Irving, Washington, 1783-1859 [1824], Letters of Jonathan Oldstyle, gent. [Pseud] (William H, Clayton, New York) [word count] [eaf216].
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Front matter
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Preliminaries
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LETTERS
OF
JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, Gent.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
THE SKETCH BOOK.
WITH A
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE.
New=York:
PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM H. CLAYTON.
Clayton & Van Norden, Printers.
1824.
Preliminaries
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Southern District of New York, ss.
BE IT REMEMBERED, That on the nineteenth day of February, in the forty-eigth
year of the Independence of the United States of America, J.L. Buckingham, of the
said district, hath deposited in this office the title of a book, the right whereof he claims
as proprietor, in the words following, to wit:
"Letters of Jonathan Oldstyle, Gent. By the Author of the Sketch Book. With a
Biographical Notice."
"In conformity to the act of Congress of the United States, entitled, "An act for the
encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts, and books, to the
authors and proprietors of such copies, during the time therein mentioned." And also
to an act, entitled, "An act supplementary to an act entitled, an act
for the encourage-ment
of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts, and books, to the authors and
proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned, and extending the benefits
thereof to the arts of designing, engraving, and etching historical and other prints."
JAMES DILL
Clerk of the Southern District of New York
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Biographical Notice.
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When a writer has acquired great renown by
his productions, and has established his reputation
as a man of genius, we naturally feel a curiosity
to become acquainted not only with his personal
but his intellectual history. We like to trace up
the current of his mind to its first tricklings, as it
were, and to listen to its prattlings among the
pebbles, as it is hurrying along to its broader and
bolder channel.
The author of the Sketch Book has become
more distinguished than perhaps any other American
writer; and even England has been constrained
to acknowledge that his productions are
among the most elegant specimens of English
composition.
In the year 1802, Mr. Irving first attracted public
notice by publishing in the Morning Chronicle
a series of sportive pieces under the signature of
Jonathan Oldstyle. To the new generation of
readers produced by the lapse of twenty-two
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years, we trust that their republication will be
peculiarly acceptable.
It is in these specimens that we may perceive
the germ of that genius which soon after blossomed
in Salmagundi, shot forth in wild luxuriance
in Knickerbocker, and finally displayed its rich
fruit in the Sketch Book, and Bracebridge Hall.
A brief account of the life and writings of Mr.
Irving will, perhaps, not be deemed superfluous
by the readers of this little publication.
The city of New-York has the honour of being
the birth place of this distinguished author, who
has given such eclat to the literary reputation of
our country. He was a student in Columbia
College, in the year 1800, but by reason of his
infirm health, was under the necessity of relinquishing
his classical studies, and of devoting his
attention to pursuits less compulsory and severe.
By way of recreation, he was advised to take lessons
in drawing; and for this purpose, he put
himself under the tuition of a gentleman, whose
Drawing Academy still maintains a high reputation
in our city. What proficiency he made in
this art, we have not the means of ascertaining.
It is presumable, however, that this kind of sketching
was not that which best accorded with his
genius, nor probably consisted with his health;
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for he soon afterwards began to turn his thoughts
to travel, and a voyage across the Atlantic was
recommended by his physician, and encouraged
by his kindred and friends. In the interim, however,
and indeed before this determination had
been taken, his elder brother, now in England,
was editing a newspaper in this city; and although
a political paper, and devoted to the views and
interests of a party, yet some portions of its columns
were occasionally embellished “by hands
unseen,” with the flowers of poetry and literature,
and sometimes enlivened by flashes of wit and
humour. An inviting opportunity here presented
itself, for trying the scarcely fledged wings of our
juvenile author: and a two-fold benefit could be conferred—
credit to himself, and relief to the care-worn
and harassed editor, whose political conflicts did
not allow him leisure to woo the muses to his aid;
and he knew, that without some contributions
from the Pierian district, his paper, even in this
“bank-note-world,” would soon decline, for the
want of contributions of a more substantial
quality.
It was at this period, that the light pieces now
republished, first made their appearance. They
attracted a good deal of notice, and the Morning
Chronicle was eagerly sought for by the lovers
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of genuine native humour. Mr. Irving then embarked
for France, from whence he proceeded to
Italy, and went as far as Rome and Naples. His
travels and residence abroad, enabled him to entertain
his friends at home with the most amusing
accounts of his various adventures, and the most
picturesque descriptions of every thing that presented
itself to his ready and lively apprehension.
His letters are, no doubt, yet to be found within
the circle of his relatives and correspondents, and
the hope may be indulged, that they will not suffer
them to be lost.
Our author returned to America, we believe,
some time in the year 1805 or 1806; and his health
being much improved, he commenced the study
of the law, in the office of an eminent counsellor
in New-York. Coke, however, “delighted him
not—nor Blackstone neither.” What progress
he made in his juridical pursuits, we know not;
but that he read more than he understood, and
understood more than he remembered, there can
be but little doubt.
