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PRINCIPLES 
 
 COMEDY 
 
 DRAMATIC EFFECT. 
 
 PERCY FITZGERALD, M.A., 
 
 AUTHOR OP 'THE LIFE OF DAVID GARRICK,' ETC., ETC. 
 
 ' But when from Nature's pure and genuine source 
 These strokes of acting flow with generous force, 
 To me they seem from quickest feelings caught : 
 Each start is Nature and each pause is Thought.' 
 
 Churchill, 77i< Rosciad. 
 
 
 LONDON: 
 TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND. 
 
 1870. 
 
 [All riff fits reiser r i d 
 
4t/ oS^a 
 
 JOHN GUILDS AND SON, PRINTERS. 
 
PA 
 5 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAKT PAGE 
 
 I. THE DRAMATISTS . . . . . . . . 9 
 
 II. COMEDY 58 
 
 III. BURLESQUE 110 
 
 IV. THE FRENCH STAGE 200 
 
 V. ACTORS PAST AND PRESENT 
 
 VI. THE ACTORS OF THE DAY 297 
 
 VII. THE MUSIC HALL QUESTION 324 
 
 POSTSCRIPT .. .. 349 
 
 APPENDIX 366 
 
 
) 
 
 PART I. 
 
 THE DRAMATISTS. 
 
 In some of the old essays of the past and 
 present centuries, are passages which allude to 
 the play-house — that good old-fashioned word — 
 the actors, and general entertainment of the stage, 
 in a manner very significant, when we come to 
 think of the present condition of our stage. In 
 the 'Spectator,' 'Adventurer,' and ' Connoisseur,' 
 in the essays of Hunt, Hazlitt, and Lamb, we find 
 a certain sense of reverence, and even awe. They 
 seem to approach the subject as if it were some 
 fifth estate ; it appeared something akin to Parlia- 
 ment, or the Law : the actors were potentates. Not. 
 so many years ago Hazlitt ushered in his volume 
 of criticisms, with a sort of apology, in which he 
 appealed to the existing interest in the stage. ' It 
 was always in our thoughts,' he said ; ' the new 
 
1 °.y« \ \ ' t ' '. \ :*'•". I : ^ 4 s . *}rfflnQ>tists. 
 
 play of the night before was eagerly discussed next 
 day at the clubs, and other places of resort ; it was 
 greedily bought up and read : we followed the 
 passing actor, if some rare chance exhibited him 
 to us in the street, with eyes of sympathy, rever- 
 ence, and admiration.' The delightful strains in 
 which Lamb fondly recalls his old actors — as much 
 associated with hours of unspeakable delight as 
 any of his poets or pet books, are familiar to all. 
 Now, there can be no question but that this pecu- 
 liar tone came of nothing artificial, but followed 
 directly from the healthy condition of the stage 
 itself, and the object of the following inquiry is 
 to show that such a respect and interest waits 
 on true dramatic art only; that contempt, or at 
 least indifference, follows false dramatic art ; and 
 that the present apparent prosperity is in reality 
 only decay. 
 
 At the present moment there are about twenty 
 theatres open in London. We hear of three or 
 four being built, and of as many more being pro- 
 jected. "Within ten years it is not unlikely that 
 this number may be doubled. Competition seriously 
 affects such ventures, and if it were possible to con- 
 ceive such a palmy state of the drama, as that 
 
The Dramatists. 1 1 
 
 there was something substantially good and attract- 
 ive played at each house simultaneously, public 
 support sufficient to ensure overflowing audiences, 
 ' continued and triumphant success,' ' uninterrupt- 
 ed run! ' 'two hundredth night ! ' with all the variety 
 of dramatic and mural panegyric, could hardly be 
 reckoned on for each establishment, without inter- 
 fering with the other's prosperity. The fault, 
 wherever it rests, does not lie with those who are 
 called patrons of the drama, always faithful, eager, 
 generous, and overpowering in their approbation 
 and support, when they are pleased. Though such 
 support seems coarse, selfish ; and like our * patron- 
 age ' of those who minister to other people's plea- 
 sure. The ' actors' patrons ' seems to be a relic 
 of that obsequious homage, due from those who 
 were in the law's eye no better than ' vagabonds ' 
 and belonging to an inferior caste, and who, on 
 country circuits, had to go round and humbly beg 
 the countenance of the squires. This multiplica- 
 tion of theatres, and this never-failing or nagging 
 popular taste, is often appealed to as proof of tjke 
 flourishing state of the stage at the present mo- 
 ment. Actors, too, even of the common rank and 
 file, are in demand, and managers complain of the 
 
12 The Dramatists. 
 
 difficulty of procuring them. Play-writers receive 
 sums nearly as large as was paid in the days of 
 Garrick, when even a mediocre drama that ran its 
 nine nights was worth its three or four hundred 
 pounds to the author. 
 
 Scenery has almost reached perfection, — at least 
 the perfection of splendour, though not of drama- 
 tic propriety ; and, what Garrick, Kean, or Kemble 
 Ptyould not have hoped to see, the most compli- 
 cated and familiar objects about us are fearlessly 
 laid hold of by the property man, and dragged upon 
 the stage. Thus, when we take our dramatic plea- 
 sure, we have the satisfaction of not being separ- 
 ated from the objects of our daily life, and within 
 the walls of the theatre we meet again the engine 
 and train that set us down almost at the door; 
 the interior of hotels, counting-houses, shops, 
 factories, the steam-boats, waterfalls, bridges, and 
 even fire-engines. The complaint that Charles 
 Lamb made some forty or fifty years ago may, in- 
 deed, be repeated now with infinitely more pro- 
 priety. 'We have been spoiled,' he writes, ' not with 
 sentimental comedy, but a tyrant far more perni- 
 cious to our pleasures, which has succeeded to it, 
 the exclusive and all-devouring drama of common 
 
The Dramatists. 
 
 1 3 
 
 life where, instead of the fictitious half-be- 
 lieved personages of the stage (the phantoms of old 
 comedy), we recognize ourselves, our own brothers, 
 aunts, kinsfolk, allies, patrons, enemies, the same 
 
 as in life We carry our fireside concerns to 
 
 the theatre with us. We do not go thither, like our 
 ancestors, to escape from the pressure of reality, so 
 
 much as to confirm our experience of it We 
 
 must live our toilsome lives twice over.' This 
 applied only to character and to action : it seemed 
 a decay to Elia, whose agreeable ramblings on 
 actors and plays fill only too few pages of his 
 delightful essays ; but are sufficient to set us won- 
 dering at the life, variety, and animation with which 
 1 the stage ' was then bubbling over. Yet this 
 practical tone, this bare shifting of daily objects 
 from the street to the stage, merely illuminating 
 them by the glare of gas or electric light, is at the 
 bottom of the decay of the stage in the present 
 day. For with all these theatres built and being 
 built, this 'three hundredth night of School,' 
 the true fascination and attraction of the drama 
 is becoming more and more enfeebled every day. 
 The number of theatres is no proof of a healthy 
 taste, as they are mere favourite subjects of specu- ■ 
 
14 The Dramatists. 
 
 lation, like a 'favourite stock,' for the Englishman 
 who wishes to gamble a little. A theatre brings 
 power and a little sovereignty. But the players are 
 constantly shifting, and in three-fourths of the 
 houses money is slowly or swiftly lost. It is a 
 purely mechanical arrangement, like the ' finding 
 the money ' for opening a business. A theatre is 
 not found or built because a place must be got for 
 good actors, but the actors are found because a 
 theatre must be opened. Let the money be forth- 
 coming, the rest follows, as of course. With the 
 dramas a good name is all that is needed — one 
 that will figure on the poster — huge black letters 
 on a yellow ground. In the actors, name also 
 is chiefly what is looked for ; and to other adver- 
 tising devices is now added, that of pasting a 
 grotesque and buffoonery caricature of the actor in 
 his favourite character upon every dead wall and 
 boarding. This cannot help to refine our asso- 
 ciation of the stage. This is all no more than 
 a purely mercantile and material view of the stage 
 and its attractions, — a dealing with it as if it was 
 a business which, by forcing and pushing, and 
 outlay and management, must draw the public 
 in crowds. With all these houses there arises 
 
The Dramatists. i ^ 
 
 competition, and the competition of trade, and 
 therewith disastrous results. A particular writer 
 is in favour, and his pieces are forthwith 
 played against each other. The rivalry in scenic 
 shows, the introduction of objects of art and 
 nature upon the stage, is still more desperate. 
 All is material, scenes, construction, furniture, 
 and, above all, the play, and the acting. We go not 
 so much to hear as to look. It is like a gigantic 
 peep-show, and we pay the showman, and put our 
 eyes to the glass and stare. The vulgar of all ranks, 
 therefore, as much in the highest as in the lowest, 
 have been always drawn in overflowing crowds 
 to see anything that takes the shape of a splendid 
 show. The 'prestige and popularity of such specta- 
 cles spreads with an enthusiasm, beside which the 
 colder but more substantial approbation accorded 
 v to intellectual enjoyments seems tame. Curiosity 
 to see a popular piece spreads with all the con- 
 tagion of an epidemic ; but its hold on the public 
 mind is quite as temporary. Rarely, however, 
 is such a ' run ' obtained ; at every fresh draught 
 the palate requires higher and higher spicing. 
 
 But the truth is that these twenty or thirty 
 theatres are properly not London theatres, but have 
 
 
1 6 The Dramatists. 
 
 country audiences as well. The universal central- 
 ization, the diffusion of theatrical news by journals 
 and newspapers, makes every one in the country 
 follow stage matters with as much interest as 
 people living in London. The run of a new piece or 
 a new show stimulates eagerness in the provinces. 
 But this attendance brings with it a risk and draw- 
 back. This country crowd, being at a distance, 
 and more impressionable, follows the cry of fashion ; 
 but it has no other guide, and will fall away as 
 readily as it nocked to see. In Germany, where 
 every little town has a good theatre and sometimes 
 a magnificent one, there are comparatively few 
 houses in the capitals. This seems to show that 
 the provincial populations are content with their 
 own local entertainments. In truth, a multitude 
 of theatres is no criterion of prosperity ; and the 
 ever-changing proprietors, as just noticed, prove 
 that all cannot flourish together. Rival houses in 
 business are ' killed off ' by the laws of competition ; 
 but the fascination of rule and control, like that of 
 having a seat in the House of Commons, makes 
 the theatre an exception. 
 
 The true cause of this multiplication of theatres 
 is really to be found in the decay of dramatic art. 
 
The Dramatists. 17 
 
 When merely talent was in demand, the fact of 
 having money to build and open a theatre would he 
 as nothing : money could not create the article 
 that the public would care to see. But when 
 it came merely to shows and dioramas and spectacles 
 on the stage, where the chief labour of the evening 
 was to feast the eye with decorations, dresses, and 
 beautiful scenes, it was plain that any one with 
 capital might compete with the rest. And this, as 
 in the recent re-opening of the wine trade and 
 banking business, every one might rush in, and try 
 to draw custom to himself. But it may be pre- 
 dicted, it will be with the theatres as with these 
 great joint stock banking houses and wine com- 
 panies, depending on mere ocular support, as it 
 may be called. Frail and fickle as it is, that organ 
 will soon feel ennui or fatigue, and when the revival 
 of a better taste sets in, there will be neither actors 
 nor plays in sufficient abundance, nor of sufficient 
 merit, to draw the public. 
 
 If we look round, too, at the comparative con- 
 dition of all these theatres, we shall see that each 
 only enjoys health at long and uncertain intervals. 
 At, two or three houses only at a time do ' suc- 
 cesses ' set in ; the rest languish on, making experi- 
 
 2 
 
1 8 The Dramatists. 
 
 merits, several times renewed, until they blun- 
 der on a hit. During this struggle managers 
 have to come and go ; and a return of those who, 
 during the last twenty or thirty years, have been, 
 like Mr Micawber, 'the victims of pecuniary 
 embarrassment,' would show, at least, that the 
 degradation of the stage does not turn to profit. 
 No less curious a return would be the names of 
 those pieces which have restored sinking ventures, 
 or brought most money to the treasuries ; and we 
 should find the list swelled by pieces, like ' Our 
 American Cousin,' the screaming burlesques of 
 ' Black-Eyed Susan ' and ' Ixion,' and ' The Pield of 
 the Cloth of Gold,' the < Peep o' Day,' ' The Colleen 
 Bawn,' ' Arran na Pogue,' ' The Streets of London,' 
 < After Dark,' < The Turn of the Tide,' and others 
 of kindred sort. In most of these the eye settles 
 on some mechanical prodigy which drew the whole 
 town. A tree that bent over a precipice (bent, too, 
 by means of a very palpable hinge) ; the slow 
 rising of water in a cave, a house on fire, a tunnel 
 and locomotive, some vulgar slang songs, a steam- 
 boat — these are the triumphs on which we plume 
 ourselves. 
 
 Another cause of failure is the confusion in the 
 
The Dramatists. 19 
 
 choice of pieces, no one house having an avowedly 
 special character, every one scrambling for popular 
 favour with melodrama, comedy, or farce, accord- 
 ing to the whim of the day. Neither are there 
 traditions, which gain a certain respect, nor do 
 actors claim any fixity of tenure, but migrate 
 according to humour or pay. All this produces 
 uncertainty, and makes the success of any piece 
 mere gambling speculation. The actors r are un- 
 trained, and have no schools to train themselves 
 in ; though, by this time, burlesque has its tradi- 
 tions, i. e. its tunes, and breakdowns, and imperti- 
 nent fashion of repeating doggrel ; and it is hard 
 to blame a manager if he prefer not to lean 
 upon frail reeds, and concentrate all his powers 
 upon paint, timber, and lime-light, which can be 
 perfectly depended upon. And here nothing 
 strikes us more, in the writers of the present time, 
 than their extraordinary rapidity of production. 
 This is scarcely the writer's fault, for it is a 
 curious and unhealthy characteristic of the age, 
 that any popularity must become extravagant 
 popularity, and Avhen the public fancies anything, 
 it must surfeit itself. Formerly, too, reputations 
 
 were of slow and steady growth; now celebrity 
 
 2 * 
 
2o The Dramatists. 
 
 comes up, mushroom-like iu a night, and is, 
 perhaps, as easily produced. Mr Byron — whose 
 ' name ' is at present ' well up' — a short time since 
 enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing no less than 
 five new pieces of his own writing played at differ- 
 ent London theatres on the same nights ; and yet, 
 considering the class of play the public requires to be 
 furnished with, this rate of production seems not too 
 hasty; for pieces turning on the mere physical 
 order of life, which, where they deal with charac- 
 ter, are meant only to bring out the external pecu- 
 liarities of a particular player, can be supplied 
 with rapidity, if the writer have Mr Byron's skill, 
 and knowledge of the stage. But to produce 
 a drama that will endure, that will equally please 
 when read, and which is founded on long study and 
 observation of human character, and of those points 
 of human character which, to belong to every gen- 
 eration, requires deep study and long preparation. 
 All the great writers of the last century produced, 
 and were able to produce, only very few works. 
 Goldsmith has left us but two comedies ; Sheridan, 
 three ; Hoadley, one ; Macklin, two ; Colman, half- 
 a-dozen; Cumberland, three or four; Holcroft, 
 four or five ; Murphy — excluding his translations — 
 
The Dramatists. i\ 
 
 the same ; and yet most of these were professional 
 play-writers. Each piece was written slowly, and 
 often under the eye of the manager, usually a writer 
 himself ; often condemned wholesale, and re-writ- 
 ten, laid by, and re-touched and altered. All this 
 was done in awe of a healthy and competent public 
 opinion, which was something substantial that had 
 ' stuff ' in it, that should not be rickety under the 
 weight of the grand talents of a fine actor that 
 would bear seeing again and again and each time dis- 
 cover something that had been unobserved before. 
 
 Mr Tom Taylor, Mr Byron, Mr Halliday, Mr 
 Boucicault, Mr Robertson, and Mr Oxenford, are 
 the writers whose works are now most in demand. 
 Mr Boucicault has had a long career, and is per- 
 haps a specimen, often given, of the well-trained 
 professional dramatist, perfectly skilled in foreign 
 as well as home traditions, and a master of all 
 known stage devices and effects.. All through 
 his career he has had his finger on the very pulse 
 of the Pit, and has nicely followed every change in 
 its beatings. His earliest pieces reflect the tone of 
 the good old school of character, and his comedy 
 of ' London Assurance,' with its extraordinary 
 vivacity, its unflagging diameter, its Dazzle, and 
 
22 The Dramatists. 
 
 Lady Gay Spanker, which, in the cant phrase, act 
 themselves, will never be dropped out of the list of 
 acting plays. Yet a single fact in connection with 
 this play should have warned existing actors of the 
 hopeless incapacity into which they have drifted. 
 Not long since a performance of ' London Assur- 
 ance ' was given, in which was combined, for some 
 charitable benefit, the strength and flower of every 
 company in London. The list of names represent- 
 ed all the acknowledged chiefs in the respective 
 walks. Yet the failure was disastrous — more dis- 
 astrous from the very pretension. The actors 
 seemed not at home in such old-fashioned parts : 
 their line was the imitation of extreme eccentrici- 
 ties ; they had lost the famous old art of getting 
 within the mere rind of a character, possessing 
 themselves by study of the key-note, the leading 
 principle, which would, without effort, supply the 
 true illustrative accompaniments of voice, gesture, 
 and oddity. 
 
 Practising himself, and improving his cunning 
 by skilful French adaptations of poAverful pieces, 
 made, like ' Janet's Pride,' with wonderful skill, 
 Mr Boucicault turned to domestic melodrama, and 
 produced the charming ' Colleen Bawn,' one of the 
 
The Dramatists. 23 
 
 few legitimate successes of the last twenty years. 
 There is a tone and flavour about this piece in- 
 finitely characteristic, touching, and national ; and 
 though dealing with ' low ' life, and the humour of 
 1 low ' life, the feeling that remains is one of perfect 
 refinement. Much is, of course, owing to Gerald 
 Griffin, on whose story the play is founded ; but 
 the whole is really treated in an original manner. 
 Here, too, is introduced, and with the most perfect 
 legitimacy, that remarkable ' sensation scene,' as it 
 was called, of the water-cave, — brought in without 
 violence, following naturally in the situation which 
 required it, and therefore increasing the attraction 
 of the play. After some more attempts of this 
 genre, the author changed his hand, and began pro- 
 ducing that curious class of pieces to which ' The 
 Streets of London,' ' Lost at Sea,' ' After Dark,' 
 and the ' Long Strike ' belong. These seem to 
 have for model the old Porte St Martin pieces ; but 
 without the romance and passion which gave life 
 to so many of those really admirable productions. 
 The taste of the town now requiring great scenic 
 tours tie force, and the theatres competing with each 
 other in the attraction of objects from outside, 
 which seemed to defy reproduction on the stage, it 
 
24 The Dramatists. 
 
 was necessary that the writer should, like Mr 
 Criunroles' dramatist, construct his piece in the in- 
 terest of ' the pump and washing-tubs,' or kindred 
 objects. Hence the panorama of fires, under- 
 ground railways, music halls, steamboat piers, dry 
 arches, and such things. The characters are meant 
 to be ' London characters,' or rather figures, and 
 the plots of the kind which Miss Braddon has 
 made so popular. Lost and found wills, forgers, 
 scheming Jews, bigamy, suicides, crafty scheming 
 men, who stick at nothing, — in short, mechanical 
 figures and incidents are the elements. It must be 
 conceded that the pieces are done as skilfully as 
 possible, and are really interesting. 
 
 The plea on which the author offers dramas of 
 this nature is, that they really are reflections 
 of the incidents and fashion of the time, and 
 therefore hold the mirror up to London. These 
 Jew speculators, forgers, and particularly hu- 
 morists out of the lower London ranks — play-bill 
 sellers, &c. — are all about us; and though such 
 elaborate tissues of ingenious crime may not be 
 actually woven near us, the police reports show 
 that something very like these delinquencies ex- 
 ist. Now this argument is so frequently urged, 
 
The Dramatists. 25 
 
 in many other arts, too, besides the dramatic, and 
 on its moral side, with reference to the notorious 
 * Formosa,' that it becomes worth while to look 
 into the whole a little closely. 
 
 It comes back to the distinction, to be often in- 
 sisted on in these pages, between what is dramatic 
 and what is mimetic. Acting that is not founded 
 on character, is mere mimicry ; acting that is, 
 is the pure drama. This does not exclude story, 
 and story of the most exciting sort ; but the story 
 should be born of the clash of character with cha- 
 racter ; not the character of the story. To set off 
 a narrative of interest by colourless figures — and 
 we are now speaking merely in reference to the 
 relative prominence, for Mr Boucicault does give us 
 characters, and good ones, too ; figures whose 
 function it is to be story-tellers, as it were, and 
 help on the action — would, if unassisted, result in 
 simple tedium. But Mr Boucicault and his au- 
 dience both know that this is set off by, or leading 
 up to, the scenic ' sensation ; ' and the expectancy, 
 or actual enjoyment, supplies other interest. The 
 result may be a single play or two of exciting in- 
 terest, like ' After Dark,' but see the result in the 
 future, which is, as it were, discounted. In a 
 
2,6 The Dramatists. 
 
 few short rounds the whole compass of these 
 scenic prodigies is spent. With infinite labour of 
 thought and mechanical skill something is dis- 
 covered, hut by-and-by all wonder and surprise is 
 exhausted ; anything astonishing is found to be 
 like what has gone before ; and the bill-forgers, 
 bigamists, Jew bill dealers, and suicidal work-girls, 
 left to themselves, without bridges to leap from, 
 dry arches to sleep under, or burning houses to be 
 saved from, tumble over like card-board soldiers. 
 The worst of these great effects is, that here are 
 almost always excrescences, for which either the 
 piece has been written, or which have been im- 
 ported into the piece. In any case they dwarf 
 the play. In Mr Robertson's ' Nightingale ' there 
 is a fine effect of the great sea, with the heroine 
 exposed in an open boat ; but this exposure does not 
 grow out of the course of the piece, or influence its 
 future fortunes. It is the most prominent feature 
 of the whole, and yet is no more than an interpo- 
 lated portion of a diorama. Nearly all these costly 
 and pretentious tours de force could be cut out : 
 they are, as it were, lugged in, head and shoulders ; 
 and thus does true dramatic art indemnify itself. 
 So with the comic figures, taken from the streets, 
 
The Dramatists. 27 
 
 — the cacls and cadgers, whose slang and readiness 
 does snch service in these dramas. Here we may 
 compare Mr Boucicault with himself, and see what 
 is the real principle in dealing with snch charac- 
 ters. In the ' Colleen Eawn ' we saw the Irish 
 ' low ' element of hnmour elaborated ; bnt it was 
 all in the interest of the play. It tended to bring 
 about the action, and the result was interest, and 
 a feeling of respect and sympathy ; but with this 
 cockney street humour, which is on the outside, 
 the effect is the same as on ourselves passing by, 
 in the street ; just as we feel amusement mingled 
 with contempt — a sense of distrust, and a wish to 
 have as little contact as possible with such charac- 
 ters. So from our house window we might look 
 out, and be amused at some such spectacle ; but if 
 it was repeated two or three mornings it would 
 grow tedious, and we would ask the police to see 
 that such performers "'moved on.' And this is the 
 fatal Nemesis for an ' oddity ' actor, or an ' oddity ' 
 part, that is, such a part as is founded on ' cant ' 
 words, and, perhaps, on ' cant ' dress, and is 
 brought in merely to exhibit the same. There is 
 nothing of ' cant ' in real human character. 
 
