The “old Theatre near the Capitol,” discoursed of in the
manifesto issued by Mr. Manager Hallam, was so far old,
that the walls were well-browned by time, and the shutters
to the windows of a pleasant neutral tint between rust and
dust color. The building had no doubt been used for the
present purpose in bygone times, before the days of the
“Virginia Gazette,” which is our authority for many of the

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

facts here stated, and in relation to the “Virginia Company
of Comedians”—but of the former companies of “players,”
as my lord Hamlet calls them, and their successes or
misfortunes, printed words tell us nothing, as far as the
researches of the present Chronicle extend. That there
had been such companies before, however, we repeat, there
is some reason to believe; else why that addition “old”
applied to the “Theatre near the Capitol.” The question
is submitted to the future social historians of the Old Dominion.

Within, the play-house presented a somewhat more
attractive appearance. There was “box,” “pit,” and “gallery,”
as in our own day; and the relative prices were arranged
in much the same manner. The common mortals—
gentlemen and ladies—were forced to occupy the boxes
raised slightly above the level of the stage, and hemmed in
by velvet-cushioned railings,—in front, a flower-decorated
panel, extending all around the house,—and for this position
were moreover compelled to pay an admission fee of
seven shillings and sixpence. The demigods—so to speak—
occupied a more eligible position in the “pit,” from which
they could procure a highly excellent view of the actors'
feet and ankles, just on a level with their noses: to conciliate
the demigods, this superior advantage had been offered,
and the price for them was, further still, reduced to five
shillings. But “the gods” in truth were the real favorites
of the manager. To attract them, he arranged the high
upper “gallery”—and left it untouched, unincumbered by
railing or velvet cushions, or any other device: all was free
space, and liberal as the air: there were no troublesome
seats for “the gods,” and three shillings and nine pence was
all that the managers would demand. The honor of their
presence was enough.

From the boxes a stairway led down to the stage, and
some rude scenes, visible at the edges of the green curtain,
completed the outline.

When Mr. Lee and his daughters entered the box which
had been reserved for them, next to the stage, the house
was nearly full, and the neatness of the edifice was lost sight
of in the sea of brilliant ladies' faces, and strong forms of
cavaliers, which extended—like a line of glistening foam—

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around the semicircle of the boxes. The pit was occupied
by well-dressed men of the lower class, as the times had it,
and from the gallery proceeded hoarse murmurs and the unforgotten
slang of London.

Many smiles and bows were interchanged between the
parties in the different boxes; and the young gallants, following
the fashion of the day, gathered at each end of the
stage, and often walked across, to exchange some polite
speech with the smiling dames in the boxes nearest.

Mr. Champ Effingham was, upon the whole, much the
most notable fop present; and his elegant, languid, petit
maître air, as he strolled across the stage, attracted many
remarks, not invariably favorable. It was observed, however,
that when the Virginia-bred youths, with honest plainness,
called him “ridiculous,” the young ladies, their companions,
took Mr. Effingham's part, and defended him with
great enthusiasm. Only when they returned home, Mr.
Effingham was more unmercifully criticised than he would
otherwise have been.

A little bell rang, and the orchestra, represented by three
or four foreign-looking gentlemen, bearded and moustached,
entered with trumpet and violin. The trumpets made the
roof shake, indifferently, in honor of the Prince of Morocco,
or King Richard, or any other worthy whose entrance was
marked in the play-book “with a flourish.” But before the
orchestra ravished the ears of every one, the manager came
forward, in the costume of Bassanio, and made a low bow.
Mr. Hallam was a fat little man, of fifty or fifty-five, with a
rubicund and somewhat sensual face, and he expressed
extraordinary delight at meeting so many of the “noble
aristocracy of the great and noble colony of Virginia,”
assembled to witness his very humble representation. It
would be the chief end and sole ambition of his life, he said,
to please the gentry, who so kindly patronized their servants—
himself and his associates—and then the smiling worthy
concluded by bowing lower than before. Much applause
from the pit and gallery, and murmurs of approbation from
the well-bred boxes, greeted this address, and, the orchestra
having struck up, the curtain slowly rolled aloft. The young
gallants scattered to the corners of the stage—seating themselves
on stools or chairs, or standing, and the “Merchant

p520-052 [figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

of Venice” commenced. Bassanio having assumed a dignified
and lofty port, criticised Gratiano with courteous and
lordly wit: his friend Antonio offered him his fortune with
grand magnanimity, in a loud singing voice, worthy the
utmost commendation, and the first act proceeded on its way
in triumph.