Qass 
 Book. 
 
 ■£07% 
 
 *-L±L 
 
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 LETTERS 
 
 OF 
 
 . 
 
 JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, GENT. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 THE SKETCH BOOK. 
 
 WITH A 
 
 t 
 
 FIFTH EDITION. 
 
 * , • 
 
 LONDON 
 
 EFFINGHAM WILSON, ROYAL EXCHANGE. 
 
 1824 
 
I 
 I « 
 
 
 J. M'Oeery, Tooks Couit, 
 Loudon. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE. 
 
 When a writer has acquired great renown 
 by his productions, and has established his 
 reputation as a man of genius, we naturally 
 feel a curiosity to become acquainted not 
 only with his personal but his intellectual 
 history. We like to trace up the current of 
 his mind to its first tricklings, as it were, and 
 to listen to its prattlings among the pebbles, 
 as it is hurrying along to its broader and 
 bolder channel. 
 
 The author of the Sketch Book has be- 
 come more distinguished than perhaps any 
 other American writer ; and even England 
 has been constrained to acknowledge that 
 his productions are among the most elegant 
 specimens of English composition. 
 
 In the year J 802, Mr. Irving first attracted 
 public notice by publishing in the Morning 
 Chronicle a series of sportive pieces under 
 the signature of Jonathan Oldstyle. To the 
 new generation of readers produced by the 
 
 a2 
 
IV 
 
 lapse of twenty-two years, we trust that their 
 republication will be peculiarly acceptable. 
 
 It is in these specimens that we may per- 
 ceive the germ of that genius which soon af- 
 ter blossomed in Salmagundi, shot forth in 
 wild luxuriance in Knickerbocker, and fi- 
 nally displayed its rich fruit in the Sketch 
 Book, and Bracebridge Hall. 
 
 A brief account of the life and writings of 
 Mr. Irving will, perhaps, not be deemed super- 
 fluous by the readers of this little publication. 
 The city of New York has the honour of 
 being the birth-place of this distinguished 
 author, who has given such eclat to the lite- 
 rary reputation of our country. He was a 
 student in Columbia College, in the year 
 1800, but by reason of his infirm health, was 
 under the necessity of relinquishing his clas- 
 sical studies, and of devoting his attention to 
 pursuits less compulsory and severe. By 
 way of recreation, he was advised to take 
 lessons in drawing ; and for this purpose he 
 put himself under the tuition of a gentleman, 
 whose Drawing Academy still maintains a 
 high reputation in our city. What proficien- 
 cy he made in this art, we have not the 
 
means of ascertaining. It is presumable, 
 however, that this kind of sketching was not 
 that which best accorded with his genius, 
 nor probably consisted with his health ; for 
 he soon afterwards began to turn his thoughts 
 to travel, and a voyage across the Atlantic 
 was recommended by his physician, and en- 
 couraged by his kindred and friends. In 
 the interim, however, and indeed before this 
 determination had been taken, his elder bro- 
 ther, now in England, was editing a news- 
 paper in this city; and although a political 
 paper, and devoted to the views and interests 
 of a party, yet some portions of its columns 
 were occasionally embellished " by hands 
 unseen,' with the flowers of poetry and lite- 
 rature, and sometimes enlivened by flashes 
 of wit and humour. An inviting opportunity 
 here presented itself, for trying the scarcely 
 fledged wings of our juvenile author: and a 
 tw r o-fold benefit could be conferred — credit 
 to himself, and relief to the care-worn and 
 harassed editor, whose political conflicts did 
 not allow him leisure to woo the muses to 
 his aid; and he knew, that without some 
 contributions from the Pierian district, his 
 
i 
 
 VI 
 
 paper, even in this " banknote-world," would 
 soon decline, for the want of contributions of 
 a more substantial quality. 
 
 It was at this period, that the light pieces 
 now republished, first made their appearance. 
 They attracted a good deal of notice, and the 
 Morning Chronicle was eagerly sought for 
 by the lovers of genuine native humour. 
 Mr. Irving then embarked for France, from 
 whence he proceeded to Italy, and went as 
 far as Rome and Naples. His travels and 
 residence abroad enabled him to entertain 
 his friends at home with the most amusing 
 accounts of his various adventures, and the 
 most picturesque descriptions of every thing 
 that presented itself to his ready and lively ap- 
 prehension. His letters are, no doubt, yet to 
 be found within the circle of his relatives and 
 correspondents, and the hope may beindulged, 
 that they will not suffer them to be lost. 
 
 Our author returned to America, we be- 
 lieve, some time in the year 1805 or 1806 ; 
 and his health being much improved, he 
 commenced the study of the law, in the of- 
 fice of an eminent counsellor in New York. 
 Coke, however, "delighted him not — nor 
 
Vll 
 
 Blackstone neither." What progress he 
 made in his juridical pursuits, we know 
 not; but that he read more than he under- 
 stood, and understood more than he remem- 
 bered, there can be but little doubt. 
 
 In the year 1807, he amused the town with 
 his Salmagundi, which was published in 
 numbers, commencing in January, and con- 
 tinuing till the beginning of the next year. 
 Several of the numbers are ascribed to a 
 gentleman who has since distinguished him- 
 self both in poetry and prose, and whose co- 
 pious, chaste, and vigorous style, as well as 
 his satirical wit, sarcastic humour, and bit- 
 ing irony, render all his attempts at conceal- 
 ment unavailing. The poetical pieces which 
 embellish Salmagundi, are well known to be 
 the production of the eldest brother of our 
 author, and who is since deceased. Salma- 
 gundi is now publishing in London, as 
 Knickerbocker's History has already been ; 
 for such is Mr. Irving'^ reputation and po- 
 pularity in England, that John Bull is now 
 quite willing to ask for, and to read, an 
 American book ; though, according to a 
 learned coxcomb, (critic, we meant to say,) 
 
Vllt 
 
 in the Edinburgh Review a few years ago, 
 such a thing was then never thought of. 
 
 In the year 1810, an edition of Campbell's 
 Poems being about to be published in Phila- 
 delphia, Mr. Irving was applied to for a bio- 
 graphical sketch of that sweet and sublime 
 bard. This task he executed in a most mas- 
 terly manner; and the forty pages of which 
 it consists, form, in our humble opinion, the 
 most beautiful and finished piece of serious 
 compositipn that ever came from his pen. In 
 point of style, refined sentiment, and generous 
 and spirited effusion, we venture to assert, 
 that it is not surpassed by any piece of prose 
 in the English language. 
 
 The History of Neiv York, by Deidrich 
 Knickerbocker, was his next production ; and 
 in this he seems to have exerted all his pow- 
 ers of good-natured burlesque, playful wit, 
 and facetious fancy. He prepared himself 
 for this work by a course of diligent research 
 into the antiquities of New Amsterdam ; and 
 the libraries of New York and Philadelphia 
 were ransacked for materials, or rather sub- 
 jects, for his wizard pencil. It is a broad 
 caricature from beginning to end ; and, like a 
 
IX 
 
 magic lantern, exhibits the most fantastic 
 combinations, the most ludicrous distortions, 
 and unlicensed exaggerations, that a mirthful 
 fancy can create. Though sport to many, it 
 was not so to all ; and some of the descend- 
 ants of our Dutch aborigines were not a little 
 offended at the liberty which the author has 
 taken with the names and manners of those 
 whom they had been accustomed to remem- 
 ber with reverence and respect. A gentle- 
 man whose name bespeaks his Dutch lineage, 
 and whose talents entitle his observations to 
 very high regard, in his Discourse before the 
 New York Historical Society in 1818, makes 
 the following animadversions on the subject, 
 with peculiar elegance and feeling : — 
 
 " It is more \ in sorrow than in anger,' that 
 J feel myself compelled to add to these gross 
 instances of national injustice, a recent work 
 of a writer of our own, who is justly consi- 
 dered one of the brightest ornaments of Ame- 
 rican literature. I allude to the burlesque 
 history of New York, in which it is painful 
 to see a mind, as admirable for its exquisite 
 perception of the beautiful, as it is for its 
 quick sense of the ridiculous, wasting the 
 
riches of its fancy on an ungrateful theme, and 
 its exuberant humour in a coarse caricature. 
 
 " This writer has not yet fulfilled all the 
 promise he has given to his country. It is 
 his duty, because it is in his power, to brush 
 away the pretenders who may at any time in- 
 fest her society, her science, or her politics ; 
 or if he aspires, as 1 trust that he does, to 
 strains of a higher mood, the deeds of his 
 countrymen, and the undescribed beauties of 
 his native land, afford him many a rich sub- 
 ject, and he may deck the altar of his coun- 
 try's glory with the garlands of his taste and 
 fancy. 
 
 " How dangerous a gift is the power of ridi- 
 cule! It is potent to unmask the pretender, 
 and to brand the hypocrite; yet how often 
 has it dissipated those gay illusions which 
 beguile the rough path of life — how often has 
 it chilled the glow of genius and invention — 
 how often, at its dread presence, have the ho- 
 nest boasts, of patriotism, the warm expres- 
 sion of piety, the generous purpose of bene- 
 ficence, faltered on the lips, and died away 
 in the heart." 
 
