 | GARDEN THEATRICALS. Charcoal sketches, or, Scenes in a metropolis |  |
12. GARDEN THEATRICALS.
Man is an imitative animal, and consequently, the
distinguished success which has fallen to the lot of a few
of our countrymen in the theatrical profession, has had
a great effect in creating longings for histrionic honours.
Of late years, debuts have been innumerable, and it
would be a more difficult task than that prescribed by
Orozimbo—“to count the leaves of yonder forest”—
if any curious investigator, arguing from known to
unknown quantities, were to undertake the computation
of the number of Roscii who have not as yet been able
to effect their coup d'essai. In this quiet city—many
as she has already given to the boards—multitudes are
yet to be found, burning with ardour to “walk the
plank,” who, in their prospective dreams, nightly hear
the timbers vocal with their mighty tread, and snuff the
breath of immortality in the imaginary dust which
answers to the shock. The recesses of the town could
furnish forth hosts of youths who never thrust the left
hand into a Sunday boot, preparatory to giving it the last
polish, without jerking up the leg thereof with a Keanlike
scowl, and sighing to think that it is not the well
buffed gauntlet of crook'd Richard—lads, who never don
their night gear for repose, without striding thus attired
across their narrow dormitory, and for the nonce, believing
themselves accoutred to “go on” for Rolla, or
in “cutty sarks,” and are as indifferent about
rheumatism as a Cupid horsed upon a cloud.
But in the times of which we speak, stage-struck
heroes were rare. The theatrical mania was by no
means prevalent. It went and came like the influenza,
sometimes carrying off its victims; but they
were not multitudinous. Our actors were chiefly importations.
The day of native talent was yet in the
gray of its morning—a few streakings or so, among the
Tressels and Tyrells, but nothing tip-topping it in the
zenith. There are, however, few generalities without
an exception, and in those days, Theodosius Spoon had
the honour to prove the rule by being an instance to the
contrary.
Theodosius Spoon—called by the waggish Tea-spoon,
and supposed by his admirers to be born for a stirring
fellow—one who would whirl round until he secured for
himself a large share of the sugar of existence—Theodosius
Spoon was named after a Roman emperor—not
by traditional nomenclature, which modifies the effect of
the thing, but directly, “out of a history book” abridged
by Goldsmith. It having been ascertained, in the first
place, that the aforesaid potentate, with the exception of
having massacred a few thousand innocent people one
day, was a tolerably decent fellow for a Roman emperor,
he was therefore complimented by having his name
bestowed upon a Spoon. It must not, however, be
thought that the sponsors were so sanguine as to entertain
a hope that their youthful charge would ever reach
the purple. Their aspirations did not extend so far; but
being moderate in their expectations, they acted on the
sound and well established principle that, as fine feathers
make fine birds, fine names, to a certain extent, must
educed, as it were, by the appellation bestowed upon
us; and that we should be so sagaciously designated that
to whatever height fortune leads, fame, in speaking of
us, may have a comfortable mouthful, and we have no
cause under any circumstances to blush for our name.
Mr. and Mrs. Spoon—wise people in their way—reasoned
in the manner referred to. They were satisfied
that a sonorous handle to one's patronymic acts like a
balloon to its owner, and that an emaciated, every-day,
threadbare cognomen—a Tom, Dick, and Harry denomination—is
a mere dipsey, and must keep a man at the
bottom. Coming to the application of the theory, they
were satisfied that the homely though useful qualities
of the spoon would be swallowed up in the superior
attributes of Theodosius. That this worthy pair were
right in the abstract is a self-evident proposition. Who,
for instance, can meet with a Napoleon Bonaparte Mugg,
without feeling that when the said Mugg is emptied of
its spirit, a soul will have exhaled, which, had the gate
of circumstance opened the way, would have played
foot-ball with monarchs, and have wiped its brogues
upon empires? An Archimedes Pipps is clearly born to
be a “screw,” and to operate extensively with “burning
glasses,” if not upon the fleets of a Marcellus, at least
upon his own body corporate. While Franklin Fipps,
if in the mercantile line, is pretty sure to be a great flier
of kites, and a speculator in vapours, and such like fancy
stocks. If the Slinkums call their boy Cæsar, it follows
as a natural consequence that the puggish disposition of
the family nose will, in his case, gracefully curve into the
aquiline, and that the family propensity for the Fabian
method of getting out of a scrape, will be Cæsarised into
a valour, which at its very aspect would set “all Gaul”
out of a tub, or prevent him from scrambling into a
hogshead, especially if sugar is to be gathered in the
interior? Even Chesterfield Gruff is half disposed to be
civil, if he thinks he can gain by so unnatural a course
of proceeding; and everybody is aware that Crichton
Dunderpate could do almost any thing, if he knew how,
and if, by a singular fatality, all his fingers were not
thumbs.
