University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

Heroines on and off the stage.

—Shakspeare.

—Stevens.

—Johnson.

—Shaks.

—Stevens.

Before Zeb appears again or undertakes to make known
his purpose or rather his change of resolution, we will introduce

the reader to the family circle at Mrs. Epsom's. Mrs. Trowbridge
(we will call her so for the present) had just returned
from rehearsal (Cooke having absconded before his time, leaving
the prompter to read Penruddock) and was busied in selecting
and preparing the dress and properties she intended for the
character of the evening. Mrs. Epsom sailed majestically
about the house, occasionally visiting the kitchen to see that
Rachel the black girl executed her orders, then with dignified
pace and action taking her seat by the parlour window, and after
an abundant administration of snuff to her capacious nostrils,
resuming her spectacles and her occupation of sewing. A book
was open on the chair beside her: whether on morality or religion
the reader must determine when he has perused to the end
of this history. We rather think it was deposited there for
what in playhouse technicalities is called study.

Mrs. Trowbridge, or Mrs. Spiffard, as the reader pleases, was
a vigorous square built woman of the largest English model; not
only broad in frame but tall, and appearing still more so by
the side of her Zebediah, who although a native of Vermont,
it may be remembered was the very reverse of the long lank
Yankee of the novelist and story-teller, or the towering and
manly form of the real Vermonter; and she appeared the taller
as she never lost an inch of her height by stooping, having a
true tragedy elevation of head and a commanding carriage of the
neck and shoulders. Her swan-like neck rose proudly from
her chest, giving an air of pride as well as grace to the
movements of the head, whose ornament was hair that in luxuriance
and colour was truly Asiatic. Her arms were full,
plump, white and terminated by small graceful hands. Her
feet were rather large; they were decidedly not American. Her
face was very remote from the painter's or sculptor's standard
of beauty; yet might be called fine; complexion, a light brunette,
but in spots rather ruddy. Forehead good, high, broad, white—
strongly marked black eyebrows, which, with black eyes, and
hair falling in masses of raven hue, gave powerful effect to the
poet's passions, and sometimes to her own. She had a prominent
full nose—red lips, somewhat thick, the upper one having
rather a scornful curl towards its neighbour the impending nose,
—when separated they displayed brilliant teeth—this congregation
of features was finished by a square prominent chin, and
the whole visage was slightly marked by disappointment. The
aggregate gave indications of strong intellect, and, to the
close observer, ungoverned passions.

Her mother, who played the tragedy, or serious, old women

of the Drama occasionally, was tall and thin, with a cream-coloured
face, except the nose which was red, sharp, short and
puggish—thin lips, the upper one of which (as well as her nose)
was always discoloured with snuff—her whole physiognomy
hypocritical—and in her air was seen that mock dignity, and
that swimming and sailing manner already mentioned.

At the other window, so retired as that the light should fall on
her work and not on her face, sat Emma Portland. She was
intently employed in sewing; and her eyes being cast down in
the direction of her needle, caused the long, dark, auburn lashes
to be more apparent as contrasted with the brilliant white of her
skin: they were relieved like the delicate touches of the pencil on
a ground of snowy purity. When the fringed curtains of her
eyes were raised, their azure tint and softness of expression
caused fascination—not the fascination of the enchantress, but
a holy attraction inspiring admiration, divested of all impurity,
except when the beholder was impure. Complexion is evanescent—yet
transparency and bloom add to the charms of form
and expression. The most delicate tint of the damask rose-leaf
did not equal the colour of this maiden's cheek. She appeared
by the purity and simplicity of her dress, the placidity of
her countenance, the slender symmetry of her justly proportioned
form, and the graceful movement accompanying this common
domestic occupation, to contrast strongly with the majestic
figure of one, and the worldly appearance of the other of her
companions.

