CHAPTER LXXX. Pocahontas
The English public not being so well acquainted with the history ofPocahontas as we of Virginia, who still love the memory of that simpleand kindly creature, Mr. Warrington, at the suggestion of his friends,made a little ballad about this Indian princess, which was printed inthe magazines a few days before the appearance of the tragedy. Thisproceeding Sampson and I considered to be very artful and ingenious. "Itis like ground-bait, sir," says the enthusiastic parson, "and you willsee the fish rise in multitudes, on the great day!" He and Spencerdeclared that the poem was discussed and admired at severalcoffee-houses in their hearing, and that it had been attributed to Mr.Mason, Mr. Cowper of the Temple, and even to the famous Mr. Gray.I believe poor Sam had himself set abroad these reports; and, ifShakspeare had been named as the author of the tragedy, would havedeclared Pocahontas to be one of the poet's best performances. I madeacquaintance with brave Captain Smith, as a boy in my grandfather'slibrary at home, where I remember how I would sit at the good old man'sknees, with my favourite volume on my own, spelling out the exploitsof our Virginian hero. I loved to read of Smith's travels, sufferings,captivities, escapes, not only in America but Europe. I become a childagain almost as I take from the shelf before me in England the familiarvolume, and all sorts of recollections of my early home come crowdingover my mind. The old grandfather would make pictures for me of Smithdoing battle with the Turks on the Danube, or led out by our Indiansavages to death. Ah, what a terrific fight was that in which he wasengaged with the three Turkish champions, and how I used to delight overthe story of his combat with Bonny Molgro, the last and most dreadfulof the three! What a name Bonny Molgro was, and with what a prodigiousturban, scimitar, and whiskers we represented him! Having slain andtaken off the heads of his first two enemies, Smith and Bonny Molgromet, falling to (says my favourite old book) "with their battle-axes,whose piercing bills made sometimes the one, sometimes the other,to have scarce sense to keep their saddles: especially the Christianreceived such a wound that he lost his battle-axe, whereat the supposedconquering Turke had a great shout from the rampires. Yet, by thereadinesse of his horse, and his great judgment and dexteritie, henot only avoided the Turke's blows, but, having drawn his falchion, sopierced the Turke under the cutlets, through back and body, that thoughhee alighted from his horse, he stood not long ere hee lost his head asthe rest had done. In reward for which deed, Duke Segismundus gave him3 Turke's head in a shield for armes and 300 Duckats yeerely for apension." Disdaining time and place (with that daring which is theprivilege of poets) in my tragedy, Smith is made to performsimilar exploits on the banks of our Potomac and James's river. Our"ground-bait" verses, ran thus:--
"POCAHONTAS
"Wearied arm and broken sword Wage in vain the desperate fight Round him press the countless horde, He is but a single knight. Hark! a cry of triumph shrill Through the wilderness resounds, As, with twenty bleeding wounds, Sinks the warrior, fighting still.
"Now they heap the fatal pyre, And the torch of death they light Ah! 'tis hard to die of fire! Who will shield the captive knight? Round the stake with fiendish cry Wheel and dance the savage crowd, Cold the victim's mien and proud, And his breast is bared to die.
"Who will shield the fearless heart? Who avert the murderous blade? From the throng, with sudden start, See, there springs an Indian maid. Quick she stands before the knight, 'Loose the chain, unbind the ring, I am daughter of the king, And I claim the Indian right!'
"Dauntlessly aside she flings Lifted axe and thirsty knife; Fondly to his heart she clings, And her bosom guards his life! In the woods of Powhattan, Still 'tis told, by Indian fires, How a daughter of their sires Saved the captive Englishman."