Concurrent testimony goes to prove that the son of a
great man is of necessity likewise great—the children of
a blanchisseuse, or of a house-scrubber, have invariably
clean hands and faces; schoolmasters are very careful
to imbue their offspring with learning; and, if we are not
mistaken, it has passed into a proverb that the male progeny
of a clergyman, in general, labour hard for the
proud distinction of being called “hopeful youths and
promising youngsters.” The corollary, therefore, flows
from this, as smoothly as water from a hydrant, that he
who borrows an illustrious name is in all probability
charged to the brim, ipso facto, with the qualities whereby
the real owner was enabled to render it illustrious—qualities,
which only require opportunity and the true position
to blaze up in spontaneous combustion, a beacon to
the world. And thus Theodosius Spoon, in his course
through life, could scarcely be otherwise than, if not an
antique Roman, at least an “antic rum 'un;” his sphere
of action might be circumscribed, but he could not do
otherwise than make a figure.
Our Spoon—his parents being satisfied with giving
him an euphonious name—was early dipped into the broad
bowl of the world to spoon for himself. He was apprenticed
to a shoemaker to learn the art and mystery of
stretching “uppers” and of shaping “unders.” But,
laborious, he had no particular fancy. Whether it
was owing to the influence of his name or not, we cannot
pretend to say, but, like Jaffier and many other worthy
individuals, he was much troubled with those serious inconveniences
termed “elegant desires.” Young as he
was, his talent for eating was aldermanic; aristocracy
itself might have envied his somnolent performances in
the morning; while, if fun or mischief were afoot, no
watch dog could better encounter prolonged vigils, and
no outlying cat could more silently and skilfully crawl
in at a back window than he, when returning from his
nocturnal perambulations. His genius for lounging, likewise,
when he should have been at work, was as remarkable
as his time-consuming power when sent on an
errand. He could seem to do more, and yet perform less,
than any lad of his inches in the town; and, being ordered
out on business, it was marvellous to see the swiftness
with which he left the shop, and the rapidity of his immediate
return to it, contrasted with the great amount of
time consumed in the interval. With these accomplishments,
it is not surprising that Theodosius Spoon was
discontented with his situation. He yearned to be an
embellishment—not a plodding letter, valuable only
in combination, but an ornamental flourish, beautiful
and graceful in itself; and, with that self-reliance peculiar
to genius, he thought that the drama opened a short
cut to the summit of his desires. Many a time, as he
leaned his elbow on the lapstone, and reposed his chin
upon his palm, did his work roll idly to the floor,
while he gazed with envious eyes through the window
at the playbills which graced the opposite corner, and
hoped that the time would come when the first night of
Theodosius Spoon would be thereupon announced in
of glory—of crowded houses—of thundering plaudits—
of full pockets—of pleasant nights, and of day lounges up
and down Chestnut street, the wonder of little boys and
the focus of all eyes,—floated vividly across his imagination.
How could he, who bore the name of a Roman
emperor, dream of being elsewhere that at the topmost
round of fortune's ladder, when he had seen others there,
who, subjected to mental comparison, were mere rushlights
compared to himself?
