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.”