In the year 1807, he amused the town with his
Salmagundi, which was published in numbers,
commencing in January, and continuing till the
beginning of the next year. Several of the numbers
are ascribed to a gentleman who has since
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distinguished himself both in poetry and prose,
and whose copious, chaste, and vigorous style, as
well as his satirical wit, sarcastic humour, and
biting irony, render all his attempts at concealment
unavailing. The poetical pieces which embellish
Salmagundi, are well known to be the
production of the eldest brother of our author,
and who is since deceased. Salmagundi is now
publishing in London, as Knickerbocker's History
has already been; for such is Mr. Irving's
reputation and popularity in England, that John
Bull is now quite willing to ask for, and to read,
an American book; though, according to a learned
coxcomb, (critic, we meant to say,) in the Edinburgh
Review a few years ago, such a thing was
then never thought of.
In the year 1810, an edition of Campbell's
Poems being about to be published in Philadelphia,
Mr. Irving was applied to for a biographical
sketch of that sweet and sublime bard. This task
he executed in a most masterly manner; and the
forty pages of which it consists, form, in our humble
opinion, the most beautiful and finished piece
of serious composition that ever came from his
pen. In point of style, refined sentiment, and
generous and spirited effusion, we venture to
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assert, that it is not surpassed by any piece of
prose in the English language.
The History of New-York, by Deidrich
Knickerbocker, was his next production; and in
this he seems to have exerted all his powers of
good-natured burlesque, playful wit, and facetious
fancy. He prepared himself for this work by a
course of diligent research into the antiquities of
New Amsterdam; and the libraries of New-York
and Philadelphia were ransacked for materials, or
rather subjects, for his wizard pencil. It is a
broad caricature from beginning to end; and, like
a magic lantern, exhibits the most fantastic combinations,
the most ludicrous distortions, and unlicensed
exaggerations, that a mirthful fancy can
create. Though sport to many, it was not so to
all; and some of the descendants of our Dutch
aborigines were not a little offended at the liberty
which the author has taken with the names and
manners of those whom they had been accustomed
to remember with reverence and respect. A gentleman
whose name bespeaks his Dutch lineage,
and whose talents entitle his observations to very
high regard, in his Discourse before the New-York
Historical Society in 1818, makes the following
animadversions on the subject, with peculiar elegance
and feeling:
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“It is more `in sorrow than in anger,' that I
feel myself compelled to add to these gross instances
of national injustice, a recent work of a
writer of our own, who is justly considered one of
the brightest ornaments of American literature.
I allude to the burlesque history of New-York, in
which it is painful to see a mind, as admirable for
its exquisite perception of the beautiful, as it is
for its quick sense of the ridiculous, wasting the
riches of its fancy on an ungrateful theme, and its
exuberant humour in a coarse caricature.
“This writer has not yet fulfilled all the promise
he has given to his country. It is his duty,
because it is in his power, to brush away the pretenders
who may at any time infest her society,
her science, or her politics; or if he aspires, as I
trust that he does, to strains of a higher mood, the
deeds of his countrymen, and the undescribed
beauties of his native land, afford him many a rich
subject, and he may deck the altar of his country's
glory with the garlands of his taste and fancy.
“How dangerous a gift is the power of ridicule!
it is potent to unmask the pretender, and to brand
the hypocrite; yet how often has it dissipated
those gay illusions which beguile the rough path
of life—how often has it chilled the glow of genius
and invention—how often, at its dread presence,
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have the honest boasts of patriotism, the warm
expression of piety, the generous purpose of
beneficence, faltered on the lips, and died away
in the heart.”
About the year 1812, Mr. Irving went to England,
and became a partner in a commercial concern,
of which two of his brothers were also
partners, and one of whom remained in this country.
The correspondence department, which was
extensive, was allotted to the literary member of
the house; and the business of the establishment
had become so profitable, that each one, soon after
the peace of 1815, had a prospect of sharing a
handsome dividend. Our author enjoyed the
expectation of retiring from the irksome drudgery
of the counting house to the sweets of literary
leisure, with a competence for life, when the
failure of a commercial adventure, in a moment
convinced him of the vanity and delusiveness of
human anticipations, and reduced him to a state
of almost life-loathing despondency. What a
trial for a sensitive mind—and yet for his credit
and his fame what a fortunate reverse! His
pen and his ledger are exchanged for his pencil
and his sketch book; and Geoffrey's drafts are
more highly honoured, than those of any merchant
in the land.
Main text
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LETTERS OF JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, Gent. WRITTEN IN 1802. LETTER I.
Sir,
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Nothing is more intolerable to an old
person than innovation on old habits. The customs
that prevailed in our youth become dear to
us as we advance in years; and we can no more
bear to see them abolished, than we can to behold
the trees cut down under which we have sported
in the happy days of infancy.
Even I myself, who have floated down the
stream of life with the tide—who have humoured
it in all its turnings—who have conformed in a
great measure to all its fashions,—cannot but feel
sensible of this prejudice. I often sigh when I draw
a comparison between the present and the past;
and though I cannot but be sensible that, in general,
times are altered for the better, yet there is
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something even in the imperfections of the manners
which prevailed in my youthful days, that is
inexpressibly endearing.