 About the year J 812, Mr. Irving went to 
 
XI 
 
 England, and became a partner in a commer- 
 cial concern, of which two of his brothers 
 were also partners, and one of whom re- 
 mained in this country. The correspondence 
 department, which was extensive, was allot- 
 ted to the literary member of the house; and 
 the business of the establishment had become 
 so profitable, that each one, soon after the 
 peace of 1815, had a prospect of sharing a 
 handsome dividend. Our author enjoyed the 
 expectation of retiring from the irksome drud- 
 gery of the counting-house to the sweets of 
 literary leisure, with a competence for life, 
 when the failure of a commercial adventure, 
 in a moment convinced him of the vanity and 
 delusiveness of human anticipations, and re- 
 duced him to a state of almost life-loathing 
 despondency. What a trial for a sensitive 
 mind — and yet for his credit and his fame 
 what a fortunate reverse ! His pen and his 
 ledger are exchanged for his pencil and his 
 sketch-book ; and Geoffrey's drafts are more 
 highly honoured, than those of any merchant 
 in the land. 
 
( 
 
LETTERS 
 
 OF 
 
 JONATHAN OLDSTYLE, GENT. 
 
 WRITTEN IN 1802. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 .Nothing is more intolerable to an 
 old person than innovation on old habits. 
 The customs that prevailed in our youth be- 
 come dear to us as we advance in years ; and 
 we can no more bear to see them abolished, 
 than we can to behold the trees cut down 
 under which we have sported in the happy 
 days of infancy. 
 
 Even I myself, who have floated down the 
 stream of life with the tide — who have hu- 
 
moured it in all its turnings — who have con- 
 formed in a great measure to all its fashions, — 
 cannot but feel sensible of this prejudice. I 
 often sigh when I draw a comparison between 
 the present and the past; and though J can- 
 not but be sensible that, in general, times are 
 altered for the better, yet there is something 
 even in the imperfections of the manners 
 which prevailed in my youthful days, that is 
 inexpressibly endearing. 
 / There is nothing that seems more strange 
 and preposterous to me, than the manner in 
 which modern marriages are conducted. The 
 parties keep the matter as secret as if there 
 was something disgraceful in the connexion. 
 The lady positively denies that any thing of 
 the kind is to happen; will laugh at her in- 
 tended husband, and even lay bets against 
 the event, the very day before it is to take 
 place. They sneak into matrimony as quiet- 
 ly as possible,, and seem to pride themselves 
 on the cunning and ingenuity they have dis- 
 played in their manoeuvres. 
 
 How different is this from the manners of 
 former times ! I recollect when my Aunt Bar- 
 bara was addressed by 'Squire Stylish; no- 
 
3 
 
 thing was heard of during the whole court- 
 ship, but consultations and negotiations be- 
 tween her friends and relatives; the matter 
 was considered and re-considered, and at 
 length the time set for a final answer. Ne- 
 ver, Mr. Editor, shall I forget the awful so- 
 lemnity of the scene. The whole family of 
 the Oldstyles assembled in awful conclave: 
 my aunt Barbara, dressed out as fine as 
 hands could make her— high cushion, enor- 
 mous cap, long waist, prodigious hoop, ruf- 
 fles that reached to the end of her fingers, 
 and a gown of flame-coloured brocade, fi- 
 gured with poppies, roses, and sun-flowers. 
 Never did she look so sublimely handsome. 
 The 'Squire entered the room with a counte- 
 nance suited to the solemnity of the occasion. 
 He was arrayed in a full suit of scarlet vel- 
 vet, his coat decorated with a profusion of 
 large silk buttons, and the skirts stiffened 
 with a yard or two of buckram: a long pig- 
 tailed wig, well powdered, adorned his head; 
 and stockings of deep blue silk, rolled over 
 the knees, graced his extremities; the flaps 
 of his vest reached to his knee-buckles, and 
 the ends of his cravat, tied with the most 
 
precise neatness, twisted through every but- 
 ton-hole. Thus accoutred, he gravely walked 
 into the room, with his ivory-headed ebony 
 cane in one hand, and gently swaying his 
 three-cornered beaver with the other. The 
 gallant and fashionable appearance of the 
 'Squire, the gracefulness and dignity of his 
 deportment, occasioned a general smile of 
 complacency through the room ; my aunt 
 Barbara modestly veiled her countenance 
 with her fan ; but I observed her contem- 
 plating her admirer with great satisfaction 
 through the sticks. 
 
 The business was opened with the most 
 formal solemnity, but was not long in agita- 
 tion. The Oldstyles were moderate — their 
 articles of capitulation few: the 'Squire was 
 gallant, and acceded to them all. In short, 
 the blushing Barbara was delivered up to his 
 embraces with due ceremony. Then, Mr. 
 Editor — then were the happy times : such 
 oceans of arrack — such mountains of plum- 
 cake — such feasting and congratulating — 
 such fiddling and dancing: — ah me! who 
 can think of those days, and not sigh when 
 he sees the degeneracy of the present: no 
 
eating of cake nor throwing of stockings — not 
 a single skin filled with wine on the joyful 
 occasion — nor a single pocket edified by it 
 but the parson's. 
 
 It is with the greatest pain I see those cus- 
 toms dying away, which served to awaken 
 the hospitality and friendship of my ancient 
 comrades — that strewed with flowers the path 
 to the altar, and shed a ray of sunshine on 
 the commencement of the matrimonial union. 
 
 The deportment of my aunt Barbara and 
 her husband was as decorous after marriage 
 as before; her conduct was always regulated 
 by his — her sentiments ever accorded with 
 his opinions; she was always eager to tie on 
 his neckcloth of a morning — to tuck a napkin 
 under his chin at meal times — to wrap him 
 up warm of a winter's day, and to spruce 
 him up as smart as possible of a Sunday. 
 The 'Squire was the most attentive and polite 
 husband in the world ; would hand his wife 
 in and out of church with the greatest cere- 
 mony — drink her health at dinner with par- 
 ticular emphasis, and ask her advice on every 
 subject — though I must confess he invariably 
 adopted his own:~nothing was heard from 
 
 B 
 
6 
 
 both sides, but dears, sweet loves, doves, &c. 
 The 'Squire could never stir out of a winter's 
 day, without his wife calling after him from 
 the window to button up his waistcoat care- 
 fully. Thus, all things went on smoothly; 
 and my relations Stylish had the name, and, 
 as far as I know, deserved it, of being the 
 most happy and loving couple in the world. 
 
 A modern married pair will, no doubt, 
 laugh at all this; they are accustomed to treat 
 one another with the utmost carelessness and 
 neglect. No longer does the wife tuck the 
 napkin under her husband's chin, nor the hus- 
 band attend to heaping her plate with dain- 
 ties ; no longer do I see those little amusing 
 fooleries in company, where the lady would 
 pat her husband's cheek, and he chuck her 
 under the chin; when dears and sweets were 
 as plenty as cookies on a new-year's day. 
 The wife now considers herself as totally in- 
 dependent — will advance her own opinions 
 without hesitation, though directly opposite 
 to his — will carry on accounts of her own, 
 and will even have secrets of her own, with 
 which she refuses to intrust him. 
 
 Who can read these facts, and not lament 
 
with me the degeneracy of the present times; 
 — what husband is there but will look back 
 with regret to the happy days of female sub- 
 jection. 
 
 Jonathan Oldstyle. 
 
 b2 
 
LETTER II. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 1 here is no place of public amuse- 
 ment of which I am so fond as the Theatre. 
 To enjoy this with the greater relish I go 
 but seldom ; and I find there is no play, how- 
 ever poor or ridiculous, from which I cannot 
 derive some entertainment. 
 
 I was very much taken with a play bill 
 of last week, announcing, in large capitals, 
 " The Battle of Hexham, or, Days of Old." 
 Here, said I to myself, will be something 
 ^grand — Days of old — my fancy fired at the 
 words. I pictured to myself all the gallantry 
 of chivalry. Here, thought I, will be a dis- 
 play of court manners, and true politeness ; 
 the play will, no doubt, be garnished with 
 tilts and tournaments ; and as to those ban- 
 ditti, whose names make such a formidable 
 appearance on the bills, they will be hung up, 
 every mother's son, for the edification of the 
 gallery 
 
 With such impressions I took my seat in 
 
9 
 
 the pit, and was so impatient that I could 
 hardly attend to the music, though I found it 
 very good. 
 
 The curtain rose — out walked the Queen 
 with great majesty ; she answered my ideas 
 — she was dressed well, she looked well, and 
 she acted well. The Queen was followed by 
 a pretty gentleman, who, from his winking 
 and grinning, I took to be the court fool ; I 
 soon found out my mistake. He was a cour- 
 tier " high in trust" and either general, colo- 
 nel, or something of martial dignity. They 
 talked for some time, though I could not un- 
 derstand the drift of their discourse, so I 
 amused myself with eating pea-nuts. 
 
