CHAPTER XLVIII. HOW HIS EXCELLENCY, GOVERNOR FAUQUIER, GAVE A GREAT BALL, AND WHO WERE PRESENT.
The day for the meeting of the House of Burgesses had arrived:—
indeed, the scene which we have just related took
place on the afternoon preceding it.
We have already expended some words upon the appearance
of the town for days before this important occasion, and
can now only add, that the bustle was vastly greater, the
laughter louder, the crowd larger, and the general excitement
a thousand-fold increased on this, the long-expected morning.
We have no space to enter into a full description of the
appearance which the borough presented:—indeed, this narrative
is not the proper place for such historic disquisitions,
dealing as it does with the fortunes of a few personages, who
pursued their various careers, and laughed and wept, and
loved and hated, almost wholly without the “aid of government.”
It was scarcely very important to Beatrice, for
instance, that his Excellency Governor Fauquier set out
from the palace to the sound of cannon, and drawn slowly in
his splendid chariot with its six glossy snow-white horses,
and its body-guard of cavalry, went to the capitol, and so
delivered there his gracious and vice-regal greeting to the
Burgesses, listening in respectful, thoughtful silence. The
crowd could not drive away the poor girl's various disquieting
thoughts;—the smile which his Excellency threw towards the
Raleigh, and its throng of lookers-on, scarcely shed any light
upon her anxious and fearful heart:—she only felt that
to-night the crowd at the theatre would be noisier, and more
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dense; her duty only more repulsive to her—finally, that all
this bustle and confusion was to terminate in a ball, at
which she was to pass through a fiery ordeal of frowns and
comments; even through worse, perhaps—more dreadful
trials. She had not dared, that morning, when her father
told her he should expect her to keep her promise, and accompany
the young man, after the theatre, to the ball—the
poor girl had not dared to speak of her secret, or to resist.
Then she had promised—that was the terrible truth; and
so she had only entreated, and cried, and besought her
father to have mercy on her: and these entreaties, prayers,
and sobs, having had no effect, had yielded; and gone into
her bed-chamber, and upon her knees, with Kate's little
Bible open before her, asked the great heavenly Father to
take care of her.
All this splendid pageant—all this roar of cannon, blare
of trumpets, rumbling thunder of the incessant drums, could
not make her heart any lighter; her face was still dark.
And the spectacle had as little effect upon the other personages
of the narrative. Mr. Effingham, seated in his room,
smiled scornfully, as the music and the people's shouts came
to him. He felt that all that noisy and joyous world was
alien to him—cared nothing for him—was perfectly indifferent
whether he suffered or was happy. He despised the
empty fools in his heart, without reflecting that the jar and
discord was not in the music and the voices—but in himself.
And this was the audience he would have to see him play
Benedick!—these plebeian voices would have liberty to applaud
or hiss him!—the thought nearly opened his eyes to
the true character of the step he was about to take. What
was he about to do? that night he was going to the palace
of the Governor with an actress leaning on his arm—there
to defy the whole Colony of Virginia, in effect to say to
them—“Look! you laugh at me—I show you that I
scorn you!”—then in a day or two his name would be published
in a placard, “The part of Benedick, by Champ
Effingham, Esq.”—to be made the subject of satirical and
insulting comment by the very boors and overseers. These
two things he was about to do, and he drew back for a moment—
for an instant hesitated. But suddenly, the interview
he had with Hamilton came back to him, and his lip was
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wreathed with his reckless sneer again. They would not
permit him, forsooth!—his appearance at the ball with Miss
Hallam, would be regarded as a general insult, and a dozen
duels spring out of it!—he would do well to avoid the
place!—to sneak, to skulk, to swallow all his fine promises
and boasts!
“No!” he said, aloud, with his teeth clenched; “by
heaven! I go there, and I act! I love her and I hate her
more than ever, and, if necessary, will fight a hundred duels
for her, with these chivalric gentlemen!”
So the day passed, and evening drew on slowly, and the
night came. Let us leave the bustling crowd hurrying toward
the theatre—leave the taverns overflowing with revellers—
let us traverse Gloucester-street, and enter the grounds,
through which a fine white gravelled walk leads to the
palace. On each side of this walk a row of linden trees
are ornamented with variegated lanterns, and ere long these
lanterns light up lovely figures of fair dames and gallant
gentlemen, walking daintily from the carriage portal to the
palace. Let us enter. Before us have passed many guests,
and the large apartments, with their globe lamps and chandeliers,
and portraits of the king and queen, and Chelsea
figures, and red damask chairs, and numerous card-tables,
are already filling with the beauty and grace of that former
brilliant and imposing society.