 While, however, play-maker, play-actor, and 
 
The Dramatists. 
 
 play-goer admit reluctantly that there is something 
 wrong in the British drama, they can point triumph- 
 antly to what has done the mischief — the glories 
 of British scenery. This, at least, flourishes ; and has 
 almost reached perfection. Every Christmas sees 
 new and yet newer triumphs, and Callcott and 
 Grieve confound us with a fresh paradise in every 
 new pantomime. Set scenes, perfect structures that 
 have to be ' built,' have taken the place of the old 
 ' flats ' ; side scenes have given way to regular enclo- 
 sures; and drawing-rooms and boudoirs appear ready 
 furnished with hangings, buhl, clocks, &c. ; in short, 
 as the bills are careful to inform us, ' the furniture 
 
 in Act IV. by Messrs and , of Oxford 
 
 Street.' This surely is a conscientious support to 
 the piece, and the manager is thus said to spare no 
 expense to mount his play properly. Yet the ques- 
 tion arises whether this, considered to be the cause 
 of the decay of the dramatic portion, is not itself a 
 decay. A few reflections will show that the whole 
 is based on false principles. 
 
 The confusion arises from the idea, that the 
 closer reality is imitated, the more nearly effect is 
 produced. If actual reality — the thing itself — can 
 be introuced, the acme is reached. A landscape 
 
The Dramatists. 29 
 
 defies sucli an introduction, though partial attempts 
 can be made at producing a street. But the 
 simplest illustration, by which the whole principle 
 can be tested, is that of the common Drawing-room 
 Scene. In many of the leading plays now acting, 
 there is some such elaborate room, richly furnished 
 and appointed, on which great trouble and cost 
 have been expended. As the drop scene rises, we 
 see the French windows to the right, with cornices 
 and rich rep curtains, Louis Quatorze chairs, a pier 
 table and mirror, buhl cabinets, marquetry tables, 
 
 chimney-piece, fender, &c. ; in short, 'Messrs 
 
 and , of Oxford Street,' have done their best. 
 
 Yet it may be said, that the more realistic and 
 complete the attempt, the more there is of failure ; 
 of a sense of something wanting. The complete- 
 ness of these additions makes the poorness of its 
 background felt. Thus, let any one look at the 
 real cornices, and see how clumsily they hang on 
 the canvas background, revealing that it is any- 
 thing but a firm wall. The marquetry tables look 
 dull and shabby and prosy ; the accessories over- 
 power the groundwork, they are discordant with 
 the poor flat painting about them, painting of 
 mouldings, ceiling, cornices, surbascs, all produced 
 
3° 
 
 The Dramatists. 
 
 by colour. And this leads us to the curious con- 
 ditions under which things are seen upon the stage. 
 There is no sunlight, no casting of shadows, which 
 makes the whole richness of objects in average 
 daily life. There every little depression, every 
 ' bit of work,' has its faint shadow. On the 
 stage the glare of gas is equable — coming from 
 above, below, and from the side ; and such shadows 
 as there are, are the coarse shadows of limelight. 
 Hence it is that in painting, it is necessary to paint 
 shadows with colour ; and hence the effect and 
 appropriateness of scenery. Further, there is an- 
 other condition, and a very remarkable one, often 
 lost sight of. This drawing-room, with its appoint- 
 ments, is one not seen, as other drawing-rooms are, 
 from the inside or the doorway, but is gazed at 
 after an Asmodean fashion — its side taken out — by 
 people who are from thirty to a couple of hundred 
 feet away. No ordinary room is seen under such 
 conditions. In real life, statues placed at a height 
 or distance are made coarse and gigantic. On the 
 stage the actors' faces have a glare thrown on 
 them ; but real distant objects cannot be so strongly 
 illuminated. Take the marquetry table with the 
 * console ' legs, to be seen at one of the leading 
 
The Dramatists. 
 
 theatres. It is self-evident that the work of Messrs 
 
 and , of Oxford Street, was meant to be 
 
 seen a conple of feet off, and not hundreds of feet 
 away, where it looks muddy and dull. 
 
 Kow let us see what should he the true prin- 
 ciple. In this matter the scenic artist need only 
 stick to his own original canons. He paints falsely 
 to produce a true effect. The inexperienced goes 
 up to a scene, and is amazed at the coarseness and 
 roughness — the absolute no-shape and no-colour — 
 all streak and daub. Yet the artist has in his own 
 mind a finished picture utterly dissimilar, and sees 
 it as a result all the time. The costumier uses not 
 laces and delicate gold edgings, but coarse things 
 — spangles, cotton velvets, and such matters — ■ 
 while Dutch metal flares more brilliantly on his 
 soldiers' helmets than would real gold. The furni- 
 ture should be under the same law ; and instead of 
 
 calling in Messrs and , of Oxford Street, 
 
 the manager should say to his artist : ' Make me a 
 table that will lock like a marquetry table under 
 the glare of gas and at a great distance.' A num- 
 ber of angular dashes in sienna and lake, with some 
 judicious gilding, will give this effect. There must 
 be a consistency in this mysterious stage world, 
 
3 2 The Dramatists. 
 
 and all must be of a piece. There is a Library 
 Scene at a certain theatre, used always as Sir 
 Charles Surface's room, where there are crimson 
 curtains, and shelves upon shelves of books stretch- 
 ing away, which has no ' building in,' and is in- 
 finitely more like a real library than if we saw real 
 shelves, and some hundred real books strewn about. 
 Yet the whole — the library chairs, the shadows, the 
 perspective of the recesses — all are on one flat sur- 
 face ; and the effect is rich, warm, agreeable, and 
 theatrical — that is, touched with that sort of roman- 
 tic, exaggerated air which stage scenery should have. 
 Once lose this, and the stage begins to have an air 
 of something infinitely low and vulgar ; e. g. when 
 a real crowd, in its everyday working clothes, is 
 actually fetched out of the street to figure there, as 
 now often happens. Anything more dirty or un- 
 pleasant than their coarse clothes, exposed to the 
 fierce illumination — a condition to which they are 
 not subject in real life — is not conceivable. Those 
 groupings of London-life stories, with policemen, 
 &c, break down the romantic barriers, to let us 
 out again into the thoroughfares, and are really 
 little better than that representation of the Coron- 
 ation in the days of Garrick, when the back wall 
 
The Dramatists. 33 
 
 of the theatre was removed, and the audience were 
 shown the street behind, with bonfires blazing. 
 
 Some of these triumphs of set-scenery which 
 lately drew the whole town to look — witness a 
 snow-view of Charing Cross — seemed after the 
 first surprise ineffably poor and bungling. The 
 great frames of wood and whitened canvas were but 
 too plainly revealed : their joinings, and readiness 
 for being wheeled away : the whole was ambitious 
 and clever ; but anything but a delusion. And 
 thus we arrive at what seems a paradox — that the 
 more complex and elaborate the imitation, the 
 further off travels the sense of illusion ; for this 
 reason, that by the very laborious minuteness of 
 reproduction, deficiencies are made more con- 
 spicuous. Thus with these drawing-room scenes : 
 the more the refined disorder of such a room is 
 attempted, the more we are called on to require 
 every thing found in such places; and no upholsterer, 
 however eminent, could furnish and arrange any 
 room, on stage or elsewhere, within the few minutes 
 between the acts. There is always something 
 crooked and awry ; and if not, the door always 
 betrays its lath and canvas nature — an astonishing 
 relic of stage barbarism. Who has not noticed the 
 
34 The Dramatists. 
 
 fasliion in which it sticks, or flaps-to lightly, as if 
 made of pasteboard ? We might suggest to the 
 realists a device which would mend this — a real 
 door-case, with real door, which would fit into a 
 hole in every interior. Thus indignant maidens 
 and virtuous sons, in their sortie, might be in- 
 dulged in a real sonorous slam. 
 
 These remarks, however, scarcely apply to 
 1 Little Emily,' which, taken by itself, apart from 
 all aesthetic views, the fasliion in which it has 
 been played on the stage, its elaborate brilliance 
 of scenery, makes up a most agreeable entertain- 
 ment. In this piece there is an average of good 
 acting, distributed fairly among all the charac- 
 ters, which is rarely found. It is on the whole 
 a brilliant piece, and deserves the success it has. 
 But in the reason for this success we may find 
 a lesson. Heal characters were given to the actors 
 to learn ; characters for whose proper representa- 
 tion Mr Dickens had, as it were, given the mi- 
 nutest instructions in the pages of his novel ; and 
 thus we are supplied with round, finished pic- 
 tures, instead of the meagre, unfurnished figures 
 which crowd ordinary plays. 
 
 It is curious what rude principles still obtain 
 
The Dramatists. ^S 
 
 in the treatment of scenery, notwithstanding all 
 the perfection they have reached to. It is not un- 
 common, at even the great theatres, to see a 
 castle divide in two — half going up, half down- 
 wards ; and in ' Faust,' at Covent Garden, the 
 ' cathedral ' goes swinging and swaying up in the 
 air, with a most ahsurd effect. The real difficulty 
 in the intricate ' set pieces ' is to bridge over the 
 space between them and human life. No matter 
 hoAV minute and careful the reproduction, there 
 are always jagged edgings and shadows, which show 
 the profile of canvas. It must be owned that at 
 the gay Olympic — now a miracle of brilliance and 
 richness where it was formerly no less a miracle of 
 darkness and dinginess — are some surprising at- 
 tempts at scenic effects. There is a close — the 
 illuminated cathedral running round — with an 
 additional effect of moonlight falling in front. 
 The cloister seems to be 'built up,' and as the organ 
 begins to play, a procession of choristers is seen to 
 pass through the cloister. But at this moment 
 the human element dwarfs the whole, and sends 
 it away out of the realms of delusion. Living 
 figures in the distance look gigantic, and though 
 seen in the distance, become a standard, by 
 
36 The Dramatists. 
 
 which we find the whole cathedral to be about 
 double the height of the choristers. Then the 
 moonlight is certainly very effective in this, as in 
 other cases ; but when the characters come to the 
 front, they cast awkward shadows, and bring out 
 the boards of the stage; and the blackness of these 
 shadows is so violent as to force on us at once 
 that it is artificial light. And this proves, what I 
 have said before, the danger of over-elaboration of 
 stage effect. The more realism is aimed at, the 
 more surely will the eye discover where it falls 
 short. So with the effects so common now of 
 banks to rivers, placed in front of one another, in 
 the construction of some brilliant landscape. Con- 
 cealed jets of light are placed in front of each : 
 but the foremost 'profile' bank, having no stronger 
 lights than the footlights, which are at a distance 
 from it, are in comparative shadow and have the 
 look of being cut out of card. There is room, too, 
 for improvement in the ' fly pieces ' which hang 
 overhead, and which really do not affect to be 
 more than what they are, pieces of painted canvas. 
 The French fashion of constructing a room closed 
 in, and only open to the audience, is fatal to the 
 idea of distance and space. Even in the changing 
 
The Dramatists. 37 
 
 of scenes there are some old-fashioned blemishes 
 still unthought of ; and night after night in the 
 best London theatres we see the halves of a flat 
 ' carpenter's scene ' joined together swiftly, with a 
 loud report from their contact. It is only on a 
 large stage like Covent Garden that these attempts 
 at construction can be carried out successfully, and 
 some of the recent pantomimes at that house were 
 miracles of exquisite effect. On that vast stage 
 the absolute effects of open country and landscape, 
 stretching far away in the distance, and the enor- 
 mous length of scenes and aerial space thus gained, 
 present the appearance of a great waste of sky 
 and atmosphere. 
 
 But, in truth, this mimicry, once begun, is 
 endless ; it becomes gigantic and insupportable. 
 Whole houses and streets have to be built up 
 with infinite toil and cost ; mountains have to be 
 constructed, bridges thrown across, whose canvas 
 flutters as the pursued girl staggers over. Yet still 
 we are not in the least beguiled ; we may venture 
 to say that the skilfully, effectively painted flat 
 scene is far more welcome to the eye, has more 
 illusion, and certainly no points of weakness 
 or make-shift, which the most careless eye can 
 
 «) 
 
38 The Dramatists. 
 
 detect. In fact, we would venture to say that the 
 true theory lies somewhere in a certain generaliza- 
 tion, certain conventional shapes of scene and 
 furniture, so general in style and figure as to fit 
 all. This was the usage of the old days of Garrick 
 and his Drury Lane. And there was a certain 
 propriety in this course. Once we descend into 
 archaeological minuteness, the eye is disturbed, 
 criticism is challenged, or we become pledged to a 
 minuteness of detail which the play does not re- 
 quire, and which is an insufferable burden to 
 those who get up the play. 
 
 A more intricate question as to stage effect 
 arises, when we consider, what amount of exagger- 
 ation an actor is allowed to indulge in, so as to 
 produce effect on the audience. As to tragedy, 
 and especially in certain forms of tragedy, a cer- 
 tain stateliness is necessary to raise the subject 
 out of mere homeliness, and is due to the dignity 
 of the piece. And this can be seen a good deal on 
 the French stage, where stately and even pompous 
 declamation seems in keeping with certain subjects, 
 nay, seems even necessary. But in any ordinary 
 acting there must be exaggeration to produce an 
 effect which shall not seem exaggerated, as can be 
 
The Dramatists. 
 
 39 
 
 seen in the case of amateurs doing so simple a 
 thing as walking across the stage, which itself 
 requires acting to look like ordinary walking. The 
 reason for this is, that players are not seen under 
 the conditions of ordinary life. They are under a 
 glass, as it were ; placed in a conspicuous position, 
 with strong light flaring on them, and every motion 
 brought into prominence. 
 
 In common life we are too close, and ourselves 
 generally too much engaged in what is going on, 
 to take notice of these things. So with speeches 
 and conversation. It is obvious that the mere 
 careless tones of every remark would not do for the 
 publicity of a great theatre, and must be overdone 
 to attract attention and have weight. But here 
 conies in the abuse. The true actor learns nicely 
 the exact force and weight of such exaggeration, 
 and so proportions it that it does no more than pro- 
 duce the effect of what is natural, and unexagger- 
 ated. Just as the well-known figures of boys in St 
 Peter's, that support the holy water vase, prove to 
 be of gigantic dimensions. The vulgar actor, on the 
 contrary, seizes on this as an opening for making 
 himself more conspicuous, and to this we owe the 
 stampings and stridings and roarings which have 
 
4o The Dramatists. 
 
 actually become established, as a necessary part of 
 stage effect.* Hence it is that we have this la- 
 boured enforcing of interior thoughts and emotions, 
 by violent and obstreperous outward manifestation, 
 as though it were possible to have an alphabet and 
 language of thought. Hence the common actor's 
 limited categories of various expression may be 
 divided for him under heads — joy, rage, &c, into 
 some one of which everything must be forced. 
 
 That view of Charles Lamb's as to the unsuit- 
 ableness of Shakespeare's tragedies for the stage 
 has always seemed to have much weight, and may 
 be noticed here. There is so much that is impalp- 
 able — so airy and delicate ; so much that is mental 
 and philosophical, and which cannot possibly be 
 expressed by the machinery of the stage. A great 
 deal, as in ' Lear ' and ' Hamlet,' is pure dreamy 
 fluctuation of the mind ; whose existence it is 
 wholly a false principle to convey to a large and 
 mixed crowd, by the agency of declamation and 
 gesture. Such emotions are concealed from the 
 spectator in real life, though to such a spectator 
 
 * A French dramatist has lately heen lecturing on this very 
 matter, but I have not been able to discover whether the lectures 
 have been published. 
 
The Dramatists. 41 
 
 they are often letraijed, by the play of feature or 
 tone of voice. Thus in the late Mr Charles Kean's 
 system of overloading Shakespeare's plays with 
 dresses, and pageantry, and scenic effects, there was 
 a very coarse and false mode of illustration. But 
 the remarks of Elia are so just, and commend them- 
 selves so strongly — to say nothing of his quaint and 
 charming language, always welcome under any 
 pretext — that I shall have no scruple of intro- 
 ducing them here. 
 
 ' Talking is the direct object of the imitation 
 here. But in all the best dramas, and in Shake- 
 speare above all, how obvious it is, that the form of 
 speaking, whether it be in soliloquy or dialogue, is 
 only a medium, and often a highly artificial one, for 
 putting the reader or spectator into possession of 
 that knowledge of the inner structure and workings 
 of mind in a character, which he could otherwise 
 never have arrived at in that form of composition by 
 any gift short of intuition. We do here as we do with 
 novels written in the epistolary form. How many 
 improprieties, perfect solecisms in letter-writing, do 
 we put up with in Clarissa and other books, for the 
 sake of the delight which that form upon the whole 
 gives us. But the practice of stage representation 
 
42 The Dramatists. 
 
 reduces everything to a controversy of elocution. 
 Every character, from the boisterous blasphemings 
 of Bajazet to the shrinking timidity of woman- 
 hood, must play the orator. The love-dialogues of 
 E/Omeo and Juliet, those silver-sweet sounds of 
 lovers' tongues by night ; the more intimate and 
 sacred sweetness of nuptial colloquy between an 
 Othello, or a Posthumus, with their married wives, 
 all those delicacies which are so delightful in the 
 reading, as when we read of those youthful dalli- 
 ances in Paradise — 
 
 "As beseem'd 
 Fair couple link'd in happy nuptial league, 
 alone : " 
 
 by the inherent fault of stage representation, how 
 are these things sullied and turned from their very 
 nature by being exposed to a large assembly ; 
 when such speeches as Imogen addresses to her 
 lord come drawling out of the mouth of a hired 
 actress, whose courtship, though nominally ad- 
 dressed to the personated Posthumus, is manifestly 
 aimed at the spectators, who are to judge of her 
 endearments and her returns of love. But Hamlet 
 himself — what does he suffer meanwhile by being 
 dragged forth as the public schoolmaster, to give 
 
The Dramatists. 43 
 
 lectures to the crowd ! Why, nine parts in ten of 
 what Hamlet does, are transactions between him- 
 self and his moral sense, they are the effusions of 
 his solitary musings, which he retires to holes and 
 corners and the most sequestered parts of the 
 palace to pour forth ; or rather, they are the silent 
 meditations with which his bosom is bursting, re- 
 duced to words for the sake of the reader, who 
 must else remain ignorant of what is passing there. 
 These profound sorrows, these light-and-noise- 
 abhorring ruminations, which the tongue scarce 
 dares utter to deaf walls and chambers, how can 
 they be represented by a gesticulating actor, who 
 comes and mouths them out before an audience, 
 making four hundred people his confidants at once. 
 I say not that it is the fault of the actor so to do ; 
 he must pronounce them ore rotunda, he must ac- 
 company them with his eye, he must insinuate 
 them into his auditory by some trick of eye, tone, 
 or gesture, or he fails. He must he thinking atl the 
 while of his appearance, because he knows that all the 
 tvhile the spectators are judging of it. And this is 
 the way to represent the shy, negligent, retiring 
 Hamlet ! ' 
 
 This is all true and excellent ; and though men, 
 
44 The Dramatists. 
 
 who believe in the surpassing excellence of Shake- 
 speare, and that he was made to be read, and acted, 
 and would bear every possible test, could not bring 
 themselves to accept Elia's view, still his remarks 
 are valuable in this place, as illustrating a genuine 
 principle of acting — namely, the true and natural 
 fashion of a player revealing his private thoughts 
 to the audience. 
 
 Passing now to the moral view of certain plays, 
 which was lately under discussion, it will be seen 
 that the exhibition of a piece like ' Formosa ' can- 
 not in any way be justified. The exhibition of the 
 career of a lady whose profession need not be named, 
 with the persons whom she usually influences, and 
 the supposed life of both, was defended on the 
 ground that the stage was to reflect the manners 
 of the time : that people took ' dramatic ' interest 
 only in what struck a chord, by reminding them of 
 the ordinary or average life of the day ; and finally, 
 if people countenance, and are interested in, what 
 is disreputable, they will require to meet the same 
 on the stage. In short, the question of dramatic 
 morality is entirely on their own heads. The 
 stage is merely ministerial, and the dramatists 
 must supply what they demand at their own risk. 
 
TJie Dramatists. 45 
 
 Now, all these positions are mistakes. In the 
 first place, it is a principle in art that there must 
 be selection, and that the whole art lies in the selec- 
 tion ; and it was on this point that the early Pre- 
 Raphaelites made shipwreck. Some would pro- 
 duce a piece of decayed brick wall, copied with 
 amazing exactness ; or, more singular still, a 
 patch of weeds in ditch-water, with stoats and 
 decomposition faithfully given. So with the old 
 Dutch painters, who copied lighted candles, and 
 lemon peels, and crusts of bread, with the same 
 amazing power of imitation. This might be called 
 the holding the mirror up to nature. But the 
 true principle lies in selecting what is beautiful, 
 — finding out the common principle which under- 
 lies a number of beautiful objects of the same class, 
 and making us familiar with it. The mere slavish 
 copying of an inanimate object is worth nothing 
 beyond the mere momentary admiration at the 
 trouble and mechanical skill; there must be the 
 hint of a sentiment, something drawn from the 
 artist's own soul, and which he has worked in with 
 his colours. So with dramas like ' Eormosa.' 
 Vice and its ways are as utterly coarse and uninter- 
 esting, as the Pre-Raphaelite garbage and ditch- 
 
46 The Dramatists. 
 
 water ; and the presentment of the ' Villa at Ful- 
 ham,' and what goes on there, is as morbid and un- 
 dramatic as wax- work models of the hnman figure, 
 and its diseases, which are exhibited under scien- 
 tific pretences. Further, it may be wholly dis- 
 puted whether this is holding the mirror up to the 
 lives of the public who flock to look at its life. 
 There is a conventional standard of human life 
 which, by common consent, is regulated by rules 
 of decency, and to which we appeal officially. 
 Our laws, customs, family affairs, police, are all 
 regulated on a soi-disant moral basis; and such 
 enters into every relation. And it is impossible to 
 deny this, or shut one's eyes to it ; honesty is not 
 only the best, but the recognized policy, and this 
 should be reflected back from the stage. Yes, it 
 will be said, a soi-disant hypocritical policy; but 
 our heart of hearts will go with the truth of the 
 picture ; to all it will come home as a fact, true 
 but unrecognized. No : for we need only turn to 
 the French stage to see a more legitimate way of 
 dealing with such subjects. To the French, whose 
 manner of life corresponds, and to whom Mr Bou- 
 cicault's arguments would apply, such a mode of 
 ' holding up the mirror ' would be eminently in- 
 
The Dramatists. 47 
 
 artistic, at the least. Let any one turn to the 
 1 Dame aux Camelias,' or to the ' Adrienne Le Cou- 
 vrenr,' — both lives of courtesans, — and it will he 
 seen with what true dramatic art they are treated, 
 even in reference to the character of the audience. 
 Pictures of the vicious life are there not the end in 
 view ; such for a French audience would he mere 
 grossness. Those plays are a hundred times more 
 dangerous than any scene in ' Formosa.' In the 
 French pieces the immoral element is assumed as a 
 foundation, as in most French books and plays : 
 after that assumption enters sentiment, tender- 
 ness, and passion ; all which interpose between it 
 and the audience. The true test would be this : 
 exhibit ' Formosa ' in diorama shape, or with dis- 
 solving views ; 1. ' Interior of a courtesan's villa at 
 Fulham ; ' 2. ' Arrival of lady visitors ; ' 3. ' Sup- 
 per at the Villa ; ' and public indignation would 
 soon be roused. However, the manager of this 
 theatre, when 'Formosa' was played, took the mat- 
 ter out of the province of argument by a statement 
 which amounted to this : — that virtue did not pay ; 
 that vice did ; and that he was obliged to play what 
 paid. 
 