There is nothing that seems more strange and
preposterous to me, than the manner in which
modern marriages are conducted. The parties
keep the matter as secret as if there was something
disgraceful in the connexion. The lady
positively denies that any thing of the kind is to
happen; will laugh at her intended husband, and
even lay bets against the event, the very day before
it is to take place. They sneak into matrimony
as quietly as possible, and seem to pride
themselves on the cunning and ingenuity they have
displayed in their manœuvres.
How different is this from the manners of former
times! I recollect when my Aunt Barbara
was addressed by 'Squire Stylish; nothing was
heard of during the whole courtship, but consultations
and negotiations between her friends and
relatives; the matter was considered and re-considered,
and at length the time set for a final answer.
Never, Mr. Editor, shall I forget the awful
solemnity of the scene. The whole family of the
Oldstyles assembled in awful conclave: my aunt
Barbara dressed out as fine as hands could make
her—high cushion, enormous cap, long waist,
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prodigious hoop, ruffles that reached to the end of her
fingers, and a gown of flame-coloured brocade,
figured with poppies, roses, and sun-flowers.
Never did she look so sublimely handsome. The
'Squire entered the room with a countenance suited
to the solemnity of the occasion. He was arrayed
in a full suit of scarlet velvet, his coat decorated
with a profusion of large silk buttons, and the skirts
stiffened with a yard or two of buckram; a long
pig-tailed wig, well powdered, adorned his head;
and stockings of deep blue silk, rolled over the
knees, graced his extremities; the flaps of his vest
reached to his knee-buckles, and the ends of his
cravat, tied with the most precise neatness, twisted
through every button hole. Thus accoutred, he
gravely walked into the room, with his ivory
headed ebony cane in one hand, and gently swaying
his three-cornered beaver with the other. The
gallant and fashionable appearance of the 'Squire,
the gracefulness and dignity of his deportment,
occasioned a general smile of complacency through
the room; my aunt Barbara modestly veiled her
countenance with her fan; but I observed her contemplating
her admirer with great satisfaction
through the sticks.
The business was opened with the most formal
solemnity, but was not long in agitation. The
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Oldstyles were moderate—their articles of capitulation
few: the 'Squire was gallant, and acceded
to them all. In short, the blushing Barbara was
delivered up to his embraces with due ceremony.
Then, Mr. Editor—then were the happy times:
such oceans of arrack—such mountains of plum
cake—such feasting and congratulating—such fiddling
and dancing:—ah me! who can think of those
days, and not sigh when he sees the degeneracy
of the present: no eating of cake nor throwing of
stockings—not a single skin filled with wine on the
joyful occasion—nor a single pocket edified by it
but the parson's.
It is with the greatest pain I see those customs
dying away, which served to awaken the hospitality
and friendship of my ancient comrades—that
strewed with flowers the path to the altar, and shed
a ray of sunshine on the commencement of the
matrimonial union.
The deportment of my aunt Barbara and her
husband was as decorous after marriage as before;
her conduct was always regulated by his—her
sentiments ever accorded with his opinions; she
was always eager to tie on his neckcloth of a morning—
to tuck a napkin under his chin at meal times—
to wrap him up warm of a winter's day, and to
spruce him up as smart as possible of a Sunday.
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The 'Squire was the most attentive and polite husband
in the world; would hand his wife in and out
of church with the greatest ceremony—drink her
health at dinner with particular emphasis, and ask
her advice on every subject—though I must confess
he invariably adopted his own;—nothing was
heard from both sides, but dears, sweet loves,
doves, &c. The 'Squire could never stir out of a
winter's day, without his wife calling after him from
the window to button up his waistcoat carefully.
Thus, all things went on smoothly; and my relations
Stylish had the name, and, as far as I know,
deserved it, of being the most happy and loving
couple in the world.
A modern married pair will, no doubt, laugh at
all this; they are accustomed to treat one another
with the utmost carlessness and neglect. No longer
does the wife tuck the napkin under her husband's
chin—nor the husband attend to heaping
her plate with dainties;—no longer do I see those
little amusing fooleries in company, where the lady
would pat her husband's cheek, and he chuck her
under the chin; when dears and sweets were as
plenty as cookies on a new-year's day. The wife
now considers herself as totally independent—will
advance her own opinions, without hesitation,
though directly opposite to his—will carry on
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accounts of her own, and will even have secrets of
her own, with which she refuses to intrust him.
Who can read these facts, and not lament with
me the degeneracy of the present times;—what
husband is there but will look back with regret to
the happy days of female subjection.
JONATHAN OLDSTYLE.
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LETTER II.
Sir,
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There is no place of public amusement of
which I am so fond as the Theatre. To enjoy this
with the greater relish, I go but seldom; and I find
there is no play, however poor or ridiculous, from
which I cannot derive some entertainment.