Filled with these gorgeous imaginings, our Spoon
became metamorphosed into a spout, pouring forth
streams of elocution by night and by day, and, though
continually corking his frontispiece to try the expression
in scenes of wrath, it soon became evident that his
powers could not remain bottled in a private station.
When a histrionic inclination ferments so noisily that its
fizzling disturbs the neighbourhood, it requires little
knowledge of chemistry to decide that it must have vent,
or an explosion will be the consequence; and such was
the case in the instance of which we speak. The
oratorical powers of Theodosius Spoon were truly
terrible, and had become, during the occasional absence
of the “boss,” familiar to every one within a square.
An opportunity soon afforded itself.—Those Philadelphians,
who were neither too old nor too young, when
Theodosius Spoon flourished, to take part in the amusements
of the town, do not require to be told that for the
delectation of their summer evenings, the city then
rejoiced in a Garden Theatre, which was distinguished
from the winter houses by the soft Italian appellation of
the Tivoli. It was located in Market near Broad street,
in those days a species of rus in urbe, improvement
not having taken its westward movement; and before its
passed through a variety of fortunes, furnishing to the
public entertainment as various, and giving to the stage
many a “regular” whose first essay was made upon its
boards.
At this period, so interesting to all who study the
history of the drama, lived one Typus Tympan, a
printer's devil, who “cronied” with Spoon, and had been
the first to give the “reaching of his soul” an inclination
stageward. Typus worked in a newspaper office, where
likewise the bills of the Garden Theatre were printed,
and, par consequence, Typus was a critic, with the
entrée of the establishment, and an occasional order for
a friend. It was thus that Spoon's genius received the
Promethean spark, and started into life. By the patronising
attentions of Typus, he was no longer compelled
to gaze from afar at the members of the company as they
clustered after rehearsal, of a sunny day, in front of the
theatre, and varied their smookings by transitions from
the “long nine” to the real Habana, according to the
condition of the treasury, or the state of the credit system.
Our hero now nodded familiarly to them all, and by dint
of soleing, heel-tapping, and other small jobs in the leather
way, executed during the periods of “overwork” for Mr.
Julius Augustus Winkins, was admitted to the personal
friendship of that illustrious individual. Some idea of the
honour thus conferred may be gathered from the fact
that Mr. Winkins himself constituted the entire male
department of the operatic corps of the house. He
grumbled the bass, he warbled the tenor, and, when
necessary, could squeak the “counter” in beautiful perfection.
All that troubled this magazine of vocalism
was that, although he could manage a duet easily enough,
soliloquizing a chorus was rather beyond his capacity, and
audience at the Garden, who, to their credit be it spoken,
scarcely needed a hint upon such occasions. On opera
nights, they generally volunteered their services to fill
out the harmony, and were so abundantly obliging, that
it was difficult to teach them where to stop. In his
private capacity—when he was ex officio Winkins—he did
the melancholico-Byronic style of man—picturesque, but
“suffering in his innards,”—to the great delight of all the
young ladies who dwelt in the vicinity of the Garden.
When he walked forth, it was with his slender frame
inserted in a suit of black rather the worse for wear, but
still retaining a touching expression, softened, but not
weakened, by the course of time. He wore his shirt
collars turned down over a kerchief in the “fountain
tie,” about which there is a Tyburn pathos, irresistible
to a tender heart; and with his well oiled and raven
locks puffed out en masse on the left side of his head,
he declined his beaver over his dexter eye until its brim
kissed the corresponding ear. A profusion of gilt chain
travelled over his waistcoat, and a multitude of rings of
a dubious aspect encumbered his fingers. In this interesting
costume did Julius Augustus Winkins, in his
leisure moments, play the abstracted, as he leaned gracefully
against the pump, while obliquely watching the
effect upon the cigar-making demoiselles who operated
over the way, and who regarded Julius as quite a love,
decidedly the romantic thing.