 And his view shows what a serious responsi- 
 
48 The Dramatists. 
 
 bility rests upon the heads of our theatres, and cer- 
 tainly should justify the interference of the State 
 as censor. The stage has an incredible influence, 
 even with the most educated. "We are amused at 
 the ranting virtue of the transpontine theatres ; hut 
 the shouts of approval from an unwashed audience 
 have some significance, though their practical value 
 is little. But a more weighty proof may he found 
 in witnessing a play like the ' Colleen Bawn,' from 
 which it would he hard to come away without feel- 
 ing a generous sympathy with the virtues of the 
 poor, and, through the skill of the author, a better 
 enlightenment as to their kindness and goodness, 
 disguised from us by a cloak of what we think vul- 
 garity. That there should be such an officer as 
 censor, and that he should have 'passed' such a 
 piece as 'Formosa,' is an argument not against 
 Mr Boucicault, but against one more of the many 
 miserable shams which still endure. 
 
 The most popular writer of the day cannot 
 be passed over in a review of the stage. An 
 abundant supply of Mr Robertson's pieces have 
 been familiar to the public for many years, and 
 the list is a tolerably long one. It included 
 ' David Garrick,' an adaptation from the Ger- 
 
The Dramatists. 49 
 
 man ; ' Society,' ' Otirs,' ' Caste,' of which the 
 first differs so much from the rest in boldness 
 and marked character, that it has the air of an 
 adaptation ; also ' Home,' from the French, ' For 
 Love,' ' Shadow-tree Shaft,' 'Dreams,' 'The Night- 
 ingale,' and ' School.' More than half of these 
 have been failures. Garrick, criticising some one 
 with Boswell, said what he wanted was ' beef.' 
 This is the want in Mr Ptobertson's plays. Like 
 all men of true taste, he sees and admires the deli- 
 cate touchings of the French writers, this mastery 
 of the airy measures of speech and character ; but 
 he forgets that it is merely so much skin and 
 colouring, under which the French have a strong 
 skeleton. We can quite fancy a poetical man being 
 possessed with an interesting or dramatic idea, 
 and pleased with it. Thus, Tennyson's Lady 
 Clara Vere de Vere and the love of a young Ger- 
 man artist, or the notion, as in ' The Nightingale,' 
 of an opera singer persecuted by a mysterious 
 Eastern ; the loss of her child, &c. Such topics 
 have a picturesque air ; but they are mere crude 
 notions, the colours, the tools with which to work. 
 Such is the mere machinery without steam. A 
 dramatic writer of sound principles would begin at 
 
50 The Dramatists. 
 
 the other end. Some powerful situation, some 
 original clashing of the passions, would seize on his 
 mind ; and, turning it all sides, he would work his 
 way outwards, trying various persons and charac- 
 ters, until, perhaps, he found that an Eastern and 
 the opera singer together would be the best persons 
 to bring out what is desired. The same fault runs 
 through all Mr Robertson's pieces : they are skil- 
 ful sketches and groupings. But this ' Nightin- 
 gale ' was so utterly destitute of vitality, motion, 
 character, and meaning, that it seemed merely a 
 collection of profiles, painted and labelled. 
 
 Mr Tom Taylor is a writer of far greater firm- 
 ness and vigour, with, besides, the nicest skill and 
 touch. His knowledge of the stage is thorough ; 
 and though he has ' adapted ' freely, he has vir- 
 tually only taken the ' motif,' as though some one 
 should say, ' Here is a good subject,' and made the 
 rest his own. ' Still Waters run Deep,' ' The Con- 
 tested Election,' ' The Overland Mail,' and ' The 
 Unequal Match,' are all fresh, and gay, and enter- 
 taining, and will certainly keep the stage. The 
 characters are treated legitimately, both causing 
 the situations and being developed by them. His 
 last production — a play in blank verse, with the 
 
The Dramatists. 5 1 
 
 scene laid in Shakesperian times — seemed the most 
 daring of ventures, the most forlorn of hopes. But 
 the dry bones of remote era and costume and dic- 
 tion were vivified by strong situation, marked cha- 
 racter, and poetical lines ; and the result is that 
 audiences crowd to where they know they will be 
 interested. A good and original comedy of the 
 same writer has been drawing crowded houses at 
 the Haymarket ; and it is not often that two legiti- 
 mate successes from the same hand have to be re- 
 corded for a single vear. 
 
 This leads us to consider a special shape of 
 play which often finds its way to the stage, namely, 
 the dramatized novel. The fashion that has so 
 often obtained, of putting a story that has acquired 
 great popularity on the stage, throws some light on 
 what is the true nature of the dramatic. A great 
 master attracts a vast audience, whom he ap- 
 proaches through their intellect only, and the same 
 public is seized with a desire to see and hear his 
 characters in more material shape. The guide to 
 the result of such experiments may be summed up 
 thus : failure generally, but the higher and more 
 artistic the writer, the more certain the failure. 
 
 Mr Dickens's best story is now being submitted to 
 
 4 * 
 
$1 The Dramatists. 
 
 this test ; and though the performance is success- 
 ful, and ' draws,' this result is owing 1 , not to its 
 being a presentation of Mr Dickens's story, but 
 to some good scenery, the amusing acting of an 
 American player, and the level merit of the actors. 
 This practice has become so common, that it is 
 really assumed that every story requires only some 
 skilful mechanical arrangement to take the shape 
 of a drama. Yet happily the genius of a great 
 writer is not to be thus dealt with, and his very 
 genius is his protection. The spectators of ' Little 
 Em'ly ' must feel a curious sensation, half of plea- 
 sure, half of disappointment, and the disappoint- 
 ment takes the shape of some such expression as, 
 ' Well, Peggotty could hardly have been this sort 
 of man ; Miss Trotwood scarcely this sort of per- 
 son.' Nay, had Mr Dickens accurately copied 
 these characters from living originals, and were 
 these set before us to speak and act, even here we 
 might find the same want of recognition. The 
 truth is, that a writer of genius works more by as- 
 sociation, by hints, by ' striking chords ' which the 
 reader can lay his ear to. There is a bloom, an airi- 
 ness — hints — touches as delicate as the powder on a 
 butterfly's wing, which defy dramatist's or actor's 
 
The Dramatists. 53 
 
 touch. This is specially the case in a novelist like 
 Mr Dickens, where there is so much that depends 
 on the story-teller himself, so much that is outside 
 the characters. But this will be more evident by 
 a comparison with other story-tellers. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott's novels were regularly drama- 
 tized when they came out, and it is quite apparent 
 that the best of the versions — those which now 
 keep the stage, ' Rob Hoy ' and ' Guy Mannering ' 
 — were accepted as perfect representatives of the 
 original novels. They are both admirably done, 
 and the story and character, so far as they go, 
 happily sketched and dramatized. We accept the 
 Dominie Sampson of the play as the Dominie of 
 the story, the same in quality, though not in quan- 
 tity ; so with Dandie Dinmont ; while the Bailie 
 Xicol Jarvie and the Dougal Creature were con- 
 fessed by Sir Walter himself to be perfect embodi- 
 ments in the flesh of what he had written. The 
 reason of this success is, that the novels are dramas 
 with very bold characters ; that is, natures that re- 
 veal themselves by very marked tokens of speech 
 and action. The situations are all strong, and a 
 little coarse, speaking in a relative sense. Alex- 
 andre Dumas is another writer who has been im- 
 
54 The Dramatists. 
 
 mensely ' dramatized ' ; but bis ' Monte Cbristo,' 
 whether in drama sbapc or novel shape, is pre- 
 cisely the same. The characters are either distinct, 
 or mark themselves by bold actions and witty 
 speeches : but they are all more or less conven- 
 tional. Thus D'Artagnan, whom we have read of 
 in the ' Three Musketeers,' would be acceptable to 
 us on the stage, when played by any dashing, 
 spirited actor, with a wig and pointed moustaches, 
 a hat and plume, jerkin, sword, and Louis XIV. 
 
 boots. We might see half-a-dozen good actors in 
 the part, and find nothing discordant with what 
 we had read. The character has a few bold, broad 
 touches on the outside, and here we find them. 
 So with Dominie Sampson. The wig and scholastic 
 dress, the abstraction, the bookishness, the fre- 
 quent ' prodigious ! ' can all be seen and heard 
 upon the stage as well as in the book. 
 
 It is very different with a work of the class of 
 1 David Copperfield.' One of the charms of Mr 
 Dickens's humour are those sudden analogies be- 
 tween objects of mind and matter — strange and 
 surprising likenesses — and which is indeed open- 
 ing a new world. Another feature lies not so much 
 in making tbe characters, as in ' bringing them 
 
The Dramatists. $$ 
 
 out ' by the curious comments, hints, and remarks 
 of the novelist himself. It is as though we were 
 witnessing all the scenes of the story, with a mys- 
 terious spirit by our side, who had privileged and 
 Asmodean access to secret interiors of house and 
 of mind. Thus is given for behaviour and speech 
 and deportment, otherwise unmeaning, a secret 
 key, which makes all intelligible. Now it is ob- 
 vious that on the sta^e all this must be lost. 
 Numbers who go to the Olympic see David Copper- 
 field himself on the boards, in a strange coat and 
 gilt buttons, follow him as he moves among the 
 other characters, and would own that he fulfils his 
 duty to the play respectably. He has about the 
 same business that he has in the story — friend of 
 Steerforth and Peggotty, unmasker of Uriah Heep, 
 and so forth. Given that selection of episodes now 
 being played, it might be asked, What more could 
 be added to the part ? Yet this is a superficial 
 view. Turn to the story, and we find that his is 
 the mind which reflects and colours the whole 
 course of events to us. Through him, as it were, 
 we see every character : it is his mind, his feeling, 
 the mind of the author himself, and his own life — 
 that fills up the whole. Through the eyes of David 
 
$6 The Dramatists. 
 
 look forth the eyes of the writer ; his quick wit, 
 his genius, illuminates that figure, brings out the 
 wit and humour of others, as steel does with flint, 
 and illustrates their doings with a sort of com- 
 mentary. Thus Coppcrfield becomes the soul of 
 all. We turn to the stage, and all this must dis- 
 appear ; there remains but a figure in a long coat 
 and gilt buttons, who walks on and walks off, and 
 is about as purposeless as one of Madame Tus- 
 saud's images. Not but that the adapter has done 
 his part with a surprising tact and self-abnegation : 
 and we only use his skilful adaptation to illustrate 
 a principle. But a most judicious and elegant ex- 
 pounder has laid down the true view in a lucid 
 judgment. Charles Lamb, in a well-known essay, 
 explains the reverence due to such great masters, 
 and, allowing something for a fantastic exaggera- 
 tion, which makes the charm of his style, he 
 wishes that the plays of Shakespeare were never 
 acted — ' there is so much in them which comes not 
 
 under the province of acting The glory of 
 
 the scenic art is to promote passion, and the more 
 coarse and palpable the passion the more hold upon 
 the eyes and ears of the spectator the performer 
 has So to see Lear acted — to see an old 
 
The Dramatists. $j 
 
 man tottering about the stage with a walking- 
 stick, turned out-of-doors by his daughter on a 
 rainy night, has nothing in it but what is painful 
 and disgusting. This is all the feeling which the act- 
 ing of Lear ever produced in me. But the Lear 
 of Shakespeare cannot be acted. The contemptible 
 machinery by which they mimic the storm which 
 he goes out in, is not more inadequate to represent 
 the horrors of the real elements than any actor can 
 
 be to represent Lear The greatness of Lear 
 
 is not in corporal dimensions, but in intellectual 
 
 .... it is his mind which is laid bare On 
 
 the stage we see nothing but corporeal infirmities 
 and weakness, the impotence of rage : while we 
 read we see not Lear, but we are Lear, — we are 
 
 in his mind ' Every word of this applies to 
 
 the works of great novelists. 
 
 We shall now pass to an examination of what 
 appear to be the true principles of interest and 
 entertainment in comedy, — those which should 
 attract, and hold, an intelligent audience. 
 
PART II. 
 
 COMEDY. 
 
 \ 
 
 ' The stage,' magic word ! and its costly and 
 magnificent entourage, seems to point at some 
 sonrce of exquisite enjoyment, now gone from ns. 
 Granting that there are some who enjoy the play 
 as heartily as they could desire, each must own 
 that the elements we have been dwelling on are 
 not the ones which minister to their relish. It, of 
 course, cannot be denied that the play-house rings 
 with as loud and perhaps more boisterous laughter 
 than ever Drury Lane did in the days of Garrick ; 
 but this is no test. Laughter is common to both 
 fools and wise men, but signifies a very different 
 form of enjoyment in each case, and there is an 
 admirable passage in Leigh Hunt which will more 
 than illustrate this. 
 
 'Some of these performers think they gain no 
 applause unless they have raised a tempest of 
 laughter : they forget that the most exquisite 
 humour is that which provokes the least mirth ; 
 
Comedy. 5. 
 
 that wit, so superior to mere humour, disdains 
 the acknowledgment of external laughter, and is 
 content with that feeling of pleasure and surprise 
 which may be called the laughter of the mind ; 
 that a pantomime clown, in short, when he breaks his nose 
 against a door, boasts a wilder burst of applause than 
 genuine corned// perhaps ever obtained.'' 
 
 This brings us to the inquiry what ought to be 
 the true source of enjoyment in stage representa- 
 tion, for we have now got into such confusion and 
 indistinctness, that to go and see something on the 
 stage, "a medley of colours under a strong light, 
 amounts to that phrase, so delightful to children, 
 of ' going to the theatre-' 
 
 We often hear the phrase, in illustration of 
 some good story of real life, ' Quite a drama ! like 
 what you would see on the stage.' This would 
 seem to hint at something that is very rare and 
 exceptional indeed, or something exciting and 
 interesting. But surely, at this present moment, 
 such an illustration has lost its force; and one 
 would be inclined, reviewing the dull progress 
 of a stage-story, rather to say, ' This is nearly as 
 prosy as real life ; ' or ' Like what you would 
 see in the street.' 
 
 
j Comedy. 
 
 The stage is but a poor copy of life — a selec-J 
 tion, as it were, not so niuch of material events, 
 as the vulgar and superficial suppose, but of 
 mental conflicts, mental struggles, which may, 
 indeed, give such results as powerful material 
 events, but in themselves become the substan- 
 tial support, the leading ideas, of the whole. 
 In real life there are stories of absorbing and 
 overwhelming interest always going on about 
 us ; but they are unmanageable, because spread 
 over a long period — because encumbered with 
 the ' padding ' of common dead-level life. Still, 
 making all deductions, there is something in 
 life, in what is living, and in what genuinely 
 attaches itself and belongs to life, that always 
 will interest, and even absorb. Hence the public 
 is never weary of trials. Hence a private history 
 has always a strange charm of its own, as if a 
 reflection of life, and which it seems to lose when 
 it gets into print. Hence housemaids listen at the 
 keyhole to what ' master and missis ' are saying. 
 Hence the truth of what Walpole has said so justly 
 — if any one were to set down honestly and faith- 
 fully all that he has seen, thought, or observed, 
 the result would be a most interesting book — ' ii 
 
Comedy. > q 
 
 whatever hands,' adds the lively letter-writer. Fbr 
 this is the whole secret of interest — the candour, 
 not the manner, of the revelation. Once let 
 affectation overlay what is being told, and it be- 
 comes so much deceit. In short, a man's mind ' a 
 kingdom is,' not merely ' to me,' but to all others ; 
 it furnishes variety inexhaustible. It is not in 
 colours, lights, groupings, gorgeous and fantastic 
 scenery, dresses, handsome faces and figures, 
 dances, flowers, jewels, puns, and poor songs, that* 
 true interest or amusement is to be sought and 
 found. These are the mere inanimate stocks and 
 stones of life ; and in time — after the few seconds' 
 surprise is over— produce about as much entertain- 
 ment as a day's pleasuring to the British Museum 
 does to the country bumpkin, or even to persons of 
 far higher training and refinement. 
 
 A quarrel takes place in the street ; a crowd 
 gathers at once. We hear two people discussing 
 something in a railway-carriage, naturally, of 
 course, and not talking for us ; it becomes more 
 interesting than the book or newspaper we are 
 reading. A shrewd observant member of a family 
 travels abroad; his little adventures, trifling but 
 told well, linger on the memory far more than the 
 
Comedy. 
 
 ___. 
 
 pretentious scenes of official tourists. We our- 
 selves may have figured in some little rencontre at 
 an inn, or coach, or boat ; have come in contact 
 with some ' characters,' as we call them ; and we 
 turn back to these with a surprising relish and 
 longing. They are dramatic, more or less. They 
 are bits of life. 
 
 Now a play exhibits in a small space what is 
 an "extract from human life. Some concessions 
 must be made to the limitations of time, and the 
 skill of the writer is shown in leaving out, with as 
 little violence as may be, the dead-level mono- 
 tonous bits during which nothing can be done. 
 Hence there will always be a rather— unnatural 
 gathering together of incidents in a play, which 
 will require from the spectator a certain allowance. 
 This is common to all plays ; but it is more comedy 
 — that art now as much lost to us as is the rich red 
 of old stained glass — with its principles of enter- 
 taining, that we have now to consider. 
 
 Human action, as just shown, is always in- 
 teresting, and rivets the attention. Human cha- 
 racter also attracts; and the two mainly constitute 
 the interest of conventional comedy. In fact, that 
 much-hackneyed ' holding up the mirror to -Na- 
 
Comedy. 63 . 
 
 tore ' is the true secret ; but it must be to Nature ; 
 for a sort of holding up is always attempted, but 
 it is to something artificial or accidental. The 
 mirror is held up to gaudy dresses, to painted 
 faces, to antics of all sorts, to twitches of expres- 
 sion, to positive ' grinning through a horse-collar ; ' 
 4>ut not to Nature. It will be said, the skilful 
 scenX-j)ainters of our time do at least deserve this 
 credit, that they reflect the most exquisite hills, 
 vales, and woods, the old ruins of abbeys and 
 castles ; but this is outside the dramatic art, and 
 belongs to the .panorama. The houses on fire, 
 coal-pits, machinery-rooms, steamers, and railway- 
 trains, do not deserve. recognition. The truth is, a 
 really good comedy, with good judges present, 
 would be as amusing on the old Thespian cart, 
 without scene, curtain, or foot-lights, as it would 
 be at Drurv Lane. 
 
 For' character ' to interest, several things are 
 necessary, all which were duly attended to in the 
 old days of comedy. It must be ge nuin e and 
 spontaneous — a quality rarely found in even the 
 attempts at character of our modern pieces, which 
 are done with a certain heavy laboriousness, and 
 to 3 order, as it were, just as a workman would 
 
/ 
 
 , 64 Comedy. 
 
 \ make a chair. But the real mistake grows out of 
 
 ; the corruption that has spread over the modern 
 
 drama, which appeals entirely to the eye and ear, 
 
 ■ instead of to the mind ; for a ' character ' is now 
 
 ' entirely made up out of external accidents, 
 
 strange-coloured hair, false forehead, comically-cut 
 
 coats, particoloured trousers ; also out of tricks of 
 
 elocution, of strange sounds, and jerks of manner. 
 
 These are ludicrous when seen once or twice, and 
 
 such are, no doubt, grotesque enough in this way ; 
 
 but it should be noted why. 
 
 In real life, such oddities of manner, and even 
 of dress, are but the grotesque effects of a cause 
 yet more grotesque — of a mind and habit of 
 thought of which these are but faint tokens — an 
 expression of something within. To take an in- 
 stance. One may have seen in a coffee-room the 
 oldest frequenter — a little shrunken and shrivelled 
 old man, with a high-collared coat of a pattern 
 forty years old, a hat singularly tall, which, with 
 his ancient and corresponding gloves, he puts on 
 the rail always precisely in the same spot. This 
 being is all rusty — soul, body, and clothes ; talks 
 in a chirping way of fifty years ago as though it 
 were yesterday. His mind goes back, as do his 
 
Comedy. 6$ 
 
 clothes ; so there is a perfect correspondence. 
 Erom the old hat being always in the one spot, 
 it may be augnred that he will grow testy 
 shonld another take it. Here then is a cor- 
 respondence between the inward character and 
 its external side. But could we fancy a rational 
 modernized old gentleman, whose ideas were in 
 exact accordance with the tone of the day; but 
 who wears a dress thus eccentric, there would be 
 an utter discordance — there would be neither in- 
 terest nor ' fun ' — the dress would be unmeaning. 
 So, too, with his manner and tricks of voice and 
 expression. These should be the result of some 
 odd tone of mind, and reveal it; just as hesitations 
 and stammerings show an uncertainty of mind, 
 and twitchings and ' pluckings ' at a wig ; and 
 those queer movements of figure and limbs, those 
 strange tones of voice, which go to make up the 
 modern notion of character, betoken correspond- 
 ing oddities of thought and feeling. 
 
 Yet, giving the utmost license, how limited all 
 this is, as a mere gamut of expression ! And as we 
 look down the line of ' funny men ' now in posses- 
 sion of the English stage, what a little variety in 
 t 1 v ir tricks, and how hard to call to mind anything 
 
r 
 
 66 Comedy. 
 
 more than what we have just been mentioning ! 
 As there are hut eight notes in an octave, so we 
 can sound in a very short time the dull tones of 
 dress, caricature, ' making faces,' and voice. These 
 are what make, up character-parts — strange beings 
 formed on no human model, wearing clothes seen 
 in no known street, talking as no human being 
 ever talked : and these are the creatures that figure 
 in the pieces where anything comic is required. 
 We think of the hundred-and-one ingenious actors 
 at the provincial theatres, who are doing the round 
 of Box and Cox business, Slasher and Crasher, and 
 the rest : there is no other model but the one — the 
 ridiculous Cockney in pink trousers, talking very 
 fast and glibly. The cleverness of the actor made 
 something approaching a character of Lord Dun- 
 dreary ; but a great deal was owing to dress and 
 outer eccentricity. When a new figure was 
 wanted out of the same family, the device was 
 to change the colour of the hair, complexion, and 
 dress — make him all white hair, white cheeks, and 
 white dress — but character was not to be ex- 
 pected. 
 