Emma was not yet eighteen, and looked two years younger
when not speaking. When she spoke, a mind of maturity indicating
many years appeared in the unveiled mirror of her soul—
her face—which beamed with intelligence and intellectual
beauty. Nor did her words belie her lovely countenance, or in
the least disappoint the expectation which her all-expressive
physiognomy had raised. Purity and truth—piety and love
(heavenly love) were written on her countenance. Of her form
and face it might be said with the poet,

Her voice was
A spotless white morning dress covered her person from the
feet to the chin. There was no studied art to display form, or
coquettishly to conceal it; but the perfection of female loveliness
was seen in every movement and in every limb. Her hair was
auburn, fine and glossy as the richest silk; modestly braided,
it formed a natural crown copeing her maiden brow; that portion
which impinged upon the ivory of her forehead, was parted
in the midst, and in ringlets hung clustering on either side,
shading the blue veins of her temples, and sometimes as they
waved, adding golden tinted shadows to the rich hues near them.
Her face approached the oval in its form, with a portion of
girlish roundness, which only added to its innocent expression
when, as now, perfectly tranquil, and which expression of extreme
youth was heightened by the glowing colour of her cheeks
and lips. These lips were as usual two, and as the old poet
says,
Yet both were full, exquisitely curved and rounded, and parted
by a line more resembling the bow of Cupid when unbent,
than any thing merely mortal; within this mouth, the rows of
brilliant, pearly teeth, were in unison with the honied breath and
honied words which flowed from the healthful frame and healthful
mind of this matchless maiden. With this beauty she possessed
a higher, holier loveliness; proceeding from within. In
her eyes you beheld the pure soul which never knew or thought
deceit—the charm of truth was spread over her countenance,
but it shone in her eyes. She had read and heard of falsehood
and arts of deceit, but they were theories with her—she confided
in every one, because she felt her own sincerity and heretofore
had no experience of the lack of it in others. She confided in
all, and all confided in her. How could they avoid it? Truth
was an innate and a practical virtue, which had such power in
her voice that no human creature could doubt an assertion from
her lips. She possessed another virtue—Charity. Charity in
its widest sense—in its theory and practice. She thought
charitably of all, and she acted charitably to all. She could
not give money, or food, or clothing to the poor, but rarely and
scantily: she could not send fuel to the cold, and sick, and
shivering: but she did more—she sought their abodes and
cheered them with looks and words. She pointed out their
cheerless dwellings to those who could supply their physical
wants and alleviate their sufferings.

How came such a creature in such a place and in such company?
We will tell the reader in few words.

The father of Emma Portland left England, his native
land, and took refuge in America, after the destruction of
his family by the elopement of his sister with a worthless
strolling player of the name of Epsom. This sister, though
now such as we have seen her had then a showy kind of so-called
beauty, was vain, and thought it would be a charming thing to
receive the plaudits of the theatre—to be admired by hundreds,
to stand aloft and dazzle thousands, and to be the wife of the
tall, handsome, tragic actor, Mr. Adolphus Epsom. She was
an only daughter, and her conduct killed first her father and subsequently
her mother. Her brother, a well disposed young man,
but with no extraordinary talents or acquirements, sought a home
in Philadelphia, prospered in commerce, married one of the
loveliest and best of women, and was blest by her perfections
mental and physical—and more by the good conduct of a son
and daughter, Thomas and Emma; so named from himself
and wife. The children inherited the talents of the mother, and
imbibed from her an ardent love of truth: the foundation of
every virtue.

Emma had in infancy the inestimable advantage of the example
and instruction of an enlightened and good mother; and
as her mind expanded, her beloved brother, some years older
than herself, and devoted to science and literature, became her
chosen companion, and instructor. Thus with every advantage
which wealth, science, virtue and piety could surround her, she
attained her fifteenth year. Then came a sad reverse. The
father, heretofore a princely merchant, failed—sunk under the
shock and died. The mother bowed her head to God, and rose
higher and firmer from the conviction that to do his will was her
duty and her happiness; that his will is the happiness of his creatures;
and that her duty was to make her children and herself useful
in the great work of promoting happiness. The brother and
mother sought and found employment. Their sister and daughter
cheered their labours and cheerfully added her own. Soon
a lingering and cruel disease, the consumption, the consequence,
perhaps, of too severe study, was apparent in the
flushed cheek and enfeebled frame of the brother. The
mother seemed to melt away as her first born withered, as it is
fabled that the victim of malignity sinks with the melting of the
charm-fraught image moulded by the hand of accursed sorcery.
Both died—resigned to the will of him who had given life and
much happiness—thankful for the past and confiding in the
future; they died—first the brother, then the mother, and left the
orphan Emma—not alone and unprotected, for in our country

