Astorical Wank.
This is something that I've been thinking of writing up for a while. The reasons I haven't were because there's a certain amount of racism, classism, xenophobia, and a surprisingly large death toll for a feud between Shakespearian actors. But now it seems that there's a place for this sort of thing.

Also, it seems that I've been out of school for long enough that my inclination towards writing research papers is no longer directed into appropriate channels. So, if you don't like TL, I would recommend that you DR.

If, on the other hand, you don't mind rather a lot of TL, by all means, please R.


Back in the 1800s, you've got a pair of Shakespearian actors: Edwin Forrest, and William Charles Macready. Forrest was American, Macready was English, and one thing that they agreed upon was that the other guy sucked. Which wasn't something most theatergoers agreed with; Forrest had toured Britain, and Macready had toured the US, and they were, more or less, considered to be at the top of their professions.

Like I said, they didn't like each other. A pamphlet written at the time traces the start of the feud to a mildly anti-American comment by Macready, made in 1827. On the other hand, it also says that Macready was born in Ireland, which contradicts most other sources, which say he was born in London. So, hard to say how accurate it might be.

In any case, during Macready's tour of the US in 1844, Forrest would go to the same cities, and perform the same roles in competing theaters. Which, apparently, was something that actual grown-ups used to do back then. The next time Forrest toured Britain, he got bad reviews, and a less enthusiastic reception than he had on his first tour. Furthermore, Edward Bulwer Lytton wouldn't sell Forrest the rights to perform one of his plays. Given that Bulwer Lytton is currently remembered as the inspiration for a bad prose competition, this may not seem like such a problem, but Bulwer Lytton was a big deal at the time.

The simplest explanation for bad reviews and cranky playwrights was, obviously, a conspiracy organized by his arch-nemesis. And Forrest knew how to deal with that. Here's John Coleman's account, taken from a theater history professor's page about the riots. (here's his homepage, if you think that there aren't enough bright colors on the web.) I'm going to quote excessively, because it's pretty great:

The house was crowded in all parts by an eager and excited audience. When the scene drew off, Macready was discovered amidst a tempest of applause. I could not realize why on earth the people applauded him. With the modesty of youth, I mentally ejaculated, "What an antiquated guy!"

He wore a dress the waist of which nearly reached his arms; a hat with a sable plume big enough to cover a hearse; a pair of black silk gloves, much too large for him; a ballet shirt of straw-coloured satin, which looked simply dirty; and, what with his gaunt, awkward, angular figure, his grizzled hair, his dark beard close shaven to his square jaws, yet unsoftened by a trace of pigment, his irregular features, his queer, extraordinary nose -- unlike anything else in the shape of a nose I have ever seen -- and his long skinny neck, he appeared positively hideous. But, after all, "mind is the brightness of the body," and, O ye gods! when he spoke, how he brightened, illumined, irradiated the atmosphere; his gaucherie, his ugliness, disappeared, and he became transformed into the very beau-ideal of the most poetic, subtle, intellectual, dramatic, and truly human Prince of Denmark I have ever seen. But although he lifted you to heaven one moment, he brought you to earth the next with some weird eccentricity. For example, in the Play scene, he strutted from side to side, waving his handkerchief above his head, in the most extravagant manner. As he uttered the words, "Of the chameleon's dish, I eat the air, promise crammed, you cannot feed capons so!" a mighty hiss arose in front-a hiss like that of a steam-engine. At the sound, he trembled and turned pale; then he became livid, and convulsed with passion, absolutely hysterical with rage. Turning to the quarter whence the sibilation proceeded, he bowed derisively, then staggered back and sank into a chair.

Looking to the upper side boxes, on the right, I saw the American tragedian. A conspicuous figure at all times, Forrest was now more conspicuous than ever. At this moment, from the Students' Gallery (which was separated from the upper boxes only by some interfollated iron work) a cry arose of "Turn him out!" I can see him now. The square brow, the noble majestic head, the dark eyes flashing fire, the pallor of the white face enhanced by his blue-black beard, which contrasted with his turned down collar (an unusual mode of wearing the collar at that time), his jaw set like a bulldog's, his arms folded on his broad chest. As he rose and faced his would-be assailants, he looked exactly as he used to look in "The Gladiator," when he said, "Let them come, we are prepared."

The people on the other side of the screen absolutely recoiled, as if they expected some king of the forest to leap from his iron den amongst them; they then concluded to let the American alone.