See this group of lovely young girls, with powdered hair
brushed back from their tender temples, and snowy necks
and shoulders glittering with diamond necklaces; see the
queer patches on their chins close by the dimples; see their
large falling sleeves, and yellow lace, and bodices with their
silken network; see their gowns, looped back from the satin
underskirt, ornamented with flowers in golden thread; their
trains and fans, and high red-heeled shoes, and all their puffs
and furbelows, and flounces; see, above all, their gracious
smiles, as they flirt their fans and dart their fatal glances at
the magnificently-clad gentlemen in huge ruffles and silk
stockings, and long, broad-flapped waistcoats and embroidered
coats, with sleeves turned back to the elbow and profusely
laced; see how they ogle, and speak with dainty softness
under their breath, and sigh and smile, and ever continue
playing on the hapless cavaliers the dangerous artillery of
their brilliant eyes.
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Or, see this group of young country gentlemen, followers
of the fox, with their ruddy faces and laughing voices; their
queues secured by plain black ribbon; their strong hands,
accustomed to heavy buckskin riding-gloves; their talk of
hunting, crops, the breed of sheep and cattle, and the blood
of horses.
Or, pause a moment near that group of dignified gentlemen,
with dresses plain though rich; and lordly brows and
clear bright eyes, strong enough to look upon the sun of
royalty, and, undazzled, see the spots disfiguring it. Hear
them converse calmly, simply, like giants knowing their
strength; how slow and clear and courteous their tones;
how plain their manners!
Lastly, see the motley throng of the humbler planters,
some of the tradesmen, factors as they were called, mingled
with the yeomen; see their wives and daughters, fair and
attractive, but so wholly outshone by the little powdered
damsels; last of all, though not least, see his bland Excellency
Governor Fauquier gliding among the various groups,
and smiling on every body.
Let us endeavor to catch some of the words uttered by
these various personages, now so long withdrawn from us in
the far past—that silent, stern, inexorable past, which swallows
up so many noble forms, and golden voices, and high
deeds; and which in turn will obliterate us and our little
or great actions, as it has effaced—though Heaven be thanked,
not wholly!—what illustrated and adorned those times which
we are now trying to depict. And first let us listen to this
group of quiet, calm-looking men—fame has spoken loudly
of them all.
“Your reverend opponent really got the better of you,
I think, sir,” says a quiet, plain, simple gentleman, with a
fine face and eye. “`The Twopenny-Act' made out too
clear a case, in mere point of law, to need the after-clap.”
“True, sir,” his friend replies, smiling so pleasantly,
that his very name seemed to indicate his character, “but I
would willingly be unhorsed again by the Reverend Mr.
Camm, in a cause so good. Every thing concerning Virginia,
you know, is dear to me. I believe some of my friends
consider me demented on the subject—or at least call me
the `Virginia Antiquary.'”
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“I consider it a very worthy designation, sir; and in
spite of my opinion, that `The Colonel's Dismounted' is an
appropriate title—I cannot be otherwise than frank ever—
I am fully convinced that equity was with you. But here
comes our noble Roman.”
As he speaks, a tall, fine-looking gentleman approaches,
with an eagle eye, a statuesque head, inclined forward as
though listening courteously, a smile upon his lips, his right
hand covered with a black bandage.
“What news from Westmoreland, pray, seigneur of
Chantilly?” asks the opponent of the Reverend Mr. Camm.
“Do they think of testing the Twopenny-Act by suits for
damages?”
“No, sir,” says the newcomer, very courteously; “I
believe, however, that in Hanover county the Reverend Mr.
Maury has brought suit against the collector.”
“Ah, then we shall get some information from our friend
from Caroline! See, here he is. Good day, sir!”
He who now approaches has the same calm, benignant
expression as the rest—an expression, indeed, which seems
to have dwelt always on those serene noble faces of that
period, so full of stirring events and strong natures. The face
was not unlike that which we fancy Joseph Addison's must
have been—a quiet, serene smile, full of courtesy and sweetness,
illuminated it, attracting people of all ages and conditions.