the child of the wise and good cannot want friends. But Emma,
though not friendless, was poor. Her mother had no near
relations. Dependency upon strangers, however kind they may
be, is a hard lot.

In the meantime Epsom, his wife, and only child, a daughter,
had emigrated to Boston, where he died. The wife and daughter,
both on the stage, were prosperous in public favour. They
visited Charleston South Carolina, New-York, and several of
the principal cities. The daughter who had been educated for
dramatic life, and used to it from childhood, married a well
known young tragedian of the name of Trowbridge, and became
a skillful tragic actress, far surpassing her instructor.
Trowbridge died of the disease which destroys so many foreign
actors of the middling class—intemperance; he attributed as
usual the decline of his health altogether to the climate, and expired
cursing the country. Mrs. Epsom and her daughter
visited Philadelphia for the first time in their professional capacities
and there by accident, that is, through the medium of an
English merchant who knew Portland and his family history,
Mrs. Epsom became acquainted with the situation of her niece.
She might have neglected her, but her daughter had better feelings.
She saw and admired the orphan. She could appreciate
and even love the excellence which she could not imitate.
Emma was visited and solicited to accept the home her aunt
could offer.

Emma Portland, by the advice of well meaning friends, who
thought so young and beautiful a creature ought to be under the
guardianship of her natural relations, (relations who were prosperous
and of unimpeached character in general estimation)
placed herself under the protection of her aunt and cousin.
Her wardrobe was more than sufficient for her humble prospects,
and a small sum, the savings from the wreck and subsequent
industry, was secured at interest with the philanthropic
banker, Stephen Girard. She was received with apparent
kindness by the aunt, and with real admiration, which soon became
affection, by the superior minded but unhappy cousin.
Nay even the obtuse Mrs. Epsom became sensible that in
Emma Portland she had no burden, but rather a treasure as respected
her economical domestic arrangements, which were
sometimes sadly neglected, owing to the duties and cares
inseparable from the stage. With these relatives Emma
removed to New-York, where they obtained a permanent engagement.

In this situation, with people whose manners, maxims,

thoughts, and conversation were all, not only strange and different,
but generally opposite and repulsive to this young creature,
she was placed; and she must either sink to their level, or by
the elastic energy of a well taught and well regulated mind, rise
from the struggle of hostile opinions, and be strengthened and
confirmed in all the precepts and practice of her mother and
brother, in all the beauty of active virtue and true piety.

Which course Emma pursued, and to what it led will make
an important portion of this true and interesting history—true in
precept—interesting in incident.

Before we proceed to detail the conversation which passed
between Emma Portland and her relatives, we will go back in
our story, only two days, and recount an adventure which befell
the lovely girl—a circumstance which had produced the determination
she on that occasion made known; and which we
have to record as an important part of this characteristic scene.

The company of comedians to which Mrs. Trowbridge and
her mother belonged played at this period three times a week,
in the only theatre in the city: the nights of performance were
Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Emma from the kindness
of her gentle disposition, and her wish to oblige, had, though
with reluctance, been induced occasionally to accompany her
aunt and cousin to their dressing room in the theatre, particularly
when the latter had some new character to perform and of
course new dress, to appear in; or was unusually anxious to
support or increase her reputation and favour with the audience.
Such had been the case on the last play-night. Emma had accompanied
Mrs. Trowbridge and Mrs. Epsom to their dressing
room, and had been until the time of raising the curtain so sedulously
employed in assisting her cousin to mould her person
(rather tall and masculine for the heroine of the tragedy of the
night) by dress and decoration, to the form which the author of
the character she had to portray meant to represent. This accomplished
to the satisfaction of one at least of the parties, who
evidently viewed in the full length mirror her towering form and
gorgeous ornaments, her raven hair, glowing cheeks and flashing
eyes with some little complacency, the simply dressed maid
resumed her bonnet and left the heroine to the care of the ordinary
attendant of the apartment—a dresser furnished to every
dressing room by the rules of a well regulated theatre.