I was very much taken with a play bill of last
week, announcing, in large capitals, “The Battle
of Hexham, or, Days of Old.” Here, said I to
myself, will be something grand—Days of old—my
fancy fired at the words. I pictured to myself all
the gallantry of chivalry. Here, thought I, will
be a display of court manners, and true politeness;
the play will, no doubt, be garnished with tilts
and tournaments; and as to those banditti, whose
names make such a formidable appearance on
the bills, they will be hung up, every mother's
son, for the edification of the gallery.
With such impressions, I took my seat in the
pit, and was so impatient that I could hardly attend
to the music, though I found it very good.
The curtain rose—out walked the Queen with
great majesty; she answered my ideas—she was
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dressed well, she looked well, and she acted well.
The Queen was followed by a pretty gentleman,
who, from his winking and grinning, I took to
be the court fool; I soon found out my mistake.
He was a courtier “high in trust,” and either
general, colonel, or something of martial dignity.
They talked for some time, though I could not understand
the drift of their discourse, so I amused
myself with eating pea-nuts.
In one of the scenes I was diverted with the
stupidity of a corporal and his men, who sung a
dull song, and talked a great deal about nothing;
though I found by their laughing, there was a
great deal of fun in the corporal's remarks.
What this scene had to do with the rest of the
piece, I could not comprehend; I suspect it was
a part of some other play, thrust in here by accident.
I was then introduced to a cavern, where there
were several hard looking fellows, sitting around
a table carousing. They told the audience they
were banditti. They then sung a gallery song,
of which I could understand nothing but two lines:
“The Welshman lik'd to have been chok'd by a mouse,
“But he pull'd him out by the tail.”
Just as they had ended this elegant song, their
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banquet was disturbed by the melodious sound of
a horn, and in marched a portly gentleman, who, I
found, was their captain. After this worthy gentleman
had fumed his hour out, after he had slapped
his breast and drawn his sword half a dozen
times, the act ended.
In the course of the play, I learnt that there
had been, or was, or would be, a battle; but how,
or when, or where, I could not understand. The
banditti once more made their appearance, and
frightened the wife of the portly gentleman, who
was dressed in man's clothes, and was seeking
her husband. I could not enough admire the dignity
of her deportment, the sweetness of her countenance,
and the unaffected gracefulness of her
action; but who the captain really was, or why he
ran away from his spouse, I could not understand.
However, they seemed very glad to find one another
again; and so at last the play ended, by the falling
of the curtain.
I wish the manager would use a drop scene at
the close of the acts; we might then always ascertain
the termination of the piece by the green curtain.
On this occasion, I was indebted to the polite
bows of the actors for this pleasing information.
I cannot say that I was entirely satisfied
with the play, but I promised myself ample
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entertainment in the after-piece, which was called the
Tripolitan Prize. Now, thought I, we shall have
some sport for our money; we will, no doubt, see
a few of those Tripolitan scoundrels spitted like
turkeys, for our amusement. Well, sir, the curtain
rose—the trees waved in front of the stage,
and the sea rolled in the rear—all things looked
very pleasant and smiling. Presently I heard a
bustling behind the scenes—here, thought I, comes
a band of fierce Tripolitans, with whiskers as long
as my arm. No such thing—they were only a party
of village masters and misses, taking a walk for
exercise, and very pretty behaved young gentry
they were, I assure you; but it was cruel in the
manager to dress them in buckram, as it deprived
them entirely of the use of their limbs. They arranged
themselves very orderly on each side of
the stage, and sung something, doubtless very affecting,
for they all looked pitiful enough. By
and by came up a most tremendous storm; the
lightning flashed, the thunder roared, and the rain
fell in torrents: however, our pretty rustics stood
gaping quietly at one another, until they must have
been wet to the skin. I was surprised at their torpidity,
till I found they were each one afraid to
move first, for fear of being laughed at for their
awkwardness. How they got off I do not
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recollect: but I advise the manager, in a similar
case, to furnish every one with a trap-door, through
which to make his exit. Yet this would deprive
the audience of much amusement; for nothing
can be more laughable than to see a body of
guards with their spears, or courtiers with their
long robes, get across the stage at our theatre.
Scene passed after scene. In vain I strained
my eyes to catch a glimpse of a Mahometan phiz.
I once heard a great bellowing behind the scenes,
and expected to see a strapping Mussulman come
bouncing in; but was miserably disappointed, on
distinguishing his voice, to find out by his swearing
that he was only a Christian. In he came—
an American navy officer. Worsted stockings—
olive velvet small clothes—scarlet vest—peajacket,
and gold laced hat—dressed quite in character.
I soon found out, by his talk, that he was
an American prize master; that, returning through
the Mediterranean with his Tripolitan prize, he
was driven by a storm on the coast of England.
The honest gentleman seemed, from his actions,
to be rather intoxicated; which I could account
for in no other way than his having drank a great
deal of salt water, as he swam ashore.