When he speaks, it is in the vox argentea of Cicero,
a gentle stream of sound, rippling in the sunlight.
“What from Caroline, pray?” asks the `dismounted
Colonel,' pressing the hand held out to him with great
warmth. “Do the clergy speak of bringing suit to recover
damages at once, for the acts of '55 and '58?”
“I believe not,” the gentleman from Caroline replies,
courteously, in his soft voice; “but have you not heard the
news from Hanover?”
“No, sir; pray let us hear—”
“In the action brought by the Reverend Mr. Maury
against the collector, a young man of that county has procured
a triumphant verdict for the collector.”
“For the collector?”
“Yes!”
“Against the clergy?”
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“Yes!”
“You said a triumphant verdict?”
“One penny damages.”
An expression of extreme delight diffuses itself over the
face of the gentleman receiving this reply.
“And what is the name of the young man who has
worked this wonder?”
“Mr. Patrick Henry.”
“I have no acquaintance with him.”
“I think you will have, however, sir. His speech is
said to have been something wonderful; the people carried
him on their shoulders, the parsons fled from the bench—I
found the county, as I passed through, completely crazy
with delight. But what is that small volume, peeping from
your pocket, sir?” adds the speaker, with a smile at the
abstracted and delighted expression of his interlocutor.
“An Anacreon, from Glasgow, sir,” says the other, almost
forgetting his delight at the issue of the parsons' cause,
as he takes the book from his pocket and opens it. It is a
small thin volume, with an embossed back, covered with
odd gilt figures; and the Greek type is of great size, and
very black and heavy.
“Greek?” says the gentleman from Caroline, smiling
serenely. “Ah, I fear it is Hebrew to me! I may say,
however, that from what I have heard, this young Mr. Henry
is a fair match for a former orator of that language—Demosthenes!”
“Well, sir,” says the Roman, “if he is Demosthenes,
yonder is our valiant Alexander!”
“Who is he?”
“Is that fine face not familiar?”
“Ah, Col. Washington! I know him but slightly; yet,
assuredly, his countenance gives promise of a noble nature;
he has certainly already done great service to the government,
and I wonder his Majesty has not promoted him. His
promotion will, however, await further services, I fancy.”
“Ah, gentlemen, you are welcome!” says a courteous
voice; “Mr. Wythe, Colonel Bland, Mr. Lee, Mr. Pendleton,
I rejoice to see you all: welcome, welcome!” And
his Excellency Governor Fauquier, with courtly urbanity
presses the hands of his guests.
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“You will find card-tables in the next room, should you
fancy joining in the fascinating amusements of tictac and
spadille,” he adds, blandly smiling as he passes on.
The next group which we approach is quite large, and
all talk at once, with hearty laughter and rough frankness;
and this talk concerns itself with plantation matters—the
blood of horses, breeds of cattle, and the chase. Let us
listen, even if, in the uproar, we can catch nothing very connected,
and at the risk of finding ourselves puzzled by the
jumble of questions and replies.
“The three field system, I think, sir, has the advantage
over all others of—”
“Oh, excellent, sir! I never saw a finer leaf, and when
we cut it—”
“Suddenly the blood rushed over his frill, and we found
he had broken his collar bone!”
“The finest pack, I think, in all Prince George—”
“By George!—”
“He's a fine fellow, and has, I think, cause to congratulate
himself on his luck. His wife is the loveliest girl I
ever saw, and—”
“Trots like lightning!”
“Well, well, nothing astonishes me! The world must
be coming to an end—”
“On Monday forenoon—”
“On the night before—”
“They say the races near Jamestown will be more
crowded this year than ever. I announced—”
“The devil!—”
“Good evening, sir; I hope your mare will be in good
condition for the race—”
“To destruction, sir—I tell you such a black act would
ruin the ministry—even Granville—”
“Loves his pipe—”
“The races—”
“Hedges—”
“Distanced—”
“I know his pedigree; you are mistaken—by Sir Archy,
dam—”
“The odds? I close with you. Indeed, I think I
could afford—”
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“Ah, gentlemen!” a courteous voice interposes, amid
the uproar, “talking of races? Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Lane,
welcome to my poor house! You will find card-tables in
the adjoining room.” And his bland Excellency passes on.
