University of Virginia Library

LETTER IV.

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

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 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 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

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

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—

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.