 In one of the scenes I was diverted with 
 the stupidity of a corporal and his men, who 
 sung a dull song, and talked a great deal 
 about nothing : though I found by their 
 laughing, there was a great deal of fun in the 
 corporal's remarks. What this scene had to 
 do with the rest of the piece, I could not 
 comprehend ; I suspect it was a part of some 
 other play, thrust in here % accident. 
 
 I was then introduced to a cavern, where 
 there were several hard looking fellows, sit- 
 
10 
 
 ting around a table carousing. They told 
 the audience they were banditti. They then 
 sung a gallery song, of which I could under- 
 stand nothing but two lines : 
 
 (t The Welshman lik'd to have been chokM by a mouse, 
 But he puird him out by the tail." 
 
 Just as they had ended this elegant song, 
 their banquet was disturbed by the melodious 
 sound of a horn, and in marched a portly 
 gentleman, who, I found, was their captain. 
 After this worthy gentleman had fumed his 
 hour out, after he had slapped his breast and 
 drawn his sword half a dozen times, the act 
 ended. 
 
 In the course of the play, I learnt that 
 there had been, or was, or would be, a battle; 
 but how, or when, or where, I could not un- 
 derstand. The banditti once more made 
 their appearance, and frightened the wife of 
 the portly gentleman, who was dressed in 
 man's clothes, and was seeking her husband. 
 I could not enough admire the dignity of 
 her deportment, the sweetness of her coun- 
 tenance, and the unaffected gracefulness of 
 her action ; but who the captain really was, 
 or why he ran away from his spouse, I could 
 
not understand. However, they seemed very 
 glad to find one another again ; and so at 
 last the play ended, by the falling of the 
 curtain. 
 
 1 wish the manager would use a drop scene 
 at the close of the acts ; we might then al- 
 ways ascertain the termination of the piece 
 by the green curtain. On this occasion, I 
 was indebted to the polite bows of the actors 
 for this pleasing information. I cannot say 
 that I was entirely satisfied with the play, 
 but I promised myself ample entertainment 
 in the after-piece, which was called the Tri- 
 politan Prize. JNow, thought I, we shall 
 have some sport for our money ; we will, no 
 doubt, see a few of those Tripolitan scoun- 
 drels spitted like turkeys, for our amusement, 
 Well, sir, the curtain rose — the trees waved 
 in front of the stage, and the sea rolled in the 
 rear — all things looked very pleasant and 
 smiling. Presently I heard a bustling be- 
 hind the scenes — here, thought I, comes a 
 band of fierce Tripolitans, with whiskers as 
 long as my arm. No such thing— they were 
 only a party of village masters and misses, 
 taking a walk for exercise, and very pretty 
 
12 
 
 behaved young gentry they were, I assure 
 you; but it was cruel in the manager to 
 dress them in buckram, as it deprived them 
 entirely of the use of their limbs. They ar- 
 ranged themselves very orderly on each side 
 of the stage, and sung something, doubtless 
 very affecting, for they all looked pitiful 
 enough. By and by came up a most tre- 
 mendous storm : the lightning flashed, the 
 thunder roared, and the rain fell in torrents: 
 however, our pretty rustics stood gaping 
 quietly at one another, until they must have 
 been wet to the skin. I was surprised at 
 their torpidity, till I found they were each 
 one afraid to move first, for fear of being 
 laughed at for their awkwardness. How they 
 got off I do not recollect: but I advise the 
 manager, in a similar case, to furnish every 
 one with a trap-door, through which to make 
 his exit. Yet this would deprive the audi- 
 ence of much amusement; for nothing can 
 be more laughable than to see a body of 
 guards with their spears, or courtiers with 
 their long robes, get across the stage at our 
 theatre. 
 
 Scene passed after scene. In vain 1 strained 
 
13 
 
 ray eyes to catch a glimpse of a Mahometan 
 phiz. I once heard a great bellowing be- 
 hind the scenes, and expected to see a strap- 
 ping Mussulman come bouncing in ; but was 
 miserably disappointed, on distinguishing his 
 voice, to find out by his sivearing that he was 
 only a Christian. In he came— an American 
 navy officer. Worsted stockings — olive vel- 
 vet small clothes— scarlet vest — pea-jacket, 
 and gold-laced hat — dressed quite in charac- 
 ter. I soon found out, by his talk, that he 
 was an American prize-master ; that, return- 
 ing through the Mediterranean with his Tri- 
 politan prize, he was driven by a storm on 
 the coast of England. The honest gentle- 
 man seemed, from his actions, to be rather 
 intoxicated: which I could account for in 
 no other way than his having drank a great 
 deal of salt water, as he swam ashore. 
 
 Several following scenes were taken up 
 with hallooing and huzzaing, between the 
 captain, hjs crew, and the gallery, with se- 
 veral amusing tricks of the captain and his 
 son, a very funny, mischievous little fellow. 
 Then came the cream of the joke : the cap- 
 tain w r anted to put to sea, and the young fel- 
 
14 
 
 low, who had fallen desperately in love, to 
 stay ashore. Here was a contest between 
 love and honour — such piping of eyes, such 
 blowing of noses, such slapping of pocket- 
 holes! But old Junk was inflexible — What ! 
 an American tar desert his duty! (three 
 cheers from the gallery,) impossible! Ameri- 
 can tars for ever!! True blue will never 
 stain, &c. &c. (a continual thundering among 
 the gods). Here was a scene of distress — 
 here was bathos. The author seemed as 
 much puzzled to know how to dispose of 
 the young tar, as old Junk was. It would 
 not do to leave an American seaman on fo- 
 reign ground, nor would it do to separate 
 him from his mistress. 
 
 Scene the last opened. — It seems that ano- 
 ther Tripolitan cruiser had bore down on 
 the prize, as she lay about a mile off shore. 
 How a Barbary corsair had got in this part 
 of the world — whether she had been driven 
 there by the same storm, or whether she was 
 cruising to pick up a few English first rates, 
 I could not learn. However, here she was. 
 Again were we conducted to the sea-shore, 
 where we found all the village gentry, in 
 
15 
 
 their buckram suits, ready assembled, to be 
 entertained with the rare show of an Ame- 
 rican and Tripolitan engaged yard-arm and 
 yard-arm. The battle was conducted with 
 proper decency and decorum, and the Tri- 
 politan very politely gave in — as it would be 
 indecent to conquer in the face of an Aiim ri- 
 can audience. 
 
 After the engagement the crew came ashore, 
 joined with the captain and gallery in a few 
 more huzzas, and the curtain fell. How old 
 Junk, his son, and his son's sweetheart, set- 
 tled it, I could not discover. 
 
 I was somewhat puzzled to underd, I the 
 meaning and necessity of this engager! t be- 
 tween the ships, till an honest old c ntry- 
 man at my elbow said, he supposed £1 r was 
 the Battle of Hexharn, as he recoiled ad no 
 fighting in the first piece. With this Wpla- 
 nation I was perfectly satisfied. 
 
 My remarks upon the audience, I shall 
 postpone to another opportunity. 
 
 Jonathan Oldstyle. 
 
LETTER III. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 My last communication mentioned my 
 visit to the theatre ; the remarks it contained 
 were chiefly confined to the play and the ac- 
 tors; I shall now extend them to the audience, 
 who, I assure you, furnish no inconsiderable 
 part of the entertainment. 
 
 As J entered the house some time before 
 the curtain rose, I had sufficient leisure to 
 make some observations. I was much amused 
 with the waggery and humour of the gallery, 
 which, by the way, is kept in excellent order 
 by the constables who are stationed there. 
 The noise in this part of the house is some- 
 what similar to that which prevailed in Noah's 
 ark ; for we have an imitation of the whistles 
 and yells of every kind of animal. This, in 
 some measure, compensates for the want of 
 music, as the gentlemen of our orchestra are 
 very economic of their favours. Somehow 
 or another, the anger of the gods seemed to 
 
17 
 
 be aroused all of a sudden, and they com- 
 menced a discharge of apples, nuts, and gin- 
 gerbread, on the heads of the honest folks in 
 the pit, who had no possibility of retreating 
 from this new kind of thunderbolts. I can't 
 say but I was a little irritated at being sa- 
 luted aside of my head with a rotten pippin ; 
 and was going to shake my cane at them, 
 but was prevented by a decent looking man 
 behind me, who informed me that it was use- 
 less to threaten or expostulate. They are 
 only amusing themselves a little at our ex- 
 pense, said he; sit down quietly and bend 
 your back to it. My kind neighbour was 
 interrupted by a hard green apple that hit 
 him between the shoulders — he made a wry 
 face, but knowing it was all a joke, bore the 
 blow like a philosopher. I soon saw the wis- 
 dom of this determination; a stray thunder- 
 bolt happened to light on the head of a little 
 sharp faced frenchman, dressed in a white 
 coat and small cocked hat, who sat two or 
 three benches ahead of me, apd seemed to be 
 an irritable little animal. Monsieur was ter- 
 ribly exasperated ; .he jumped upon his seat, 
 shook his fist at the gallery, and swore vio- 
 
18 
 
 lently in bad English. This was all nuts to 
 his merry persecutors ; their attention was 
 wholly turned on him, and he formed their 
 target for the rest of the evening. 
 