Space fails us or we might set down for the reader's
amusement some of the quiet and pleasant talk of the well-to-do
factors and humbler planters, and their beautiful wives
and daughters. We must pass on; but let us pause a moment
yet, to hear what this group of magnificently-dressed
young dames, and their gay gallants, are saying.
“Really, Mr. Alston, your compliments surpass any
which I have received for a very long time,” says a fascinating
little beauty, in a multiplicity of furbelows, and with
a small snow storm on her head,—flirting her fan, all
covered with Corydons and Chloes, as she speaks; “what
verses did you allude to, when you said that `Laura was the
very image of myself?' I am dying with curiosity to know!”
“Those written by our new poet yonder: have you not
heard them?”
“No, sir, upon my word! But the author is—”
“The Earl of Dorset, yonder.”
“The Earl of Dorset!”
“Ah, charming Miss Laura! permit the muse to decorate
herself with a coronet, and promenade, in powdered wig
and ruffles, without questioning her pedigree.”
A little laugh greets these petit maître words.
“Well, sir, the verses,” says Laura, with a fatal glance.
The gallant bows low, and draws from his pocket a
MS., secured with blue ribbon, and elegantly written in the
round, honest-looking characters of the day.
“Here it is,” he says.
And all the beautiful girls who have listened to the
colloquy gather around the reader, to drink in the fascinating
rhymes of the muse, in an earl's coronet and powder.
“First comes the prologue, as I may say,” the reader
commences; “it is an address to his pen:
“Wilt thou, advent'rous pen, describe
The gay, delightful silken tribe,
That maddens all our city;
Nor dread lest while you foolish claim
A near approach to beauty's flame,
Ioarus' fate may hit ye!”
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The speaker pauses, and a great fluttering of fans ensues,
with many admiring comments on the magnificent simile of
Icarus.
The reader continues, daintily arranging his snowy frill.
“Mark the fate of the bard,” he says, and reads:
“With singéd pinions tumbling down,
The scorn and laughter of the town,
Thoul't rue thy daring flight.
While every Miss, with cool contempt,
Affronted by the bold attempt,
Will, tittering, view thy plight.”
“Tittering—observe the expressive phrase,” says the
reader.
They all cry out at this.
“Tittering!”
“Ladies do not titter!”
“Really!”
“Tittering!”
The serene reader raises his hand, and, adjusting his wig,
says:
“Mere poetic license, ladies; merely imagination; not
fact. True, very true! ladies never titter—an abominable
imputation. But, listen.”
And he continues:
“Myrtilla's beauties who can paint,
The well-turned form, the glowing teint,
May deck a common creature;
But who can make th' expressive soul,
With lively sense inform the whole,
And light up every feature?”
“A bad rhyme `teint,' and a somewhat aristocratic allusion
to `common creatures,'” says the reader.
“Oh, it is beautiful!” says a pretty little damsel, enthusiastically.
“I am glad you like your portrait, my dear madam,”
says the gallant, “I assure you that Myrtilla was designed
for you.”
“Oh!” murmurs Myrtilla, covering her face with her
fan.
The reader continues:
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“See Laura, sprightly nymph, advance,
Through all the mazes of the dance,
With light fantastic toe;
See laughter sparkle in her eyes—
At her approach new joys arise,
New fires within us glow!
“Such sweetness in her look is seen,
Such brilliant elegance of mien,
So jauntie and so airy:
Her image in our fancy reigns,
All night she gallops through our veins,
Like little Mab the fairy!”
Laura covers her face to hide her delight, in the midst
of universal applause.
The reader helps himself daintily to a pinch of snuff
from a golden box, and continues:
“Shall sprightly Isadora yield
To Laura the distinguished field
Amidst the vernal throng;
Or shall Aspasia's frolic lays
From Leonella snatch the bays,
The tribute of the song?”
And as the gallant gentleman reads, he pauses at “Isadora,”
“Aspasia,” and “Leonella,” and, raising his head,
reveals the hidden meaning of the verse by gazing at those
beauties, who utter little cries of delight, and go into raptures.
He continues:
“Like hers I ween, the blushing rose
On Sylvia's polished cheek that glows;
And hers the velvet lip
To which the cherry yields its hue,
Its plumpness and ambrosial dew,
Which even gods might sip!”
Isadora and Sylvia cover their faces, and feel conscious
of having made a host of enemies.