I need not describe at length the plot of my tragedy, as my children cantake it down from the shelves any day and peruse it for themselves. Norshall I, let me add, be in a hurry to offer to read it again to my youngfolks, since Captain Miles and the parson both chose to fall asleep lastChristmas, when, at mamma's request, I read aloud a couple of acts.But any person having a moderate acquaintance with plays and novelscan soon, out of the above sketch, fill out a picture to his liking.An Indian king; a loving princess, and her attendant, in love with theBritish captain's servant; a traitor in the English fort; a brave Indianwarrior, himself entertaining an unhappy passion for Pocahontas; amedicine-man and priest of the Indians (very well played by Palmer),capable of every treason, stratagem, and crime, and bent upon thetorture and death of the English prisoner;--these, with the accidentsof the wilderness, the war-dances and cries (which Gumbo had learned tomimic very accurately from the red people at home), and the arrivalof the English fleet, with allusions to the late glorious victories inCanada, and the determination of Britons ever to rule and conquer inAmerica, some of us not unnaturally thought might contribute to thesuccess of our tragedy.
But I have mentioned the ill omens which preceded the day: thedifficulties which a peevish, and jealous, and timid management threw inthe way of the piece, and the violent prejudice which was felt againstit in certain high quarters. What wonder then, I ask, that Pocahontasshould have turned out not to be a victory? I laugh to scorn themalignity of the critics who found fault with the performance. Prettycritics, forsooth, who said that Carpezan was a masterpiece, whilsta far superior and more elaborate work received only their sneers! Iinsist on it that Hagan acted his part so admirably that a certain actorand manager of the theatre might well be jealous of him; and that, butfor the cabal made outside, the piece would have succeeded. The orderhad been given that the play should not succeed; so at least Sampsondeclared to me. "The house swarmed with Macs, by George, and they shouldhave the galleries washed with brimstone," the honest fellow swore,and always vowed that Mr. Garrick himself would not have had the piecesucceed for the world; and was never in such a rage as during that grandscene in the second act, where Smith (poor Hagan) being bound to thestake, Pocahontas comes and saves him, and when the whole house wasthrilling with applause and sympathy.
Anybody who has curiosity sufficient, may refer to the published tragedy(in the octavo form, or in the subsequent splendid quarto edition of myCollected Works, and Poems Original and Translated), and say whether thescene is without merit, whether the verses are not elegant, the languagerich and noble? One of the causes of the failure was my actual fidelityto history. I had copied myself at the Museum, and tinted neatly, afigure of Sir Walter Raleigh in a frill and beard; and (my dear Theogiving some of her mother's best lace for the ruff) we dressed Haganaccurately after this drawing, and no man could look better. MissPritchard as Pocahontas, I dressed too as a Red Indian, having seenenough of that costume in my own experience at home. Will it be believedthe house tittered when she first appeared? They got used to her,however, but just at the moment when she rushes into the prisoner'sarms, and a number of people were actually in tears, a fellow in the pitbawls out, "Bedad! here's the Belle Savage kissing the Saracen's Head;"on which an impertinent roar of laughter sprang up in the pit, breakingout with fitful explosions during the remainder of the performance.As the wag in Mr. Sheridan's amusing Critic admirably says about themorning guns, the playwrights were not content with one of them, butmust fire two or three; so with this wretched pothouse joke of the BelleSavage (the ignorant people not knowing that Pocahontas herself was thevery Belle Sauvage from whom the tavern took its name!). My friend ofthe pit repeated it ad nauseam during the performance, and as eachnew character appeared, saluted him by the name of some tavern--forinstance, the English governor (with a long beard) he called the Goatand Boots; his lieutenant (Barker), whose face certainly was broad, theBull and Mouth, and so on! And the curtain descended amidst a shrillstorm of whistles and hisses, which especially assailed poor Hagan everytime he opened his lips. Sampson saw Master Will in the green boxes,with some pretty acquaintances of his, and has no doubt tha
t thetreacherous scoundrel was one of the ringleaders in the conspiracy. "Iwould have flung him over into the pit," the faithful fellow said (andSampson was man enough to execute his threat), "but I saw a couple ofMr. Nadab's followers prowling about the lobby, and was obliged to sheeroff." And so the eggs we had counted on selling at market were broken,and our poor hopes lay shattered before us!