Several following scenes were taken up with
hallooing and huzzaing, between the captain, his
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crew, and the gallery, with several amusing tricks
of the captain and his son, a very funny, mischievous
little fellow. Then came the cream of
the joke: the captain wanted to put to sea, and
the young fellow, who had fallen desperately in
love, to stay ashore. Here was a contest between
love and honour—such piping of eyes, such blowing
of noses, such slapping of pocket holes! But
old Junk was inflexible—What! an American tar
desert his duty! (three cheers from the gallery,)
impossible! American tars for ever!! True blue
will never stain!! &c. &c. (a continual thundering
among the gods.) Here was a scene of distress—
here was bathos. The author seemed as
much puzzled to know how to dispose of the
young tar, as old Junk was. It would not do to
leave an American seaman on foreign ground, nor
would it do to separate him from his mistress.
Scene the last opened.—It seems that another
Tripolitan cruiser had bore down on the prize,
as she lay about a mile off shore. How a Barbary
corsair had got in this part of the world—
whether she had been driven there by the same
storm, or whether she was cruising to pick up a
few English first rates, I could not learn. However,
here she was. Again were we conducted
to the sea shore, where we found all the village
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gentry, in their buckram suits, ready assembled
to be entertained with the rare show of an American
and Tripolitan engaged yard-arm and yard-arm.
The battle was conducted with proper decency
and decorum, and the Tripolitan very politely
gave in—as it would be indecent to conquer
in the face of an American audience.
After the engagement the crew came ashore,
joined with the captain and gallery in a few
more huzzas, and the curtain fell. How old Junk,
his son, and his son's sweetheart, settled it, I could
not discover.
I was somewhat puzzled to understand the
meaning and necessity of this engagement between
the ships, till an honest old countryman at
my elbow said, he supposed this was the Battle
of Hexham, as he recollected no fighting in the
first piece. With this explanation I was perfectly
satisfied.
My remarks upon the audience, I shall postpone
to another opportunity.
JONATHAN OLDSTYLE.
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LETTER III.
Sir,
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My last communication mentioned my visit to
the theatre; the remarks it contained were chiefly
confined to the play and the actors; I shall now
extend them to the audience, who, I assure you,
furnish no inconsiderable part of the entertainment.
As I entered the house some time before the
curtain rose, I had sufficient leisure to make some
observations. I was much amused with the waggery
and humour of the gallery, which, by the way,
is kept in excellent order by the constables who are
stationed there. The noise in this part of the house
is somewhat similar to that which prevailed in
Noah's ark; for we have an imitation of the whistles
and yells of every kind of animal. This, in some
measure, compensates for the want of music, as
the gentlemen of our orchestra are very economic
of their favours. Somehow or another, the anger
of the gods seemed to be aroused all of a sudden,
and they commenced a discharge of apples, nuts,
and gingerbread, on the heads of the honest folks
in the pit, who had no possibility of retreating from
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this new kind of thunderbolts. I can't say but I
was a little irritated at being saluted aside of my
head with a rotten pippin; and was going to shake
my cane at them, but was prevented by a decent
looking man behind me, who informed me that it
was useless to threaten or expostulate. They are
only amusing themselves a little at our expense,
said he; sit down quietly and bend your back to it.
My kind neighbour was interrupted by a hard green
apple that hit him between the shoulders—he made
a wry face, but knowing it was all a joke, bore the
blow like a philosopher. I soon saw the wisdom
of this determination; a stray thunderbolt happened
to light on the head of a little sharp faced
Frenchman, dressed in a white coat and small
cocked hat, who sat two or three benches ahead
of me, and seemed to be an irritable little animal.
Monsieur was terribly exasperated; he jumped
upon his seat, shook his fist at the gallery, and
swore violently in bad English. This was all nuts
to his merry persecutors; their attention was wholly
turned on him, and he formed their target for the
rest of the evening.
I found the ladies in the boxes, as usual, studious
to please; their charms were set off to the
greatest advantage; each box was a little battery
in itself, and they all seemed eager to outdo each
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other in the havoc they spread around. An arch
glance in one box was rivalled by a smile in
another, that smile by a simper in a third, and in
a fourth a most bewitching languish carried all before
it.
I was surprised to see some persons reconnoitring
the company through spy-glasses; and was
in doubt whether these machines were used to
remedy deficiencies of vision, or whether this was
another of the eccentricities of fashion. Jack
Stylish has since informed me, that glasses were
lately all the go; though hang it, says Jack, it is
quite out at present; we used to mount our glasses
in great snuff, but since so many tough jockies
have followed the lead, the bucks have all cut the
custom. I give you, Mr. Editor, the account in
my dashing cousin's own language. It is from a
vocabulary I do not well understand.
I was considerably amused by the queries of
the countryman mentioned in my last, who was
now making his first visit to the theatre. He kept
constantly applying to me for information, and I
readily communicated, as far as my own ignorance
would permit.
As this honest man was casting his eye round
the house, his attention was suddenly arrested.