The reader reads on:
“What giddy raptures fill the brain,
When tripping o'er the verdant plain,
Florella joins the throng,
Her looks each throbbing pain beguiles,
Beneath her footsteps nature smiles,
And joins the poet's song.”
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Then there is a pause.
“Who is Florella?” they ask.
“Florella, ladies, I regret to say, is not present,” the
reader replies, embracing the brilliant and undulating throng
with a glance.
“But who is it?”
“Are you really desirous of knowing?”
“Yes, yes.'
“I have been told that curiosity was not one of the foibles
of the divine sex—”
“Come—come, Mr. Alston,” says Laura, “on pain of
my displeasure!”
“That is far too dreadful to endure,” says the gallant,
smoothing his frill with a jewelled hand, and bowing low,
“Florella, ladies, is Miss Henrietta Lee.”
“Exactly like her—excellent,” comes from all sides.
Some more verses are read, and they are received with a
variety of comment.
“Listen now, to the last,” says the engaging reader.
“With pensive look and head reclined,
Sweet emblem of the purest mind,
Lo! where Cordelia sits!
On Dion's image dwells the fair—
Dion, the thunderbolt of war—
The prince of modern wits!
“At length fatigued with beauty's blaze,
The feeble muse no more essays,
Her picture to complete.
The promised charms of younger girls,
When nature the gay scene unfurls,
Some happier bard shall treat!”
There is a silence for some moments after these words—
the MS. having passed from the gallant's hands to another
group.
“Who is Cordelia? let me think,” says Laura, knitting
her brows, and raising to her lips a fairy hand covered with
diamonds, absently.
“And Dion—who can he be?” says Isodora, twisting
her satin sleeve between her fingers abstractedly.
“It is!—no, it is not!”
“I know, now!—but that don't suit!”
“Permit me to end your perplexity, ladies,” says the
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oracle, “Cordelia, is Miss Clare Lee, and Dion, is Mr. Champ
Effingham!”
A general exclamation of surprise, from all the ladies.
They say:
“It suits him, possibly, but—”
“He may be the prince of wits; still it does not follow—”
“Certainly not, that—”
“Clare is not such a little saint!”
“Let me defend her,” says a gentleman, smiling; “I grant
you that 'tis extravagant to call Mr. Effingham a thunderbolt—”
“Laughable.”
“Amusing,” say the gentlemen.
“Or the prince of modern wits,” continues the counsel
for the defence.
“Preposterous!”
“Unjust!” they add.
“But I must be permitted to say,” goes on the chivalric
defender of the absent, “that Miss Clare Lee fully deserves
her character:—the comparison of that lovely girl, ladies, to
Cordelia,—Cordelia, the sweetest of all Shakespeare's characters—
seems to me nothing more than justice.”
The gentlemen greet this with enthusiastic applause, for
our little, long-lost sight of—heroine, had subdued all hearts.
“As regards Mr. Effingham,” adds Clare's knight, “I
shall be pardoned for not saying any thing, since he is not
present.”
“Then I will say something,” here interposes a small
gentleman, with a waistcoat reaching to his knees, and profusely
laced, like all the rest of his clothes—indeed, the
richness of his costume was distressing—“but I will say, sir,
that Mr. Effingham's treatment of that divine creature, Miss
Clare Lee, is shameful.”
“How?” ask the ladies, agitating their fans, and
scenting a delicious bit of scandal.
“Why,” says the gentleman in the long waistcoat, squaring
himself, so to speak, and greatly delighted at the sudden
accession to his importance—the general opinion being that
he was somewhat insignificant, “why, ladies, he has been
running after that little jade, Miss Hallam!”
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“Miss Hallam!” cry the ladies, in virtuous ignorance,
though nothing was more notorious than the goings-on of
our friend Mr. Effingham, “Miss Hallam!”
“Precisely, ladies.”
“The actress?”
“Yes.”
“A playing girl!” exclaims a lady, of say thirty, and
covering her face as she spoke.
“Falling in love with her!”
“Possible?”
“Haven't you heard all about it?”
This home question causes a flutter and a silence.
“I'll tell you, then,” continues the gentleman in the long
waistcoat, “I'll tell you all about the doings of `Dion, the
thunderbolt of war, and prince of modern wits.' He, the
thunderbolt of war?—preposterous! He, the prince of
wits?—ludicrous! He may be the king of coxcombs, the
coryphæus of dandies—but that is all.”
