Mr. Champ Effingham was, upon the whole, much the most notable fop present, and his elegant petit maître air as he strutted across the stage attracted many remarks, not invariably favorable. It was observed, however, that when the Virginia-bred youths, with honest plainness, called him “ridiculous,” the young ladies, their companions, took Mr. Effingham’s part, and defended him with great enthusiasm; but when they returned home he was more unmercifully criticized than he would otherwise have been.
A little bell rang, and the orchestra, represented by three or four foreign-looking gentlemen, bearded and moustached, entered with trumpet and violins. The trumpet made the roof shake indifferently in honor of the Prince of Morocco, or King Richard, or any other worthy whose entrance was marked in the play-book “with a flourish.” But before the orchestra ravished the ears of every one, the manager came forward in the costume of Bassanio, and made a low bow. Mr. Hallam was a fat little man, of fifty or fifty-five, with a rubicund and somewhat sensual face, and he expressed extraordinary delight at meeting so many of the “noble aristocracy of the great and noble colony of Virginia” assembled to witness his very humble representation. “It would be the chief and sole ambition of his life,” he said, “to please the gentry who so kindly patronized their servants—himself and his associates”—and then the smiling worthy concluded by bowing lower than before. Much applause from the pit and gallery and murmurs of approbation from the well-bred boxes greeted the address, and the orchestra having struck up, the curtain slowly rolled aloft, the young gallants scattered to the corner of the stage, seating themselves on stools or chairs or standing, and the “Merchant of Venice” commenced. Bassanio, having assumed a dignified and lofty part, embraced Gratiano with courteous and lordly art, his friend Antonio offered him his fortune with grand magnanimity in a loud, singing voice, worthy the utmost commendation, and the first act proceeded on its way in triumph.
The first act ends, the scene between Portia and Nerissa being omitted, the audience being highly pleased, and the actors receiving a “grateful guerdon of applause.” What transpires between the inmates of the box occupied by Effingham’s father and the Squire, as he is called, is manifest, consisting mainly of the conversation between the Squire and the local parson that the Squire had invited to witness the play, who sits on the front seat beside the Squire with solemn gravity and rubicund nose, surveying from his respectable position the agitated pit.
“Not so bad as you predicted, eh, parson?” says the Squire. “I don’t think that fellow Antonio acts so badly.”
“Very well—very well,” is the latter’s response.
“The audience seems delighted. Look at the scamp of a son of mine, strutting up to friend Lee’s box and smoothing those enormous ruffles like a turkey cock.”
Effingham leaves the companions with whom he had been seated on the stage, interchanging remarks during the performance to the great disgust of the pit, and approaching Miss Clara, who sits nearest the stage, looking very beautiful and radiant with pleasure, asks:
“And how does my fair cousin relish the performance?”
“Oh, I was never more pleased with anything. And how do you like it?”
“Tolerably. But I never had a great relish for these things.”