 On far different principles were the old 
 comedies written. They are amazing for u ; r 
 
Comedy. 67 
 
 1 
 likeness to life ; for their flow, and spirit, and 
 
 character. The impression they leave is like that 
 of one of Fielding's or Smollett's, or even Thacke- 
 ray's, stories ; their characters are round, and 
 seem to have lived ; the whole is like an incident 
 out of real life, told by a lively and vivacious story- 
 teller. Modern plays beside these round richly- 
 coloured figures seem like profiles cut out of card 
 — quite poor and flat. Indeed, the art of drawing 
 character, save in the hands of a leader or two, 
 seems gone, in the novels ; and instead we have 
 faint weak labelling of characters — for it is no more 
 — such as we find in the common circulating- 
 library novel — mere bits of canvas stretched upon 
 a poor framework of lath. 
 
 The chief secret of the success of the dramatic 
 work of the old times was, that such ' characters ' 
 were not mere isolated figures in the piece — 
 coming on merely for their oivn sake, and the more 
 selfish sake of the actor that played them — but were 
 real aids to the story. They were not formed so as 
 merely to arrive in their turn, grimace awhile, do 
 their regulation bit of fun, and then withdraw, to 
 alio ,r the story to go on. "With far more artistic 
 dews the oddities of the character were made to 
 
68 Comedy. 
 
 . ^ 
 
 influence the story, consciously or unconsciously.* 
 Place an oddity in a drawing-room, where he is m\ 
 merely to come and go, make a few speeches, even 
 exhibit his humour in the most effective manner, 
 and we shall soon grow tired of him. It becomes 
 repetition. But entangle him in some serious and 
 complicated business, the details of which embar- 
 rass him at every turn, against which he struggles 
 vainly — here his oddities, the attitudes of his mind 
 in contact with circumstances, become ever chang- 
 ing and ever new. It is the action, in short, that is 
 necessary to the character. The character should 
 exist for the story ; and, in return, the character 
 will find itself repaid by the discovery of innu- 
 merable fresh ' points ' of which it would other- 
 wise have been deprived. But the foolish players 
 of our time confound monopoly with effect, and 
 think that, unless the chief attention of the au- 
 dience — quite apart from the story — be concen- 
 trated on them and their antics, there is loss of in- 
 terest and effect. They little think that a vast deal 
 more could be procured for them on the old system. 
 But this is the grand weakness and the grand 
 temptation in all worldly things — discounting the 
 
 -ir , 
 
Comedy. 69 
 
 f ^ present more showy advantages, to the sacrifice of 
 ^ F what would be ten times as effective. 
 t The simple answer to the question, what it is 
 
 that entertains us in the drama, must, in part, be an 
 answer to what it is that, in a lower degree, enter- 
 tains us in life. The spectacle of human character , 
 and the action which the conflict of character. 
 brings abyuu makes up the enjoyments of life. If 
 we were confined to the use of our eyes only, and 
 passed on, looking at all the beautiful shows in the 
 world, and merely following out some formal labour, 
 life would lose all its charm. But, the looking at 
 the turns and freaks of character, and at the action 
 of various minds, unexpected and surprising, this is 
 what gives us a relish for society. Now, this very 
 surprise and consequent delight cannot be ordered 
 at pleasure ; we cannot command the dramatic in- 
 terest of life and character ; but we can go to the 
 Lcatre. There skilful students of human nature, 
 j an instinct which is born with them, can divine 
 lese curious emotions of character and numour, 
 ad show us what we could not hope to see else- 
 here, except by a rare accident. And our enter- 
 linment is in exact proportion to the power of this 
 
70 Comedy. 
 
 instinct. The whole is independent of scenery, 
 painting, electric light, dresses, and mimicry. 
 
 Last year, at a foreign watering-place, a French 
 comic actor came on his tour, and was announced 
 at the little theatre of the place to give a ' Lecture 
 on the Needle-Gun.' We have seen some comic 
 performances of this sort in England, — some of 
 those free and too familiar addresses, in which the 
 player thinks only of laughter, and of saying what 
 is 'funny' without its being appropriate. We 
 could understand how an English lecture on the 
 needle-gun would be written by some of the ' smart ' 
 men of the day, — full of puns, and jokes, and 
 familiarity ; but the Erench player, even in this 
 light exercise, showed himself a true artist, and a 
 more interesting and dramatic quarter of an hour 
 could not be conceived. And it is worth while 
 pausing a little, to see on what principles real ' fun 
 Was to be got out of such a subject. The English 
 actor's theory would be something of this sort — 
 to amuse the audience by jesting, possibly by a 
 queer tone af voice, in imitation of some popular 
 lecturer, or of the generic type of lecturer. It 
 would take the shape of a comic lecture, perhaps 
 after the style of one of the late Albert Smith's ad- 
 
Comedy. y i 
 
 dresses. In nine cases out of ten, such would be 
 the view taken by an English actor to whom a man- 
 ager might propose such a performance. He would 
 be certain to get laughter out of it. The French 
 artist went to work on quite a different system. 
 He, as it were, said to himself, ' Lecturing, like 
 every other grave thing, has its comic side.' "We 
 could conceive a grave and simple-minded college- 
 professor enraptured at the science, and delighted 
 with the elegant ingenuity of the Chassepot. To 
 see a little man carried away by his enthusiasm, 
 and handling one of those terrible weapons, is in 
 itself a ludicrous contrast. He is humane, bookish, 
 would faint if he heard a shot ; yet he has this 
 murderous engine in his hand, and is expatiating on 
 it with affection, mixed with a little timidity. On 
 this view he would start with perfect gravity and a 
 painful earnestness, and from this basis the whole 
 humour of the lecture actually did flow. The most 
 delightful portion was this very sincerity and eager- 
 ness, which caused him, as it were, to forget the 
 whole theory of the mechanism ; and his enthusi- 
 astic nourishes about the perfection of the machin- 
 ery would be abruptly checked by a hopeless confu- 
 sion ; a bewildered look coming on his face as he 
 
T z 
 
 Comedy. 
 
 drew back a bolt, or pushed out some piece, having 
 at last to stop, — then extricating himself by light 
 generality ; but in his face was trouble and uncer- 
 tainty ; and he would again gradually approach 
 the really substantial portion of his lecture, the 
 explanation of the mechanism, which, by the end, 
 never was explained. 
 
 Now, the entertainment produced by this per- 
 formance — and it was very great — is the pure en- 
 tertainment of dramatic art. Plays, comedies, 
 and tragedies are all no more than a development 
 of this feeling. The source of pleasure here is 
 the earnestness and sincerity, which in itself was 
 the cause of the embarrassment and distress. It 
 was, in short, character in movement, and taking a 
 certain shape. 
 
 Of tragedy it is useless to speak, as we have no 
 tragedy, or indeed tragedians. It is, as it were, 
 out of fashion, and the sympathy of the age does 
 not go with, at least, the conventional shape of 
 tragedy. That stilted tone which attends on the 
 best of the old tragedies seems to interpose a 
 barrier of stout t buckram between them and our 
 hearty sympathy : and the stiff, stereotyped suffer- 
 ings which heroes and heroines endure, with the 
 
Comedy. 73" 
 
 established stalkin^s and mouthings to wliicli the 
 
 l0 « ^^.^ ^.^^^.^J^K 
 
 most respectable of modem players are partial, 
 make us believe that these are people and events 
 belonging to another dispensation altogether, and 
 who are really outside our fashion of life. Their 
 exaggerated and overdone woes we do not see or 
 hear of in the daily round of human affairs. It 
 will be otherwise when writers of imagination, with 
 instinct for character, and with a deep knowledge 
 of the passions, arise ; and who, studying the 
 course, the sympathies of our everyday life, will 
 hold up a true picture of real tragedy ', — of the 
 conflict of those special passions which are felt, are 
 raging about us, and belong to our time. Then 
 shall the true chord of sympathy be touched. 
 
 With comedy it is very different. We should 
 not be inclined to lay much stress on that view of 
 it, so often insisted on by so many critical writers, 
 which looks on it as a sort of censor for the time, 
 the castigator morion, which is a mere utilitarian 
 view. But the process of ' lashing ' the follies and 
 eccentr icities of the time by ' holding up the mir - 
 ror ' to human ch^r^cier^andjts efforts at outward 
 manifestation at the same time, is a precious 
 homage to the value of the stage, as a part of public 
 
74 Comedy. 
 
 education; and with a correct public taste and 
 really good dramatic writers, it can be the most 
 effectual reformer and corrector of morals and vul- 
 «4ta*garities. That there is nothing Utopian or painful 
 in this view will be seen in a moment. The 
 whole stream of dramatic life is marked by such 
 triumphs ; and a play written by some master of 
 satire and ridicule, and at the same time thoroughly 
 successful, has, over and over again, routed from 
 society some miserable folly that would other- 
 wise have held its ground. But here again we find 
 the difference between the genuine, and the false^ 
 dramatic art which now obtains. The latter affects, 
 indeed, to ridicule, as it faucies ; but it merely 
 exhibits. Often we see upon the stage some foolish 
 type of character of the time, offered in a ridicul- 
 ous shape, indeed, but still overdrawn and only a 
 caricature. The attempt on the part of writer, 
 and of player especially, is to produce a ' funny ' 
 effect ; the exceptional and odd portions are extra- 
 vagantly developed. The result is sympathy with, 
 rather than contempt for, the originals. As an in- 
 stance, the well-known dramatic Lord Dundreary, 
 who, as a character, has taken with the public more 
 than other characters during the last twenty year.'", 
 
Comedy. 75 
 
 must have been originally suggested by the type of 
 vapid, languid, vacuous swell, who is undoubtedly a 
 figure of society. That such a demeanour was and 
 is growing ' fashionable ' there can be no doubt, 
 as well as that it was a bitter social malady which 
 needed check and cure. A student of character, 
 like Poote for instance, would study carefully the 
 evils to which such a temperament leads ; its self- 
 ishness, heartlessness, and ignorance ; or, taking 
 a lighter view, the contemptible life, the useless- 
 ness, blundering, and stupidity of such a nature. 
 His part in the story would be marked by the 
 exhibition of these defects : he would be attended 
 in his course by laughter and enjoyment, but the 
 laughter of contempt. Of such a treatment of a 
 drama it is needless to say that Mr Tom Taylor is 
 quite capable ; but the point was to make a good 
 character for a particular actor. Mr Sothern, too, 
 could have given this legitimate view ; but the 
 result was a wonderful tour deforce, an extravagant 
 piece of farce, exceedingly amusing and grotesque, 
 but having no dramatic significance whatever. It 
 neither invites nor repels ; it is detached from the 
 story ; we go to see it and laugh.* The ' swell ' 
 
 * At the same time it would be impossible not to do justice, to the 
 
J 6 Comedy. 
 
 reigned triumphant, and perhaps enjoyed the spec- 
 tacle the most of any. He knew it could not apply 
 to him ; and the weekly ' funny ' papers had many 
 pictures on this truly comic unconsciousness. An 
 admirable passage of Leigh Hunt here recurs : — 
 ' The author thinks, not how he may improve his 
 audience by painting its likeness, but how he may 
 natter it by making its features beautiful, or amuse 
 4 it by showing how merrily he can distort them. 
 As nobody therefore finds his likeness on the stage, 
 nobody is improved by it ; virtue is not encouraged 
 by the representation of its unpresuming countenance, 
 nor is vice alarmed at the deformity of its passion- 
 tortured features : the scene is so far drawn for- 
 ward, as it were, into the part appropriated to the 
 audience, or in other words it is so evidently the 
 intention of the author, and consequently of his 
 actors, to stand before the spectator as mere can- 
 didates for applause, that the stage becomes liter- 
 ally abstracted from its abstraction, its professed 
 absence from an overlooked multitude is forgotten.' 
 On the other hand, there is a class of this 
 
 excellence of this extraordinary performance. All through it there 
 are real dramatic details ; but they are isolated, and do not relate to 
 the whole. But the intention was caricature. 
 
Comedy. 77 
 
 ' languid swell ' whose languor is the result of 
 slowness of temper, and who has good-nature 
 at the bottom of his absurdities. Such are often 
 judged a little unjustly; but the stage may stand 
 their friend ; and that lightly-sketched character 
 of ' Jack Poyntz ' in ' School ' has, in a small way, 
 brought home to many what good there may be 
 below such eccentricity. Such is the exquisite art 
 of a drama : it takes the place of acute judgment, 
 and teaches us what outside oddities there are, and 
 humours that have no connection with heart or 
 character, and what outside peculiarities flow 
 legitimately from within. These latter are what 
 really interest ; and the vice of our time, both in 
 writer and actor, is in mistaking mere outside 
 accidents for a legitimate signification of what is 
 within. It would take too long to examine the 
 other writers, but the single name of Eoote will be 
 sufficient, who, in play after play, delighted and 
 amused, and at the same time so covered with 
 ridicule, the vicious nabobs, macaroni parsons, 
 demireps, and other odious types of his day, as 
 actually to make them unfashionable, and subjects 
 of public contempt. 
 
 That same meagrcness of intellect which teaches 
 
7 8 Comedy. 
 
 that the servile imitation of material objects is the 
 highest dramatic art, has also seriously affected 
 the sbi-disant comedy of the day. "We may he 
 thankful for some little break in the clouds ; and 
 the extraordinary success of one play at a little 
 theatre, which has long passed its three hun- 
 dredth representation, shows that the taste for a 
 comedy of manners is not wholly dead. In 
 ' School ' the audience who fill stalls and boxes, 
 some of whom have been again and again to 
 see the piece, find the faint beginnings of that 
 pleasurable sensation, which arises from having 
 the mirror held to their lives. Yet surely, without 
 disparagement of the writer's cleverness, this 
 mirror is rather of a wavy surface, and presents 
 distorted outlines and reflections. As is well 
 known, it is a German play adapted. German 
 manners meet us at every turn, forced into con- 
 tact with English character. Thoroughly foreign 
 is the patriarchal character of the professor, who 
 is at the head of the young ladies' school ; so, 
 too, is the importance attached to the examination, 
 &c. Quite foreign, too, is the publicity, the ad- 
 mission of officers to an examination of young 
 ladies, the love-making, the fetching cream, the 
 
 ; 
 
Comedy. 79 
 
 wanderings in the woods, the moonlight scenes, 
 the marriage, with the arrival of the lady in her 
 bridal dress. The admirable acting makes ns 
 forget this discordance ; but the whole is a sort 
 of hybrid — a German lady with English feet. 
 But some of the British characters are so good, 
 and so excellently played, that we pass by the dis- 
 cordance ; we are glad to get something that ap- 
 proaches to the play of character on character, 
 and an evening at ' School ' was a most agreeable 
 and enjoyable one. 
 
 Still, using this play as an illustration, it will 
 be said that here is presented a very fine reflection 
 of some characters in English societv, and that 
 therefore this is good comedy. There is the good- 
 natured soldier ' swell,' Jack Poyntz, the young 
 lord, the old beau, the hoyden school-girl. But 
 there is more wanted than this, as will be seen 
 by a comparison with the other comedies. The 
 play, as was said, is very light and sketchy ; it 
 has no story, and is really no more than a 
 series of scenes and a number of pleasant agree- 
 able conversations. Far more than this is re- 
 quired. The substance j) f the drama is action , 
 J »iJ and this the dialogue and characters should help 
 
8o Comedy. 
 
 forward. Every sentence should be part of the 
 means to this end. All mere phases of cha- 
 racter, mere smart speeches, however good in 
 themselves, which do not belong to a situation, 
 which in itself belongs to the plot, is surplusage, 
 and in truth uninteresting. A great deal in 
 ' School ' is open to this objection, being put in to 
 show the author's command of what is called ' epi- 
 grammatic dialogue.' Even if this show the general 
 character of the person, it is not enough. The 
 situation should do that. Eor how is it in real-life ? 
 There is so much of what is affectation and arti- 
 ficial in our social relations, so much that is 
 indifferent in visits, talks, dinners, &c, that three- 
 fourths of what is done and spoken has no special 
 ^i,gnificance. But let a strong situation arise, 
 something where our interest and inclinations are 
 concerned, and then genuine character is brought 
 out ; every word has thus a purpose. So with 
 comic peculiarity or humour — a situation is the 
 talisman for that. But in truth ' School ' in its 
 original shape is little more than a poem or pastoral, 
 and is merely a delicate idealization of German 
 scholastic life. As such it went home to the hearts 
 of those for whom it was written. So, too, in^ 
 
Comedy. 8 1 
 
 a later piece, ' The Nightingale,' there is a 
 young ensign played by Mrs Mellon. It was 
 clearly the intention of the author to give a 
 picture of a boy officer, fresh from school, and 
 always talking nonsense from sheer spirits. Such 
 a type undoubtedly exists, but it is no charac- 
 ter for the stage, nor character at all. Such 
 is too trifling and too harmless to be worthy of 
 serious satire ; taken by itself, is so purpose- 
 less, and the childish speeches have so little con- 
 nection with interior character, that the whole 
 has merely the effect of careless and unmeaning 
 rambling on the author's part. As was said before, 
 for sta°;e charact er a ce rtain str ength and meaiLL 
 
 O - ■ — *j 
 
 ing and_co nsistency is necessar y, — external pecu- , 
 liarities alone will not do. When it comes to J^\ 
 represent folly by foolish words, which hare no 
 connection with action, interior or exterior, there 
 is absolutely no effect produced, or rather a 
 wrong effect. In short, mere servile copying is 
 not sufficient, as can be shown by this illustration 
 from novel-writing. It might be assumed that 
 people of rank writing about high life would, 
 without any gifts, be able to give the most satis- 
 £h(t£ry picture of its manners and customs. But 
 
 6 
 
82 Comedy. 
 
 how do they go about it ? We find a ' state ' 
 dinner party described minutely — the ornaments, 
 servants, courses, &c. ; ' a perfect photograph,' 
 their friends will tell them. Yet the effect is pure 
 vulgarity ; the writer unintentionally appears like 
 a parvenu who has seen such an entertainment for 
 the first time. The skilful writer, on the con- 
 trary, who has studied what may be called the art 
 of indication, knows how to convey the effect, with- 
 out at all appearing to be struck by these objects. 
 And the skilful dramatic writer will convey the 
 effect of a boy-officer's folly by some outward 
 action operating in such a nature, or would make 
 the spectator draw such a conclusion for himself. 
 The opposite plan is no more than a mere label- 
 ling, ' This is a foolish fellow,' ' this is a joke,' &c. 
 The taste for ' sensation,' as it is called, has 
 effected more than scenery ; and the charac- 
 ters in a drama, to ' draw,' must be of that 
 startling ' raree-show ' description popularized by 
 burlesque, laid in such staring gaudy colours as 
 all who run may read. But they are indeed of a 
 quality which would more suit those who cannot 
 read. Mr Byron has been lately playing, in one of 
 his own pieces, an eccentric character, which ] ^ 
 
Comedy. 83 
 
 had very great success. This is ' Sir Simon 
 Simple,' in ' Not such a Pool as he looks.' Now 
 here we are enabled by comparison to see after 
 what different principles the French and English 
 go to work. The English piece might be ex- 
 pected to turn on apparent stupidity being a 
 match for cleverness ; and the basis of pleasure 
 for the audience would be found in the defeat of 
 those who would take advantage of mere physical 
 
 r 
 
 deficiencies. And, again, there would be this 
 further moral, the unfairness of judging character 
 hastily, because of such outward deficiencies. This, 
 naturally, was the view taken by the French writer, 
 Charles de Bernard, whose outlines and principle — 
 and only these — Mr Tom Taylor has taken for that 
 excellent play, ' Still Waters run Deep,' substitut- 
 ing indifference and apparent weakness of pur- 
 pose for imbecility. Mr Byron, on the contrary, 
 worked on the surface, merely following to the 
 established principles of the day. The first object 
 was the reaction of a purely eccentric character, 
 who would stand alone, and whose oddities of 
 dress, speech, and manner might cause laughter,, 
 A great deal of effect is produced by a dull 
 sheepish manner, an eye-glass permanently fixed 
 
84 Comedy. 
 
 in the eye, sleek yellow hair, &c. Nearly every 
 speech he utters is written to produce a point and 
 convey variety. He is sent to distribute tracts 
 to workmen, and relates how he was received. 
 1 1 knocked at Crump's door. The door was opened 
 by Crump, and out came Crump ; ' which pro- 
 duced loud laughter. lie says he produced 
 a great effect on Crump. ' No doubt he was 
 softened by your kindness ? ' the giver of the 
 tract asks. ' "Well, 11-110, not exactly that.' ' Well, 
 perhaps you reasoned with him on the course he 
 was pursuing?' ' N-no, I can't say that I did.' 
 ' Well, what did you do ? ' i I stood him a pot of 
 porter and a screw.' This produced another roar. 
 Now, Mr Byron is undoubtedly a clever writer, 
 and he merely writes ' this sort of thing,' follow- 
 ing the existing fashion of his school. But a play 
 or a character, made merely on a series of 'jokes' 
 like this, is a play and character constructed on 
 false dramatic principles. A French writer would 
 have studied such a character from within, and 
 would have seen the situation best calculated to 
 bring it in strange lights and attitudes. But 
 mere grotesque dress and grotesque speeches will 
 never make character, or indeed interest. 
 
Comedy. 85 
 
 The same false 4 tack ' in the case of both writer 
 and actor is to be seen in another modern piece, by 
 Mr Craven, a writer who has ' a name ' — the grand 
 point to be looked to, — in a piece called ' Philomel,' 
 lately playing at the Globe Theatre. The scene 
 is laid in Jersey ; and the author, casting about for 
 novelty in the conception of a comic character, 
 naturally thought of the steam-packets between 
 Southampton and Jersey ; and the steam-packets 
 then suggested a funny steward. What direction 
 this fun was to take was naturally the next ques- 
 tion ; and the opposition between his apparent 
 nautical character, and his really landsmanlike 
 avocation, seemed to promise a legitimate dramatic 
 opening. But the conventional treatment sug- 
 gested itself at once. The comic steward must 
 advertise himself in that line, and tell the audience, 
 in so many words, that he is trying to imitate a 
 sailor. Thus he was always ostentatiously ' hitch- 
 ing up ' his trousers, lifting his legs in a nautical 
 hornpipe fashion, and went off always with a de- 
 claration that ' he was a true British Tar 1 ' Now, 
 tested by real life and character, this was all false. 
 The real steward, who was zealously ambitious to 
 be thought a sailor, would never assert it, would 
 
// 
 
 86 Comedy. 
 
 be hurt if any one else were to do it. He would 
 assume that the fact was self-evident ; but a 
 skilful writer would make him betray his eagerness 
 by various signs and tokens, which the audience 
 would see with enjoyment, but of which he himself 
 would be assumed to be unconscious. 
 