I looked in at the house from the stage before the curtain was lifted,and saw it pretty well filled, especially remarking Mr. Johnson in thefront boxes, in a laced waistcoat, having his friend Mr. Reynolds by hisside; the latter could not hear, and the former could not see, and sothey came good-naturedly A deux to form an opinion of my poor tragedy.I could see Lady Maria (I knew the hood she wore) in the lower gallery,where she once more had the opportunity of sitting and looking at herbeloved actor performing a principal character in a piece. As for Theo,she fairly owned that, unless I ordered her, she had rather not bepresent, nor had I any such command to give, for, if things went wrong,I knew that to see her suffer would be intolerable pain to myself, andso acquiesced in her desire to keep away.
Being of a pretty equanimous disposition, and, as I flatter myself, ableto bear good or evil fortune without disturbance, I myself, after takinga light dinner at the Bedford, went to the theatre a short while beforethe commencement of the play, and proposed to remain there, until thedefeat or victory was decided. I own now, I could not help seeing whichway the fate of the day was likely to turn. There was somethinggloomy and disastrous in the general aspect of all things around. MissPritchard had the headache: the barber who brought home Hagan's wighad powdered it like a wretch: amongst the gentlemen and ladies inthe greenroom, I saw none but doubtful faces: and the manager (a veryflippant, not to say impertinent gentleman, in my opinion, and whohimself on that night looked as dismal as a mute at a funeral) had theinsolence to say to me, "For Heaven's sake, Mr. Warrington, go and geta glass of punch at the Bedford, and don't frighten us all here by yourdismal countenance!"
"Sir," says I, "I have a right, for five shillings, to comment upon yourface, but I never gave you any authority to make remarks upon mine.""Sir," says he in a pet, "I most heartily wish I had never seen yourface at all!" "Yours, sir!" said I, "has often amused me greatly; andwhen painted for Abel Drugger is exceedingly comic"--and indeed Ihave always done Mr. G. the justice to think that in low comedy he wasunrivalled. I made him a bow, and walked off to the coffee-house,and for five years after never spoke a word to the gentleman, when heapologised to me, at a nobleman's house where we chanced to meet. I saidI had utterly forgotten the circumstance to which he alluded, and that,on the first night of a play, no doubt author and manager were flurriedalike. And added, "After all, there is no shame in not being made forthe theatre. Mr. Garrick--you were." A compliment with which he appearedto be as well pleased as I intended he should.
Fidus Achates ran over to me at the end of the first act to say that allthings were going pretty well; though he confessed to the titter in thehouse upon Miss Pritchard's first appearance, dressed exactly like anIndian princess.
"I cannot help it, Sampson," said I (filling him a bumper of goodpunch), "if Indians are dressed so."
"Why," says he, "would you have had Caractacus painted blue like anancient Briton, or Bonduca with nothing but a cow-skin?" And indeed itmay be that the fidelity to history was the cause of the ridicule caston my tragedy, in which case I, for one, am not ashamed of its defeat.
After the second act, my aide-de-camp came from the field with dismalnews indeed. I don't know how it is that, nervous before action,in disaster I become pretty cool and cheerful. [The writer seems tocontradict himself here, having just boasted of possessing a prettyequanimous disposition. He was probably mistaken in his own estimate ofhimself, as other folks have been besides.-ED.] "Are things going ill?"says I. I call for my reckoning, put on my hat, and march to the theatreas calmly as if I was going to dine at the Temple; fidus Achates walkingby my side, pressing my elbow, kicking the link-boys out of the way, andcrying, "By George, Mr. Warrington, you are a man of spirit--a Trojan,sir!" So, there were men of spirit in Troy; but alas! fate was toostrong for them.
At any rate, no man can say that I did not bear my misfortune withcalmness: I could no more help the clamour and noise of the audiencethan a captain can help the howling and hissing of the storm in whichhis ship goes down. But I was determined that the rushing waves andbroken masts should impavidum ferient, and flatter myself that I bore mycalamity without flinching. "Not Regulus, my dear madam, could step intohis barrel more coolly," Sampson said to my wife. 'Tis unjust to sayof men of the parasitic nature that they are unfaithful in misfortune.Whether I was prosperous or poor, the wild parson was equally true andfriendly, and shared our crust as eagerly as ever he had partaken of ourbetter fortune.