 I found the ladies in the boxes, as usual, 
 studious to please; their charms were set off 
 to the greatest advantage ; each box was a 
 little battery in itself, and they all seemed 
 eager to outdo each other in the havoc they 
 spread around. An arch glance in one box 
 was rivalled by a smile in another, that smile 
 by a simper in a third, and in a fourth a most 
 bewitching languish carried all before it. 
 
 I was surprised to see some persons recon- 
 noitring the company through spy-glasses ; 
 and was in doubt whether these machines 
 were used to remedy deficiencies of vision, 
 or whether this was another of the eccentri- 
 cities of fashion. Jack Stylish has since in- 
 formed me, that glasses were lately all the 
 go; though hang it, says Jack, it is quite 
 out at present ; we used to mount our glasses 
 in great snuff, but since so many tough 
 jochies have followed the lead, the bucks 
 have all cut the custom. I give you, Mr. 
 Editor, the account in my dashing cousin's 
 
Ill 
 
 own language, [t is from a vocabulary I do 
 not well understand, 
 
 I was considerably amused by the queries 
 of the countryman mentioned in my last, who 
 was now making his first visit to the theatre. 
 He kept constantly applying to me for in- 
 formation, and I readily communicated, as 
 far as my own ignorance would permit. 
 
 As this honest man was casting his eye 
 round the house, his attention was suddenly 
 arrested. And pray, who are these? said he, 
 pointing to a cluster of young fellows. These, 
 1 suppose, are the critics, of whom I have 
 heard so much. They have, no doubt, got 
 together to communicate their remarks, and 
 compare notes; these are the persons through 
 whom the audience exercise their judgments, 
 and by whom they are told when they are to 
 applaud or to hiss. Critics! ha! ha! my 
 dear sir, they trouble themselves as little 
 about the elements of criticism, as they do 
 about other departments of science and belles- 
 lettres. These are the beaux of the present 
 day, who meet here to lounge away an idle 
 hour, and play off their little impertinences 
 for the entertainment of the public. They 
 
20 
 
 no more regard the merits of the play, nor of 
 the actors, than my cane. They even strive 
 to appear inattentive ; and I have seen one 
 of them perched on the front of the box with 
 his back to the stage, sacking the head of 
 his stick, and staring vacantly at the audi- 
 ence, insensible to the most interesting speci- 
 mens of scenic representation, though the 
 tear of sensibility was trembling in every eye 
 around him. I have heard that some have 
 even gone so far in search of amusement, as 
 to propose a game of cards in the theatre, 
 during the performance. The eyes of my 
 neighbour sparkled at this information — his 
 cane, shook in his hand — the word puppies 
 burst from his lips. Naj% says I, 1 don't 
 give this for absolute fact: my cousin Jack 
 was, I believe, quizzing me (as he terms it) 
 when he gave me the information. But you 
 seem quite indignant, said J, to the decent 
 looking man in my rear. It was from him 
 the exclamation came: the honest countryman 
 was gazing in gaping wonder on some new 
 attraction. Believe me, said I, if you had 
 them daily before your eyes, you would get 
 quite used to them. Used to them, replied 
 
21 
 
 he; how is it possible for people of sense to 
 relish such conduct? Bless you, my friend, 
 people of sense have nothing to do with it ; 
 they merely endure it in silence. These 
 young gentlemen live in an indulgent age. 
 When I was a young man, such tricks and 
 follies were held in proper contempt. Here 
 I went a little too far; for, upon better recol- 
 lection, I must own that a lapse of years has 
 produced but little alteration in this depart- 
 ment of folly and impertinence. But do the 
 ladies admire these manners! Truly, I am 
 not as conversant in female circles as for- 
 merly; but I should think it a poor compli- 
 ment to my fair countrywomen, to suppose 
 them pleased with the stupid stare and cant 
 phrases with which these votaries of fashion 
 add affected to real ignorance. 
 
 Our conversation was here interrupted by 
 the ringing of a bell. Now for the play, said 
 my companion. No, said I, it is only for the 
 musicians. These worthy gentlemen then 
 came crawling out of their holes, and began, 
 with very solemn and important phizzes, 
 strumming and tuning their instruments in 
 the usual style of discordance, to the great 
 
 c 
 
22 
 
 entertainment of the audience. What tune is 
 that? asked my neighbour, covering his ears. 
 This, said I, is no tune; it is only a pleasing 
 symphony, with which we are regaled, as a 
 preparative. For my part, though 1 admire 
 the effect of contrast, I think they might as 
 well play it in their cavern under the stage. 
 The bell rung a second time — and then began 
 the tune in reality; but I could not help ob- 
 serving, that the countryman was more di- 
 verted with the queer grimaces and contor- 
 tions of countenance exhibited by the musi- 
 cians, than their melody. What I heard of 
 the music, I liked very well ; (though I was 
 told by one of my neighbours, that the same 
 pieces have been played every night for these 
 three years ;) but it was often overpowered 
 by the gentry in the gallery, who vociferated 
 loudly for Moll in the Wad, Tally ho the 
 Grinders, and several other airs more suited 
 to their tastes. 
 
 I observed that every part of the house has 
 its different department. The good folks of 
 the gallery have all the trouble of ordering 
 the music ; (their directions^ however, are not 
 more frequently followed than they deserve). 
 
23 
 
 The mode by which they issue their man- 
 dates is stamping, hissing, roaring, whistling; 
 and, when the musicians are refractory, 
 groaning in cadence. They also have the 
 privilege of demanding a bow from John, (by 
 which name they designate every servant at 
 the theatre, who enters to move a table or 
 snuff a candle) ; and of detecting those cun- 
 ning dogs who peep from behind the curtain. 
 By the by, my honest friend was much 
 puzzled about the curtain itself. He wanted 
 to know why that carpet was hung up in the 
 theatre? I assured him it was no carpet, but 
 a very fine curtain. And what, pray, may 
 be the meaning of that gold head, with the 
 nose cut off, that I see in front of it ? The 
 meaning — why, really, I can't tell exactly- — 
 though my cousin, Jack Stylish, says there 
 is a great deal of meaning in it. But surely 
 you like the design of the curtain ? The de- 
 sign, — why really I can see no design about 
 it, unless it is to be brought down about our 
 ears by the weight of those gold heads, and 
 that heavy cornice with which it is garnished. 
 1 began now to be uneasy for the credit of 
 our curtain, and was afraid he would per- 
 
 c 2 
 
24 
 
 ceive the mistake of the painter, in putting a 
 harp in the middle of the curtain, and calling 
 it a mirror; but his attention was happily 
 called away by the candle-grease from the 
 chandelier, over the centre of the pit, drop- 
 ping on his clothes. This he loudly com- 
 plained of, and declared his coat was bran- 
 new. How, my friend? said I; w r e must put 
 up with a few trifling inconveniences, when 
 in the pursuit of pleasure. True, said he; 
 but I think I pay pretty dear for it; — first to 
 give six shillings at the door, and then to 
 have my head battered with rotten apples, 
 and my coat spoiled by candle-grease; by 
 and by I shall have my other clothes dirtied 
 by sitting down, as 1 perceive every body 
 mounted on the benches. I wonder if they 
 could not see as well if they were all to stand 
 upon the floor. 
 
 Here I could no longer defend our cus- 
 toms, for I could scarcely breathe while 
 thus surrounded by a host of strapping fel- 
 lows, standing with their dirty boots on the 
 seats of the benches. The little Frenchman, 
 who thus found a temporary shelter from 
 the missive compliments of his gallery friend, 
 
 
25 
 
 was the only person benefitted. At last the 
 bell again rung, and the cry of down, down 
 — hats off, was the signal for the commence- 
 ment of the play. 
 
 If, Mr. Editor, the garrulity of an old fel- 
 low is not tiresome, and you choose to give 
 this view of a New-York Theatre a place in 
 your paper, you may, perhaps, hear further 
 from your friend, 
 
 Jonathan Oldstyle. 
 
LETTER IV. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 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 1 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 conver- 
 sation is generally of the most trifling kind, 
 it seldom repays the latter for the inconve- 
 nience they suffer, of not hearing one half 
 of the play. I found, however, that I had 
 
27 
 
 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 oblig- 
 ing 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 import- 
 ance. 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 im- 
 patient looks of his unwilling auditors. I 
 also observed, that he made several mistakes 
 in the course of his communications. " Now 
 you '11 see," said he, " the queen in all her 
 glory, surrounded with her courtiers, fine as 
 fiddles, and ranged on each side of the stage, 
 
28 
 
 like rows of pewter dishes." On the con- 
 trary, we were presented with the portly 
 gentleman and his ragged regiment of ban- 
 ditti. 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 h what you call first- 
 rate acting, 1 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 
 
29 
 
 walking on plain ground to strutting on the 
 stills used by the tragic heroes of my day. 
 