 Mr Andrew Halliday's last piece, 'Love's 
 Doctor,' will bear being tried by the true dra- 
 matic tests of genuine character ; and the relative 
 situations of the characters make it a bit of 
 genuine comedy. The stages by which such a 
 piece might have been evolved would have been 
 something after this fashion. First, it might be 
 supposed a sort of inspiration would be suggested, 
 either by experience or by instinct, as to the dra- 
 matic contrast afforded by high and low life, eacii 
 with their distinct sympathies, being forced vio- 
 lently into contact, and how unpleasantly they 
 would lie upon each other in every way. We may 
 suppose a little sketch of the plot had just sug- 
 gested itself to the author, a ' young gentleman ' 
 falling in love with a girl of very low family, and 
 cured by the father's welcoming and forwarding 
 the proposal. Now, this bare outline is dramatic 
 in itself, as it brings a sort of surprise, founded still 
 
Comedy. By 
 
 on study of liumaii nature ; for the ordinary course 
 would seem to be, that opposition would be the 
 natural means for carrying out the father's end. 
 The mind that would take such a course would be 
 a superior one, from its knowing human nature 
 better, and its proceedings would excite our interest 
 and respect. Having got thus far, the true drama- 
 tist would see that there also existed a dramatic 
 element in the contrast of two social ranks brought 
 into such peculiarly intimate contact, and would 
 ask himself how would he make this relation oper- 
 ate on his plot. By developing an honest and 
 natural vulgarity in the lower characters, who 
 shall have a thorough sympathy with their calling, 
 — say a greengrocery business, — believe in it, and 
 respect it. A false principle, and a common one, 
 would be to make ' funny ' parts for the players, as 
 would be done in a farce, in which case the effect 
 is lost. Next the dramatist would think of his 
 individual characters ; how they would forward, or 
 be developed by, the story ; and it was a happy 
 instinct that suggested the tippling ' hero,' trading 
 on his Crimean ' charge,' — a vapouring, worthless 
 fellow, whose sham dignity seemed to bring him a 
 little nearer at first sight to the family with whom 
 
8 8 Comedy. 
 
 his daughter was to be connected, but which, in 
 reality, sank him loiver than his own rank. Further, 
 a real and moral dignity was given to that low 
 family by the honest independence of the wife and 
 daughter, — their true dignity, which made them 
 find support for the worthless husband, and in the 
 end sets them, in the eyes of the audience, on a 
 level with the genteel family who rejects them. 
 This is all dramatic, and it shows how a well-chosen 
 subject in good hands will work itself out. There 
 are minor contrasts of a humorous sort, as when Mr 
 and Mrs Onion go on a visit to the genteel house, 
 when, as is to be expected, the ' hero's ' dignity and 
 bearing helps to bring out the contrast. There is 
 only one failure in the working out, and that, it 
 may be conceived, was due to the exigence of the 
 acting caste. The ' young gentleman ' who was in 
 love should have been thoroughly genuine, just as 
 his cure and awakening are genuine. His cha- 
 racter should have been that of a foolish, ardent, 
 and unsophisticated lad. Instead, he is forced, by 
 the eccentricity of the actor, into the London cock- 
 ney of farce. This is felt to be a false and artificial 
 idea all through, and it jars upon us. The piece 
 is, in short, written on those principles on which it 
 
Comedy. 89 
 
 would have been written in the last century ; and 
 it is a healthy and genuine ' success.' 
 
 But in truth all the good dramatic pieces are 
 constructed on such principles. Over a hundred 
 years ago came out a farce which still keeps the 
 stage, and which for humour is worth whole hales 
 of farces of the ' Box and Cox ' pattern. This is 
 the amusing ' High Life below Stairs,' long attri- 
 buted to the pen of a clergyman, but which really 
 seems to have been the work of Garrick, who was 
 always reluctant to have his name affiched as an 
 author. The motive of this situation is the con- 
 temptible and comic result of those in a low station 
 aping merely the outside airs and manners, dress, 
 &c, of their betters, which is the first feeling. 
 Thus the jarring opposition between the internal 
 ' valet ' nature and the borrowed plumes in which 
 it has decked itself, brings about what is ludicrous 
 and dramatic, with even a moral. In the hands of 
 great actors, who had studied human nature, with 
 the way it would manifest itself under such con- 
 ditions, it must have been a treat of the highest 
 order. The moderns will, of course, only think of 
 getting 'fun' out of their characters, exaggerate 
 absurdly, and take care to show all the time that 
 
90 Comedy. 
 
 they arc merely masquerading. The sincerity and 
 genuine belief of ' My Lord Duke ' and ' Lady 
 Betty ' that they were bearing themselves correctly, 
 and quite on a level with the demeanour of their 
 august masters and mistresses, would never enter 
 their heads. But we shall come back to this piece 
 later. 
 
 It is when we pass from some of the things 
 now playing, to Goldsmith's ' She Stoops to Con- 
 quer,' at the St James's Theatre, that we may 
 well despair of the English drama. Light and 
 darkness, brilliancy and stupidity, nature and af- 
 fectation, life and death, are not more opposed. 
 But it seems a wonder how this immortal comedy 
 ' got into this galley ; ' it is as strange among its 
 fellows, as was Rip Van "Winkle after his return. 
 It is, alas ! a little strange also to the audience, 
 who, though amused, seem but half satisfied, as 
 though this was not the sort of thing they liked. 
 The truth is, their stomachs are so accustomed to 
 rich loaded sauces and greasy stews, they cannot 
 as yet relish prime well-dressed meats. Audiences 
 have to be educated as well as actors, who are now 
 unequal to such a task, and really find it far above 
 their strength. Their tongues are itching for the 
 
Comedy 
 
 easy and rollicking familiarities of the every-day 
 farce, or their limbs yearning for the easy ' break- 
 down.' And, indeed, this play, like others of 
 the same importance, was written for very great 
 players, and was meant to be a stock piece at that 
 one house. It was not intended to be carried over 
 the kingdom and played by every journeyman 
 corps that could get permission to do so. It be- 
 longed to the original actors. So long as they 
 survived, and young Marlow was to be convertible 
 with Lee Lewes, and Miss Hardcastle with Mrs 
 Bulkeley, it made no itinerant course. 
 
 That delightful comedy, ' She Stoops to Con- 
 quer,' would indeed deserve a volume, and is the 
 best specimen of what an English comedy should ' 
 be. It illustrates excellently what has been said 
 as to the necessity of the plot depending on the 
 characters, rather than the characters depending 
 on the plot, as the fashion is at present. How 
 would our modern playwright have gone to work, 
 should he have lighted on this good subject for 
 a piece — that of a gentleman's house being taken 
 for an inn, and the mistakes it might give rise to ? 
 He would have an irascible old proprietor, who 
 would be thrown into contortions of fury by the 
 
9 2 Comedy. 
 
 insults he was receiving; visitors free and easy, 
 pulling the furniture about, ransacking the ward- 
 robes, with other farcical pranks, such as would 
 betray that they were not gentlemen, or such as 
 guests at an inn would never dream of doing. 
 But farce would be got out of it somehow. We 
 might almost swear that the real ' fun ' of the 
 whole would be fetched out of the servants, 
 the part of a drawling flunkey being specially 
 
 ' written up ' for Mr , or Mr . The 
 
 visitor's ' hown ' valet, a fine London domestic, 
 would have a great deal of 'business,' and his 
 love-makings and freedoms with the ' landlady ' 
 would have a great share in the piece. 
 
 Very different were the principles of Gold- 
 smith. He had this slight shred of a plot to 
 start with ; but it was conceived at the same moment 
 with the character of Harlow — the delicacy and 
 art of which conception is beyond description. 
 It was the character of all others to bring out 
 the farce and humour of the situation, viz. a 
 character with its two sides — one that was for- 
 ward and impudent with persons of the class he 
 believed his hosts to belong to, but liable at any 
 crisis, on the discovery of the mistake, to be 
 
Comedy. 93 
 
 reduced to an almost pitiable state of shyness 
 and confusion. It is the consciousness that this 
 change is in petto at any moment, that the cool 
 town man may be hoisted in a second on this 
 petard, that makes all so piquant for the spectator. 
 To make Mario w a mere exquisite would have 
 furnished a conventional dramatic contrast : but the 
 addition of bashfulness — and of bashfulness after 
 this artistic view — more than doubled the dramatic 
 force. A further strengthening' was the letting 
 his friend into the secret ; so that this delight- 
 fully self-sufficient creature is the only one of all 
 concerned — including audience — who is unaware 
 of his situation. In the hands of an actor of 
 genius this character would be a treat indeed, but 
 would require the most airy and elegant gifts. 
 He is a gentleman, and a pleasant creature ; 
 with all his dandyism is interesting, and has our 
 sympathy. It might be thought that even an 
 average actor could not fail in making some crude 
 attempt at presenting some such view. But the 
 American gentleman, who has played it over a 
 hundred nights at the St James's Theatre, has, 
 with a blindness almost amazing, turned the 
 ' agreeable rattle ' into a sort of solemn prig, a 
 
 A 
 
94 Comedy. 
 
 sort of dull, persecuted gentleman, taking the 
 whole au grand serieux. 
 
 His advances to the supposed barmaid are in 
 the style of a commercial traveller's. To take a 
 specimen, where the true ' airiness ' required by 
 the play is curiously missed, Marlow asks the 
 barmaid, wishing to invent an excuse to detain 
 her, ' Have you got any of — your — a — what-d'-ye- 
 call-it, in the house ? ' and is answered : ' No, sir, 
 we have been out of that these ten days.' Both 
 question and answer were given off glibly, as 
 learnt by heart, and produced no effect. It realty 
 conveyed the idea that some undefined drink was 
 asked for, and could not be supplied. Now, with 
 more refined acting, Marlow would ask in a sort 
 of distrait way, showing that he wanted nothing ; 
 and was so taken up with the idea of detaining the 
 young lady, that he could not recollect the name 
 of anything to call for. There would be, besides, 
 an element of gaiety and fun, as he had to fall 
 back on the description, ' what-d'-ye-call-it.' The 
 answer, too, would not take the shape of a glib, pert 
 retort, but would be delivered with a sly gravity, 
 and twinkle of enjoyment. It may seem trifling 
 to linger on so small a matter as this ; but where 
 
Comedy. g$ 
 
 such an obvious and necessary reading was missed, 
 it shows that far more serious mistakes are made. 
 Again, too, the gentleman who plays Hastings 
 illustrates but a too common vice of the stage — the 
 getting broad, coarse effect, at the expense of the 
 situation. Thus, in the delightful passage where 
 Hastings is nattering Mrs Hardcastle, the effect 
 produced is of ill-bred humbugging to her face. It is 
 needless to say the true effect should be that of a 
 gentleman, paying false, but elaborate, compliments, 
 with an extravagant and obsequious courtesy. 
 But this is the coarse colouring of existing stage 
 manners ; every player must be in rapport with his 
 audience, and these coarse effects, he thinks, im- 
 press his merits better on them. That delicate in- 
 sinuation of a point is too difficult and troublesome. 
 How rich, again, in broad Leslie-like touches of 
 character ! Hardcastle instructing Diggory and 
 his fellow-servants, the reception of Marlow and 
 Hastings at the supposed inn, with their con- 
 temptuous inattention to the landlord. 
 
 ' Gentlemen, you are, once more, heartily welcome. Which is 
 Mr Marlow? — Sir, you are heartily welcome. It's not my way, you 
 see, to receive my friends with my hack to the fire. I like to give 
 them a hearty reception at the gate ; I like to see their horses and 
 trunks taken care of. 
 
96 Comedy. 
 
 Mar. (aside). He has got our names from the servants. — We 
 approve your caution and hospitality, sir. (To Hastings) I have 
 been thinking, George, of changing our travelling dresses in the 
 morning ; I am grown confoundedly ashamed of mine. 
 
 Hard. I beg, Mr Marlow, you'll use no ceremony in this house. 
 
 Hast. I fancy, Charles, you are right ; the first blow is half the 
 battle. I intend opening the campaign with the white-and-gold. 
 
 Hard. Mr Marlow, Mr Hastings, gentlemen, pray be under no re- 
 straint in this house. This is Liberty Hall, gentlemen ; you may do 
 just as you please. 
 
 Mar. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too fiercely at first, 
 we may want ammunition. I think to reserve the embroidery, to 
 secure a retreat. 
 
 Hard. Your talking of a retreat, Mr Marlow. puts me in mind of 
 the Duke of Marlborough when he went to besiege Denain. He first 
 summoned the garrison — 
 
 Mar. Don't you think the ventre d'or waistcoat will do with the 
 plain brown ? 
 
 Hard. He first summoned the garrison,' &c. 
 
 Now the contrast between the host's exuber- 
 ant welcome, his joy at seeing his old friend's 
 son, his vast sense of importance, and the deli- 
 cious indifference of the two guests, is perfect 
 comedy. The whole is worked out with a wealth 
 of ideas, and a cumulative power that is mar- 
 vellous. 
 
 One could write on and on, in praise of this 
 delicious comedy. What was before Goldsmith's 
 mind was the local colour, as background for 
 Marlow, — the picture of the old country house and 
 
Comedy. 97 
 
 its old-fashioned tenants, its regular types of cha- 
 racter, as full and round as the portraits on the 
 wall. Then there is the artful contrast of the 
 characters, every figure in it separate, distinct, 
 alive, coloured, round, and to be thought of, 
 positively like people we have known. Young 
 Marlow, and Tony Lumpkin, — old Hardcastle, 
 and Diggory, and Mrs Hardcastle, — these are 
 things to he recalled hereafter, from being framed 
 in an admirable setting at a theatre in this metro- 
 polis, where the background, the atmosphere, 
 the scenery, and dress, is like a series of old 
 pictures, and helps us over many shortcomings 
 that strike -the eye. With excellent playing in one 
 leading character, Tony, it haunts the memory as 
 something enjoyable ; and, to one who goes round 
 the playhouses, it is as though he had been stop- 
 ping at some cheerful country-house from which 
 he was loth to depart. Never, it must be said, 
 was Goldsmith so honoured before ; and this treat- 
 ment deserves mention, as being a judicious mean 
 between reckless overlaying of decoration and 
 'mounting,' such as distinguished Mr Kcan's 
 revivals, and mere meagre adornment. It is im- 
 possible to dismiss from the memory the several 
 
yu Comedy. 
 
 pictures in this play — the dresses, so subdued and 
 rich ; the furniture, so marked and complete, yet 
 not obtrusive. The village alehouse, a charming 
 interior in sober subdued colours, is scarcely 
 worthy of Wilkie — as is boasted in the bills — but, 
 taken with Goldsmith's animation, is in Wilkie's 
 key. Mr Hardcastle's drawing-room, with its 
 great fireplace, its great deep colouring, its sombre 
 hues, its general air of oalc, its very original archi- 
 tectural arrangement, is beyond praise. There are 
 episodes, too, and groupings that come back — as, 
 the blaze of the cheerful fire on the two travellers 
 in their riding-coats, sunk down in the great 
 ■ Cromwell pattern ' chairs, while the owner of the 
 house tries in vain to ' cut in ' with his stories. 
 Other plays have been also mounted with the most 
 minute attention ; but here it is Goldsmith himself 
 and his genius that supports this embroidery. 
 
 "What a play ! We never tire of it. How rich 
 in situations, each the substance of a whole play ! 
 At the very first sentence the stream of humour 
 begins to flow. Mrs Hardcastle's expostulation 
 against being kept in the country, and her hus- 
 band's grumbling defence ; the alehouse, and the 
 contrast of the genteel travellers misdirected ; the 
 
Comedy. 99 
 
 drilling of the servants by Hardcastle ; the match- 
 less scene between Marlow, his friend, and the 
 supposed landlord; the interrupted story of the 
 Duke of Marlborough, unrivalled in any comedy ; 
 the scene between the shy Marlow and Miss Hard- 
 castle ; Hastings' compliments to Mrs Hardcastle ; 
 the episode of the jewels ; Marlow's taking Miss 
 Hardcastle for the barmaid ; the drunken servant, 
 and Hardcastle' s fairly losing all patience ; and 
 the delightful and airily delicate complications 
 as to Marlow's denial of having paid any atten- 
 tions ; the puzzle of his father ; the enjoyment of 
 the daughter, who shares the secret with the 
 audience, — all this makes up an innumerable 
 series of exquisite situations, yet all flowing from 
 that one simple motif of the play, the mistaking a 
 house for an inn!* Matchless piece! with no- 
 
 * It is curious that about the beginning of the present century a 
 similar ' mistake of the night ' occurred in the case of Lord Oriel, the 
 last Speaker of the Irish Commons. His house was at the end of a 
 village ; and some officers on the march, coming by at night, mistook 
 a hatchment over the door for the sign of an inn. They knocked, 
 and were admitted ; and the Speaker, familiar with Goldy's then 
 recent play, was not indisposed to carry out the humour of the thing. 
 After dinner the mistake was betrayed through some accident, and 
 they were hurrying away in much confusion. But they were kept for 
 the night. ' Gentlemen,' said Lord Oriel, with the formal politeness 
 
 7 * 
 
i oo Comedy. 
 
 thing forced, nothing strained, everything natural 
 and easy. ' Gay ' would be the word to describe 
 it. We regret when it is over, and look back to 
 it with delight. 
 
 Again, with this let us compare the most 
 popular piece of the day, ' School.' There a 
 young ingenue thinks the moon should be ad- 
 dressed as ' she,' because it is always out so 
 late at nights ; a quip that produces the roar 
 of the night. An average English ' swell,' slow, 
 and rather dull, speaks in a dawdling fashion 
 of love. ' Love is the mellow sunshine ' — these 
 are nearly the words — ' and there is no eclipse . . .' 
 Again: 'Yes ; Love's an extra. Love is a species of 
 lunacy of Avhich marriage is the strait waistcoat . . .' 
 He is asked is he married, and answers he was 
 once in quarantine for so many days. ' I am an 
 orphan,' he adds ; ' can go in single or in double 
 harness.' Some one makes a remark about not 
 wanting money. ' Not want money ! You should 
 be photographed? — which produces a roar. Douglas 
 Jerrold put nearly the same idea in a very dif- 
 ferent shape. ' My dear friend,' says one of the 
 
 which belongs to ' the old school,' ' you came into this house for your 
 own pleasure ; and I beg that you will remain for mine.' 
 
Comedy. i o i 
 
 characters in ' Bubbles of the Day,' ' you cannot 
 image how much I am in want of a thousand 
 
 pounds.' The other answers, 'My dear , 
 
 every man is in want of a thousand pounds.'' This is 
 founded on human nature and human character, 
 and points at the craving's of even the richest : the 
 other frail speech is unmeaning, and falls to pieces 
 when touched. "Why should a man be photo- 
 graphed for holding any opinion, when everybody 
 is photographed ? If it was, indeed, ' you should 
 be engraved and published,' or, your head, like 
 Lofty 's, ' stuck in the print-shops,' there would be 
 more sense; but in either shape there is neither 
 wit nor epigram. So that ' go in single or double 
 harness ' belongs to a very stale shape of jest that 
 has been uttered over and over again, and which 
 rings the changes on marriage being ' a yoke,' 
 ' wearing the snaffle,' ' a curb rein,' and such like. 
 This gentleman saves some young ladies from a 
 pursuing bull, and they thank him for killing the 
 cow. A roar when he acknowledges their civility, 
 adding, c Only the coiv teas a hulV He begs them 
 to say no more : ' A bull is shot — what matters it 
 who shot him, particularly to the hull ? ' The young 
 lady is described as ' artless as moss ; fresh as 
 
102 Comedy. 
 
 nature.' She is running to get some milk in a 
 jug, and he says he thought that in the country 
 { they carried the milk about in cotvs.' These may 
 not be the precise words ; but the point produced, 
 perhaps, one of the loudest guffaws of the night. 
 So did an allusion to the costume of ' A Life 
 Guardsman in kid boots or breeches, cool to fight 
 in and convenient to cross country.' 
 
 Now, all this style of remark is not in charac- 
 ter, even putting aside the question of its merits. 
 The piece is supposed to be a reflection of the 
 manners of existing society ; but any gentleman 
 talking in such a style would be set down as an 
 idiot, or a ridiculous pedant. Let us conceive a 
 gentleman at a dinner party addressing a surprised 
 company with, ' Love is but a species of lunacy,' 
 &c, or making a reply in answer to the question 
 if he was married, ' I was once in quarantine at 
 Malta.' Such a speech would scarcely be made 
 by a gentleman, and might be considered a piece 
 of ill-bred flippancy. The supposition of milk 
 being carried about in the cow is either sheer 
 fatuity if spoken in earnest, or else a 'joke ' of a 
 very low sort. But all this comes from a false 
 notion of dramatic effect; the same failing, in 
 

 Comedy. 1 03 
 
 short, which is the bane of the existing acting. 
 The actor introduces himself, his fun, his gags, 
 and his vanity into the part, quite regardless of 
 whether any be appropriate to, or at variance with, 
 the character. In the same fashion, the writer 
 only thinks of what he considers ' good things,' 
 that will tell on the audience, never consider- 
 ing whether his ' sparkling epigrams ' are suit- 
 able to the situation, or ridiculous in the mouth 
 of the particular actor. It is hardly fair thus 
 to put ' School ' beside one of the first of come- 
 dies — ' She Stoops to Conquer,' but the strangest 
 thing is, that we look in vain through the lat- 
 ter piece for anything that at all corresponds 
 to ' epigrammatic ' dialogue. That true master 
 and excellent observer of nature knew that men 
 and women did not talk in forced quips, but 
 with ' gaiety ' and pleasantry. To give a selec- 
 tion from the ' good things ' in that incompar- 
 able play would fill sheets. We have only to 
 think of the rare occasions when we have sat 
 by a person full of wit, and at the same time 
 full of spirits, we can recall the indescribable 
 pleasure we had in listening — the ease, the nature 
 of his sallies, their pleasant a propos. They certainly 
 
1 04 Comedy. 
 
 do not take the shape of ' Love is a species of 
 lunacy,' &c. 
 
 All ' good things ' should come in naturally, 
 and he horn of vivacity. It will he seen at once, 
 hy an instance or two, how easily Goldsmith's wit 
 fits into its place. Hastings is nattering Mrs 
 Hardcastle, declaring that such a head in a side 
 hox at the play-house would draw as many gazers 
 as my Lady Mayoress at a city hall. 
 
 Mrs Hard. I vow, since inoculation began, there is no such thing 
 to be seen as a plain woman. 
 