And pray, who are these? said he, pointing to a
-- 021 --
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cluster of young fellows. These, I suppose, are
the critics, of whom I have heard so much. They
have, no doubt, got together to communicate their
remarks, and compare notes; these are the persons
through whom the audience exercise their
judgments, and by whom they are told when they
are to applaud or to hiss. Critics! ha! ha! my
dear sir, they trouble themselves as little about the
elements of criticism, as they do about other
departments of science and belles-lettres. These
are the beaux of the present day, who meet here
to lounge away an idle hour, and play off their
little impertinencies for the entertainment of the
public. They no more regard the merits of the
play, nor of the actors, than my cane. They
even strive to appear inattentive; and I have seen
one of them perched on the front of the box with
his back to the stage, sucking the head of his
stick, and staring vacantly at the audience, insensible
to the most interesting specimens of
scenic representation, though the tear of sensibility
was trembling in every eye around him. I have
heard that some have even gone so far in search
of amusement, as to propose a game of cards in
the theatre, during the performance. The eyes of
my neighbour sparkled at this information—his
-- 022 --
[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]
cane shook in his hand—the word puppies burst
from his lips. Nay, says I, I don't give this for
absolute fact: my cousin Jack was, I believe, quizzing
me (as he terms it) when he gave me the
information. But you seem quite indignant, said
I, to the decent looking man in my rear. It was
from him the exclamation came; the honest
countryman was gazing in gaping wonder on
some new attraction. Believe me, said I, if you
had them daily before your eyes, you would get
quite used to them. Used to them, replied he;
how is it possible for people of sense to relish
such conduct? Bless you, my friend, people of
sense have nothing to do with it; they merely endure
it in silence. These young gentlemen live
in an indulgent age. When I was a young man,
such tricks and follies were held in proper contempt.
Here I went a little too far; for, upon
better recollection, I must own that a lapse of
years has produced but little alteration in this department
of folly and impertinence. But do the
ladies admire these manners! Truly, I am not as
conversant in female circles as formerly; but I
should think it a poor compliment to my fair countrywomen,
to suppose them pleased with the stupid
stare and cant phrases with which these votaries
of fashion add affected to real ignorance.
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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.
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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
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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 bran-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
-- 026 --
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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,
[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]
I shall now conclude my 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 coffee-house, 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
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[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]
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, any 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
-- 029 --
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
delighted with the performance, though he did not half
the time understand what was going forward. He
sat staring, with open mouth, 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
stilts 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
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[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
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
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
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 perriwig'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
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
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 undergroundish
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 ante-chamber, 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—
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
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,
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
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 coffee-house. Here you are right;
it is the polite lounge, where the idle and curious
resort, to pick up the news of the fashionable
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
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, for really the gods are so
elevated among the clouds, that unless they are
unusually strong of vision, I can't tell how they
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
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?
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
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
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
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 andience, so that these absurdities are
almost banished from the New-York stage, yet do
I think they have employed a most unwarrantable
liberty.
A critic, my dear sir, has no more right to expose
the faults of an actor, than he has to detect the
deceptions of a juggler, or the impositions of a
quack. All trades must live; and as long as the
public are satisfied to admire the tricks of the juggler,
to swallow the drugs of the quack, or to applaud
the fustian of the actor, whoever attempts to
undeceive them, does but curtail the pleasures of
the latter, and deprive the former of their bread.
Ods-bud! hath not an actor eyes, and shall he not
wink?—hath not an actor teeth, and shall he not
grin?—feet, and shall he not stamp?—lungs,
and shall he not roar?—breast, and shall he not
slap it?—hair, and shall he not club it? Is he not
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
fed with plaudits from the gods? delighted with
thumpings from the groundlings? annoyed by hisses
from the boxes?
If you censure his follies, does he not complain?
If you take away his bread, will he not starve? If
you starve him, will he not die? And if you kill
him, will not his wife and seven small infants, six
at her back and one at her breast, rise up and cry
vengeance against you? Ponder these things seriously,
my friend Oldstyle, and you will agree with
me that, as the actor is the most meritorious and
faultless, so is the critic the most cruel and sanguinary
character in the world—“as I will show you
more fully in my next.”
Your loving friend,
ANDREW QUOZ.
From the tenor and conclusion of these remarks
of my friend, Mr. Andrew Quoz, they may not improperly
be called the “Rights of Actors;” his
arguments are, I confess, very forcible, but, as they
are entirely new to me, I shall not hastily make up
my mind. In the mean time, as my leg is much
better, I believe I shall hobble to the Theatre on
Monday evening, borrow a seat in a side box, and
observe how the actors conduct themselves.
JONATHAN OLDSTYLE.
-- --
LETTER VI.
Sir,
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
I mentioned in my last my intention of visiting
the Theatre on Monday night. I accordingly
reached there, with the assistance of Jack
Stylish, who procured for me in one of the boxes
an uncomfortable and dirty seat, which, however,
I found as good as any of my neighbours. In the
pit I was determined never again to venture. The
little Frenchman, mentioned in my former remarks,
had adopted the same resolution; for, on
casting my eyes around the Theatre, I recognised
his sharp phiz, and pinched up cocked hat, peering
over the ledge of the Shakspeare. The poor little
fellow had not changed his place for the better;
a brawny Irishman was leaning with his arms
a-kimbo on his shoulders, and coolly surveying the
audience, unmindful of the writhings and expostulations
of the irritated little Gaul, whose chin
was pressed hard upon the front of the box, and
his small black eyes twinkling with fury and suffocation.