 This is the chief of what passed between me 
 and my companion during the play and en- 
 tertainment, 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-shahs 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, 
 
30 
 
 with a chapeau de bras under his arm, is tak- 
 ing snuff in the fashion of one or two centu- 
 ries back, and perhaps a third figures in Su- 
 warrow 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 entertain- 
 ment was concluded). Their names make a 
 great appearance on the bill, but I do not re- 
 collect 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 Hex- 
 ham without fighting, and a Tripolitan after- 
 piece without even a Mahometan whisker, 
 we need not be surprised at having an invi- 
 sible marquis or two thrown into the bargain. 
 — " But what, is your opinion of the house?" 
 said I ; " don't you think it a very substan- 
 tial, solid-looking building, both inside and 
 out? Observe what a fine effect the dark co- 
 
31 
 
 louring 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 suck- 
 ing 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 periwig'd cu- 
 pids, 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 illumi- 
 nated ; 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 in- 
 tense light our eyes were greatly annoyed in 
 the beginning of the after-piece ?" 
 
 " But don't you think, after all, there is ra- 
 
32 
 
 ther a— sort of a— kind of a heavyishness 
 about the house? Don't you think it has a 
 little of an under groundish 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 antechamber, we once 
 more emerged into the purer air of the park, 
 when bidding my houest 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 imperfec- 
 tions. Those who visit it more frequently 
 may be able jto give you a better statement. 
 
 I shall conclude with a few words of ad- 
 vice for the benefit of every department of it. 
 I would recommend— 
 
13 
 
 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 con- 
 stables ; — and, 
 
 To the whole house, inside and out, a to- 
 tal reformation. 
 
 And so much for the Theatre. 
 
 Jonathan Oldstyle, 
 
LETTER V. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 As I was sitting quietly by my tire- 
 side the other morning, nursing my wounded 
 shin, and reading to my cousin, Jack Stylish, 
 a chapter or two from Chesterfield's Letters, 
 I received the following epistle from my friend 
 Andrew Quoz; who, hearing that I talked 
 of paying the actors a visit, and shaking my 
 cane over their heads, has written the follow- 
 ing letter, part of which is strongly in their 
 defence. 
 
 To Jonathan Oldstylk, Genl. 
 
 My Dear Friend, 
 
 I perceive by the late papers, you have 
 been entertaining the town with remarks on 
 the Theatre. As you do not seem from your 
 writings to be much of an adept in the Thes- 
 pian arcana, permit me to give you a few 
 hints for your information. 
 
 The Theatre, you observe, begins to an- 
 swer all the purposes of a coffee-house. Here 
 
35 
 
 you are right; it is the polite lounge, where 
 the idle and curious resort, to pick up the 
 news of the fashionable world, to meet their 
 acquaintances, and to show themselves off. to 
 advantage. As to the dull souls who go for 
 the sake of the play, why, if their attention is 
 interrupted by the conversation of their neigh- 
 bours, they must bear it with patience; it is 
 a custom authorized by fashion. Persons 
 who go for the purpose of chatting with their 
 friends are not to be deprived of their amuse- 
 ment; they have paid their dollar, and have 
 a right to entertain themselves as well as 
 they can. As to those who are annoyed by 
 their talking, why they need not listen to it ; 
 let them mind their own business. 
 
 You are surprised at so many persons using 
 opera-glasses, and wish to know whether they 
 were all near-sighted. Your cousin, Jack 
 Stylish, has not explained that matter suffi- 
 ciently, for though many mount glasses be* 
 cause it is the go, yet I am told that several 
 do it to enable them to distinguish the coun- 
 tenances of their friends across our scantily 
 illuminated Theatre. I was considerably 
 amused the other evening with an honest tar, 
 
36 
 
 who had stationed himself in front of the 
 gallery, and with an air of affected foppish- 
 ness, was reconnoitring the house through a 
 pocket telescope. I could not but like his 
 notion, for really the gods are so elevated 
 among the clouds, that unless they are un- 
 usually strong of vision, I can't tell how they 
 manage to discern with the naked eye what 
 is passing in the little painted world below 
 them. 
 
 I think you complain of the deficiency of 
 the music; and say that we want a greater 
 variety, and more of it. But you must know 
 that, though this might have been a grievance 
 in old times, when people attended to the 
 musicians, it is a thing of but little moment 
 at present ; our orchestra is kept principally 
 for form sake. There is such a continual 
 noise and bustle between the acts, that it is 
 difficult to hear a note ; and if the musicians 
 were to get up a new piece of the finest me- 
 lody, so nicely tuned are the ears of their au- 
 ditors, that I doubt whether nine hearers out 
 of ten would not complain on leaving the 
 house, that they had been bored to death with 
 the same old pieces they have heard two or 
 
37 
 
 three years back. Indeed, many who go to 
 the theatre carry their own music with them ; 
 and we are so often delighted with the crying 
 of children by way of glee, and such cough- 
 ing and sneezing from various -parts of the 
 house by way of chorus, not to mention the 
 regale of a sweet symphony from a sweep or 
 two in the gallery, and occasionally a full 
 piece, in which nasal, vocal, whistling and 
 thumping powers are admirably exerted and 
 blended, that what want we of an orchestra? 
 In your remarks on the actors, my dear 
 friend, let me beg of you to be cautious. I 
 would not for the world that you should de- 
 generate into a critic. The critics, my dear 
 Jonathan, are the very pests of society; they 
 rob the actor of his reputation — the public of 
 their amusement; they open the eyes of their 
 readers to a full perception of the faults of 
 our performers, they reduce our feelings to a 
 state of miserable refinement, and destroy en- 
 tirely all the enjoyments in which our coarser 
 sensations delighted. I can remember the 
 time when I could hardly keep my seat 
 through laughing at the wretched buffoonery, 
 the merry-andrew tricks, and the unnatural 
 
 D 
 
38 
 
 grimaces played off by one of our theatric 
 Jack Puddings; when I was struck with 
 awful admiration at the roaring and ranting 
 of a buskined hero, and hung with rapture on 
 every word, while he was " tearing a passion 
 to tatters — to very rags!" I remember the 
 time when he who could make the queerest 
 mouth, roll his eyes, and twist his body with 
 the most hideous distortions, was surest to 
 please. Alas ! how changed the times, or 
 rather how changed the taste ; 1 can now sit 
 with the gravest countenance, and look with- 
 out a smile on all such mimicry ; their skip- 
 ping, their squinting, their shrugging, their 
 snuffling, delight not me; and as to their 
 ranting and roaring, 
 
 " I'd rather hear a brazen candlestick turned, 
 Or a dry wheel grate on the axletree," 
 
 than any such fustian efforts to attain a shal- 
 low gallery applause. 
 
 Now, though I confess these critics have 
 reformed the manners of the actors, as well 
 as the tastes of the audience, so that these 
 absurdities are almost banished from the New 
 York stage, yet do I think they have em- 
 ployed a most unwarrantable liberty. 
 
39 
 
 A critic, my dear sir, has no more right to 
 expose the faults of an actor, than he has to 
 detect the deceptions of a juggler, or the im- 
 positions of a quack. All trades must live ; 
 and as long as the public are satisfied to ad- 
 mire the tricks of the juggler, to swallow the 
 drugs of the quack, or to applaud the fustian 
 of the actor, whoever attempts to undeceive 
 them, does but curtail the pleasures of the 
 latter, and deprive the former of their bread. 
 
 Ods-bud ! hath not an actor eyes, and shall 
 he not wink?— hath not an actor teeth, and 
 shall he not grin? — feet, and shall he not 
 stamp?— lungs, and shall he not roar?-r- 
 breast, and shall he not slap it? — hair, and 
 shall he not club it? Is he not fed with 
 plaudits from the gods? delighted with th limp- 
 ings from the groundlings ? annoyed by hisses 
 from the boxes ? 
 
 You censure his follies, does he not com- 
 plain? If you take away his bread, will he 
 not starve ? If you starve him, will he not 
 die? And if you kill him, will not his wife 
 and seven small infants, six at her back and 
 one at her breast, rise up and cry vengeance 
 against you ? Ponder these things seriously 
 
 d2 
 
40 
 
 my friend Oldstyle, and you will agree with 
 me that, as the actor is the most meritorious 
 and faultless, so is the critic the most cruel 
 and sanguinary character in the world—" as 
 I will show you more fully in my next.'' 
 Your loving friend, 
 
 Andrew Quoz. 
 