 Now, this is a ' good thing ; ' yet it has not the 
 air of the author saying it, and it drops from her 
 lips quite unconsciously. Again, the following 
 may he tested in the same way. 
 
 Hast. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed to pay for these 
 fineries. I have often seen a good sideboard, or marble chimney- 
 piece, though not actually put in the bill, inflame it confoundedly. 
 
 Mr Hardcastle inveighing against the follies of 
 his time, declared that once they crept slowly 
 amongst us. ' Now they come down not only as 
 inside passengers, hut in the very hasket.' This 
 speech is not merely by way of ' epigram,' hut 
 is simply an old grumbler's way of putting his 
 opinion most forcibly. 
 
Comedy. 1 05 
 
 Now, the ' epigrammatic ' and ' sparkling dia- 
 logue ' for which some modern playwrights obtain 
 a reputation, is founded on quite a different prin- 
 ciple. Again, we may take the most successful 
 dramatist of the day — Mr Robertson — as type of 
 the rest. The epigrammatic writer seems to intro- 
 duce his ' epigrams ' with the same nourishing per- 
 sonality that Joseph Surface does his ' sentiments.' 
 
 In one of his latest productions, the fol- 
 lowing jests are put into the mouth of a maid- 
 servant. She can never accept a gentleman for 
 a lover; 'as the pitcher that goes often to the 
 8io ell gets broken at last.' Some one asks why 
 cannot the heroine get back her voice. The maid 
 replies, ' You can't advertise for it as for a lost dog.' 
 Men are always deceivers ; ' for, like the dogs in 
 Dr Watts, " 'tis their nature to." ' Now, to test 
 great principles by such trifles, the first 'jest' 
 about going to the ' swell ' must either have been 
 spoken by the maid as an intentional jest, in 
 which case it was forced and at variance with her 
 character ; or else it was the author speaking ' an 
 epigram ' through her mouth and therefore dra- 
 matically false. The advertisement for a voice, 
 as for a lost dog, is unmeaning ; for by no tortur- 
 
1 06 Comedy. 
 
 ing, either by figure, or by way of wit, or metaphor, 
 can advertising be brought in connection with the 
 recovery of a lost voice. 
 
 It seems absurd thus to analyze seriously what 
 perhaps never cost the author a thought, but it il- 
 lustrates the false principle on which it is construct- 
 ed. I am tempted to go on and give specimens of 
 the truer treatment of character as presented in the 
 old comedies. It would be difficult to give reasons 
 for the truth and excellence of these pictures, but 
 his own instinct will convince every reader. The 
 test would be to set the particular situation as a 
 problem for some of our modern writers, and we 
 could almost guess the handling. Should we 
 conceive the case of a much-tried husband remon- 
 strating with a fashionable wife on her late hours 
 and dissipation, it would take the shape of a 
 regular formula. The husband would fret and 
 fume and stamp, the wife talk pertly about her 
 opera-box. There would be much that was ' smart ' 
 and of the ' give and take ' pattern. In a modern 
 successful piece, ' War to the Knife,' we see how 
 two ladies will talk of an absent gentleman. The 
 dialogue is not dull or heavy, and is certainly far 
 
Comedy. 107 
 
 better than what is to be found in the average 
 play of the time. 
 
 Mrs H. (r.) You know liira, then ? 
 
 Mrs D. (l., coquettishly) Well, yes, I do — I've met him. 
 
 Mrs H. Come, now, I can see you know him very well. 
 
 Mrs D. Go along, my dear ! But don't you ? 
 
 Mrs H. No, I've never seen him. 
 
 Mrs D. I met him at Harrogate last year — met him a great deal. 
 You know what watering-places are. Society seems to fling aside its 
 conventional reserve, and people revel for a short season in heing 
 natural. Folks get quite friendly and familiar until they come back 
 to town with its gloom and its dismal propriety. 
 
 Mrs H. What's he like ? handsome, Charley says. 
 
 Mrs D. Oh ! he's well enough as men go. 
 
 Mrs II. Come, now, Madam Quibble, from your manner I suspect — ■ 
 
 Mrs D. My dear, never suspect ; always be certain, you'll find it'll 
 save a world of trouble. 
 
 Mrs H. Then I'm certain you take an interest in Captain Thistle- 
 ton. He's coming to-night. 
 
 Mrs D. I take an interest in him, indeed ! how utterly absurd ! 
 when do you think he'll come ? 
 
 Mrs H. Oh, with Charley, no doubt. 
 
 Mrs D. (looking at her watch, impatiently) How very inconsiderate 
 it is of your husband being so late. All alike ! 
 
 Mrs II. Are they ? was Mr Delacour at all like — 
 
 Mrs D. (quickly) Dick Thistleton ? Not a bit ! Delacour wasn't 
 handsome, nor young, nor agreeable, not a good dancer, nor — 
 
 Mrs H. Nor everything delightful, which it is evident Captain 
 Thistleton is. 
 
 Mrs D. Who said so, pray ? 
 
 Mrs H. Nobody ; only I don't suspect, you see ; I make certain. 
 
 Mrs D. Upon my word, an apt pupil, (crosses, R.) 
 
i o 8 Comedy. 
 
 Mrs R. After all you've said I'm quite anxious to see this Admir- 
 able Crichton. 
 
 Mrs D. (r., a little offended) Indeed, my dear ! pray, remember 
 you are a married wife. 
 
 Mrs II. Now you're jealous ! I'm sure you're jealous. 
 
 Mrs D. Am I ? (laughing) Well, perhaps I am just the least bit in 
 the world ; but there, it's over now : I've only to look in your eyes, 
 dear, to see that you are as simple and as honest as the light, of day. 
 (They kiss.) 
 
 Now, this seems all ' thin,' and it is merely no 
 more than a bit of narrative broken up and dis- 
 tributed between two people. Indeed, it thus only 
 fairly follows the modern mechanical school of 
 play -joinery, in which the writer chiefly thinks, 
 how he is to bring his crowded incidents before 
 the audience. The figures are used either to narrate 
 or to suffer ; the incidents and ' characters ' are 
 introduced, quite detached, and solely to show off 
 the ' funny ' person of the company. Now, to go 
 back to the buoyant and spirited ' Provoked 
 Husband,' the work of a mere beginner, yet every 
 line in which shows a knowledge of character. 
 There is no one who reads the following short ex- 
 tract but will gather a notion of plot, character, 
 and dramatic interest, which he would fail to do 
 from a whole volume of narrative. 
 
 Lord Townly. Going out so soon after dinner, madam ? 
 
Comedy. ( 109 
 
 Lady Townly. Lord, my lord ! what can I possibly do at home ? 
 
 Lord T. What does my sister, Lady Grace, do at home ? 
 
 Lady T. Why, that to me is amazing. Have you ever arjy pleasure 
 at home ? 
 
 Lord T. It might be in your power, madam, I confess, to make it 
 a little more comfortable to me. 
 
 Lady T. Comfortable ! And so, my good lord, you would really 
 have a woman of my rank and spirit stay at home to comfort her 
 husband. Lord ! what notions of life some men have. 
 
 Lord T. Don't you think, madam, some ladies' notions are fully as 
 extravagant — In short, madam, the life you lead — 
 
 Lady T. — is to me the pleasantest life in the world. 
 
 Lord T. Tell me, seriously, why you married me. 
 
 Lady T. You insist upon the truth, you say ? 
 
 Lord T. I think I have a right to it. 
 
 Lady T. Why, then, my lord, to give you at once a proof of my 
 sincerity and obedience, I think I married to take off that restraint 
 that lay upon my pleasures while I was a single woman. 
 
 Lord T. How, madam ? is any woman under less restraint after 
 marriage than before it ? 
 
 Of itself this extract is rich in story and possi- 
 bility of story. There is a genuineness and reality 
 in the lady; and we can see there is a certain 
 goodness under the frivolity, which gives us a 
 glimpse as to the plot of the play. True character 
 is in itself story. 
 
 For broad humour and humorous situation 
 we may go back also to Morton's pleasant ' Cure for 
 the Heartache.' The two Rapids, father and son, 
 the ' push on, keep moving,' are perfect traditions, 
 
no Comedy. 
 
 with the nabob, who was so unlucky as to get no 
 one to listen to the great speech he was preparing. 
 How agreeably is this motif- — not a very strong one 
 — worked out. 
 
 Rapid. Oh, it would never do for me. 
 
 Vortex. But you must learn patience. 
 
 Rapid. Then make me Speaker ; if that wouldn't teach me 
 patience, nothing would. 
 
 Vortex. Do you dislike, sir, parliamentary eloquence ? 
 
 Old R. Sir, I never heard one of your real downright parliamentary 
 speeches in my life, never. [Yawns.) 
 
 Rapid. By your yawning, I should think you had heard a great 
 many. 
 
 Vortex. Oh, how lucky ! At last, I shall get my dear speech 
 spoken. Sir, I am a memher, and I mean to — 
 
 Rapid. Keep moving. 
 
 Vortex. Why, I mean to speak, I assure you ; and — 
 
 Rapid. Push on, then. 
 
 Vortex. What, speak my speech ? That I will ; I'll speak it. 
 
 Rapid. Oh, the devil ! Don't yawn so (to Old Rapid). 
 
 Old R. I never get a comfortable nap, never! 
 
 Rapid. You have a dev'lish good chance now. Confound all 
 speeches. Oh ! 
 
 Vortex. Pray be seated (they sit on each side Vortex). Now, we'll 
 suppose that the chair — (pointing to a chair, E.) 
 
 Old R. Suppose it the chair ! why it is a chair, an't it ? 
 
 Vortex, (c.) Pshaw ! I mean — 
 
 Rapid, (l.) He knows what you mean — 'tis his humour. 
 
 Vortex. Oh, he's witty ? 
 
 Rapid. Oh, remarkably brilliant, indeed ! (Significantly to his father.) 
 
 Vortex. What, you are a wit, sir ! 
 
 Old R. A what ? Yes, I am ; I am a wit. 
 
Comedy. 1 1 1 
 
 Vortex. Well, now I'll begin. Oh, what a delicious moment ! 
 The house when they approve cry, ' Hear him, hear him ! ' I only 
 give you a hint, in case anything should strike. 
 
 Rapid. Push on. I can never stand it. (aside.) 
 
 Vortex. Now I shall charm them, (addresses the chair) ' Sir, had I 
 met your eye at an earlier hour, I should not have blinked the present 
 question ; but having caught what has fallen from the other side, I 
 shall scout the idea of going over the usual ground.' What, no ap- 
 plause yet ? (aside — during this, Old Rapid has fallen asleep, and Rapid, 
 after showing great fretfulness and impatience, runs to the back scene, 
 throws up the window, and looks out) ' But I shall proceed, and, I trust, 
 without interruption.' (Turns round, and sees Old Rapid asleej)) Upon 
 my soul, this is — What do you mean, sir ? (Old Rapid awakes.) 
 
 Old R. What's the matter ? — Hear him ! hear him ! 
 
 Vortex. Pray, sir, don't you blush ? (Sees Rapid at the window) 
 What the devil ! 
 
 Rapid, (looking round) Hear him ! hear him ! 
 
 Vortex. By the soul of Cicero, 'tis too much. 
 
 Old R. Neddy, for shame of yourself to fall asleep ! I mean, 
 to look out of the window. I am very sorry, sir, anything should go 
 across the grain. I say, Ned, smooth him down ! 
 
 Rapid. I will. What the devil shall I say ? The fact is, sir, I 
 heard the cry of fire — upon — the — the — the water, and — 
 
 Vortex. Well, well. But do you wish to hear the end of my 
 speech ? 
 
 Rapid. Upon my honour, I do. 
 
 Vortex. Then we'll only suppose this little interruption a message 
 from the lords, or something of that sort. (They sit, Rapid fretful.) 
 
 Vortex. Where did I leave off? 
 
 Rapid. Oh ! I recollect ; at — ' I therefore briefly conclude with 
 moving — an adjournment' (rising). 
 
 Vortex. Nonsense ! no such thing (putting him down in a chair). 
 Oh ! I remember I ' I shall therefore proceed ; and, I trust, without 
 interruption — ' 
 
 
1 1 2 Comedy. 
 
 Enter John, R. 
 
 John. Dinner's on the tahle, sir. 
 
 Vortex. Get out of the room, you villain ! — ' Without interrup- 
 tion ' — 
 
 John. I say, sir — 
 
 Rapid. Hear him ! hear him ! 
 
 John. Dinner is waiting. 
 
 Rapid, {jumping up) Dinner waiting ! Come along, sir. 
 
 Vortex. Never mind the dinner. 
 
 Rapid. But I like it smoking. 
 
 Old R. So do I. Be it ever so little, let me have it hot. 
 
 Vortex. Won't } T ou hear my speech ? 
 
 Rapid. To be sure we will — but now to dinner. Come, we'll 
 move together. Capital speech ! Push on, sir. Come along, dad. 
 Push him on, dad. [Exeunt, forcing Vortex out, R. 
 
 It is surprising how nmch English comedy 
 owes to Irishmen ; and indeed, if we were to with- 
 draw the contributions of that country from the 
 vivacious shelf, the gaps would be serious. We 
 should lose Earquhar, with his ' dash ' and boister- 
 ousness, combined with a wit that is never too 
 elaborate and epigrammatic — a rock on which so 
 many witty writers suffer ; for they make their 
 characters talk too wittily for their situation, and, 
 like Goldsmith in the ' small play,' the author's 
 hands are seen working under the actor's cloak. 
 We should lose Bicker staff, Macklin, Murphy, 
 Goldsmith, and Sheridan and O'Keefe. In fact, let 
 
Comedy. 
 
 any one disparage English comedy, and the ' School 
 for Scandal, or ' She Stoops to Conquer,' is at once 
 held up to him. If any one were inclined to refute 
 those sceptics who protest that the excellency of the 
 old acting which entranced the town from the days 
 of Garrick, was the mere grumbling jeremiad of old 
 people, who think that whatever they saw must be 
 better than what younger men saw, it could be 
 done by going to see Macklin's 'Man of the World,' 
 and Mr Phelps in Sir Pertinax. There is little 
 story in that racy comedy ; it is more like looking 
 at a dramatic print of Hogarth's. Por the whole 
 is Sir Pertinax himself; but still the wonderful 
 vitality, the shifts and turns of his character, are 
 in themselves a whole story. He absorbs us ; his 
 advances and his defeats are like so many in- 
 cidents in an exciting narrative. Everything he 
 says is genuine, and in character ; but not after the 
 current sense, which means using a catch-word 
 or some funny speech which makes the audience 
 laugh coute que coute, without regard to appro- 
 priateness. There is interest, life, vigour, busi- 
 ness, in every line. The ' character ' is there — the 
 mean, scheming, grovelling, canny Scotchman — 
 independent of the stage or the actor. "We can 
 
4 
 
 H4 Comedy. 
 
 read it with pleasure. Once see him, and he 
 lingers on the memory for all time ; it seems as 
 though we had lived in some house or town with 
 such a man, and can never forget him. For us, 
 there certainly is such a heing. Much of course is 
 Qwing to the admirable player whose name is 
 identified with him ; hut set that admirable player 
 to the stuff now written, and he could make 
 nothing of it. There is the truth — good plays 
 make good actors, and good actors, in their turn, 
 make good plays. But the reform must come 
 with the plays. With a part written on a wrong 
 principle an actor can do nothing ; he cannot do, as 
 the admirable old school of actors used to do — 
 study human nature in their own hearts. 
 
 Nothing in all comedy is finer than Sir Per- 
 tinax's — or perhaps Mr Phelps's — attempts to 
 cajole the clergyman to a degrading office ; and, 
 when the latter rejects his offer with scorn, his 
 malignant fury and disgust. He really seems to 
 snarl and whine, like a chained-up dog who can- 
 not get at his assailant. 
 
 Sir P. How ! what, sir ? do you dispute ? Are you na my de- 
 pendant ? . . . And do ye hesitate about an ordinary civility which is 
 practised every day by men and women of the first rank ? 
 
Comedy. 1 1 5 
 
 And on Sidney's making a high-flown invective 
 against faction and venality in high places, he 
 bursts out with — 
 
 Oho, oho ! vara weel, vara weel ! Fine slander upon ministers, 
 fine sedition against government! ye villain! You — you — you are a 
 black sheep, and Til mark you ! I'm glad you show yourself. Yes, 
 yes, ye have taken off the mask : you have been in my service for 
 many years, and I never knew your preenciples before. 
 
 Sidney. Sir, you never affronted them before. . . . 
 
 Sir P. It is vara weel. I have done with you. Ay, ay, now I 
 can account for my son's conduct : his aversions till courts, till minis- 
 ters, levees, public business, and his disobedience till my commands. 
 Ah, you are a Judas, a perfeedious fellow ! You have ruined the morals 
 of my son, ye villain ! But I have done with you. However, this I 
 will prophesy at our parting for your comfort, that sin' you are so very 
 squeamish about bringing a lad and a lass together, or about doing 
 sic an' a harmless innocent job for your patron, you will never rise in 
 the Church. 
 
 This is wonderful for truth and spirit, for the 
 mixed spite and rage and wretched contempt ; and 
 the passages in italics seem like sudden snarls, 
 new discoveries bursting on him. The account he 
 gives of his own rise, and the arts by which it was 
 accomplished, including ' boom',' is well known. 
 Better still is his serious chiding of his son for his 
 childish strait-laced notions as to political moral- 
 ity. By the modern canons of so-called comedy, 
 this would have been all utterly exaggerated, and 
 
1 1 6 Comedy. 
 
 some very ' funny ' notions exhibited. Something 
 to extort a laugh, some audacious and ' comic ' 
 principles of political action, would have been 
 addressed to the pit, and caused the conventional 
 roar. Here would be something in the shape of 
 the modern style : 
 
 Sir P. Conscience ! a little bit of gutta-percha, my dear boy, is 
 better ; you can pull it out the length of the street. The worst is, 
 you raise so little money on it. One of block-tin would be better. 
 
 JEger. But would not that attract attention by the flash ? 
 
 Sir P. And you be like a dog rushing down the street with a tin 
 kettle tied to his tail ; all the wicked boys would shy stones after you. 
 
 This — or something like it — would be called 
 • epigrammatic/ Yet it will be seen that the 
 writer, as it were, leaves his characters, and speaks, 
 in his own person, something that is quite inap- 
 propriate. But the real Sir Pertinax is not think- 
 ing of the audience, nor is his creator — he wishes 
 to get his son to do something, and is alarmed at, 
 and full of contempt for, his highflown notions. 
 
 Conscience ! why, you are mad. Did ye ever hear any man talk 
 o' conscience in poleetical matters ? Conscience, quotha ! I have ben 
 in Parliament these three-and-thraty years, and never heard the term 
 made use of before. Sir, it is an unparliamentary word, and you will 
 be laughed at for it. 
 
 Egerton launching into an inflated tirade on 
 what a true patriot should do — talking of those 
 
Comedy. 117 
 
 who plunder their country, and their 'black in- 
 famy,' and of ' a Roman spirit,' his father replies : 
 
 Why, are ye mad, sir ? Ye have certainly been bit by some mad 
 Whig or other. Oh, you are young, vary young, in these matters ! 
 
 What can be better than this — more natural, 
 more exactly like the mixture of reasoning and re- 
 proach that an ' old schemer ' of this pattern would 
 compound on such an occasion ? ' I'll just hu- 
 mour you with an explanation,' he would say ; but 
 the thing must be done. When the son, grown 
 desperate, at last tells him the secret of his private 
 marriage, his ' aversion ' to the proposed match, 
 the father, not believing him, breaks in hastily and 
 even wildly — 
 
 Your aversion, sir! How dare you use sic language to me? 
 
 The son goes on, and tells him 'his heart is 
 another woman's.' Every one will remember Mr 
 Phelps's ' reel ' here, as if he was receiving physical 
 blow after blow — his shriek at ' What other wo- 
 man?' 
 
 How, anither _ woman ? And — you — you — villain — how dare 
 you love anither woman without my leave ? But what other woman 
 — what is she ? Speak, sir, speak ! 
 
 Egerton breaking out most naturally in rap- 
 tures about her perfections, he is cut short : — 
 
1 1 8 Comedy. 
 
 Haud your jabbering, you villain ! baud your jabbering ! Nane 
 o' your romance nor refinement till me. I have but one question to 
 ask you — but one question — and then I have done with you for ever, 
 for ever. 
 
 The whole is a perfect study ; there are no 
 mere words here, but flesh, and blood, and life. 
 The good actor has matter to work on — something 
 that repays and adorns his labour, that sets him off; 
 while, in its turn, the part is set off by a good 
 actor. In the ragged stuff that makes up the 
 material and dialogue of a modern play, there is 
 neither character, nor nature, nor life. "What can 
 the actor do ? He has to supplement these de- 
 ficiencies with things not in keeping, that have 
 nothing to do with the piece. Whenever the ' Man 
 of the World' is played, there is an enjoyment — a 
 zest and relish ; even the laughter has a different 
 and heartier note from the artificial cachinnation 
 produced by the feeble quiddities of a burlesque. 
 
 An essay might be written on Goldsmith's two 
 delightful comedies. ' She Stoops to Conquer ' is 
 the more popular ; yet it may be questioned if the 
 ' Good-natured Man ' has not a more delicate treat- 
 ment of characters. In each of these two incom- 
 parable plays is illustrated a different fashion of 
 treatment : we might take any half-dozen sen- 
 
Comedy. 1 1 ^ 
 
 tences, and each passage would illustrate character 
 — the parties would speak as real persons would, 
 not as actors. Take the first scene of the ' Good- 
 natured Man/ where Jarvis, the steward, is re- 
 monstrating with Honeywood, and showing him 
 his growing difficulties. He says : 
 
 A broker has been at a great deal of trouble to get back the 
 money you borrowed. 
 
 Hon. That I don't know ; but I am sure we were at a great deal of 
 trouble to get him to lend it. 
 
 Jar. He has lost all patience. 
 
 Hon. Then he has lost a very good thing. 
 
 Jar. There's that ten guineas you were sendiug to the poor gentle- 
 man and his children in the Fleet. I believe that would stop his 
 mouth for a while at least. 
 
 Hon. Ay, Jarvis ; but what will fill their mouths in the mean 
 time ? Must I be cruel because he happens to be importunate ; and, 
 to relieve his avarice, leave them to insupportable distress ? 
 
 Jar. S'death ! sir, the question now is, how to relieve yourself — 
 yourself. Haven't I reason to be out of my senses when I see thiDgs 
 going at sixes and sevens ? 
 
 Now the modern actor or modern author to 
 whom the idea of such a passage occurred, and 
 even that detailed treatment, would make Honey- 
 wood's answers a series of pert repartees. But they 
 are not so meant. Thus, the speech of the stupid 
 but tranquil and poco cur ante Honey wood — who is 
 really gently expostulating with a follower whom 
 
120 Comedy. 
 
 he thinks mistaken — ' Ay, Jarvis ; but what will 
 fill their months in the mean time ? ' is exquisite 
 comedy in itself; for it implies an air of infinite 
 superiority retained on high logical and moral 
 grounds, with a something of pity underneath. 
 