The gentlemen standing around listen to these words,
with some amusement and more disgust. It is plain that
some secret spite actuates the gentleman in the long waistcoat.
“Well, let us hear Mr. Effingham's crimes,” says Laura.
“By all means,” adds Isadora.
“Of course,” says Myrtilla.
“He has been making himself ridiculous about that actress,”
continues the chronicler, “and I have even heard,
designs to marry her.”
The ladies make a movement, to express surprise and
indignation, but after a moment's reflection, suppress this
somewhat ambiguous exhibition of their feelings.
“He's been at the `Raleigh Tavern,' making love to
her for a month,” continues the narrator.
“At the tavern?”
“Yes, in town here.”
“Did any one ever!” says the lady of uncertain age.
“Never! never!” chime in the virtuous little damsels,
shaking their heads solemnly.
“He has left his family,” the gentleman in the long
waistcoat goes on, indignantly, “and they are dying of
grief.”
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“Oh, can it be!”
“Certainly, madam. Why are they not here to-night?”
“Very true.”
“Why is Clare Lee, the victim of his insincerity, away,
pray tell me! They are not here—they are not coming,
madam.”
At the same moment, the usher announces the squire,
Miss Alethea, and Miss Clare Lee—Master Willie and
Kate being too small to be seen, which the squire had warned
them of. The squire is as bluff as ever, and makes his salutation
to his Excellency with great cordiality—Clare is pale
and absent, presenting thus a singular contrast to Henrietta,
who enters a moment afterwards, brilliant, imposing, and
smiling, like a queen receiving the homage of the nobility
around her throne. She sweeps on, leaning on the arm of
honest Jack Hamilton, and the party are swallowed in the
crowd.
Let us return to the group, whose conversation the new
arrivals had interrupted.
“Well, I was mistaken,” says the gentleman in the long
waistcoat, “but any one may see that Clare Lee is dying
slowly!”
At which affecting observation, the young ladies sigh and
shake their heads.
“And just think what that man has thrown this divine
creature away for,” continues the censor morûm, “for a common
actress!—an ordinary playing girl—tolerably pretty
she may be, but vastly overrated—a mere thing of stage
paint and pearl powder, strutting through her parts and ranting
like an Amazon!”
“I think her quite pretty,” says Laura, “but it is too
bad.”
“Dreadful!”
“Awful!”
“Horrible!”
“Shocking!”
These are some of the comments on Mr. Effingham's
conduct, from the elegant little dames.
“He is ashamed to show himself any where,” continues
the gentleman in the long waistcoat, “and only yesterday
met me on the street, and in passing, turned away his head,
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plainly afraid that I would not speak in return, had he addressed
me!”
At which words the gentlemen are observed to smile—
knowing as they do, something of Mr. Champ Effingham's
personal character and habits.
“He actually was afraid to look at me,” says the censor,
“and I am told keeps his room all day, or passes his time
in the society of that Circe, yes, that siren who is only too
fond of him, I am afraid—and I predict will make him marry
her at last.”
The ladies sigh, and agitate their fans with diamond-sparkling
hands. They feel themselves very far above this
shameless creature attempting to catch—as we now say—
Mr. Effingham: they pity her, for such a thing never has
occurred to them—no gentleman has ever been attractive
enough for them to have designs upon his heart. And so
they pity and despise Beatrice, for wishing to run away with
her admirer.
“He is heartily ashamed of his infatuation, and I saw
him last night in the theatre, positively afraid to look at the
audience—but staring all the time at her,” continues the
small gentleman.
“But that is easy to understand, as he is in love,” says
Myrtilla, with a strong inclination to take the part of the
reprobate against his enemy.
“No, no, madam,” exclaims the censor, “he was really
ashamed to look at the people, and took not the least notice
of their frowns: he does not visit any where:—he knows he
would not be received—he is afraid to show his face.”
It seemed that the gentleman in the long waistcoat was
doomed to have all his prophecies falsified; for at that moment,
the usher announced in a loud voice, which attracted
the attention of the whole company:
“Mr. Effingham and Miss Hallam!”
-- 274 -- p520-279
Cooke, John Esten, 1830-1886 [1854], The Virginia comedians, or, Old days in the Old Dominion. Edited from the mss. of C. Effingham, Esq. [pseud] (D. Appleton and Co, New York) [word count] [eaf520v1T].
