66

up beautiful, grave, and full of pity, to of the younger Dumas being cut away to rebuke the Pbarisaic questioning of many make room for all sorts of antiquated and generations, “Who bath sinned—this man commonplace jokes, of the dismal kind or his parents, that he was born blind ?” well known upon our stage under the name

Miss Heron, uniting a thoroughly west- of "gags." Such irresistible facetie as ern audacity and aplomb to the closest the drinking off of a celery glass full of study of the French dramatic realists, charm- champagne, and the cating up of six quails ed New York at once by the combination of by an elderly lady, are substituted for the her native truth to herself with her acquir- witty repartee and the sparkling jest of ed truth to actual life. It was equally the original; and the whole tone of the amazing for us to see an actress who dared performance is so lowered— to borrow the trust her own theories and her own capaci- appropriate phrase of the painters—so “dety to the uttermost, and to witness the graded,” that the idea of the play immediabsolute reproduction of the looks, and ately suffers in consequence, and the tones, and gestures of actual life upon the heroine begins to sink before us from the boards of the theatre. It seemed at first atmosphere of the “ Dame aux Camelias" to be as true of Miss Heron's acting as it into that of the Grisette de la Chaumi. is of the performances at the Parisian ere." theatres, that, in looking at ber, you were And we mast, in frankness, say that Miss committing the indiscretion of watcbing a Heron did not repel with sufficient force private person engaged in private matters, this attempted subjugation of her rôle. and so of playing the Asmodeus without a From the beginning to the end of the play, warrant.

she accepted a less refined conception of As we grew familiar with the startling the character than the author bad offered novelty, however, we began to discero in her, and wasted her intense verisimilitudes Miss Heron the imperfection of an unfinish- upon the execution of this unworthy coned dramatic education, and a partly unde- ception. Had her ideal of this part been veloped artistic nature. Her realisms, we as high as her rendering was truthful, we began to see, were somewhat too real, her could have found little fault with her for audacious bearing sometimes verged upon believing it her most brilliant triumph. the slovenly and the careless. Of course In fact, however, we preferred ber it was necessary to make all due allow- “ Bianca” to any of the rôles which we ance for the circumstances in which we have seen her bill. For the character of saw her.

The performers by wbom she Bianca, in Dean Milman's play of Fazio, is was supported were unfamiliar with the a possible and womanly character. It is a school of acting to which she belongs, and, character compact of tenderness and of pas though by no means wanting in cleverness, sion-a character unperverted by false bood they contrived to damage the effect of or by personal degradation. Miss Heron did some of her best scenes by the introduc- not render this part as we could wish to tion of the old conventionalities and im- see it rendered, nor as we believe that she possibilities. A most remarkable instance is capable of rendering it, but she did renof this was afforded in the play of Camille der it with an occasional grace and delicaby the performance of the supper-scene. cy of feeling wbich prove her capable of The stage in this scene is supposed to rep higher things than she has yet attained. resent a supper-room, enlivened by the She has gone now, but only to come back presence of a party of young Parisians,

And if she do not return to us, more gay, indeed, than respectable, but As she certainly did not leave us, the greate still Parisians, and Parisians of the demi- est actress of the age, let her understand, monde, wbich, of the two halves that go to at least, that we recognize in her, very make up the whole of the monde, preserves fine and very forcible qualities of dramatic the hemisphere of manners wbile it throws genius, a remarkable capacity of realizaaway the hemisphere of decorum. As rep- tion, a subtle and appreciative apprehension, resented on the stage of “Wallack's," and, above all, an earnest and resolute am. this Parisian orgie was vulgarized into a bition, and that we, consequently, expect most preposterous spree-the poignant text from her a very brilliant future.

PUTNAM'S MONTHLY.

, Magazine of Literature, Science, and Art.

VOL. IX.-JUNE, 1857.-NO. LIV.