Winkins was gracious to Spoon, partly on the account
aforesaid, and because both Spoon and Tympan were
capital claqueurs, and invariably secured him an encore,
when he warbled “Love has eyes,” and the other
rational ditties in vogue at that period.
Now it happened that business was rather dull at the
The hunting up of novelties was prosecuted with great
vigour; even the learned pig had starred at it for once;
and as the Winkins night approached, Julius Augustus
determined to avail himself of Spoon for that occasion,
thinking him likely to draw, if he did not succeed, for in
those days of primitive simplicity first appearances had
not ceased to be attractive. The edge not being worn
off, they were sure to be gratifying, either in one way
or the other.
It was of a warm Sunday afternoon that this important
matter was broached. Winkins, Spoon, and Tympan
sat solacing themselves in a box at the Garden,
puffing their cigars, sipping their liquid refreshment, and
occasionally nibbling at three crackers brought in upon
a large waiter, which formed the substantials of the
entertainment. The discourse ran upon the drama.
“Theo, my boy!” said Winkins, putting one leg on
the table, and allowing the smoke to curl about his nose,
as he cast his coat more widely open, and made the
accost friendly.
“Spoon, my son!” said Winkins, being the advance
paternal of that social warrior, as he knocked the ashes
from his cigar with a flirt of his little finger.
“Spooney, my tight 'un!”—the assault irresistible,—
“how would you like to go it in uncle Billy Shakspeare,
and tip the natives the last hagony in the tragics?”
Winkins put his other leg on the table, assuming an
attitude both of superiority and encouragement.
“Oh, gammin!” ejaculated Spoon, blushing, smiling,
and putting the forefinger of his left hand into his mouth.
“Oh, get out!” continued he, casting down his eyes
with the modest humility of untried, yet self-satisfied
genius.
“Not a bit of it—I'm as serious as an empty barn—
got the genius—want the chance—my benefit—two acts
of any thing—cut mugs—up to snuff—down upon 'em—
fortune made—that's the go.”
“It's our opinion,—we think, Theodosius,” observed
Typus Tympan, with editorial dignity, as he emphatically
drew his cuff across the lower part of his countenance,
“we think, and the way we know what's what,
because of our situation, is sing'ler—standing, as we
newspaper folks do, on the shot tower of society—that
now's your time for gittin' astraddle of public opinion,
and for ridin' it like a hoss. Jist such a chance as
you've been wantin'. As the French say, all the bew
mundy come to Winkins's benefit; and if the old man
won't go a puff leaded, why we'll see to havin' it sneaked
in, spread so thick about genius and all, that it will
draw like a blister—we will, even if we get licked for it.”
“'Twon't do,” simpered Spoon, as he blushed brown,
while the expression of his countenance contradicted his
words. “'Twon't do. How am I to get a dress—s'pose
boss ketches me at it? Besides, I'm too stumpy for
tragedy, and anyhow I must wait till I'm cured of my
cold.”
“It will do,” returned Winkins, decisively; “and
tragedy's just the thing. There are, sir, varieties in tragedy—by
the new school, it's partitioned off in two
grand divisions. High tragedy of the most helevated
description,” (Winkins always haspirated when desirous
of being emphatic,) “high tragedy of the most helevated
and hexalted kind should be represented by a gentleman
short of statue, and low comedy should be sustained by
a gentleman tall of statue. In the one case, the higher
the part, the lowerer the hactor, and in the other case,
wisey wersy. It makes light and shade between the
the power of contrast. The hintellectual style of playing
likewise requires crooked legs.”
“We think, then, our friend is decidedly calkilated to
walk into the public. There's a good deal of circumbendibus
about Spoon's gams—he's got serpentine trotters—splendid
for crooked streets, or goin' round a corner,”
interpolated Typus, jocularly.
