University of Virginia Library

BURNING OF THE RICHMOND THEATER.

The saddest event recorded in the annals of the State is that of the
burning of the Richmond theater on the night of the 26th of December,
1811. This terrible catastrophe carried heart-rending sorrow to many
heretofore happy homes, and cast a gloom over the entire State.

On that evening a popular play was to be introduced, and an audience
numbering six hundred, composed of the elite of the city, together
with many others from distant parts of the State who were spending
the holidays at the capital city, had collected to witness the performance,
and just at the time the play was to commence the scenery in the
rear of the stage became ignited by coming in contact with a chandelier.
The alarm was given, and then at once began such a scene as has
rarely, if ever, been witnessed. We let the editor of the Richmond
Standard, who was an eye-witness, describe it:

"The performers and their attendants in vain endeavored to tear down
the scenery; the fire flashed in every part of the house with a rapidity
horrible and astonishing; and, alas! gushing tears and unspeakable
anguish deprived me of utterance. No person who was not present can
form any idea of this unexampled scene of distress. * * * There
was but one door for the greatest part of the audience to pass. Men,
women and children were pressing upon each other, while the flames
were seizing upon those behind. The editor went to different windows,
which were very high, and implored his fellow-creatures to save their
lives by jumping out of them. Those nearest the windows, ignorant of
their danger, were afraid to leap down, while those behind them were seen
catching on fire and writhing in the greatest agonies of pain and distress.
At length those behind, urged by the pressing flames, pushed
those who were nearest to the windows, and people of every description
began to fall one upon another, some with their clothes on fire, some

half roasted. Oh, wretched me! Oh, afflicted people! Would to God
I could have died a thousand deaths in any shape, could undivided suffering
have purchased the safety of my friends, my benefactors, of those
whom I loved! The editor, with the assistance of others, caught several
of those whom he had begged to leap from the windows. One lady
jumped out when all her clothes were on fire. He tore them burning
from her; stripped her of her last rags, and, protecting her nakedness
with his coat, carried her from the fire. Fathers and mothers were deploring
the loss of their children; children the loss of their parents;
husbands were heard to lament the loss of their companions; wives were
bemoaning their burnt husbands. The people were seen wringing their
hands, beating their hands and breasts, and those that had secured
themselves seemed to suffer greater torments than those enveloped in the
flames.

"Oh, distracting memory! Who that saw this can think of it again and
yet retain his senses! Do I dream? No, no! Oh, that it were but a
dream! My God! who that saw his friends and nearest connections
devoured by fire and laying in heaps at the door, will not regret that he
ever lived to see such sights? Could savages have seen this memorable
event, it would even soften their hearts.

"A sad gloom pervades this place, and every countenance is cast
down to earth. The loss of a hundred thousand friends on the field of
battle could not touch the heart like this. Enough. Imagine what can
not be described. The most distant and implacable enemy, and the most
savage barbarians, will mourn our unhappy lot."

* * * * * * * *

About one hundred and twenty perished in the flames, among whom
were the Hon. George W. Smith, governor of the State; Abraham B.
Venable, United States ex-senator and president of the State Bank of
Richmond, and many other distinguished persons. Lieutenant J. Gibbon,
of the regular army, lost his life in an attempt to save that of a
Miss Conyers, his affianced.