Complete Fictional Works of Washington Irving (Illustrated)

by Washington Irving

  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 fed with plaudits from the gods? delighted with thumpings from the groundlings? annoyed by hisses from the boxes?

  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,

  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 Shakespeare. 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 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.

  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 canvas, 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, 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 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 gaiety 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 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 Puff
away; 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 recognize 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 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 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 personae, 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 air 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 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’II 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 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.

  LETTER VII.

  SIR,

  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 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 character be good, with equal respect as the member of any other profession. et 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 yon 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, 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 wh
o 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 the little shavers who are rewarded with seals 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 au ungenerous and unmanly attempt to bring forward an ancient maiden in a ridiculous 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 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.