On the stage the actors were at a standstill; in the auditorium the multitude were awed into a silence. After a short pause, I suppose the man's better nature prevailed, for Edwin Forrest slowly turned away, and left the house.
Then Macready, like a man possessed, leaped into the breach, and took the house by storm. Surely he must have been inspired by the ordeal through which he had passed. Such a delirium of excitement for actors and audience as followed that Play scene and the Closet scene I have rarely, if ever, witnessed.

Or, to summarize, Forrest showed up at one of Macready's performances, and hissed at him. Which is a traditional way to boo actors.

The pamphlet I've previously refers to gives Forrest's letter to the London Times, in which he explains himself:

There are two legitimate modes of evincing approbation and disapprobation in the theatre--one expressive of approbation, by the clapping of hands, and the other by hisses to mark dissent; and as well-timed and hearty applause, is the just meed of the actor who deserves well, so also is hissing, a salutary and wholesome corrective of the abuses of the stage; and it was against one of these abuses that my dissent was expressed, and not, as was stated, "with a view of expressing his (my) disapproval of the manner in which Mr. Macready gave effect to a particular passage." The truth is, Mr. Macready thought fit to introduce a fancy dance into his performance of "Hamlet," which I thought, and still think, a desecration of the scene, and at which I evinced that disapprobation, for which the pseudo-critic is pleased to term me an "offender," and this was the only time during the performance that I did so, although the writer evidently seeks, in the article alluded to, to convey a different impression. It must be observed also, that I was by no means "solitary" in this expression of opinion.

Maybe it's because I grew up in America, but I'm kinda with Forrest on the "fancy dance in Hamlet" issue.

(Brief history bit follows; apologies to those for whom it's unnecessary. On consideration, the same could be said of the entire post. Anyway.)

Around this time, relations between the US and Britain weren't a hundred percent great. Particularly in New York. Part of this may have had to do with Trollope, Dickens, and a few other British authors touring the US, and then writing books in which Americans were painted as boors, rubes, and boorish rubes.

A larger part of that antipathy was because of the Irish Potato Famine, which was currently going on, and driving a lot of Irish people out of Ireland. Many of them came to New York, but remained somewhat peeved at the conditions in Ireland. In addition, you had the "Native Americans." The quotation marks there are to tell you that the term was not then used to mean American Indians, but rather, white people who didn't like foreigners, Catholics, and so on. The rowdiest members of that group where the "Bowery b'hoys (and g'hals)", who, like their compatriots in the Irish gangs, enjoyed a good riot every now and then.

The two groups didn't like each other. However, both groups hated Britain even more than they hated each other. So, you have that in the air. Another thing that united the natives and the Irish was the fact that none of them had much money.

Forrest was reasonably popular with both groups, both because they found his acting style congenial, and because he performed in the theaters further downtown, which was where both groups lived. Macready, less so, both because he wasn't American, and because he performed in more aristocratic venues when there were more aristocratic venues available, and would insist on charging no less than a dollar a ticket, even in places where that meant mostly empty houses.

In 1848, Macready was completing a tour of the US. He attracted large audiences, but things being the way they were, he got a lot of negative press as well, some of which focused on his feud with Forrest. Then came his final engagement in New York.

At this point, Forrest had initiated divorce proceedings against his English wife, claiming immoral conduct on her part, which he linked with the dissolute goings-on of the Anglophile upper classes. He lost his court case on the day that Macready showed up for his final New York performances. By coincidence or otherwise, on the night that Macready was performing Macbeth at the Astor Place Theater, Forrest was performing in the same role, in the Broadway theater. (or so says wikipedia.)

In previous performances in New York, Boston, Philadelphia and elsewhere, there had been attempts to disrupt Macready's performances. To which, with his customary tact, Macready replied by insulting American audiences in general. The May 7th performance at New York went worse than those.

Now, unlike the more plebian theaters of the Bowery and the lower wards, the Astor Place Opera House had rules. If you wanted to attend a performance there, you had to wear kid gloves and a fresh waistcoat.

There's a version of the story which I can't seem to find, in which the Bowery Boys showed up in fancy clothes, and until the performance started, amused themselves by mocking all the fancy people there by doing things like making circles with their fingers, and pretending they were wearing monocles. It's a pity that I couldn't find this, because once you start making fun of monocles, you know there's not going to be any turning back.