 Croaker, too, is excellent — quite beyond the 
 clumsy brush of modern artists. The Jesuits are 
 swarming everywhere. ' But,' says Mr Honeywood, 
 'they will scarcely pervert you or me, I should 
 hope.' ' Maybe not. Indeed, what signifies tvhat 
 they pervert, in a country that has scarcely any re- 
 ligion to lose ? ' The conception of Lofty might 
 readily occur to a writer of our time — a fussy, false 
 fellow, pretending intimacies and acquaintances 
 and power, and quoting the names of noble persons 
 he did not know. Yet the idea would be treated 
 in a conventional way : it would be repeated ad 
 nauseam. What finesse in the witty Goldy's treat- 
 ment ! How good the passages in italics ! — the 
 artful depreciation of the great, which is self-exalt- 
 ation all the time : 
 
 Lofty (to his servant). And if the Venetian ambassador, or that 
 teasing creature the marquis, should call, I'm not at home. Damme, 
 Til be pack-horse to none of them ! — My dear madam, I have just 
 snatched a moment — and if the expresses to his Grace be ready, let 
 
Comedy. i 2 1 
 
 them be sent off: they're of importance. Madam, I ask ten thousand 
 pardons. 
 
 Mrs Croak. Sir, this honour — 
 
 Lofty. And, Dubardieu, if the person calls about the commission, 
 let him know it is made out. As for Lord Cumbescourfs stale request, 
 it can keep cold: you understand me. — Madam, I ask ten thousand 
 pardons. 
 
 Mrs C. Sir, this honour — 
 
 Lofty. And, Dubardieu, if the man comes from the Cornish borough, 
 you must do him — you must do him, L say. — My dear madam, &c. 
 
 Mrs Croaker then complimenting him obsequi- 
 ously on his being so repandu, he says : 
 
 I vow to gad, madam, you make me blush ! I'm nothing, no- 
 thing, nothing in the world : a mere obscure gentleman. To be sure, 
 indeed, one or two of the present ministers are pleased to represent me 
 as a formidable man. / know they are pleased to bespatter me at all 
 their little dirty levees. 
 
 How admirable that ! An average hand, to 
 convey the idea of being sought by the great, would 
 have told a story. ' Do you know Lord Manni- 
 ken ? He said to me at the last levee,' &c. ; or, 
 ' When I dined with the Duke of A .' 
 
 Again, when pretending to be advancing Miss 
 Richland's cause at court : 
 
 Lofty. Apropos, I have just been mentioning her case to a certain 
 personage — we must name no names. When I ask, I'm not to be put 
 off, madam. No, no ; I take my friend by the button. ' A fine girl, 
 sir : great justice in her case. A friend of mine. Borough interest. 
 Business must be done, Mr Secretary. I say, Mr Secretary, her busi- 
 ness must be done, sir.' 
 
122 Comedy. 
 
 Mrs C. Bless me ! you said all this to the Secretary of State, did 
 you? 
 
 Lofty. I did not say the Secretary, did I? Well, curse it ! since 
 you have found me out, I will not deny it. It was to the Secretary. 
 
 How lively, rather, full of life, this is ! We feel 
 that such a character must speak iu exactly some 
 such way. There is nothing forced. Put it beside 
 N some of Mr B,obertson's agreeable pieces, and it is 
 like the grass of a lawn beside a painted bit of 
 canvas. What is so praised as ' epigrammatic ' 
 writing is forced and unnatural near it, when the 
 players seem to be trying to trip each other up 
 with smart ' sayings.' 
 
 It is all simply delightful. What is remarkable 
 about it and other such pieces is, that they are 
 packed so full of matter — and there is nothing slight 
 or sketchy. A comedy in that day was a work like 
 a piece of sculpture ; it often took years to write, 
 and whole months to correct. It was the work of 
 many heads and hands ; it had as many readers as 
 it had hearers ; and when printed, was as much in 
 demand as the last new novel. We need only read 
 Garrick and Colman's letters, when the ' Clandes- 
 tine Marriage ' was being written, to see what con- 
 sultation there was over the writing of a play. 
 How it was mapped out again and again, re writ- 
 
Comedy. 1 23 
 
 ten, altered, condemned ; anxiously weighed as to 
 whether it would be ' safe ; ' and perhaps finally- 
 laid aside. The managers, it would seem, knew 
 their business ; and indeed, like all other persons en- 
 gaged in a business, they themselves chose the article 
 they were about to offer to the public. Would it 
 do ? could it be made to do ? were the questions 
 asked. They were play-writers themselves because 
 they were managers ; and did not, as is often the 
 case now, become managers because they were play- 
 writers or actors. Colman, Garrick, Macklin, and 
 Poote were remarkable instances of the manager, 
 writer, and actor combined. Now, unhappily, a 
 manager goes on the strength of a name, and ' com- 
 missions ' a writer, or else accepts what the author 
 has ready. In the great lumbering quartos which 
 hold the Garrick correspondence, printed as it 
 were by the pound, is set out the whole of the 
 painful stages of the elaboration of a good comedy 
 — the secret councils and debatings — which, in 
 reality, was founded on a wholesome terror not of 
 the paying, but of the critical, public. 
 
 The correspondence of any living manager 
 would exhibit a very different story ; and, indeed, 
 those directors would naturally be amused, or be- 
 
1 24 Comedy. 
 
 wildered, by sucli anxious consideration for a judg- 
 ment which they hold cheaply enough. ' The pit 
 think that a little overdrawn ; that too forced ; that 
 character not enough to do with the action ; 
 the wit too forced in that scene ! ' They would 
 
 laugh loudly at such qualms. Some of 's 
 
 friends might, indeed, make a noise on the first 
 night. But would the ' great engine-room scene ' 
 draw ? Well, if so, all that was wanting was a little 
 ' smart ' dialogue thrown in here and there, and it 
 will run its hundred or two hundred nights : if he 
 be a manager of some theatrical reading, will ask 
 if the most successful piece of Garrick's time ' ran ' 
 beyond a dozen nights. This might seem a fair 
 test of popularity ; and it is a truth, that • nine 
 nights was then considered a success. But then 
 compare the future destiny of the pieces ! The 
 older play, carefully written, and of real good stuff, 
 was entered on the stock list of the theatre : it was 
 sacred to its own special circle of players, who 
 alone were associated with its merits. They and it 
 were called for at short intervals — say once a fort- 
 night, or oftener ; and many of the successful 
 comedies of old Drury-lane enjoyed this real ' run ' 
 during a period of some twenty or thirty years. 
 
Comedy. 125 
 
 Whereas late pieces, of the Jackson-aiid-Graham 
 sort, become, like the painted furniture and effects 
 that have set them off, faded, rickety, tottering, un- 
 substantial. They have served their turn. Send for 
 one to the theatrical bookseller's, and a duller quar- 
 ter of an hour's reading never was. But for an 
 inconsistency in the situation, the parts in the 
 dialogue might be shifted, changed to different 
 mouths, to different names — for there is little at- 
 tempt at character — without much confusion. It 
 is all meagre ; and indeed the author might reason- 
 ably complain of being tried by this test, and in fair- 
 ness demand his stage, his ' explosion in the mine,' 
 ' ship ' or ' house 011 fire,' or whatever else was the 
 true strength of his piece. On the contrary, take 
 down from the library shelf a volume of the 
 ' British Theatre,' and we shall find plenty of real 
 entertainment ; and with a good reader, who has 
 seen them acted, and has a turn for mimicry, 
 genuine enjoyment will result. 
 
 There is a dramatist whose name is associated 
 with some of the triumphs of our great actors, 
 whose pieces can well afford to stand by themselves, 
 but who suffers from undeserved neglect. If the 
 name of Morton were mentioned as an honourable 
 
126 Comedy. 
 
 British dramatist, it would be assumed to be that of 
 Mr Madison Morton, the ready farce-writer, or 
 rather ingenious remodeller of French, vaudevilles. 
 But there was a Thomas Morton once very popular ; 
 and though his pieces were spoiled by the gloomy 
 and lurid German tone which was then fashionable, 
 he possessed a true spirit of humour, and showed 
 a great variety in his many characters. Some of 
 his plays still keep the stage, that is to say, are 
 revived occasionally when a sacrifice is to be made 
 — that is, a compliment is to be paid — to legiti- 
 macy. Their characters are all distinct from each 
 other, well marked, borne forward by a singular 
 vivacity, which redeems a great deal of exaggera- 
 tion and helps on the piece. The c Cure for the 
 Heartache,' ' Speed the Plough,' and the ' Heir-at 
 Law ' are really enjoyable pieces, and when fairly 
 acted, leave a pleasant sense behind. Bob Handy 
 and Sir Abel never flag ; with Farmer Ashfield, and 
 the countryman who there, for the first time, quotes 
 the imperishable Mrs Grundy. Even the depress- 
 ing Sir Philip Blandford — one of the earliest 
 wicked baronets of the stage, who soothes his re- 
 morse by taking out a ' knife and bloody cloth ' to 
 look at — evidences of his crime — becomes a foil for 
 
Comedy. 127 
 
 the rattling gaiety of the rest. Old play-goers were 
 never tired of extolling their favourites in these 
 admirable parts, and characters and the players 
 acted and reacted on each other. 
 
 There is one piece which, well played by a 
 first-rate corps of actors, could leave no second 
 impression as to the merits of George Colman the 
 younger. Under such conditions, it would deserve 
 all the praise of being ' a good comedy,' and, what 
 is no mean test, would send the hearer home 
 pleased, smiling to himself, eager to talk it over, 
 and recurring to it at intervals the next day, as 
 though he had been in the refreshing company 
 of real characters and real humorists. There are 
 few more satisfactory comedies than the ' Poor Gen- 
 tleman ; ' and though it is hopeless to think of 
 seeing it well ' cast ' now, the play and its charac- 
 ters carry the audience on. That delightful bit of 
 extravagance, Dr Ollapod, overdrawn as it is, in 
 Mr Compton's hands, shows what must have been 
 the effect when the other parts all good found re- 
 presentatives to correspond. The variety of his 
 different attitudes, the unceasing novelty of his 
 remarks, are wonderful ; and though he uses a 
 catchword, ' Thank you, good sir ; I owe you one/ 
 
i 2 8 Comedy. 
 
 it is a mere accident and eccentricity of manner 
 that accompanies other and newer eccentricities. 
 In a modern play that single oddity would have 
 formed the leading, and perhaps the only, humour 
 of the character. Taking this one play, so rich is it 
 found in characters of an unconventional sort, that 
 a modern playwright might lift his hands in won- 
 der at such prodigality. There is this militia 
 doctor, comic in every way, and yet with a serious 
 side in his meanness, toadyism, and even coward- 
 ice ; the old country Squire, Sir Robert Bramble ; 
 and his man, a servant of the blunt old school, 
 that tells truth in the rudest way; Miss McTab 
 the spinster, with nothing but old-maidism and 
 ' the blood of the McTabs ' to go upon ; Corporal 
 Poss ; and the ploughman bitten with military 
 ardour, who picks up military knowledge from him. 
 There is the eager young nephew from Russia, 
 whose impetuosity in doing good and trying to 
 relieve distress makes him forget that he has no 
 purse. It is, in short, a most agreeable piece, 
 and, with a little pruning and shaping, which all 
 old pieces require — for the old audiences, with all 
 these treasures of vivacity set before them, put up 
 unaccountably with some singularly heavy scenes 
 
Comedy. 129 
 
 — would always delight and entertain. Over this 
 play, and over others like it, there is a gaiety 
 and a pleasr ntness of aspect that is very inviting. 
 But it will be called ' a wearisome five-act play 
 that no one could sit out ; ' and it conveys the idea 
 that one is commencing a long and heavy theatri- 
 cal journey quite tedious. There is truth in this; 
 and five acts do produce a sense of repulsion. But 
 we must call up the old conditions : the house 
 crowded to the ceiling, and filled with eager play- 
 goers — not with persons who have gone, as for 
 fashion's sake, to an opera ; the early dinner long 
 over ; the really great actors all stars, and all in a 
 band, acting together. It is as with old music, 
 whose shape alone is old-fashioned ; and these pieces 
 a judicious hand might readily turn into the more 
 suitable modern shape. I cannot resist giving a 
 short specimen of this good comedy. 
 
 Miss Lucretia McTab. Provoking ! a stupid, technical, old 
 
 But what can a woman of birth expect, when the ducks waddle into 
 her drawing-room, and her groom of the chambers is a lame soldier 
 of foot? 
 
 Re-enter Corporal Foss, L. 
 
 Foss {crossing to R.) There is one Mr Ollapod at the gate, an 
 please your Ladyship's honour, come to pay a visit to the family. 
 Miss L. Ollapod? What is the gentleman ? 
 
 9 
 
130 Comedy. 
 
 Foss. He says he's a cornet in the Galen's Head. Tis the first 
 time I ever heard of the corps. 
 
 Miss L. Ha ! some new-raised regiment. Show the gentleman in. 
 (Exit Foss, R.) The country, then, has heard of my arrival at last. A 
 woman of condition in a family can never long conceal her retreat. 
 Ollapod ! that sounds like an ancient name. If I am not mistaken, 
 he is nobly descended. 
 
 Enter Ollapod, R. 
 
 Ollapod. Madam, I have the honour of paying my respects ! Sweet 
 spot here, among the cows; good for consumptions. Charming woods 
 hereabouts! Pheasants flourish — so do agues. Sorry not to seethe 
 good lieutenant — admire his room — hope soon to have his company. 
 Do you take, good madam ? do you take ? 
 
 Miss L. I beg, sir, you will be seated. 
 
 Ollapod. [places chairs and sits down, R. c.) Oh, dear madam ! 
 [aside) A charming chair to bleed in ? 
 
 Miss L. I am sorry Mr Worthington is not at home to receive you, 
 sir. 
 
 Ollapod. You are a relation of the lieutenant, madam ? 
 
 Miss L. I ! only by his marriage, I assure you, sir. Aunt to his 
 deceased wife. But I am not surprised at your question. My friends 
 in town would wonder to see the Honourable Miss Lucretia McTab, 
 sister to the late Lord Lofty, cooped up in a farm-house. 
 
 Ollapod. (aside) The Honourable! Humph! a bit of quality tum- 
 bled into decay. The sister of a dead peer in a pig-stye ! 
 
 Miss L. You are of the military, I am informed, sir. 
 
 Ollajjod. He ! he ! yes, madam. Cornet Ollapod, of our volun- 
 teers — a fine healthy troop, ready to give the enemy a dose, when- 
 ever they dare to attack us. 
 
 Miss L. I was always prodigiously partial to the military. My 
 great-grandfather, Marmaduke, Baron Lofty, commanded a troop of 
 horse, under the Duke of Marlborough, that famous general of his 
 age. 
 
 Ollapod. Marlborough was a hero of a man, madam, and lived at 
 
Comedy. 131 
 
 Woodstock — a sweet sporting country, where Kosamond perished by- 
 poison — arsenic, as like as anything. 
 
 Miss L. And have you served much, Mr Ollapod ? 
 
 Ollapod. He ! he ! Yes, madam — served all the nobility and gen- 
 try for miles round. 
 
 Miss L. Sir ! 
 
 Ollapod. And shall be happy to serve the good lieutenant, and his 
 family. (Bows.) 
 
 Miss L. We shall be proud of your acquaintance, sir. A gentle- 
 man of the army is always [an acquisition among the Goths and Van- 
 dals of the country, where every sheepish squire has the air of an 
 apothecary. 
 
 Ollapod. Madam ! An apothe Zounds ! — hum ! — He ! he ! I 
 
 — You must know, I (sheepishly) I deal a little in Galenicals, my- 
 self. 
 
 Miss L. Galenicals ! Oh, they are for operations, I suppose, 
 among the military. 
 
 Ollapod. Operations ! He ! he ! Come, that's very well, very well, 
 indeed ! Thank you, good madam, I owe you one. Galenicals, 
 madam, are medicines. 
 
 Miss L. Medicines. 
 
 Ollapod. Yes, physic : buckthorn, senna, and so forth. 
 
 Miss L. (rising) Why, then, you are an apothecary ! 
 
 Ollapod. (rising and bowing) And man-midwife, at your service, 
 madam ! 
 
 Miss L. At my service, indeed ! 
 
 Ollapod. Yes, madam : Cornet Ollapod, at the gilt Galen's Head 
 — of the Volunteer Association Corps of Cavalry ; as ready for the 
 foe as a customer — always willing to charge them both. Do you 
 take, good madam, do you take ? 
 
 Miss L. And has the Honourable Miss Lucretia McTab been 
 talking all this while to a petty dealer in drugs ? 
 
 Ollapod. Drugs ! (aside) D — me ! she turns up her honourable 
 nose, as if she was going to swallow them ! — (aloud) No man more 
 
 9 * 
 
132, Comedy. 
 
 respected than myself, madam ; — courted by the corps — idolized by 
 invalids ; and, for a shot — ask my friend, Sir Charles Cropland. 
 Miss L. Is Sir Charles Cropland a friend of yours, sir ? 
 
 But at the wonderful humorist whom John- 
 sou called ' incompressible,' the modern dramatist 
 may well throw up his hands. The collection 
 which contains his comedies and farces is an 
 amazing treasury of gaiety, vivacity, boisterous 
 'fun,' and wit. The procession of characters is 
 long drawn out, and each, as he talks, never seems 
 to flag. A single scene there has spirit and 
 variety enough to bear being beaten out into a 
 dozen modern pieces. A single character has 
 such colour, roundness, breadth, and distinct- 
 ness, as would carry through any modern play. 
 Mr Porster has given an admirable analysis of 
 Foote's pieces, with sketches of the characters, 
 which show inexhaustible imagination, and whose 
 talk is the talk of living persons, and of living per- 
 sons with souls, natures, and peculiarities. As we 
 read, it is like sitting in an ante-room and listen- 
 ing to the spirited conversation of real men and 
 women. They tell their stories, retort, utter their 
 exuberant jests and quips, as though these were 
 provoked by the occasion. 
 
Comedy. 133 
 
 TV T hat these pieces must have been, with Eoote 
 himself playing a leading part and inspiring the 
 others, may be well imagined. And here, it may 
 be remarked, it was well known that the chief 
 fount of inspiration from which Poote drew was 
 personality : he brought on real persons, and their 
 tempting peculiarities and tempers. Superficially 
 this may seem a faithful carrying out that holding 
 the mirror up to Nature, one of the inculcated 
 elements of dramatic instruction; and vulgar 
 workmen often think, that a true and exact copy , 
 of what amuses in life must have the same effect. 
 An artist like Foote knew better, as artists pos- 
 sessed of the same tact know very well also ; and 
 will 'abstract' the essentials of such a character 
 as distinguished from the accidentals, or at least 
 what are on the surface. Such a student, who is 
 studying Nature with a view to find out the most 
 effective angle at which to hold up his mirror, will 
 not merely reproduce singularities of speech and 
 gesture, but will put the character in a good and 
 new situation, and make it act and speak as the 
 original would probably do under such circum- 
 stances. Following out this high principle, Yates, 
 one of the true old school of players, when he re- 
 
134 Comedy. 
 
 ceived a new part, would fix on some living person 
 tolerably akin to the part, for assiduous study ; 
 and striving always to view the written sentiments 
 as he imagined such a one would view them, thus 
 reached to an extraordinary vitality. And this 
 is the great secret of the real dramatist — the 
 putting himself within the shell of his characters, 
 and learning by keen study and keen observation 
 how such should speak and act. 
 
 But to introduce Foote and his humour is to 
 introduce something as utterly different from the 
 dramatic humour of the time, as the Birmingham 
 jewellery sold at fairs is from the contents of one 
 of Mr Hancock's cases. We know the conven- 
 tional touches necessary to put in the stage-cha- 
 racter of a miser — stingy, ' would skin a flint ' — 
 gets young heirs into his clutches — is called ' old 
 Shylock ' — with other points which the reader 
 can supply for himself. Foote's comedy miser is a 
 knight and gentleman, whose shoes are made out of 
 the leather of his grandfather ] s coach ; while the bar- 
 ber shaves him every fortnight, and is paid with 
 the annual shearings of the knight's and his 
 daughter's heads. There are a hundred touches of 
 this sort : but let us see how much deeper Eoote 
 
Comedy. 135 
 
 could go. His miser scrapes all lie can from 
 every one ; and as Elwes picked up old wigs and 
 shoes out of the street, so this man is intellect- 
 ually covetous, and picks up greedily a slang story, 
 any anecdote he can, which his stupidity mangles 
 and destroys in the telling. There was the master 
 and there the man who had studied character, that 
 gives us a picture of avarice from the very preten- 
 sions that accompanied it. Eoote's pieces, be it 
 remembered, are delightful reading ; and the effect 
 of such characters on the stage must have been 
 doubled. 
 
 This radical difference in the treatment of 
 the drama can fortunately be illustrated in a very 
 curious way by setting two pieces on the same 
 subject side by side, but with an interval of about 
 one hundred and ten years between their pro- 
 duction. One was ' High Life below Stairs ; ' the 
 other, 'Our Domestics,' a 'Strand' adaptation of 
 a little Erench piece. There is one scene common 
 to both ; but the subject — the airs of servants — is 
 treated on false principles in the modern play, on 
 true in the old one. Now, it may be repeated, 
 mere habits and outside behaviour have no dramatic 
 significance, unless as illustrative of inner workings. 
 
 
136 Comedy. 
 
 The mere contemplation of servants' hall life, ' the 
 ways ' of such a place, would be a mean subject of 
 study after all. The bare exhibition of their 
 plundering their masters, wearing their clothes, 
 and affecting to call each other by their masters' 
 names, is in itself nothing amusing, beyond the 
 impudence of the thing. But show them so spoiled 
 and arrogant, that they actually believe themselves 
 as fine as their masters — that, say, a nobleman's 
 servant should be so pampered as to take his po- 
 sition relative to the other servants, be accepted 
 as such by them, this genuineness and thorough 
 sincerity is quite a different thing. A compari- 
 son between the two pieces will show their differ- 
 ent spirit. First, for the modern one : the master 
 and mistress have gone out, and the servants have 
 a party, dress in their mistress's clothes, &c. 
 
 All. Bravo ! capital ! 
 
 Joseph. Ankor ! ankor ! (to Francis) Don't my get up alarm you ? 
 
 Franc. It's rather short in the waist. 
 
 Joseph. That's master's fault. I shall speak to him about it. If 
 I'm going to wear his clothes I can't have my figure spoilt. 
 
 Julia. Suppose we have supper. 
 
 Franc. Excellent, {addressing Benjamin and Adolphus in grand tone) 
 Chairs ! {They all place chairs round table.') 
 