Notwithstanding her cousin's earnest solicitations that she
would “go in front” and, with Mrs. Epsom, see the tragedy,
Emma tripped down stairs on her way home to pursue those
studies marked out for her by her lamented brother, and now,

more than ever enjoyed, as all studies are in proportion to the
progress made in them, and the consciousness of intellectual
power thereby gained. She had no fastidious notions respecting
the Drama. She had read plays, English and French, selected
by her brother. She saw no reason to suppose that the effect of
a good poem in prose or verse would be lessened by the just
representation of its characters, and powerful delivery of its
moral sentiments. She had seen with the delight incident to
inexperienced youth the charms of scenic representation; and
although, since her residence with her aunt Epsom, her feelings
toward the theatre had undergone a change, still her only motive
on this occasion, was the preference given to retirement and
the pursuit of a study she had commenced.

It is known, without our aid, to some of our readers, that the
dressing rooms of the Park Theatre, are over the green-room,
or room for the assembling of performers when ready to obey
the prompter's summons to the stage. The passage leading to
these rooms, and to the stage, opened in a darksome dirty street
called Theatre Alley; since that time, like many other things,
reformed. The first floor of the building, which is an adjunct to
the theatre proper, was occupied by the aforesaid green-room,
and the passage way from the street or alley to it, to the stage,
and to the stair-case leading to the dressing rooms. The second
floor was divided into three apartments, one of which was at this
time appropriated to Mr. Cooke, and the others to some of the
principal male performers of the company, none of whom happened
to play on the evening of which we speak, nor were their
usual occupants in the house. The third floor had likewise
three dressing rooms, one of which was occupied by Mrs. Epsom
and her daughter, a second accommodated Mr. Spiffard and
another comedian, and the third was similarly used by others of
the company. Above this again were other tiring rooms, better
filled, at least in quantity, (the persons of lesser weight in this
community, as in other places, rising nearer the clouds, as poets
and painters mount to garrets,)—and still higher were apartments
for tailors, supernumeraries and trumpery, all called wardrobe.
Each landing on the staircase was lighted usually by a
lamp, but as Emma ascended with her aunt and cousin, it being
yet twilight, she had not noticed whether the lamp was burning
or not.

As she now descended to the floor on which the dressing
room of George Frederick Cooke was situated, she found herself
involved in darkness, and it appeared to her that the lamp
had been extinguished at the moment she opened the door of

the apartment from which she issued. With the confidence of
innocence, and that courage given by a just appreciation of her
own character, she kept on her way, darkling; but as she passed
the last dressing room she was suddenly arrested, and felt
herself seized round the waist, by the strong grasp of a man's
arm, and forcibly drawn towards the door. She struggled to
return to the stairs whence she came—and in her struggles confusedly
heard the words murmured, “lovely girl—I will make
your fortune—I love you—no harm—” and a rude kiss was attempted
upon her averted face.

“Help! Aunt! Cousin! Cousin Trowbridge,” cried the
struggling maid, “Monster! Ruffian! Help! Help!”

A door opened, and a figure in a dressing gown appeared in the
doorway. This person, finding the landing and stairs in
darkness, turned back into the room, snatched a light and rushed
out. The arm which had seized Emma was suddenly withdrawn,
the ruffian had vanished, and she sunk on the lower step
of the stairs she had just descended, faintly crying “Help.”