In any case, there were certainly a number of Bowery Boys in the audience, a fair number of whom had tickets paid for them by a guy named Isaiah Rynders, a minor politician and head of the "Empire Club", a gang of Sixth Ward rowdies. As Tyler Anbinder describes it, in an essay in Contested Democracy: Freedom, Race and Power in American History

Rynders later told a crowd that, "I had determined from the first to break up this engagement. I used my own money liberally, and begged money from others" in order to purchase fifty or sixty tickets for those willing to harrass Macready. At the first intermission, Rynders gloated in the lobby about the chaos he and his followers had wrought. When Hiram Fuller, editor of the Mirror, a New York literary newspaper, complained to Rynders about the pandemonium, Rynders punched him in the face.

I'm not entirely with Rynders on the "buy a bunch of tickets for rioters, to stop someone from performing," thing, but I have to admit to some sneaking sympathy for his approach to letters to the editor.

If you want a more detailed account of what happened when Macready took the stage (and who wouldn't?), here's another long quote by way of Wayne Turney, this time from John Rees' elaborately titled Life of Edwin Forrest with Reminiscences and Personal Recollections Pertaining to the Astor Place Riot:

The curtain rose upon the first scene, when the appearance of Mr. Clarke, who personated the character of Malcolm, elicited three loud and enthusiastic cheers from the parquette and gallery. From the moment that the cheering, hissing and whistling, and other expressions began, not a syllable was heard during the remainder of the scene, nor the succeeding one, till the entrance of Macbeth, passed in dumb show. When Macbeth and Banquo entered in the third scene, the uproar was deafening. A perfect torrent of groans and hisses assailed Mr. Macready, and a deluge of assafoetida was discharged upon him from the gallery, filing the whole house with its pungent and not particularly fragrant odor. A rotten egg, a la Montreal, was projected against him, but missing his face, bespattered the stage at his feet. The friends of Mr. Macready, who appeared rather to outnumber those opposed to him, now manifested their feelings by cries of "Shame!" "Shame!" Cheers and waving of handkerchiefs provoked a response in the form of renewed groans, hisses, and a half dozen rotten potatoes on the part of the others. "Three cheers for Edwin Forrest!" were called for by some one in the pit, and were given with great enthusiasm by those unfriendly to Mr. Macready. Then came the cry of "Three cheers for Macready!" which were responded to with equal enthusiasm by the opposite side of the house. The scene now beggared description. Hisses, groans, cheers, yells, screams, and all sorts of noises, in the midst of which, Mr. Macready still maintained his position in the centre of the stage. "Off! off!" shouted one party. "Go on! go on!" screamed the other. Mr. Macready approached the lights. He was greeted by roars of ironical laughter and reiterated hisses and groans. A banner was exhibited in front of the amphitheatre, bearing on one side: "No apologies; it is too late!" and on the other. "You have proved yourself a liar!" From this it was evident that the whole programme of the attack had been quietly prepared. The appearance of the banner was the signal for a perfect tornado of uproarious applause, laughter, cheers and groans, in the midst of which an old shoe and a cent piece were hurled at Mr. Macready, who picked up the copper coin, and, with a kingly air, put it into his bosom, bowing at the same time with mock humility to the quarter of the gallery from which the visitation had descended.

Several of Mr. Macready's friends now became much excited, and shouted to him to "go on," and "not give up the ship," which elicited tremendous groans, hisses and cries of "down with the English hog," "take off the Devonshire bull!" "remember how Edwin Forrest was used in London!" Thus passed the whole of the first and second acts. The greater portion of the audience opposed to Mr. Macready seemed in excellent humor. They chanted snatches of the Witches' Choruses, and amused themselves by asking and answering all kinds of ridiculous questions. When the curtain rose on the third act, and Macbeth appeared, the uproar was greater than ever. Smash came a chair from the gallery, strewing the stage with its fragments, within a few feet of Mr. Macready. Another chair fell at his feet) with a crash which resounded through the house. The few ladies in the boxes started up from their seats) and grew quite pale. Another chair was hurled on the stage, and the curtain suddenly fell. The ladies hurried from the boxes. Thus ended the first attempt of Mr. Macready to play in opposition to the popular voice.

While I was with Forrest on the fancy dance issue, I'm going to have to break with that side of the debate on the issue of throwing chairs and rotten eggs, a la Montreal. Even though I'm not sure what one of those is; perhaps a Canadian can help me out?