 From the tenor and conclusion of these 
 remarks of my friend, Mr. Andrew Quoz, 
 they may not improperly be called the 
 " Rights of Actors ;" his arguments are, I 
 confess, very forcible, but, as they are en- 
 tirely new to me, I shall not hastily make up 
 my mind. In the mean time, as my leg is 
 much better, I believe I shall hobble to the 
 theatre on Monday evening, borrow a seat 
 in a side box, and observe how the actors 
 conduct themselves. 
 
 Jonathan Oldstyle. 
 
LETTER VI. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 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 French- 
 man, 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 lean- 
 ing with his arms a-kimbo on his shoulders, 
 and coolly surveying the audience, unmindful 
 of the writhings and expostulations of the ir- 
 ritated little Gaul, whose chin was pressed 
 hard upon the front of the box, and his small 
 black eyes twinkling with fury and suffoca- 
 
42 
 
 tion. How he disengaged himself I do not 
 know, for my attention was just then called 
 away by a different object ; and on turning 
 around some time afterwards, Monsieur had 
 disappeared. 
 
 I found every thing wore its old appear- 
 ance. The same silence, order, and regula- 
 rity 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 substan- 
 tial 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 ap- 
 ples, saluted my ears on every side. Surely, 
 
43 
 
 thought I, never was an employment fol- 
 lowed up with more assiduity, than that 
 of gormandizing- ; already it pervades every 
 public place of amusement; hay, it even be- 
 gins 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 impos- 
 sible 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 dash- 
 ing appearance of which Jack described in 
 high terms ; I willingly agreed to his pro- 
 posal. 
 
 The room perfectly answered my expecta- 
 
44 I 
 
 tions, 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 canvas, and the sumptuous 
 wooden benches placed around it, had a 
 most inviting appearance. 
 
 1 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 recon- 
 noitring the company, and snuffing up the 
 delightful perfume of French brandy, Holland 
 gin, and Spanish segars. 
 
 I found myself in a circle of young gentry, 
 who appeared to have something in agita- 
 tion, 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 [ 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 
 
45 
 
 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 inde- 
 corous manner of the young men of the pre- 
 sent day; the impertinent remarks on the 
 company in which they continually indulge; 
 and the cant phrases with which their shal- 
 low 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 ob- 
 served by your winks and grins, that you are 
 better 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 dis- 
 card 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 
 
46 
 
 said ; and I hope it may have weight with 
 him ; though I fear, from the thoughtless 
 gaiety of his disposition, and his knowledge 
 of the strong hold he has in my foolish old 
 heart, my menaces will make but little im- 
 pression. 
 
 We found the play already commenced. 
 I was particularly delighted with the ap- 
 pearance 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 for- 
 ward, 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 to her dignity. That charming counte- 
 nance was never made to be so unworthily 
 distorted ; nor that graceful person and car- 
 riage to represent the awkward movements 
 of hobbling decrepitude. Take this word of 
 advice, fair lady, from an old man, and a 
 
47 
 
 friend: Never, if you wish to retain that 
 character of elegance you so deservedly pos- 
 / sess — 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 mas- 
 ter, 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 roast- 
 ing match, and this quizzical looking fellow 
 turns the spit. The Merry Andrew now be- 
 gan to deal out his speeches with great rapi- 
 dity; but, on a sudden, pulling off a black 
 hood that covered his face, who should I re- 
 cognize but my old acquaintance, the portly 
 gentleman. 
 
 I started back with astonishment. Sictran* 
 sit gloria mundi ! exclaimed I, with a melan- 
 choly shake of the head. Here is a dreary, 
 but true picture, of the vicissitudes of life — 
 one night paraded in regal robes, surrounded 
 with a splendid train of nobility ; the next, 
 
48 
 
 degraded to a poor Jack-pudding, and with- 
 out 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 present- 
 ing them with such distressing contrasts. Ho- 
 nest Quoz, who is of the melting mood, shook 
 his head ruefully, and said nothing. I, how- 
 ever, 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 inso- 
 lent mention of my name. And what think 
 you of this, friend Quoz? exclaimed I, vehe- 
 mently : 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 carica- 
 tured by the clumsy hand of every dauber 
 who can hold a brush ! Let me tell you, Mr. 
 Andrew Quoz, 1 have known the time when 
 such insolence would have been hooted from 
 the stage. 
 
49 
 
 After some persuasion, I resumed my seat, 
 and attempted to listen patiently to the rest 
 of the afterpiece; but I was so disgusted with 
 the Merry 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 personae, we were presented with 
 an ancient maiden; and entertained with jests 
 and remarks from the buffoon and his asso- 
 ciates, 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 attach- 
 ment to. the fair sex — I have ever thought 
 them possessed of the strongest claims to our 
 admiration, our tenderness, and our protec- 
 tion. But when to these are added still 
 stronger claims — when we see them aged and 
 infirm, solitary and neglected, without a part- 
 ner to support them down the descent of life 
 —cold indeed must be that heart, and un- 
 manly 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. 
 

 50 
 
 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 meek- 
 ly," that age has marked no traces on her 
 forehead. Amiable sister of my heart! cried 
 I, who hast jogged with me through so many 
 years of existence, is this to be the recom- 
 pense of all thy virtues ; art thou, who 
 never, in thought or deed, injured the feel- 
 ings 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, 
 III see no more. I accordingly hobbled oft' 
 with my friend, Mr. Andrew Quoz. Jack de- 
 clared he would stay behind and see the end 
 
51 
 
 of the joke. On our way home, I asked 
 friend Quoz, how he could justify such clum- 
 sy 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 
 ine the conclusion of the piece. How several 
 actors went into awheel one after another, 
 and after a little grinding, were converted 
 into asses, geese, 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. 
 
 Jonathan Oldstyle. 
 
LETTER VII. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 I had just put oi) my spectacles, and 
 
 mended my pen, to give you an account of a 
 visit I made some time since, with friend 
 Quoz and my sister Dorothy, to a ball, when 
 I was interrupted by the following letter from 
 the former. 
 
 My friend Quoz, who is what the world 
 calls a knowing man, is extremely fond of 
 giving his opinion in every affair. He displays 
 in this epistle more than usual knowledge of 
 his subject, and seems to exert all his argu- 
 mentative talents to enforce the importance of 
 his advice. I give you his letter without fur- 
 ther comment, and shall postpone my de- 
 scription of the ball to another opportunity. 
 
 To Jonathan Oldstyle, Gent. 
 
 My Dear Friend, 
 
 I once more address you on a subject 
 that 1 fear will be found irksome, and may 
 
53 
 
 chafe that testy disposition (forgive my free- 
 dom) with which you are afflicted. Exert, 
 however, the good humour of which, at bot- 
 tom, I know you to have a plentiful stock, 
 and hear me patiently through. It is the anx- 
 ious fear I entertain of your sinking into the 
 gloomy abyss of criticism, on the brink of 
 which you are at present tottering, that urges 
 me to write. 
 
 I would set before you the rights and 
 wrongs of an actor; and by painting in strong 
 colours the peculiarity of his situation, call 
 your good sense into action. 
 
 The world, my friend Oldstyle, has ever 
 been prone to consider the theatrical profes- 
 sion in a degraded point of view. What first 
 gave rise to this opinion, I am at loss to con- 
 ceive ; but I consider it as the relic of one of 
 those ancient prejudices which the good sense 
 of the world is daily discarding ; and I flatter 
 myself it will in a little time be totally explo- 
 ded. Why the actor should be considered 
 inferior in point of respectability to the poet, 
 the painter, or any other person who exerts 
 his talents in delineating character, or in ex- 
 hibiting the various operations of the human 
 
 E 
 
54 
 
 mind, I cannot imagine, I know you, friend 
 Oldstyle, to be a man of too liberal sentiments 
 not to be superior to these little prejudices ; 
 and also one who regards an actor, provided 
 his private character be good, with equal re- 
 spect as the member of any other profession. 
 Yet you are not quite aware of the important 
 privileges solely attached to the dramatic 
 performer. These I will endeavour to point 
 out. 
 
 The works of a poet or painter you may 
 freely criticise — nay, they offer them for that 
 purpose — they listen attentively to your ob- 
 servations, and profit by your censures. But 
 beware how you exercise such conduct to- 
 wards an actor: he needs no instruction — his 
 own impartial judgment is sufficient to detect 
 and amend all his imperfections. Attempt to 
 correct his errors, and you ruin him at once 
 — hell starve to spite you ; he is like a decay- 
 ed substance, that crumbles at the touch. 
 
 No, Sir — when an actor is on the stage, he 
 is in his own house — it is his castle — he then 
 has you in his power — he may there bore 
 you with his buffoonery, or insult you with 
 his pointed remarks, with perfect impunity* 
 
55 
 
 You, my friend, who are rather apt to be 
 dissatisfied, may call it hard treatment to be 
 thus annoyed, and yet compensate the annoy- 
 er for his trouble. You may say, that as you 
 pay an equivalent for your amusement, you 
 should have the liberty of directing the actor 
 in his attempts ; and as the Chinese does his 
 ear-tickler, tell him when his instrument of- 
 fends, and how he overdoes himself in the 
 operation. This is an egregious mistake: you 
 are obliged to him for his condescension in ex- 
 erting his talents for your instruction ; and as 
 to your money, why he only takes it to lessen 
 in part the weight of your obligation. 
 
