When Riot Is Thy Care: The Theater of Violence

William Charles Macready

Angry crowds inspired by misguided nationalism. Gangs of young men bent on violence. Mobs smashing through barricades to enter a building. Police officers bloodied. The National Guard called out . . .

All of this has a modern ring, but it actually describes an incident that took place in New York City on May 10, 1849. The spark then was not a contested election — it was a dispute over the relative merits of two Shakespearean actors.

Shakespeare was enormously popular in early America. Many citizens could recite passages from memory. The shenanigans of the rapscallion “King” and “Duke” in Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn is a reminder of an era when the Bard was everyday fare.

In England, Shakespearean actors pronounced their lines “trippingly on the tongue,” with nuance and refinement. The American approach to drama smacked more of pomposity than propriety — actors were wont to “tear a passion to tatters . . . to split the ears of the groundlings.”

Typical of this bombast was the acting of Edwin Forrest. A natural performer, Forrest had learned his craft in the rough-and-tumble West. Emulating circus performers, he trained himself in acrobatics. With a powerful physique and flashing dark eyes, he became the darling of the American stage.

Touring England in 1836, Forrest made the acquaintance of the renowned actor William Charles Macready, thirteen years his senior and famous on both sides of the Atlantic. The two men, friendly rivals at first, later became sworn enemies. When Forrest hissed at Macready’s Hamlet, it meant theatrical war.

Edwin Forrest

Their rivalry came to a head in 1849 during a Macready tour of America. The New York City of the day was more boiling cauldron than melting pot — class antagonism mixed with xenophobia to produce a volatile stew. Crime was rampant, with gangs terrorizing the streets at night. Many citizens carried pistols for protection.

As a Briton, Macready attracted the animus of both nativists and gangs of Irish immigrants. But the upper crust loved him. When he appeared at the splendid Astor Place Opera House, things grew serious. The theater was fitted out with velvet seats and exclusive boxes. The dress code including white tie and kid gloves. Only commercial necessity forced the management “to admit the People,” as one matron put it.

The tabloid press, backed by handbills and posters denouncing Macready, stirred the pot of resentment. WORKING MEN, SHALL AMERICANS OR ENGLISH RULE IN THIS CITY? screamed one poster.

Gang members and Forrest fans managed to get tickets for Macready’s Macbeth on May 7. When the actor began his performance, he was pelted with rotten eggs, moldy potatoes, showers of pennies, and finally cushions torn from the balcony seats. The shouts and jeers completely drowned out his words — the play had to be presented in pantomime.

For his May 10 performance, city officials were determined to keep order. They sent two hundred policemen to the theater and its vicinity and stationed a regiment of militia in nearby Washington Square. Ushers weeded out many of the lower-class patrons who tried to enter.

By the time the performance began, as many as ten thousand protestors jammed the streets around the Opera House. The chaos mounted. The demonstrators began to hurl coordinated barrages of cobblestones at the building. They smashed all the windows and tried to batter open the doors. Stones felled many of the police officers, who were armed only with truncheons. A few pistol shots rang out from the crowd. Finally, the Seventh Regiment of the state militia was ordered in.

Inside the theater, Macready recited Macbeth’s words from the stage:

. . . Lay on, Macduff,
And damn'd be him that first cries, 'Hold, enough!'

Outside, a scene worthy of Shakespeare was unfolding. The musket-bearing infantrymen, decked out in elegant black and white uniforms with gold epaulets, marched toward the crowd. Sword-carrying hussars pranced on white horses more accustomed to parades than to combat. The horses reared, some riders were thrown. An officer ordered a bayonet charge. The crowd pushed forward. The soldiers had no room to deploy.

“Disperse or you will be fire on!” another officer screamed.

“Fire, damn you,” came the answer, “if you dare!”

They dared. The first volley was directed over the heads of the masses. Then the troops began to shoot directly into the crowd.

Many of those who fell were simply bystanders, drawn to the scene of the excitement. A stockbroker had told his wife he was going for a stroll. A few minutes later, he died on the pavement, his brains spilling from a head wound. At least twenty-three citizens were shot dead. Hundreds more were wounded, along with many police officers.

Macready sneaked out the back door of the theater. He had given his last American performance. The voice of Shakespeare might have been heard, whispering down the ages:

O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows!
When that my care could not withhold thy riots,
What wilt thou do when riot is thy care?

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