Thus before she could see the satyr who had assailed her, except
by the faint and impeded light from the door that had been
thrown open, some rays of which fell on a face unknown to her,
she was left alone, sitting on the stairs leading to her aunt's
dressing room—leaning with one arm on the step above that on
which she was seated, and with the other outstretched in search
of her bonnet—in that attitude—her bonnet off—her face, neck
and shoulders almost covered by the profusion of her golden
ringlets—in this state of apparent helplessness was she found
by George Frederick Cooke.

The veteran had been preparing for the ensuing scene, under
the hands of his hair-dresser, Dennis O`Dogherty; and attended
by his servant, or, as he called himself, his valet de sham,
Trustworthy Davenport (the first an honest hibernian, and the
second a thorough going yankee,) and hearing a female voice
cry for help, George Frederick rushed to the rescue with all the
promptitude of a preux chevalier, and stood in an attitude of
unfeigned amazement at the apparition of such a lovely creature
so strangely situated; lovely he could now see that she was, for
a blaze of light fell strong and full upon her, from the candle he
had seized, and from another borne aloft by the tall yankee, his
valet.

“This way, O'Dogherty!—Here, Davenport!—My dear
young lady, have you fallen?—Are you hurt?—Let me assist
you! Are you hurt?”

“No sir. I am not hurt. Some ruffian assailed me. He

must have gone into that room, I think—or perhaps down stairs.”

“That door? Ha!—O'Dogherty!—Davenport!—that door
—I beg your pardon, Madam. Bring a glass of wine, O'Dogherty!—and
Davenport, see who is in that room—the door is
open.”

“And there is no speck of light,” said Trusty, as he obeyed.

“You are faint, my dear,” said the old gentleman, “Let me
assist you into this room—and there you can sit down until you
recover yourself. For Emma was now standing at the foot of
the stairs near the tragedian's open door.

“Oh no sir, no, no, I am well now;” and the trembling girl,
hastily adjusting her long and dishevelled tresses under her
bonnet, attempted to ascend the stairs, but suddenly recollecting
that to her aunt and cousin, as then engaged, the knowledge of
her adventure would prove unseasonable and annoying, and that
it might prevent Mrs. Trowbridge's exertions as an actress, at
the same time wondering that her cries had not brought those
ladies down (but in truth they had not heard her faint and stifled
calls for help) she concluded to leave them in ignorance for the
present.

Davenport returned from his search with the report that no
one was to be found.

Emma, after a moment of hesitation, re-assumed her intention
of going home, and was proceeding down stairs to the lower
floor, after thanking the old gentleman for his assistance and
kind offers.

“Where would you go, young lady?” said he.

“Home, sir.”

“Alone!”

“There is no danger, sir.”

“I think there is.”

“None, sir, after leaving this house.”

“Indeed, miss,” said Dennis O'Dogherty, who stood holding
a decanter of Madeira in one hand, and a full glass in the other.
“There are more bad houses in this alley.”

“What sirr!” said Cooke, “do you make a bad house of
the theatre?”

“Not I, sir, but among us I think it will get its name up. I
only mane that there are others in the alley, though this is the
biggest.”

“Mr. O'Dogherty,” said the Yankee, “you are mending the
matter clean with a plaster of mud.”

“Hold your tongues, sirrs!” said Cooke. “How far are you
going, young lady?”

“Only to Mrs. Epsom's, sir.”

“My coat! Davenport! I dont go on till the second act.
O'Dogherty, my hat! Young lady, you must not go through
that dark alley alone. I am George Frederick Cooke, madam;
and though my grey hairs—if I hadn't this black wig on—might
be assurance enough for your security, we will have Dennis
with us, who knows the alley so well, and Davenport shall carry
a lanthorn before us.”

“Indeed, sir, I have no fears, when out of this house.”

“The house has its traps, sure enough, miss; and there are
some who make the sight of an unprotected beauty a cue to
their licentiousness; but pardon me, the night is growing dark,
and such a figure as yours flitting through Theatre-alley might
attract a ruffian, and occasion an insult even out of the theatre.
So you must permit—therefore, pardon me, I will see you home.
Give me that glass of wine, O'Dogherty, and take care of the
bottle; and do you, Trusty, take the lanthorn.” Having tossed
off the bumper, he proceeded. “I will see you safe home by the
light of Dennis's face and Trustworthy's lanthorn. And as I
shall be supporting you, and Davenport carrying the light before
us, that Hibernian shall follow as a rear guard. Come along,
Davenport, and take your cudgel with you, Dennis!”

