman! making
him the laughing-stock of every body by her insolent airs
of superiority! As if it were not a high compliment for
me to address her at all—a common Comedienne! One
would really say that it was presumption in me to speak
to one so much my superior. `Pardon me, sir—I have my
part to attend to!' and then those stupid country bumpkins
around me tittering! Let 'em! I thank heaven that their
mirth does not affect me—how insolent it was! And that
hiss from the knaves in the gallery. Presume to hiss a gentleman!
And who caused all this? By heaven! she shall
repent her insulting hauteur. Who is this woman who conducts
herself in such a manner toward a gentleman? Some low
woman, the daughter of that vulgar fellow Hallam: no lady,
a common actress! Suppose she did act well, and I don't
mean to say or think she is not a superior artist. Common
justice requires me to acknowledge her genius. But what of
that? Her attitude in the trial scene was fine!” continued Mr.
Effingham, thoughtfully, forgetting for a moment his indignation,
and returning in thought to the theatre. “How tender and
noble her countenance! what music in her voice! Never
have I seen such purity and truth upon the stage. By heaven!
she's no common actress! and I had to tell her so as
she went out! But how did she receive my high compliment,”
he said, returning to his grievances, “how did that respectful
address, `You are a great actress,' affect her? She looked at
me as carelessly and indifferently as if I had said `good morning,
' and inclined her head with the coldness of a princess

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speaking to her subject. Damn my blood!” said Mr. Effingham,
with unusual vehemence, “I'll make her repent it, and
she shall suffer for causing me this annoyance. It is ridiculous,
pitiable, silly: I, Mr. Champ Effingham, of Effingham
Hall, to annoy myself about a common actress—to be
treated with contemptuous indifference by a woman of her
grade!”

And Mr. Champ Effingham, of Effingham Hall, sent an
unfortunate cricket which stood in his path, flying across the
room. The cricket struck against a table which supported a
tall silver candlestick, and all came down with a crash. The
incident served the purpose of a partial vent to the young
man's irritation, and after some more growling and imprecations
he went to bed.

He made his appearance at the breakfast-table on the
next morning two hours after the squire had left it, and
received a remonstrance from Miss Alethea on his late
rising, with great indifference. Entering the library thereafter,
he found the squire, who had just returned, reading
the “Virginia Gazette.”

“Good morning, Champ, lazy as usual, I see,” said the
squire, good-humoredly; “but you were late returning from
Riverhead, which is a good excuse. How did you like the
play? we have not met, you know, since.”

“I was charmed with it,” said Mr. Effingham, “all but
Portia acted their parts excellently, I thought.”

“All but Portia!”

Mr. Effingham nodded.

“Why,” continued the squire, “I thought her acting
excellent.”

“Poor, sir—poor—very.”

“What fault did you find—come, Mr. London critic?”

“It was overacted.”

“How?”

“It took up too much room in the piece.”

“Why Portia is a chief character in the play.”

“Yes—but not the only one.”

“You are very critical.”

“I always was.”

“And what other fault did you find? Was Miss Hallam
ugly?”

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“No—not ugly, exactly—but dreadfully affected and
stiff.”

“I do not agree with you.”

“You liked her, then?”

“Exceedingly,” said the honest squire; “I thought
her a young woman of rare beauty—'

“Bah!”

“And great talents.”

“Well,” said Mr. Effingham, “tastes proverbially differ.
I thought her abominable.”

“Were you not speaking to her at one time?”

“Speaking to Portia?”

“Yes. I could not see very well through the group
around her, but thought I saw her speaking to you.”

“She did speak to me.”

“Do you know her?”

“At least she says we are not acquainted.”

“Here's a mystery!”

“Not at all. I met her some days since riding out.
She had lost her way, and I directed her to Williamsburg.”

“I hope you treated her with courtesy.”

“As courteously as a subject could a queen, and got
snubbed last night for my pains,” said Mr. Effingham, with
a bad affectation of indifference.

The squire laughed, which caused Mr. Effingham to
frown.

“Most insulting treatment,” he said.

“Come, come—your ideas are too English and not
sufficiently Virginian,” said the squire. “This young woman
is not degraded by her profession; and though not
exactly a lady, is worthy of respect if she conducts herself
properly. For my part, I was vastly pleased with her, and
I believe every one but yourself who witnessed her acting
thought as I did.”

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Effingham, “I am sorry to find
we disagree. In my eyes, her acting, costume, voice, and
general style were inappropriate, stilted, and in bad taste.”

“You are offended at her refusal to converse with you,”
laughed the squire, “and so are a prejudiced witness.
Hey!” he added, looking through the window, “there's the
parson come over to dine.”

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Mr. Effingham was glad to be thus relieved from the
dilemma into which he had fallen, and he greeted the parson
with a bow, due to him as deliverer.

“A fine morning, squire,” said Parson Tag; “how
does your worship find yourself after the late sitting last
night?”

“Quite fresh—sit down. How did you like the acting?”
Every body is asking that question now.”

“Well, well,” said the parson, dubiously. “It was tolerably
good, but much of it was overdone—overdone, sir, much
overdone.”

“What part? But excuse me for a moment. I have a
word to say to Alethea, and must have your horse taken:
you will stay to dinner?”