How he disengaged himself I do not
know, for my attention was just then called away
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
by a different object; and on turning around some
time afterwards, Monsieur had disappeared.
I found every thing wore its old appearance.
The same silence, order, and regularity prevailed,
as on my former visit. The central chandelier hung
unmolested in the heavens, setting off to advantage
the picture of Mr. Anybody, with which it is adorned,
and shedding a melancholy ray into that den
in which (if we may judge from the sounds that
issue thence) so many troubled spirits are confined.
I had marched into the Theatre through rows
of tables heaped up with delicacies of every kind—
here, a pyramid of apples, or oranges, invited
the playful palate of the dainty; while there, a
regiment of mince pies and custards, promised a
more substantial regale to the hungry. I entered
the box, and looked around with astonishment—
not a grinder but had its employment. The crackling
of nuts, and the craunching of apples, saluted
my ears on every side. Surely, thought I, never
was an employment followed up with more assiduity,
than that of gormandizing; already it pervades
every public place of amusement; nay, it
even begins to steal into our churches, where
many a mouthful is munched in private; and few
have any more objection to eat than laugh in their
sleeves.
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
The eating mania prevails through every class
of society; not a soul but has caught the infection.
Eating clubs are established in every street and
alley, and it is impossible to turn a corner without
hearing the hissing of frying pans, winding the
savoury steams of roast and boiled, or seeing some
hungry genius bolting raw oysters in the middle
of the street. I expect we shall shortly carry our
knives and forks, like the Chinese do their chop
sticks, in our pockets.
I was interrupted in my meditations by Jack
Stylish, who proposed that we might take a peep
into the lounging-room, the dashing appearance
of which Jack described in high terms; I willingly
agreed to his proposal.
The room perfectly answered my expectations,
and was a piece with the rest of the Theatre: the
high finish of the walls, the windows fancifully
decorated with red baize and painted canvass, and
the sumptuous wooden benches placed around it,
had a most inviting appearance.
I drew the end of one of them near to an elegant
stove that stood in the centre of the room,
and seating myself on it, stretched my lame leg
over a chair; placing my hands on the head of
my cane, and resting my chin upon them, I began
to amuse myself by reconnoitring the company,
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
and snuffing up the delightful perfume of French
brandy, Holland gin, and Spanish segars.
I found myself in a circle of young gentry, who
appeared to have something in agitation, by their
winking and nodding; at the same time I heard
a confused whispering around me, and could distinguish
the words, smoke his wig—twig his silver
buckles—old quiz—cane—cock'd hat—queer phiz—
and a variety of others, by which I soon found
I was in bad quarters. Jack Stylish seemed
equally uneasy with myself, for though he is fond
of fun himself, yet I believe the young dog has
too much love for his old relation, to make him
the object of his mirth. To get me away, he told
me my friend Quoz was at the lower end of the
room, and seemed, by his looks, anxious to speak
with me; we accordingly joined him, and finding
that the curtain was about rising, we adjourned to
the box together.
In our way, I exclaimed against the indecorous
manner of the young men of the present day; the
impertinent remarks on the company in which
they continually indulge; and the cant phrases
with which their shallow conversation is continually
interlarded. Jack observed, that I had popp'd
among a set of hard boys; yes, master Stylish,
said I, turning round to him abruptly, and I
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observed by your winks and grins, that you are better
acquainted with them than I could wish. Let
me tell you, honest friend, if ever I catch you indulging
in such despicable fopperies, and hankering
after the company of these disrespectful
youngsters, I will discard you from my affections
entirely. By this time we had reached our box,
so I left my cousin Jack to digest what I had just
said; and I hope it may have weight with him;
though I fear, from the thoughtless gayety of his
disposition, and his knowledge of the strong hold
he has in my foolish old heart, my menaces will
make but little impression.
We found the play already commenced. I was
particularly delighted with the appearance and
manners of one of the female performers. What
ease, what grace, what elegance of deportment—
this is not acting, cousin Jack, said I—this is
reality.
After the play, this lady again came forward,
and delivered a ludicrous epilogue. I was extremely
sorry to find her step so far out of that
graceful line of character, in which she is calculated
to shine; and I perceived, by the countenances
around me, that the sentiment was universal.
Ah! said I, how much she forgets what is due
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to her dignity. That charming countenance was
never made to be so unworthily distorted; nor
that graceful person and carriage to represent the
awkward movements of hobbling decrepitude.
Take this word of advice, fair lady, from an old
man, and a friend: Never, if you wish to retain
that character of elegance you so deservedly possess—
never degrade yourself by assuming the
part of a mimic.
The curtain rose for the afterpiece. Out skipped
a jolly Merry Andrew. Aha! said I, here is
the Jack-pudding. I see he has forgot his
broomstick and gridiron; he'll compensate for
these wants, I suppose, by his wit and humour.
