University of Virginia Library

UNCLE BILLY BROWN—"GLORIOUS!"

Take a large stick—a fence-rail for instance—and
rake it violently down a Venetian window-blind, or the
side of a weather-boarded house, and you are very apt
to make some noise, especially of a still evening.

A correspondent of ours, "Rambler," as he signs
himself, says that he had just risen from the supper
table of the tavern in the little village of G—, in the
interior of Mississippi, one hot evening last summer,
and was passing out to the front gallery to rest himself
after a long day's ride, when suddenly he heard a
tremendous racket as of some one raking a fence-rail

down the side of a weather-boarded house, each rake
followed by a shout of "glorious! glorious!" from a
pair of lungs of ten trombone power. Something extra
was "going on," that was certain, and tired as he was,
our friend at once hobbled off towards the point whence
the unwonted sounds proceeded.

He soon arrived at a door over which a light hung,
and round which a score of little and big "niggers"
were assembled. "What's the fun here?" was a
question answered by an individual standing in the
door, who said it was "a theatre." While paying for
his ticket, another rake from the interior, and another
"glorious!" came upon our friend's ear, accompanied this
time by a loud shout as of a large political multitude assembled.
He was soon inside the room, a large and long
one, two-thirds of which was occupied by the audience
and the remainder by the stage, leaving a small space
between. It was crowded too—the benches and chairs
all full—while upon the floor was seated, his arms
locked around his knees and his chin nestled closely on
his wrists, Uncle Billy Brown, two-thirds inebriated and
the other third fast asleep.

On one side of the room, and near the row of candles
which served for foot-lights, sat "the band," consisting
of a large black fellow and no more, in a very high chair,
a violin in his hands and a brass drum between his legs.
After repeated calls for "music," he finally struck up
"Hey, Jim along," playing his fiddle in the ordinary way,
and with the true corn-field abandon, and at the same
time beating a rumbling accompaniment with his knees
upon the drum. This over, the bell—borrowed from the
tavern after it rung the boarders in to supper—now gave

signal for the curtain to rise. "Pizarro, or the Death of
Rolla," got up by a Thespian corps of the town, was to
be the first performance. The Peruvian appeared, and
the applause was so violent that the young amateur who
personated the character bowed. The applause continued,
and he bowed lower. Another round, and he
bowed so low that his tights gave way. A perfect earthquake
of applause followed close upon the heel of this
disaster, accompanied by a rake from the man with the
fence-rail—it was a man with a sure-enough fence-rail—
and Rolla backed out and hauled off to repair damages
while the curtain was falling.

The affair so tickled the individual with the fence-rail
that nothing could stop him. He raked the sides
of the house, and then shouted "glorious!" and kept it
up till his friends gathered round and begged him to
desist. But his steam was up, and the only way he
could keep from bursting was to rail and shout with all
his might. A compromise was finally made with him,
he agreeing if they would allow him to "make a short
exhort" at the door, and "sing a hymn," he would not
use his rail again unless something extra turned up.

Silence having been restored, the play was progressing
towards a termination, when another interruption
occurred. In one of the most affecting scenes, and
white the audience sat motionless, speechless, and
apparently breathless, a very large gentleman from the
country rose in his seat, leaned himself forward, and
fixed his gaze intently on one of the performers. Suddenly
he threw out his arms, exclaiming "Good God!
aint that McDonald?" Away the audience went in
perfect convulsions of laughter, down came the fence-rail

against the blinds with a rake that made all rattle
again, and high above the din arose the shout of
"glorious!" The fat man from the country heeded
not the noise and commotion around him, but kept his
eye fixed on the half-stupified performer. "Down in
front!" came from those on the back seats, but the fat
man heard not the summons. He raised his open hand
over his eyes to obtain a closer sight, and bent himself
still farther forward. "Why, no it aint," ejaculated
he, half in doubt—"why, yes it is"—and then straightening
himself, and slapping his right hand violently in
his open left, he finished with "D—n me if it isn't
McDonald sure enough." If there had been a din
before, there was a perfect earthquake of noise now.
The old fence-rail came down on the weather-boarding
with a rake that started the nails, the shout of "glorious!"
appeared louder from its very hoarseness, every
pair of feet was stamping—every pair of hands was
clapping, every throat was open and yelling, while outside
the theatre the horses tied to the fences broke their
bridles, and were stampeding and cavorting about amid
shouts of "Stop him!" "Whoa!" "Hold my critter,
there!" and similar ejaculations. Never had there been
such an uproar in the little village of G—.