Anyhow, after this performance, Macready said that he was going to pack it up, and go back to England, where fewer people threw chairs at him.

But the monocle-wearing classes weren't prepared to let it go at that. A petition signed by fifty of the city's cultural leaders, including Washington Irving and Herman Melville, begged him to stay, and assured him that everything would be fine. So Macready agreed to a return performance on the tenth.

This decision may have been a poor one.

During the interval between the performances, someone at Rynder's Empire Club had a bunch of handbills printed up, and distributed around town; here's one of them, courtesy of the Folger Shakespeare Library.

Up until now, we've mostly been dealing with feuding actors. But, if you want more published authors involved than a passing mention of Melville and Irving, the one guy to get a conviction for these riots was Edward Zane Carroll Judson, who published somewhere upwards of four hundred dime novels under the name of Ned Buntline.

Buntline had the sort of career that it's hard to summarize in a believable fashion, so I'll let that wikipedia link stand. I will mention that he fought a number of duels while in the navy. This was after he rescued the crew of a boat at age 13, and before he made Buffalo Bill famous.

Here's an excerpt from Ned Buntline, King of the Dime Novels about the riots:

Ned Buntline was pro-American and bitterly anti-British, a stance which led to daily conflicts with his wife and in-laws. He was a friend of Edwin Forrest, an American actor. Forrest's English rival, William Charles Macready, was scheduled to play Macbeth at the Astor Opera House in New York during May of 1849. Columns in Ned Buntline's Own were devoted to denouncing Macready and urging American Party supporters to action. On opening night, May 7, Ned Buntline was present. William Charles Macready was admired by many Americans, but others wanted to see American actors on stage. During the performance, some mild disturbance occurred against the British actor. Ned approved the crowd's behavior as the action of free Americans. Only three days later the performance was repeated. Ned was ready to join with the crowd. He dressed in a blue frock coat with gilt buttons and a tall hat and drove around town soliciting public support. He believed that this was his chance to prove to the public that he was a real American. He was preparing for the evening performance.

His wife, Annie, wept and begged him on her knees not to join the crowd but Ned ignored her pleas. Taking his sword he stormed out of the house and headed toward Astor Place. By that time, over two hundred policemen patrolled the area knowing that a disturbance at the opera house was planned. As many as two thousand people filled the house in an orderly fashion, but the police were uneasy since there were only seven women in the audience. A disturbance occurred during the first half of the performance.

This is, more or less, where we shift from comedy to tragedy. And, rather than going with the somewhat purpler accounts of the time, I'll let wikipedia tell the story:

On the day of the riot, the National Guard had already been alerted by the new Whig administration and was amassing in reserve. Posters went up across the city inviting working men and patriots to show their feelings to the British. By the time the play opened, up to 20,000 people filled the streets around the theater. Buntline and his followers had set up relays to bombard the theater with stones, and fought running battles with the police. They and others inside tried, but failed, to set fire to the building. As the theater fell in on their heads, the audience was in a state of siege; stubbornly defiant, Macready finished the play and only then slipped out in disguise. Fearing they had lost control of the city, the authorities called out the troops, who were jostled, attacked and injured, and finally lined up and, after unheard warnings, opened fire several times at point blank range. Many of those killed were innocent bystanders. Dozens of injured and dead were laid out in nearby saloons and shops, and the next morning saw pitiful scenes in which mothers and wives combed the blood-soaked stones and searched morgues for their loved ones.

The New York Tribune reported that "As one window after another cracked, the pieces of bricks and paving stones rattled in on the terraces and lobbies, the confusion increased, till the Opera House resembled a fortress besieged by an invading army rather than a place meant for the peaceful amusement of civilized community."

The next night, May 11, a meeting attended by thousands was called in City Hall Park, with speakers crying out for revenge against the authorities whose actions they held responsible for the fatalities at the "Massacre Place Opera House". During the scrum, a young boy was killed. An angry crowd headed for the Opera House and fought running battles with mounted troops, but this time the authorities quickly got the upper hand.

Depending on the source, the number of dead goes as low as seventeen, and as high as thirty-four, and everyone agrees that there were hundreds of people injured.

Once again; one actor didn't like another actor. Dozens dead, hundreds injured.

Rather than end on that note, I'll give a link to the New York Times, which quoted a bit of Macready's memoirs, where he detailed his escape from the theater. The section in question covers other important news of the day, including long words, and a petrified goose.