But where is his master, the Quack? He'll be
here presently, said Jack Stylish; he's a queer old
codger; his name's Puffaway; here's to be a rare
roasting match, and this quizzical looking fellow
turns the spit. The Merry Andrew now began
to deal out his speeches with great rapidity; but,
on a sudden, pulling off a black hood that covered
his face, who should I recognise but my old acquaintance,
the portly gentleman.
I started back with astonishment. Sic transit
gloria mundi! exclaimed I, with a melancholy
shake of the head. Here is a dreary, but true
picture, of the vicissitudes of life—one night
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paraded in regal robes, surrounded with a splendid
train of nobility; the next, degraded to a poor
Jack-pudding, and without even a gridiron to
help himself. What think you of this, my friend
Quoz? said I; think you an actor has any right
to sport with the feelings of his audience, by presenting
them with such distressing contrasts.
Honest Quoz, who is of the melting mood, shook
his head ruefully, and said nothing. I, however,
saw the tear of sympathy tremble in his eye, and
honoured him for his sensibility.
The Merry Andrew went on with his part, and
my pity increased as he progressed; when, all of
a sudden, he exclaimed, “And as to Oldstyle, I
wish him to old Nick.” My blood mounted into
my cheeks at this insolent mention of my name.
And what think you of this, friend Quoz? exclaimed
I, vehemently; I presume this is one of
your “rights of actors.” I suppose we are now to
have the stage a vehicle for lampoons and slanders;
on which our fellow citizens are to be caricatured
by the clumsy hand of every dauber who
can hold a brush! Let me tell you, Mr. Andrew
Quoz, I have known the time when such insolence
would have been hooted from the stage.
After some persuasion, I resumed my seat, and
attempted to listen patiently to the rest of the
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afterpiece; but I was so disgusted with the Merry
Andrew, that in spite of all his skipping, and
jumping, and turning on his heel, I could not yield
him a smile.
Among the other original characters of the
dramatis personæ, we were presented with an
ancient maiden; and entertained with jests and
remarks from the buffoon and his associates, containing
equal wit and novelty. But jesting apart,
I think these attempts to injure female happiness,
at once cruel and unmanly. I have ever been an
enthusiast in my attachment to the fair sex—I
have ever thought them possessed of the strongest
claims to our admiration, our tenderness, and our
protection. But when to these are added still
stronger claims—when we see them aged and infirm,
solitary and neglected, without a partner to
support them down the descent of life—cold indeed
must be that heart, and unmanly that spirit,
that can point the shafts of ridicule at their defenceless
bosoms—that can poison the few drops
of comfort heaven has poured into their cup.
The form of my sister Dorothy presented itself
to my imagination; her hair silvered by time, but
her face unwrinkled by sorrow or care. She “hath
borne her faculties so meekly,” that age has marked
no traces on her forehead. Amiable sister of
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my heart! cried I, who hast jogged with me
through so many years of existence, is this to be
the recompense of all thy virtues; art thou, who
never, in thought or deed, injured the feelings of
another, to have thy own massacred, by the jarring
insults of those to whom thou shouldst look for
honour and protection?
Away with such despicable trumpery—such
shallow, worn-out attempts to obtain applause from
the unfeeling. I'll no more of it; come along,
friend Quoz; if we stay much longer, I suppose
we shall find our courts of justice insulted, and
attempts to ridicule the characters of private persons!
Jack Stylish entreated me to stay, and see
the addition the manager had made to his live
stock, of an ass, a goose, and a monkey. Not I,
said I, I'll see no more. I accordingly hobbled
off with my friend, Mr. Andrew Quoz. Jack declared
he would stay behind and see the end of
the joke. On our way home, I asked friend Quoz,
how he could justify such clumsy attempts at personal
satire. He seemed, however, rather reserved
in his answers, and informed me, he would
write his sentiments on the subject.
The next morning, Jack Stylish related to me
the conclusion of the piece. How several actors
went into a wheel one after another, and after a
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little grinding, were converted into asses, geese,
and monkeys, except the Merry Andrew, who was
found such a tough jockey, that the wheel could
not digest him, so he came out as much a Jack-pudding
as ever.
JONATHAN OLDSTYLE.
-- --
LETTER VII.
Sir,
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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
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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
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character be good, with equal respect as the member
of any other profession. Yet 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 you
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,
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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 work 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
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the little shavers who are rewarded with seats 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 an ungenerous and unmanly attempt
to bring forward an ancient maiden in a ridiculosu
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
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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
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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,
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we are to look; and as long 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 show 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
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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. I 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,' `villanous,' `ungrateful,
' `crippled,' `invidious,' `detracting,'
`fabricating,' `personal,' `dogmatical,' `illegitimate,
' `tyrannical,' `distorting,' `spindle-shanked
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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 VIII.
Sir,
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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 fore-finger 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
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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
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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 small sword, 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,
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“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 a 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
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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
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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 death-blow; 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
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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
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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.
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Irving, Washington, 1783-1859 [1824], Letters of Jonathan Oldstyle, gent. [Pseud] (William H, Clayton, New York) [word count] [eaf216].
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