 An actor is, as I before observed, compe- 
 tent to judge of his own abilities; he may 
 undertake whatever character he pleases, 
 tragedy, comedy, or pantomime, however ill 
 adapted his audience may think him to sus- 
 tain it. He may rant and roar, and wink and 
 grin, and fret and fume his hour upon the 
 stage, and " who shall say nay?" He is 
 paid by the manager for using his lungs and 
 limbs, and the more he exerts them, the bet- 
 ter does he fulfil the engagement, and the 
 
 e 2 
 
56 
 
 harder does he ivork for his living — and who 
 shall deprive him of his "hard-earned bread?" 
 
 How many an honest, lazy genius, has 
 been flogged by these unfeeling critics into a 
 cultivation of his talents, and attention to his 
 profession ! — how have they doomed him to 
 hard study and unremitting exertion! — how 
 have they prejudiced the public mind, so 
 that what might once have put an audience 
 in convulsions of laughter, now excites no- 
 thing but a slight pattering from the hands 
 of the little shavers who are rewarded with 
 seats in the gallery, for their trouble in keep- 
 ing the boxes. Oh ! Mr. Oldstyle, it cuts 
 me to the soul to see a poor actor stamp and 
 storm, and slap his forehead, his breast, his 
 pocket holes, all in vain ; to see him throw 
 himself in some attitude of distraction or des- 
 pair, and there wait in fruitless expectation 
 the applauses of his friends in the gallery. 
 In such cases, I always take care and clap 
 him myself, to enable him to quit his pos- 
 ture, and resume his part with credit. 
 
 You was much irritated the other evening, 
 at what you termed an ungenerous and \uj- 
 
57 
 
 manly attempt to bring forward an ancient 
 maiden in a ridiculous point of view. But I 
 don't see why that should be made a matter 
 of complaint. Has it not been done time 
 out of mind ? Is it not sanctioned by daily 
 custom in private life? Is not the character 
 of Aunt Tabitha, in the farce, the same we 
 have laughed at in hundreds of dramatic pie- 
 ces? Since, then, the author has but travel- 
 led in the same beaten track of character so 
 many have trod before him, I see not why he 
 should be blamed as severely as if he had all 
 the guilt of originality upon his shoulders. 
 
 You may say that it is cruel to sport with 
 the feelings of any class of society; that folly 
 affords sufficient field for wit and satire to 
 work upon, without resorting to misfortune 
 for matter of ridicule; that female sensibility 
 should ever be sacred from the lash of sar- 
 casm, &c. But this is all stuff — all cant. 
 
 If an author is too indolent or too stupid 
 to seek new sources for remark, he is surely 
 excusable in employing the ideas of others 
 for his own use and benefit. But I find I 
 have digressed imperceptibly into the " rights 
 of authors •" so let us return to our subject. 
 
58 
 
 An actor, when he " holds the mirror up 
 to nature," may, by his manoeuvres, twist and 
 turn it so as to represent the object in any 
 shape he pleases — nay, even give a caricature 
 where the author intended a resemblance; 
 he may blur it with his breath, or soil it with 
 his dirty fingers, so that the object may have 
 a colouring from the glass in which it is 
 viewed, entirely different from its natural ap- 
 pearance. To be plain, my friend, an actor 
 has a right, whenever he thinks his author not 
 sufficiently explicit, to assist him by his own 
 wit and abilities ; and if by these means the 
 character should become quite different from 
 what was originally intended, and in fact be- 
 long more to the actor than the author, the 
 actor deserves high credit for his ingenuity. 
 And even though his additions are quaint 
 and fulsome, yet his intention is highly praise- 
 worthy, and deserves ample encouragement. 
 
 Only think, my dear sir, how many snug 
 little domestic arrangements are destroyed by 
 the officious interference of these ever dissa- 
 tisfied critics. The honest King of Scot- 
 land, who used to dress for market and the- 
 atre at the same time, and wear with his kelt 
 
59 
 
 and plaid his half boots and black breeches, 
 looking half king, half cobbler, has been oblig- 
 ed totally to dismiss the former from his royal 
 service; yet I am happy to find, so obstinate 
 is his attachment to old habits, that all their 
 efforts have not been sufficient to dislodge 
 him from the strong hold he has in the latter. 
 They may force him from the boots — but 
 nothing shall drive him out of the breeches. 
 
 Consider, my friend, the puerile nature of 
 such remarks. Is it not derogating from the 
 elevated character of a critic, to take notice 
 of clubbed wigs, red coats, black breeches, 
 and half boots! Fie! fie upon it! I blush 
 for the critics of the day, who consider it a 
 matter of importance whether a Highlander 
 should appear in breeches and boots, or an 
 Otaheitan in the dress of a New York cox- 
 comb. Trust me, friend Oldstyle, it is to 
 the manner, not the appearance of an actor, 
 we are to look ; and as long as he performs 
 his part well, (to use the words of my friend 
 Sterne,) " it shall not be inquired whether he 
 did it in a black coat or a red." 
 
 Believe me, friend Oldstyle, few of our 
 modern critics can shew any substantial claim 
 
60 
 
 to the character they assume. Let me ask 
 them one question — Have they ever been in 
 Europe? Have they ever seen a Garrick, a 
 Kemble, or a Siddons ? If they have not, I 
 can assure you, (upon the words of two or 
 three of my friends, the actors,) they have no 
 right to the title of critics. 
 
 They may talk as much as they please 
 about judgment, and taste, and feeling, but 
 this is all nonsense. It has lately been de- 
 termined, (at the Theatre,) that any one who 
 attempts to decide upon such ridiculous prin- 
 ciples, is an arrant goose, and deserves to be 
 roasted. 
 
 Having thus, friend Oldstyle, endeavoured 
 in a feeble manner to show you a few of the 
 rights of an actor, and of his wrongs ; having 
 mentioned his constant and disinterested en- 
 deavours to please the public, and how much 
 better he knows what will please them, than 
 they do themselves ; having also depicted the 
 cruel and persecuting nature of a critic; the 
 continual restraint he lays on the harmless 
 irregularity of the performer, and the relent- 
 less manner in which he obliges him to at- 
 tend sedulously to his professional duty, 
 
 1 
 
61 
 
 -through fear of censure — let me entreat you 
 to pause ! Open your eyes to the precipice 
 on which you are tottering, and hearken to 
 the earnest warning of 
 
 Your loving friend, 
 
 Andrew Quoz. 
 
 My friend Quoz certainly writes with feel- 
 ing; every line evinces that acute sensibility 
 for which he has ever been remarked. I am, 
 however, perfectly at a loss to conceive on 
 whatgrounds he suspects me of a disposition 
 to turn critic. My remarks hitherto have ra- 
 ther been the result of immediate impression 
 than of critical examination. With my friend, 
 Mr. Andrew Quoz, I begin to doubt the mo- 
 tives of our New-York critics; especially 
 since I have, in addition to these arguments, 
 the assurances of two or three doubtless dis- 
 interested actors, and an editor, who, Mr. 
 Quoz tells me, is remarkable for his candour 
 and veracity, that the critics are the most 
 * presumptuous/ ' arrogant/ 'malevolent/ ' il- 
 liberal/ * ungentlemanlike/ ' malignant/ ' ran- 
 corous/ ' villanous/ ' ungrateful,' !■ crippled/ 
 ' invidious/ ' detracting/ ' fabricating/ ' per- 
 
62 
 
 sonal,' ' dogmatical,' * illegitimate,' € tyranni- 
 cal,' ' distorting,' ' spindle-shanked moppets, 
 designing villains, and upstart ignorants/ 
 
 These, 1 say, and many other equally high 
 polished appellations, have awakened doubts 
 in my mind respecting the sincerity and jus- 
 tice of the critics ; and lest my pen should 
 unwittingly draw upon me the suspicion of 
 having a hankering after criticism, I now wipe 
 it carefully, lock it safely up, and promise 
 not to draw it forth again till some new de- 
 partment of folly calls for my atteution. 
 
 Jonathan Oldstyle. 
 
LETTER VIII. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 I was calmly enjoying my toast and 
 coffee some mornings ago, with my sister 
 Dorothy and Jack Stylish, when we were 
 surprised by the abrupt entrance of my friend, 
 Mr. Andrew Quoz. By the particular ex- 
 pression of his knowing phiz, as cousin Jack 
 calls it, I immediately perceived he was la- 
 bouring with some important intelligence. 
 
 In one hand he held the Morning Chro- 
 nicle, and with the fore-finger of the other, 
 pointed to a particular paragraph. I hastily 
 put on my spectacles, and seized the paper 
 with eager curiosity. Judge my surprise, 
 Mr. Editor, on reading an act of our legisla- 
 ture, pronouncing any citizen of this State 
 who shall send, bear, or accept a challenge, 
 either verbal or written, disqualified from 
 holding any office of honour or confidence, or 
 of voting at any election within this State, 
 &c. &c. 
 