“There's brilliancy about crooked legs,” continued
Winkins, with a reproving glance at Typus. “The monotony
of straight shanks answers well enough for genteel
comedy and opera; but corkscrew legs prove the mind
to be too much for the body; therefore, crooked legs,
round shoulders, and a shovel nose for the heccentricities
of the hintellectual tragics. Audiences must have
it queered into 'em; and as for a bad cold, why it's a
professional blessing in that line of business, and saves a
tragedian the trouble of sleeping in a wet shirt to get a
sore throat. Blank verse, to be himpressive, must be
frogged—it must be groaned, grunted, and gasped—bring
it out like a three-pronged grinder, as if body and soul
were parting. There's nothing like asthmatic elocution
and spasmodic emphasis, for touching the sympathies and
setting the feelings on edge. A terrier dog in a pucker
is a good study for anger, and always let the spectators
see that sorrow hurts you. There's another style of tragedy—the
physical school—”
“That must be a dose,” ejaculated Typus, who was
developing into a wag.
“But you're not big enough, or strong enough for
that. A physical must be able to outmuscle ten blacksmiths,
and bite the head off a poker. He must commence
the play hawfully, and keep piling on the hagony
till the close, when he must keel up in an hexcruciating
like a new caught sturgeon. He should be able to hagonize
other people too, by taking the biggest fellow in the
company by the scuff of the neck, and shaking him at
arm's length till all the hair drops from his head, and
then pitch him across, with a roar loud enough to break
the windows. That's the menagerie method. The physical
must always be on the point of bursting his boiler,
yet he mustn't burst it; he must stride and jump as if he
would tear his trousers, yet he mustn't tear 'em; and
when he grabs anybody, he must leave the marks of his
paws for a week. It's smashing work, but it won't do
for you, Spooney; you're little, black-muzzled, queer
in the legs, and have got a cold; nature and sleeping with
the windows open have done wonders in making you fit
for the hintellectuals, and you shall tip 'em the sentimental
in Hamlet.”
Parts of this speech were not particularly gratifying
to Spoon; but, on the whole, it jumped with his desires,
and the matter was clinched. Winkins trained him;
taught him when and where to come the “hagony;”
when and where to cut “terrific mugs” at the pit; when
and where to wait for the applause, and how to chassez
an exit, with two stamps and a spring, and a glance
en arriere.
Not long after, the puff appeared as Typus promised.
The bills of the “Garden Theatre” announced the
Winkins benefit, promising, among other novelties, the
third act of Hamlet, in which a young gentleman, his
first appearance upon any stage, would sustain the character
of the melancholy prince. Rash promise! fatal
anticipation!
The evening arrived, and the Garden was crowded.
All the boys of the trade in town assembled to witness
were coming. Winkins, in a blue military frock, buttoned
to the chin, white pantaloons strapped under the
foot, and gesticulating with a shining black hat with
white lining, borrowed expressly for the occasion, had
repeated “My love is like the red, red rose” with
immense applause, when the curtain rang up, and the
third act began.
The tedious prattle of those who preceded him being
over, Theodosius Spoon appeared. Solemnly, yet with
parched lips and a beating heart, did he advance to the
footlights, and duck his acknowledgments for the applause
which greeted him. His abord, however, did not
impress his audience favourably. The black attire but
ill became his short squab figure, and the “hintellectual
tragicality of his legs,” meandering their brief extent,
like a Malay creese, gave him the aspect of an Ethiopian
Bacchus dismounted from his barrel. Hamlet resembled
the briefest kind of sweep, or “an erect black tadpole
taking snuff.”
With a fidelity to nature never surpassed, Hamlet
expressed his dismay by scratching his head, and, with
his eyes fixed upon his toes, commenced the soliloquy,—
another beautiful conception,—for the prince is supposed
to be speaking to himself, and his toes are as well
entitled to be addressed as any other portion of his personal
identity. This, however, was not appreciated by
the spectators, who were unable to hear any part of the
confidential communication going on between Hamlet's
extremities.
“Louder, Spooney!” squeaked a juvenile voice, with
a villanous twang, from a remote part of the Garden.
