 | Letters of Jonathan Oldstyle, gent. |  |
LETTER VI.
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 Shakspeare. 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
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 canvass, 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,
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
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 gayety 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
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 Puffaway; 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 recognise 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
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
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 personæ, 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 fair 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
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'll 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
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.
| Letters of Jonathan Oldstyle, gent. | |