Emma could no longer decline the aid so frankly offered;
and supported by the arm of the veteran, lighted by his trusty
valet, and guarded by the red-faced Irishman, they descended
the stairs, at the bottom of which they found the old porter.

“Did any one pass out within a few minutes?” said Cooke.

“Yes, sir, a gentleman in a great hurry.”

“Who was he?”

“I dont know, sir?”

“You must know all the performers?”

“He was not a performer I'm sure sir.”

“Then what business had he here?”

“He did not come in this way since I came from my supper,
and as he looked like a gentleman, I let him pass without asking
questions. He was wrapp'd in a cloak, and his face partly
covered.”

“Some young scape-grace,” ejaculated Cooke, as they passed
out.

“No, sir,” said the porter, “he was not young, that I know
by the way he came down the stairs. He was none of your
hop-skip-and-jump fellows.”

Emma reached her aunt's house in safety; receiving all the
delicate attentions which a man of sense and feeling would bestow

upon a young female in her situation; for it happened that
Mr. Cooke was at this time such as nature had qualified him for
being at all times.

When they stopped at the door, Emma, having thoroughly
recovered her self-possession, said, “I will not ask you in, sir.
I know your engagements. My aunt will add her thanks to
mine, for your politeness, at some other time. I hope you
will call upon her, she is not now at home. The thanks and
blessings of the orphan are with you, sir.” Then suddenly
bending her head, under the impulse of excited feelings, she
pressed her lips upon the hand which had assisted her, he felt a
warm tear drop, and she bastily left him.

Cooke, and his two attendants, turned to retrace their way to
the theatre, and they had walked in silence for a minute or
two, when the hero of the buskin ejaculated the single word,
“strange!” He drew out his handkerchief, and, rubbing his
eyes, said, “Who is this beautiful creature, Dennis?”

“Sure and she is beautiful, sir,” said Dennis.

“I know that, you blockhead; but who is she?”

“Sure, Mister Cooke, you wouldn't call me a blockhead for
not knowing all the beautiful creatures. And, indeed, Mr.
Cooke, and I think she is none of the company, or she would
not have minded a little affair of that sort—quite so much.”

“Get out, you blackguard, do you know what you are saying?”

“Mr. Dog-hearty,” said Davenport, “means the present
company.”

“To be sure,” said Dennis, “that's what I mean; the present
company always excepted.”

“He don't know what he means,” said Cooke.

“Fai't, and I do, sir, without maining any disrespect to yourself,
Mr. Cooke, or any of the other ladies of the stage, past,
present, or to come.”

“Hold your tongue, sir!”

“And I can do that; and what the more will you know if
I do?”

“Have you ever seen her before, Davenport?” inquired the
tragedian, turning to his yankee attendant.

“I have, be sure, Mr. Cooke,” said the valet de sham, “and
noticed her with considerable admiration. For, to tell the truth,
which I always endeavour to do, modesty, in our house, shines
like a candle in a dark night, or `a good deed in a naughty
world,' as the poet says. But I see her in another house—at
church; and there she looks like an inhabitant of the upper regions:

I don't mean the gallery, or the upper tier of boxes. An
angel—a descending spirit, come to tell `the secrets of the
world unknown,' as Norval says.”

This rhapsody, given with a nasal tone, and true New England
or old English peculiarity of accent and enunciation, tickled
the tragedian's fancy, and turned the current of his thoughts.
After good naturedly exclaiming, “Hush, you barbarous murderer
of Dominie Home!” he communed with himself as he
returned to the business of the night; occasionally a word
escaped him, such as “brute”—“beautiful”—“daughter”—but
further communication with Dennis or Davenport, he held none.