Not far from the little village of Millwood,

in the Shenandoah Valley, stands an ancient mansion of peculiar interest. It is plainly a relic of the remote past—and the tall locusts, waving their broad boughs over the low roof, seem to murmur some inaudible history.

This ancient mansion was once the home of a nobleman who only chanced to live in Virginia, and did not directly influence in any considerable measure the events of the period in which he lived. And what, it may be asked, had Thomas, Lord Fairfax, Baron of Cameron, the Sixth of the name, of Green- thing even resembling what we now call way Court, in the Shenandoah Valley, to & “dandy"--and the edifice which we do with the history of his era ?-what did now gaze upon, " beyond the Blue Ridge he perform ? and why is a place demand- of Mountains in North America,” would ed for him in our annals ? The answer no doubt have afforded a spectacle of is not difficult. With this nobleman who the deepest interest to the pretty fel. has passed to his long rest, and sleeps, lows and roystering “ Mohocks" witb nearly forgotten, in the old church at whom his lordship associated in his Winchester, is connected a name which early days—as well as to Mr. Joseph will never be forgotten—it was his to Addison, the writer of that entertaining shape in no small measure the immense series, “ The Spectator,” to which his strength of George Washington; bis friend Lord Fairfax contributed a paper band pointed attention to the rising or two. The fine gentlemen, the great planet of this great life, and opened its writer, and the nobleman are all gonecareer toward the zenith. It shines but his house, “Greenway Court,” renow, the polar star of our liberties-set mains for us. in the stormy skies of the revolution, It stands before us, on a green knoll, it is the unchangeable guide of all who over whose soft turf droop the boughs look toward it—no man now can obscure of lofty locusts, and oak trees-the it, or increase its brilliance—as no cloud former in the spring time almost hiding can dim it and yet once it was un- tbe low roof with fragrant masses of known and needed assistance-an as- delicate pink blossoms. It is a long sistance which Lord Fairfax afforded. building, constructed of the limestono

Any account of the youth of Wash- of the region—but a single story in ington must involve no small reference height, with dormer windows, however, to the old fox-hunting, nobleman, who projecting far out from the roof, serving took a fancy to bim, when he was a boy to light a second range of apartments. of sixteen, and aided in developing his This roof slopes down into a long spocharacter. Fairfax not only thus shaped cies of veranda, extending the whole by his counsels the unfolding mind of length of the building, after the fashion the young man-he also placed the of those old Virginia farm-houses, now future leader of the American Revolu- so often met with on the roadsides, and tion in the career which hardened his employed for tavern-purposes.

At muscles, "toughened bis manhood," each end of the mansion is a chimney, and gave him that military repute in the studded with coops, around which public eye, which secured for him, at a swarm swallows and martins-and two comparatively early age, the appoint- wooden belfries are situate midway bement of Commander-in-chief over all tween-constructed probably by the competitors. First and last, Fairfax original owner, to give the alarm in case was the friend of Washington, and not of an inroad of the savages. The old even the struggle of the Revolution, in bells ring no more—they are so old which they espoused hostile sides, now, that their tongues are silent-but operated to weaken this regard. if they rang again, how strange would

Of this old nobleman, whose life has the chimes sound ! how like the garrubeen little considered by the general lous and cracked voices of age, telling reader, we propose to present an out- of other days, and scenes that have line, involving some personal details, passed! collected from books, and the traditions Not many paces from the old man. of the neighborhood in which he lived. sion is a small wooden house, in which We shall endeavor to give, however the eccentric Fairfax slept, surrounded briefly, as faithful a sketch of him as by bis dogs, of whom he was passionatethe scattered records which remain will lý fond--the larger edifice being given enable us—and also to refer to some up to his steward. A small cabin of interesting events in the history of his stone, near the north end of the house, family.

was his office; and here he transacted Let us look at this house, in which all the business of bis vast possessions, Thomas Lord Fairfax, the Sixth of the embracing nearly one-fourth of the namo, and Baron of Cameron, in the present state of Virginia, giving quitkingdom of Scotland, spent about thirty rents, signing deeds, and holding audiyears of his life. In London, as will be ence, to adjust claims and boundary seen, he was a fine gentleman—some lines. Scattered about the knoll were •

course between my dear father, Thomas, do ..... attest that I do not prevarifirst Earl of Fairfax, and myself, which cute.