I took my place on the stage, whence I could see the actors of my poorpiece, and a portion of the audience who condemned me. I suppose theperformers gave me a wide berth out of pity for me. I must say that Ithink I was as little moved as any spectator; and that no one would havejudged from my mien that I was the unlucky hero of the night.
But my dearest Theo, when I went home, looked so pale and white, thatI saw from the dear creature's countenance that the knowledge of mydisaster had preceded my return. Spencer, Sampson, cousin Hagan, andLady Maria were to come after the play, and congratulate the author, Godwot! (Poor Miss Pritchard was engaged to us likewise, but sent wordthat I must understand that she was a great deal too unwell to sup thatnight.) My friend the gardener of Bedford House had given my wife hisbest flowers to decorate her little table. There they were; the poorlittle painted standards--and the battle lost! I had borne the defeatwell enough, but as I looked at the sweet pale face of the wife acrossthe table, and those artless trophies of welcome which she had set upfor her hero, I confess my courage gave way, and my heart felt a pangalmost as keen as any that ever has smitten it.
Our meal, it may be imagined, was dismal enough, nor was it renderedmuch gayer by the talk we strove to carry on. Old Mrs. Hagan was,luckily, very ill at this time; and her disease, and the incidentsconnected with it, a great blessing to us. Then we had his Majesty'sapproaching marriage, about which there was a talk. (How well I rememberthe most futile incidents of the day down to a tune which a carpenterwas whistling by my side at the playhouse, just before the drearycurtain fell!) Then we talked about the death of good Mr. Richardson,the author of Pamela and Clarissa, whose works we all admiredexceedingly. And as we talked about Clarissa, my wife took on herself towipe her eyes once or twice, and say, faintly, "You know, my love,mamma and I could never help crying over that dear book. Oh, my dearest,dearest mother" (she adds), "how I wish she could be with me now!" Thiswas an occasion for more open tears, for of course a young lady maynaturally weep for her absent mother. And then we mixed a gloomy bowlwith Jamaica limes, and drank to the health of his Excellency theGovernor: and then, for a second toast, I filled a bumper, and, with asmiling face, drank to "our better fortune!"
This was too much. The two women flung themselves into each other'sarms, and irrigated each other's neck-handkerchiefs with tears. "Oh,Maria! Is not--is not my George good and kind?" sobs Theo. "Look at myHagan--how great, how godlike he was in his part!" gasps Maria. "It wasa beastly cabal which threw him over--and I could plunge this knife intoMr. Garrick's black heart--the odious little wretch!" and she graspsa weapon at her side. But throwing it presently down, the enthusiasticcreature rushes up to her lord and master, flings her arms round him,and embraces him in the presence of the little company.
I am not sure whether some one else did not do likewise. We were allin a state of extreme excitement and enthusiasm. In the midst of grief,Love the consoler appears amongst us, and soothes us with such fondblandishments and tender caresses, that one scarce wishes the calamityaway. Two or three days afterwards, on our birthday, a letter wasbrought me in my study, which contained the following lines:--
"FROM POCAHONTAS
"Returni
ng from the cruel fight How pale and faint appears my knight! He sees me anxious at his side; 'Why seek, my love, your wounds to hide? Or deem your English girl afraid To emulate the Indian maid?'
"Be mine my husband's grief to cheer, In peril to be ever near; Whate'er of ill or woe betide, To bear it clinging at his side; The poisoned stroke of fate to ward, His bosom with my own to guard; Ah! could it spare a pang to his, It could not know a purer bliss! 'Twould gladden as it felt the smart, And thank the hand that flung the dart!"
I do not say the verses are very good, but that I like them as well asif they were--and that the face of the writer (whose sweet young voice Ifancy I can hear as I hum the lines), when I went into her drawing-roomafter getting the letter, and when I saw her blushing and blessingme--seemed to me more beautiful than any I can fancy out of Heaven.
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