Order was finally restored, but only until sheer exhaustion
left the audience unable to make further noisy
demonstrations; and now the part enacted by the fat
gentleman from the country was explained, it seemed
that the Thespian's name who had attracted his attention
was really McDonald. Some four months previous
he had been reported dead to the fat gentleman, and as
the report had never been contradicted, his bewilderment

at seeing his quondam acquaintance, for he had
finally made him out through all his paint, feathers, and
stage trappings, led him to depart a shade from the
ordinary etiquette established among theatrical audiences.
He sat down, and once more the play commenced.
All was hushed—a perfect quiet reigned—
when suddenly it struck the fat man that he had made
himself supremely ridiculous by the part he had played
a few moments before. No sooner had this fancy fairly
taken foothold in his mind than, in the very midst of
a silence which would have become a graveyard at
midnight, he laid himself back in his seat, raised both
his hands above his head, and broke out with a "Ha!
ha! ha!" that might have been heard a mile. Again
the audience was thrown into convulsions, again the
fence-rail came rattling down the sides of the house,
again the shout of "glorious!" rose above the din, and
as if this was not enough, the actors forgot Sheridan's
poetry and fairly screamed in chorus—the moody and
relentless Pizarro even taking a part, and laughing until
the perspiration wore furrows through the red and black
ferocity which rouge and burnt cork had given his
countenance. It was not until exhaustion had once
more got the mastery that order was restored, and the
performance now went on with little interruption until
"Pizarro" ended with the "Death of Rolla."

All this while, notwithstanding the din, Uncle Billy
Brown had continued to snooze upon the floor; nor did
the bustle attendant upon the fall of the curtain serve
to raise him. The afterpiece of the "Mock Doctor"
commenced, yet Uncle Billy was perfectly unconscious
of what was going on around him. He was well

[ILLUSTRATION]

Uncle Billy Brown, "glorious," at a Country Theatre, in Mississippi.

known as the captain of a "land packet"—in plain
terms, the driver of an ox-team which plied between
G— and the river towns—and but that he occasionally
muttered "Gee," "Whoa," and the like,
as in his dreams he imagined himself along with his
team, no sounds escaped him. As the farce advanced,
he gave a species of groan—a forerunner of returning
consciousness—yet still he did not raise his head. The
sham doctor was now proceeding to administer one of
his nostrums to a patient, but the latter being backward
he endeavoured to persuade him. Uncle Billy groaned
again, and partially raised his head. The doctor continued
his endeavours to force his drugs down his
patient's throat: Uncle Billy gave still another groan,
and opened his eyes. He had half-recognised the voice
of the doctor, who was an old enemy of his, and entirely
forgetting where he was, and imagining the Thespian
endeavouring to force the vile mixture down his
throat, he broke out with, "No—you—don't! To —
with your pills; take 'em yourself, d—n you, I don't
like you, no how!"

Here was fresh and most abundant cause of uproar,
and a new episode in the performance was introduced.
The manager came forward and ordered that Uncle
Billy be turned out—Uncle Billy drew a bowie and intimated
a desire to see the chap willing to undertake the
job. An assistant about the theatre grappled him, and
they were soon upon the floor engaged in a regular
rough-and-tumble fight. Two-thirds of the foot-lights
were at once kicked over, while shouts of "Fair play,"
"Turn 'em out," "Give him goss," "No gouging,"
were heard on all sides. The ladies scrambled and

scampered out, the actors mingled with the audience,
the fat gentleman laughed louder than ever, Uncle Billy
tusseled and swore, but high above the laughing, cursing,
and swearing, arose the efforts of the rail-man. He
had started off the boards on one side of the room, but
having found a fresh spot he was raking away with
all his might to the accompaniment of "glorious!
glorious!"

Thus ended a theatrical performance in Mississippi.
Our correspondent says that he dug his way out of the
house and made the best speed he could to the tavern
and to bed; but the scenes of the evening haunted him
in his dreams, and several times he awoke with his
hands clasped to his ears to shut out the dreadful
raking of the "glorious" fellow with the fence-rail.