CHARLES FAIRFAX." I dare not omit, by reason of a solemn engagement imposed upon me by him, Poor old Sir Thomas ! “Walking in with a quadruple charge, as 'tis here- his great parlor at Denton .... much after specified, not many months before perplexed and troubled in his mind!" his death, the substance whereof, with It is easy to understand why the prusome of the circumstances, was to this dent old gentleman was anxious-and effect :

the circumstances of the caso remove “ He, walking in his great parlor at from his prophecy much of its singuDenton, I only then present, did seem larity. • Tom," the Parliamentary I much perplexed and troubled in his General, had married the daughter of mind, but after a few turns broke out Lord Vere, and, being “much led by into these or the like expressions : his wife," would most probably not be

"Charles, I am thinking what will content to live in the rank" he was become of my family when I am gone. born in. The sagacious old gentleman I have added a little to the heir-male saw that; but his prophecy was based of my house, and shall leave a compe- upon a stronger foundation still—the tent estate to support it. Ferdinando character of “ Tom." He was headwill keep it, and leave it to his son- long, rash, utterly reckless, indeed, but such is Tom's* pride, led much by and seemed at times possessed almost his wife, that he, not contented to live by a devil. His fiery temper brooked in our rank, will destroy his house.' no opposition, and, at the head of Crom

“I then offered something in the well's armies, be went through the vindication of both, and told him what stormy scenes of the Civil War like a was not only my own thought, but the thunderbolt, pausing for nothing-at general hopes of all who knew them; the bidding of no peril.

the bidding of no peril. Haughty, obyet notwithstanding he solemnly charg: stinate, utterly headstrong. General ed me to make kdown what he had told Tom was not a man after his good me, when I saw a probability it might grandfather's beart—that honest old 80 fall out; and added a charge man, who had labored so " to add a upon his blessing (wbich I received little to the heir-male of his house." with a sad heart and tears) that I The violent and furious general comwould do it. He then, it seems doubt- menced by superseding his own father, ing my performance, superadded as his

rose rapidly in the estimation of the last and great charge, that I should not country, and, at the time of Charles the fail, as I should answer him at the First's execution, was Commander-indreadful day of judgment, when I must chief of the Roundhead forces. HA give an account. This he twice repeat would not, however, be present at the ed. Then after some years, when I was trial--and the incident connected with informed that the now Lord Thomast bis wife is well known. When the namo had out off the entail, (made by his fa- of Fairfax was called among thoso ther and grandfather, ull. mens., 13 of the other military judges, a woCarolus,) for the settlement of the es- man's voice in the gallery cried out tạto on the heir-male, charging the that “Fairfax had too much wit to land for a complete provision for a be there ;" adding, “Cromwell, thou daughter or daughters-he, the now art a traitor !" Her sex alone proLord Fairfax, being then at Denton, in tected the courageous woman.

Tho the very same room where I received name of General Fairfax was at the my charge, I faithfully acquainted bim head of the whole proceeding, however, with the passages as above said. He though he declared that he regarded gave me my liberty without words of the trial “ with abhorrence." What impertinency, or any appearance of seems to the reader of his history, at distaste, and made me (then) more than the present day, an evidence that there verbal expression of a kind acceptance. was good in the general, was consider

• Now, in testimony that this is (in ed by the inexorable Cromwell only a substance) the very truth, I being on weakness—an exhibition of cowardice. the very brink of eternity, and ready to He never forgave Fairfax, and conembrace and shake bands with death, temptuously dismissed him, as a tool