“No, I think not. I have an engagement—but perhaps—
well, I suppose—”

The squire, well accustomed to this formula, was already
out of the room, and the first thing he did was to order the
parson's animal to be led away, as he would spend the remaining
portion of the day at the Hall.

“You said the play was overdone, I believe?” said Mr.
Effingham, lounging in an easy chair, and drawling out his
words. “What part, please inform me, reverend sir?—I repeat
my respected governor's question.”

“All was overdone—especially the part of that young woman,
the daughter of the manager.”

“Miss Hallam?”

“Yes, young sir.”

“Who acted Portia?”

“Precisely. I never saw a greater failure—it was
wretched.”

“What do you know of acting?” said Mr. Effingham,
with indignant disdain, which expression did not escape Mr.
Tag.

“You are somewhat abrupt, sir,” he said; “but, nevertheless,
I will answer you. In my former worldly days, I
frequented playhouses much, and have thus some knowledge
of them.”

“And you think Portia's part was overdone?”

“Yes.”

“And wretched?”

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“Exactly.”

“And a failure?”

“Perfect.”

“Then, reverend sir,” said Mr. Effingham, with insulting
carelessness, “I beg leave to inform you, that you know nothing
about acting. I have never seen a more beautiful rendering
of the character. Miss Hallam—whom I highly
esteem, sir, and should be sorry to hear any one insult!—is
an artist of rare genius! Her conception and execution are
alike uncommon and admirable. If there are persons who
are ignorant of what acting exacts, and who do not know
when it is of a superior order, so much the worse for them!
I repeat, sir, that any competent critic would have approved
unconditionally of Miss Hallam's acting last night in the
part of Portia, and I feel some surprise at hearing from
you a criticism such as you have uttered. The acting of this
young lady—and she is a lady in every sense of the word;
for do not think that I am of the prejudiced way of thinking
which the gentlemen so-called of this colony take pride in—
Miss Hallam's acting is of an order superior to any I have
ever witnessed. Her costume, style, voice, and whole rendering
were worthy of the first comedians of the English
stage. And permit me to say, that your former drilling in
theatrical criticism, which you have alluded to, must have
been very slight and incomplete, if, after attending the performance
with which every one was delighted last night, you
failed to perceive that this young girl of eighteen—she is
not more, sir—is destined to take a rank inferior to no artist
who now adorns with her genius or decorates with her beauty
and accomplishments that department of art, the histrionic
profession!”

Mr. Tag was fairly overwhelmed. His feelings, while
this storm of words was being poured out on his devoted
head, might have been compared to those of a man whose
eyes are dazzled and his ears deafened by lightning and
thunders issuing from a cloudless sky. He could muster no
reply—words failed him. He essayed once or twice to muster
some appropriate indignation, but failed lamentably.
The worthy gentleman was accustomed to bully—as we now
say—others, not to be bullied; and Mr. Effingham having
“stolen his art,” that art now failed him.

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“Yes, sir,” continued the animated and consistent critic,
“I shall make it my business to call upon Miss Hallam,
and assure her of my high appreciation and admiration of
her brilliant genius. I know what acting is, sir!—and when
we, the gentlemen of Virginia, are so fortunate as to secure
a great comedienne, it becomes us to offer her the tribute of
our applause! Miss Hallam deserves it—for I again repeat,
that in style, dress, voice, and conception, she is far before
any actress with whom, in my various experience, I have
been thrown in contact.”

“Why, Champ!” cried the voice of the squire, at the
door, “you are the most consistent of critics, and the most
impartial of admirers! You praise and abuse in the same
breath.”

Mr. Effingham betrayed some slight embarrassment, upon
finding that his enthusiastic tribute to Miss Hallam had
thus been overheard, by one to whom he had spoken of her
so disparagingly. But this soon disappeared, and the versatile
young gentleman replied with great coolness.

“All chivalry, sir—pure chivalry. I thought it my
duty to espouse Miss Hallam's cause, when she was attacked
by so rough a tilter as the reverend gentleman here. Was
I wrong, and would you not have done the same?”

This was very adroit in Mr. Effingham, as it diverted attention
from himself to the views of the parson.

“The parson attack Portia!” said the squire; “how
so?”

“I did nothing of the sort, your worship,” said the
crest-fallen parson, “I only expressed some dissatisfaction
with a portion of her acting:—for which crime, Mr. Effingham
has been for some minutes pouring out upon my head
the vials of wrath.”

“Well, let us say no more,” returned Mr. Effingham,
subsiding into indifference again; “I'm tired of the subject,
and will no longer afflict your reverence. Bring me some
Jamaica,” he added, to a servant who was passing through
the hall: then to the parson, “we'll bury all differences in
a flagon,” he said, “I'm as thirsty as a fish.”

The parson brightened up, and, when he had emptied a
fair cup of excellent Jamaica, was ready to forgive Mr. Effingham
and all the world—even think well of Portia. In

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due time, that is to say, about noon, dinner was announced
and discussed honestly by all, except Mr. Effingham. That
gentleman soon rose and ordered his horse, announcing his
intention of riding to Williamsburg, where he would probably
spend the night.

“Don't sit up for me, Alethea,” he added, with a yawn.

“Indeed, I won't,” Miss Alethea replied.

Mr. Effingham nodded indifferently, and sauntered from
the room.