“Keep a ladling it out strong! Who's afeard?—it's only
old Tiwoly!”
“Throw it out!” whispered Winkins, from the wing.
“Go it like a pair of bellowses!”
But still the pale lips of Theodosius Spoon continued
quivering nothings, as he stood gasping as if about to
swallow the leader of the fiddlers, and alternately raising
his hands like a piece of machinery. Ophelia advanced.
“Look out, bull-frog, there comes your mammy.
Please, ma'am, make little sonny say his lesson.”
Bursts of laughter, shouts, and hisses resounded
through the Garden. “Whooror for Spooney!” roared
his friends, as they endeavoured to create a diversion in
his favour—“whooror for Spooney! and wait till the
skeer is worked off uv him!”
“How vu'd you like it?” exclaimed an indignant
Spooneyite to a hissing malcontent; “how vu'd you
like it fur to have it druv' into you this 'ere vay? Vot kin
a man do ven he ain't got no chance?”
As the hisser did but hiss the more vigorously on
account of the remonstrance, and, jumping up, did it
directly in the teeth of the remonstrant, the friend to
Spooney knocked him down, and the parquette was soon
in an uproar. “Leave him up!” cried one—“Order!
put 'em down, and put 'em out!” The aristocracy of
the boxes gazed complacently upon the grand set-to
beneath them, the boys whacked away with their clubs
at the lamps, and hurled the fragments upon the stage,
while Ophelia and Hamlet ran away together.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” exclaimed Winkins, as he
rushed upon the stage, dragging after him “the rose and
the expectancy of the fair state,” the shrinking Theodosius,—“will
you hear me for a moment?”
“Hurray for Vinkins!” replied a brawny critic,
taking his club in both hands, as he hammered against
the front of the boxes; “Vinkey, sing us the Bay uv
uv it. Hurray! Twig Vinkey's new hat—make a
speech, Vinkey, fur your vite trousers!”
At length, comparative silence being restored, Mr.
Winkins, red with wrath, yet suppressing his rage,
delivered himself as follows—at times adroitly dodging
the candle ends, which had been knocked from the main
chandelier, and were occasionally darted at him and his
protegé.
“Ladies and gentlemen, permit me (dodge) respectfully
to ask one question. Did you (dodge) come here
to admire the beauties of the drama, (successive dodges to
the right and left,) or am I to (dodge, dodge) to understand
that you came solely to kick up a bloody row?”
The effect of this insinuating query had scarcely time
to manifest itself, before Monsieur le directeur en chef, a
choleric Frenchman, who made a profitable mixture of
theatricals, ice cream, and other refreshments, suddenly
appeared in the flat, foaming with natural anger at the
results of the young gentleman's debut. Advancing
rapidly as the “kick” rang upon his ear, he suited the
action to the word, and, by a dexterous application of his
foot, sent Winkins, in the attitude of a flying Mercury,
clear of the orchestra, into the midst of the turbulent
crowd in the pit. Three rounds of cheering followed this
achievement, while Theodosius gazed in pallid horror at
the active movement of his friend.
“Kick, aha! Is zat de kick, monsieur dam hoomboog?
Messieurs et mesdames, lick him good—sump
him into fee-penny beets! Sacre!” added the enraged
manager, turning toward Theodosius, “I sall lick de
petit hoomboog ver' good—sump him bon, nice, moimeme—by
me ownsef.”
But the alarmed Theodosius, though no linguist,
consequences, and climbing into the boxes, while the
angry manager clambered after him, he rushed through
the crowd, and in the royal robes of Denmark hurried
home.
For the time, at least, he was satisfied that bearing the
name of a Roman emperor did not lead to instant success
on the stage, and though he rather reproached the
audience with want of taste, it is not probable that he
ever repeated the attempt; for he soon, in search of an
“easy life,” joined the patriots on the Spanish main, and
was never after heard of.
| GARDEN THEATRICALS. Charcoal sketches, or, Scenes in a metropolis | |