 The paper fell from my hands— I turned 
 
64 
 
 my eyes to friend Andrew in mute astonish- 
 ment. Quoz put his finger on his nose, and 
 winking significantly, cried, " what do you 
 think of this, my friend Jonathan ?" 
 
 " Here is a catastrophe," exclaimed I, in a 
 melancholy tone. " Here is a damper for 
 the mettlesome youths of the age. Spirit of 
 chivalry, whither hast thou flown! Shade of 
 Pon Quixote, dost thou not look down with 
 contempt on the degeneracy of the times !" 
 
 My sister Dorothy caught a sympathetic 
 spark of enthusiasm ; — deep read in all the 
 volumes of ancient romance, and delighted 
 with the glowing description of the heroic 
 age, she had learned to admire the gallantry 
 of former days, and mourned to see the last 
 spark of chivalric fire thus rudely extin- 
 guished. 
 
 Alas ! my brother, said she, to what a de- 
 plorable state are our young men reduced ! 
 how piteous must be their situation — with 
 sensibilities so .easily injured, and bosoms so 
 tremblingly alive to the calls of honour and 
 etiquette ! 
 
 Indeed, my dear Dorothy, said I, I feel 
 most deeply for their melancholy situation. 
 
65 
 
 Deprived, in these dull, monotonous, peace- 
 able times, of all opportunities of evincing, in 
 the hardy contest of the tented field, that he- 
 roic flame that burns within their breasts; 
 they were happy to vent the lofty fumings of 
 their souls, in the more domestic and less 
 dangerous encounters of the duel :— like the 
 warrior in the fable, who, deprived of the 
 pleasure of slaughtering armies, contented 
 himself with cutting down cabbages. 
 
 Here a solemn pause ensued. I called to 
 mind all the tales I had heard or read of an- 
 cient knights ; their amours, their quarrels, 
 and their combats; how, on a fair summer's 
 morning, the knight of the Golden Goose met 
 the knight of the Fiery Fiddle; how the 
 knight of the Fiery Fiddle exclaimed in lofty 
 tones, " whoever denies that Donna Fiddle- 
 osa is the most peerless beauty in the uni- 
 verse, must brave the strength of this arm P' 
 how they both engaged with dreadful fury, 
 and, after fighting till sunset, the knight of 
 the Fiery Fiddle fell a martyr to his con- 
 stancy; murmuring, in melodious accents, 
 with his latest breath, the beloved name of 
 Fiddleosa. 
 
66 
 
 From these ancient engagements, I de- 
 scended to others more modern in their dates, 
 but equally important in their origins. I re- 
 called the genuine politeness and polished 
 ceremony with which duels were conducted 
 in my youthful days; when that gentlemanly 
 weapon, the smallsword, was in highest vogue. 
 A challenge was worded with the most par- 
 ticular complaisance; and one that I have 
 still in my possession, ends with the words, 
 " your friend and affectionate servant, Nicho- 
 las Stubbs." When the parties met on the 
 field, the same decorum was observed ; they 
 pulled off their hats, wished one another a 
 good day, and helped to draw off each other's 
 coats and boots, with the most respectful ci- 
 vility. Their fighting, too, was so handsome- 
 ly conducted; no awkward movements; no 
 eager and angry pushes ; all cool, elegant, 
 and graceful. Every thrust had its sa-sa; 
 and a ha-hah lunged you gently through the 
 body. Then nothing could equal the tender- 
 ness and attention with which & wounded 
 antagonist was treated ; his adversary, after 
 wiping his sword deliberately, kindly sup- 
 ported him in his arms, examined his pulse, 
 
 
67 
 
 and inquired, with the most affectionate so- 
 licitude, " how he felt himself now ?" Thus 
 every thing was conducted in a well-bred, 
 gentlemanly manner. 
 
 Our present customs, I cannot say I much 
 admire; — a twelve inch barrel pistol, and 
 ounce ball y are blunt, unceremonious affairs, 
 and prevent that display of grace and ele- 
 gance allowed by the small sword ; besides, 
 there is something so awkward, in having the 
 muzzle of a pistol staring one full in the face, 
 that I should think it might be apt to make 
 some of our youthful heroes feel rather dis- 
 agreeable; unless, as I am told has been 
 sometimes the case, the duel was fought by 
 twilight. 
 
 The ceremony of loading, priming, cock- 
 ing, &c. has not the most soothing effects on 
 a person's feelings ; and I am told that some 
 of our warriors have been known to tremble, 
 and make wry faces, during these prepara- 
 tions ; though this has been attributed, and 
 doubtless with much justice, to the violence 
 of their wrath, and fierceness of their courage,, 
 
 I had thus been musing for some time, when 
 
 broke silence at last, by hinting to friend 
 
68 
 
 Quoz, some of my objections to the mode of 
 fighting with pistols. 
 
 Truly, my friend Oldstyle, said Quoz, I 
 am surprised at your ignorance of modern 
 customs ; trust me, I know of no amusement 
 that is, generally speaking, more harmless. . 
 To be sure, there may now and then a couple 
 of determined fellows take the field, who re- 
 solve to do the thing in good earnest; but, 
 in general, our fashionable duellists are con- 
 tent with only one discharge; and then, ei- 
 ther they are poor shots, or their triggers 
 pull hard, or they shut the wrong eye, or 
 some other cause intervenes, so that it is ten, 
 ay, twenty chances to one in their favour. 
 
 Here I begged leave to differ from friend 
 Andrew. I am well convinced, said I, of 
 the valour of our young men, and that they 
 determine, when they march forth to the 
 field, either to conquer or die; but it gene- 
 rally happens, that their seconds are of a 
 more peaceable mind, and interpose after the 
 first shot; but I am informed, that they come 
 often very near being killed, having bullet 
 holes through their hats and coats ; which, 
 like FalstafTs hacked sword, are strong 
 
69 
 
 proofs of the serious nature of their encoun- 
 ters. 
 
 My sister Dorothy, who is of a humane 
 and benevolent disposition, would, no doubt, 
 detest the idea of duels, did she not regard 
 them as the last gleams of those days of chi- 
 valry, to which she looks back with a degree 
 of romantic enthusiasm. She now consi- 
 dered them as having received their death- 
 blow; for how can even the challenges be 
 conveyed, said she, when the very messen- 
 gers are considered as principals in the of- 
 
 Nothiug more easy, said friend Quoz; — a 
 man gives me the lie — very well ; I tread on 
 his toes in token of challenge ; — he pulls my 
 nose by way of acceptance ; thus, you see, 
 the challenge is safely conveyed without a 
 third party. We then settle the mode in 
 which satisfaction is to be given; as, for in- 
 stance, we draw lots which of us must be 
 slain to satisfy the demands of honour. Mr. 
 A. or Mr. B., my antagonist, is to fall : well, 
 miadam, he stands below in the street; I run 
 up to the garret window, and drop a brick 
 upon his head ; if he survives, well and good 
 
 F 
 
70 
 
 — if he falls, why nobody is to blame, it was 
 purely accidental. Thus, the affair is settled, 
 according to the common saying, to our mu- 
 tual satisfaction. 
 
 Jack Stylish observed, that, as to Mr. 
 Quoz's project of dropping bricks on people's 
 heads, he considered it a vulgar substitute. 
 For his part, he thought it would be well 
 for the legislature to amend their law respect- 
 ing duels, and license them under proper 
 restrictions ; — That no persons should be al- 
 lowed to fight, without taking out a regular 
 license from what might be called the Blood 
 and Thunder Office; — That they should be 
 obliged to give two or three weeks notice of 
 the intended combat in the newspapers ; — 
 That the contending parties should fight, till 
 one of them fell ; — and that the public should 
 be admitted to the shoiv. This, he observed, 
 would, in some degree, be reviving the spec- 
 tacles of antiquity, when the populace were 
 regaled with the combats of gladiators. We 
 have, at present, no games resembling those 
 of the ancients, except, now and then, a bull 
 
71 
 
 or bear bait ; and this would be a valuable 
 addition to the list of our refined amuse- 
 ments. 
 
 I listened to their discourse in silence: yet 
 I cannot but think, Mr. Editor, that this 
 plan is entitled to some attention. Our young 
 men fight, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, 
 through fear of being branded with the epi- 
 thet of coward; and since they fight to 
 please the world, the world, being thus in- 
 terested in their encounters, should be per- 
 mitted to attend and judge in person of their 
 conduct. 
 
 As I think the subject of importance, I 
 take the liberty of requesting a corner in the 
 Morning Chronicle, to submit it to the con- 
 sideration of the public. 
 
 Jonathan Oldstyle. 
 
 J. M'Creery, printer, 
 looks Court, Loudon. 
 

 
 
 L6JL t)7 
 

 

 
/