 * ■* * * * 
 
 Julia. Now then, let us begin. 
 
Comedy. 137 
 
 Joseph, (giving Sarah urine) Your health, my dear ! 
 
 Sarah. Yours! (All drink.) 
 
 Franc, (taking out watch) Plenty of time, it's only eight. 
 
 Joseph. That's a nice watch ! Meeks ? 
 
 Franc. No, mine, bought it out of the Christinas tips. 
 
 Adol, The devil you did — mine only came to five pounds. 
 
 All. (with indignation) Five pounds ! 
 
 Joseph. Disgusting. 
 
 Ben. It's low. 
 
 Franc. I should have presented them to the porter. 
 
 Julia. Ladies and gentlemen, I recommend this wine (they fill the 
 ladies' glasses — to Adolphus) and you actually remain in such a place? 
 Come, we are acting as mean as our masters with the wine. Don't I 
 see them talking and gammoning the guests instead of passing the 
 bottle. (She drinks.) 
 
 All. (stand and drink) Yours ! — yours ! — yours ! 
 
 Franc, (knocking) Silence, if you please. Ladies and gentlemen, 
 I consider this the moment when a blow should be struck for the 
 liberty of the British livery. 
 
 All, Hear! hear! 
 
 Joseph. Ankor ! ankor ! 
 
 Franc. The domestics of Great Britain are a persecuted people. 
 
 All. Hear! hear! 
 
 Joseph. Ankor ! ankor ! 
 
 Franc. Speaking figuratively, the shine has been taken out of our 
 buttons. "Why ain't we represented ? Are we represented in the 
 Peers ? 
 
 All. No! no! 
 
 Franc. Are we represented in the Commons? No ! Are we repre- 
 sented anywhere except on the stage ? No! but in the words of the 
 immortal Higginbotham, author of Tight Thoughts.' Many a rose is 
 born to plush unseen, which is corroborated by that distinguished poet 
 Lord Bacon in his Don June, when he says. 'There is a tide in the 
 affairs of men, which taken at the " Flying Scud " leads on to-to — ' 
 
138 Comedy. 
 
 All. Go it — try back. 
 
 Franc. To-to the-the Antipodes. Ladies and gentlemen, I can't 
 finish the quotation because I don't know it, but I ask why are we 
 trampled on, and our calves gored by John Bull and Punch, when 
 we're in the rumble — their rumble servant, I might say, except there's 
 a wheel within a wheel. I don't pretend to be a horator like Mr Nature 
 Groans, but I have attended the Hyde Park meetings in uniform, and 
 I'm on terms of intimacy with a groom at Buckingham Palace ; and I 
 say our talents ain't recognized. Haven't we contributed to the British 
 Literature ? Who wrote ' Sally Brass ? ' wasn't it a Butler — one of 
 our cloth ? Who wrote ' Black-Eyed Susan ? ' wasn't it a Cook ? an- 
 other of our cloth. I repeat — for positively the last time — are we to 
 be dumb, in fact, are we to be dumb waiters — ain't we uniform in the 
 matter ? 
 
 All. Hear! hear ! 
 
 Franc. Don't the mews descend on us ? Ain't the stable commodity 
 of this country, livery ? Then let our war-cry be blazoned on every 
 napkin, 'Delivery us.' Why is there a difference between the hy- 
 meuial and the low menial ! why ? Echo answers — why ? 
 
 Joseph. We'll halter it. 
 
 All. We will, we will. 
 
 Franc. I shall conclude in the words of the immortal bard of 
 Stratford-le-Bow, and the unpublished and rejected manuscript of 
 literary members of the St Jeames Club. Meetings must be horgan- 
 ized ! Trafalgar Square must be taken ! Hyde Park must be hoccu- 
 
 pied. The man that dares to raise his hand, to raise, to raise 
 
 Ladies and gentleman, I can't finish the squotation because I don't 
 know it, but I ask you to drink to the destruction of our tyrant — the 
 master. 
 
 Joseph. Ankor ! ankor ! (aside) Ain't he giving it to 'em ? 
 Franc. We've been trampled on, ridden over, our rights have been 
 "yencroached upon, and a fearful retribution must be visited on our 
 Wasters — a great Livery Union must be established. 
 All. Hear ! hear ! 
 
Comedy. 139 
 
 Joseph. Ankor ! ankor ! Go it. 
 
 Franc. I ask you to drink to their downfall. 
 
 All. (with enthusiasm — drinking') Here's to our emancipation. Let 
 us give a general strike and down with the tyrants ! 
 
 Julia. Let me add, Justice to the British lady's-maid. Why 
 should not females have a voice ? Why should not young women, as 
 well as old ones, be heard in the house ? 
 
 All. Hear! hear! Bravo! Ankor! (Rattling of glasses.) 
 
 Now, the dramatic fault of this is, that it is 
 prosaic, and without any touch of character. But 
 worse than that, it is all untrue to nature. Eroni 
 the burlesque speech no doubt was got a great 
 deal of fun, especially in the hands of the 'premier 
 comique ' of the Strand ; but it was addressed to 
 the audience, not to fellow- servants : ' Many a 
 rose born to plush unseen' — such jests are mere 
 buffooneries of the author, and have nothing ap- 
 propriate. Again, the allusion to 'tips,' &c, are 
 all shown to be false by the study of human nature. 
 There would be too much dignity and self-respect. 
 
 Now let us look at the older writer. It must 
 have been a treat to see King, Palmer, Mrs 
 Abington, and Mrs Clive, as ' My Lord Duke/ 'Sir 
 Harry,' ' Lady Bab,' and ' Kitty.' The gentlemen, 
 too, wore the most gorgeous and sumptuous 
 liveries, cocked hats, gold, silk stocks, and bou- 
 quets, in which they might take a just pride, as 
 
140 Comedy. 
 
 in splendid regimentals. They would not conde- 
 scend to dress up in the master's cast-off clothes. 
 
 Enter Sir Harry's Servant, L. 
 
 How have you done these thousand years ? (Shakes hand with fingers.) 
 
 Sir II. My lord duke ! — your Grace's most obedient servant. 
 
 Duke. Well, baronet, where have you been ? 
 
 Sir II. At Doncaster, my lord. We have had devilish fine sport. 
 
 Duke. And a good appearance, I hear. The devil take it ! I 
 should have been there ; but our hold duchess died, and we were 
 hobliged to keep ouse, for the decency of the thing. 
 
 Sir II. I picked up fifteen pieces. 
 
 Duke. Psha ! A trifle ! 
 
 Sir H. The viscount's people have been demnibly taken in this 
 meeting. 
 
 Duke. Credit me, baronet, they know nothing of the turf. 
 
 Sir II. I assure you, my lord, they lost every match ; for Crab was 
 beat hollow, Careless threw his rider, and Miss Slammerkin had the 
 distemper. 
 
 Duke. Ha, ha, ha! I'm glad on't. Take this snuff, Sir Harry. 
 (Offers his box.) 
 
 Sir H. Eappee ? 
 
 Duke. Eight, Strasburg, I assure you, and of my own importing. 
 
 Sir H. No ! no ! 
 
 Duke. 'Tis, I assure you ! 
 
 Sir H. Oh no ! 
 
 And again : 
 
 Duke. Heigho. I am quite hout of spirits. I ad a dem'd debauch 
 last night, baronet. 
 
 Sir II. I advise your Grace to take a wapour bath or get sham- 
 poodled. 
 
 Duke. Lord Francis, Bob the Bishop, and I tipt off four bottles of 
 Burgundy a-piece. 
 
 
Comedy. 141 
 
 This last stroke of ' Bob the Bishop ' is ex- 
 quisite. The passages marked in italics are equally 
 good. 
 
 Duke and Sir Harry come forward. 
 
 Duke, (l.) They certainly saw us, and are gone off laughing at us; 
 — I must follow. {Crosses, R.) 
 
 Sir H. (l.) No, no. 
 
 Duke. I must ; I must have a party of raillery with them — a bong 
 mot or so. Sir Harry, you'll exquese me. Ajew ! I'll be with you 
 in the evening, hif possible ; though, hark ye, there is a bill depend- 
 ing in our ouse, which the ministry make a point of our hattending ; 
 aud so, you know, mum ! We must mind the stops of the great fiddle. — 
 Ajew I [Exit, R. 
 
 Sir H. What a coxcomb this is ! — and the fellow can't read. It 
 was but the other day that he was cow-boy in the country, then was 
 bound prentice to a hair-dresser, got into my lord duke's family, and 
 now sets up for a fine gentleman. O Tcmpora ! Mores ! 
 
 Re-enter Duke's Servant, R. 
 
 Duke. Sir Harry, pr'ythee, what are we to do at Lovel's, when we 
 come there ? 
 
 Sir H. We shall have the fiddles, I suppose. 
 
 Duke. The fiddles ! I have done with dancing ever since the last 
 fit of the gout. I'll tell you what, my dear boy, I positively cannot be 
 
 with them, unless we have a little {makes a motion as if with the 
 
 dice box). 
 
 It should be borne in mind that this piece was 
 not consigned to the ' funny ' players of the house, 
 as it would be now, but to the first comedians of 
 the day, who did not disdain to throw their whole 
 genius into it. Only such could impart the true 
 
 
142 Comedy. 
 
 delicacy, and real earnestness, and the dignity 
 necessary. It would be vain to expect to see it 
 well played now. 
 
 For tragedy and tragedians the age seems to 
 have but little sympathy. At the present moment 
 there is virtually no prominent tragic actor before 
 the public, with the exception of Mr Barry Sul- 
 livan. But he, with those of inferior degree, 
 only represent the loud declamatory school — the 
 player we associate with the fighting Richard and 
 Macbeth, with Virginius and togas, and long 
 speaking ; but we have long lost the tender, pas- 
 sionate tragedian — victim of despair and of love — 
 and well used to the melting mood, such as was 
 Barry in the last century. Disguise the truth as 
 we will, our hearts do not go with these official 
 mouthings in five acts. Let us but lay such out 
 for an evening's entertainment, and it hangs 
 round our necks like a log for the whole day 
 before. Tedious, too, is the cold and slow process 
 by which the interest in the earlier scenes is 
 evolved or protracted. The meaning of this exist- 
 ing repulsion to tragedy, and to the old shapes of 
 tragedy, is that it does not reflect the spirit of the 
 time. We are now so educated in the processes of 
 
Comedy. 143 
 
 thought and emotion, and are so familiar with the 
 conventional commonplaces of such dramas, that 
 we anticipate their slow evolution of hackneyed 
 sentiment. Moreover, from the peculiarly prac- 
 tical tone of the day, we have lost sympathy with 
 those heroic delineations : and the vulgar taste 
 goes heart and soul with that species of sensation 
 case which actually overflows the columns of a 
 journal, and craves something which will corre- 
 spond to the mere mechanical flow of events. 
 Such 'newspaper cases' are indeed in possession 
 of the stasre. But the sort of tra^edv suited to 
 the time would be a reflection of our domestic 
 life, the incidents refined and purified by art and 
 genius. That suffering, and mental conflict, and 
 splendid victories of good passions over evil, are 
 going on about us, is conceded : and we can learn 
 from the French, who get the interest of tragedy 
 out of their own bad manners and morals, how to 
 make the stage nicely reflect the tone of its age. 
 And if we were asked to point to a class of drama 
 which should be a model for the treatment of 
 the passions of romantic life, we might name 
 the well-known ' Gamester.' Overdone as it is, 
 piled up as it is with horrors, it is written on 
 
144 Comedy. 
 
 principles which Balzac would have approved, and 
 the overpowering interest worked out, not from 
 mechanical events, but from the conflict of pas- 
 sions. With its old-fashioned subject, its crude, 
 .coarse villainy, its needless protraction of horror, 
 that play remains a work of intense power, and un- 
 equalled for its attraction in absorbing the whole 
 interest and sympathy of the hearer. It comes 
 home to the lowest; and all hearts go with the 
 miserable wife, sitting alone night after night, wait- 
 ing till the return of the husband shall bring her 
 some new horror. The day of being ruined by 
 1 Hazard ' on a green cloth has, of course, passed, 
 but there are chords still touched by the passion 
 of gambling which have only taken another direc- 
 tion and other shapes. The worst of it is, this play 
 — and so with other plays like it — is brought 
 forward with old-fashioned traditions, and accom- 
 paniments which are not of our time, and, as far 
 as they go, remove it from our sympathies. There 
 is the ancient stilted mannerism, and hoarse 
 declamation, scarcely the fashion after which 
 suffering is expressed in our day. There is that 
 dawdling circumlocution and protraction before 
 alluded to. When such plays are revived, a man 
 
Comedy. 145 
 
 of tact and nice skill should take it in hand ; and, 
 setting himself in place of the author, should not 
 rudely compress, as the fashion is, merely using 
 the knife, but should consider tvhat was substantial, 
 and what ivas mere accident; what was mere fashion 
 of the moment, and what permanent and essential. 
 But of course there is the vanity of the player, 
 and his foolish traditions, in the way — some piece 
 of fustian which he must roar and roar again — or, 
 in the slang of the profession, some morsel of 
 1 fat,' too precious to be sacrificed. 
 
 The Gamester, with its fierce passion, recalls a 
 curious controversy on the stage, in which no 
 less a person than the great Bishop of Meaux 
 figured. It arose in the year 1694, when 'a cer- 
 tain abbe Caffaro published a very injudicious 
 apology for the French stage of his day. Among 
 other strange arguments he urged, that our 
 Saviour had never condemned stage plays, and 
 that various Fathers of the Church had approved 
 them. The eagle of Meaux came swooping down, 
 and tore this pleading into shreds. Every word 
 of this masterly and sarcastic exposure applies 
 to the French stage at this present moment, 
 
 and cannot be refuted. Frenchman as well as 
 
 10 
 
146 Comedy. 
 
 ecclesiastic, he is spiritnel as well as logical. He 
 deals with the morality of the question, and dwells 
 not merely on the undeniable outrage done to re- 
 ligion and morals by exhibiting positive vice on 
 the stage, but hits off the true distinction as if he 
 was arguing with the author of ' Formosa,' instead 
 of with the well-meaning abbe. The whole, he said, 
 turned on the interest and sympathy excited by 
 such pictures, and he indirectly paid a compliment 
 to the wit and genius of his countrymen, which 
 their dramatists deserve at this moment. If, he 
 said, scenes and pictures are presented which do 
 not touch the hearts and sympathies of the specta- 
 tors, — scenes of sober virtue and morality, — he of 
 course can make no complaint of the stage. But 
 then arises the unpardonable sin of stupidity, of 
 which he cannot convict a Frenchman. They must 
 therefore be artistic and logical, must exhibit on 
 the stage what can alone be interesting to them — 
 the vices of the age, which had their heartiest sym- 
 pathies, and which, as a picture of the manners of 
 the time, was the dramatic shape they might fairly 
 take. Hence his utter condemnation of it. And 
 he quotes St Augustine, who had acutely remem- 
 bered the ' We see ourselves upon the stage : we 
 
Comedy. 147 
 
 become a secret and imperceived actor in the 
 piece. And there is there acted before us our own 
 special passion.' Who will say that this would not 
 apply to pieces of the ' Paul Eorrestier ' and 
 ' Dame aux Camelias ' class, where shame, vir- 
 tue, compassion, sympathy, and the tenderest pas- 
 sions, are woven round the coarsest vices? The 
 great bishop went further, and with justice pro- 
 tested against the enfeebling effort of doses of the 
 mimicry of violent and extravagant passions, undue 
 sympathy with such was unwholesome for a strong 
 mind ; and in this view a great English mind un- 
 consciously supported him. Bishop Butler, in a 
 remarkable passage of the 'Analogy,' has admir- 
 ably pointed out the damaging effect of the exer- 
 tion of mere sympathy, not followed by action, on 
 the formation of active habits of any kind. Bos- 
 suet's argument applied equally to the comedy of 
 his day, which, like the modern French comedy, 
 turned entirely on ridicule of topics of conjugal 
 morality and domestic virtue of any kind ; and 
 certainly religious teaching could have no such 
 fatal enemy. For the spirit of comedy, set off by 
 airy native wit, would have invested such lapses 
 
 with an air of good-natured harmlessness and in- 
 
 10 * 
 
148 Comedy. 
 
 dulgence. But this could not apply to a pleasant 
 English comedy and manners, which, after a legiti- 
 mate way, made vice absurd, and virtue agreeable. 
 This question, however, is intimately connected 
 with another ; and if the spectacle of violent 
 mimetic passion enfeebles all moral action, the 
 senseless ridicule of things long respected, the 
 presenting of what is refined and venerated in 
 connection with low and degrading associations, 
 must go far to corrupt public taste, and to brutal- 
 ize, rather than elevate. This brings us to the 
 consideration of modern Burlesque, and the cor- 
 rupt principles on which it is founded. 
 
PART III. 
 
 BURLESQUE. 
 
 Whenever a question of patent or license is 
 brought before a court of law, we are often enter- 
 tained with the spectacle of divers professors and 
 gentlemen of the stage, leaders of the orchestra, 
 authors, and managers, being examined as to the 
 definition of the point in dispute. It is amusing 
 to hear the wild theories and explanations vouched 
 on such occasions ; the vague expoundings and 
 hazy mystifications of what is simple in itself. 
 The question often turns on whether the inter- 
 dicted performance amounts to 'a burletta,' — the 
 shape of entertainment to which the terms of their 
 patent allows managers to object. The whole 
 tribe of artists is put into the box in succession ; 
 but no one can logically define a burletta. When 
 pushed to the metaphorical wall in cross-examina- 
 tion, they invariably catch at the old-fashioned 
 and now ' exploded ' ' "Midas." "Midas" is a bur- 
 letta.' 'What is a burletta?' '"Midas."' 
 
150 Bitrlesque. 
 
 ' What is " Midas ? " ' 'A burletta.' The utmost 
 that is usually obtained is that it is a something with 
 songs interspersed, — in short, like ' Midas.' But 
 if there should arise a question of patent or privi-( 
 lege as to burlesque, there would be a far greater 
 difficulty. It may be doubted whether a single 
 one of the managers who ' command ' a burlesque, 
 of the authors who write it, of the players who 
 play it, — though no one would dream of asking 
 anything from them, — or of the vapid groundlings 
 who take stalls, and, with vacant mind, ' guffaw ' 
 over the poor antics they come to see, — could offer 
 a definition of, much less describe, a burlesque. 
 The swell of our day, according to his lights, will 
 have before his eyes, — and before nothing more 
 intellectual, — a mixture of low dresses, comic 
 songs, and break-downs. ' But why burlesque ? ' 
 he is asked. ' Well, you know/ he will answer, ' a 
 fellow dressed up as a woman, and Polly Melville 
 doing Prince Arthur, — hang it ! what more fun 
 could you have ? ' If we ask the ingenious pun- 
 ster who furnished the programme for the night, 
 and the agile and exhausted artists who each night, 
 by sheer wind and limb, carry all through, to tell 
 us the point at which they are straining, the 
 
Burlesque. 151 
 
 answer would be the same : ' Oh, a thing* made 
 up of dancing and jokes and an old story.' The 
 greater public scarcely asks more. 
 
 Yet through being content with such husks 
 and such shams, it little dreams what chances of 
 real fun and enjoyment it throws away. It ac- 
 cepts what appeals to the mere senses, instead of 
 what appeals to the intellect and brain. Frequent 
 appeals to the former only end in monotony, and 
 at last find no answer ; while appeals to the latter 
 find a growing and steadily increasing response. 
 Writers, actors, and audiences of burlesque, are all 
 on an utterly wrong tact, and act and react on 
 each other so as to produce stupidity. Our modern 
 burlesques merely tickle the ear, not the brain. 
 These ' Polly Melvilles ' or ' Xelly Beauchamps ' — 
 such names do as well as any others invented by 
 the actresses, — acting Hector and Achilles, only 
 delight the eye. It is the same, too, with their 
 refined jigs, poor elocution, and feeble coquetries. 
 Already are to be seen signs of exhaustion ; the 
 meagre well of invention has been drained dry ; 
 there is nothing more to be pumped up but the old 
 mud of ' break-downs,' slang songs, and puns, 
 which has been drunk again and again. Pteal 
 
152 Burlesque. 
 
 burlesque is the clearest pellucid stream, flowing 
 abundantly from the rock, delicious, always wel- 
 come, and always to be drunk with enjoyment. 
 Let us see what may be accepted as the true prin- 
 ciple of burlesque, or at least as something truer 
 than that lack of principle to which is due the 
 wretched stuff which is now palmed off as bur- 
 lesque upon the public. 
 
 It has been often repeated that every subject 
 has its serious and its comic side ; or, at least, may 
 be so handled as to have its comic side. The low- 
 est manner of producing this last effect is by dress 
 or distortion of face. A man comes on in an ab- 
 surd dress, and the surprise to the eye produces a 
 laugh. A large nose in a pantomime makes the 
 children scream with enjoyment. But see the 
 dress or large nose half-a-dozen times and the effect 
 is gone ; nay, rather, there is produced a sense of 
 weariness and depression. There was something 
 highly comic in the ^Ethiopian serenaders when 
 they first appeared ; now no one smiles at their 
 high linen collars and blackened faces. What is 
 wanting is the intellectual element, an underlying 
 earnestness. Thus, could we suppose Mr Mill — 
 and we ask his pardon for such a supposition — to 
 
Burlesque. 153 
 
 be so eager, in justification of the negroes and of 
 their state, as to come forward and identify him- 
 self with their cause by lecturing in the popular 
 Ethiopian dress, — triangular collar, blackened face, 
 woolly hair, &c, — and were he to impress his 
 views earnestly, argumentatively, and passionately, 
 the effect would be irresistibly ludicrous, especially 
 as he grew more earnest and more passionate. This 
 would discover an elementary principle : and the 
 example reveals one of the secrets of true bur- 
 lesque, — an unconsciousness that it is burlesque. 
 
 Every one remembers that exquisite bit of fool- 
 ing, ' The Rejected Addresses ; ' and a criticism, 
 made on the imitation of Crabbe, really touched 
 the true key-note of burlesque. It was said that 
 if this poet had been set to write a poem on the 
 fire at Drury-lane, he would have written it much 
 in the same style as the caricaturist did. The 
 latter had placed himself in the position of the 
 former, and had viewed the matter as he thought 
 the other would have done. The supposition is 
 that Crabbe would have gravely set himself to the 
 trifling theme, and if he had condescended at all to 
 describe the fall and rescue of Tom Jennings' hat, 
 and the check-taker ' who gives the check he 
 
154 Burlesque. 
 
 takes,' he would have used the same strain as his 
 imitator. Here is the real humour of the thing; 
 the hypothesis of the poet taking this new attitude, 
 and his belief that he was as dignified as before. 
 So at an electro -biological stance, — to come lower 
 down, — the sight of a grave professor dancing away 
 or singing is really ludicrous. 
 
 To turn to instances more familiar to the public 
 mind, it may be asked, how is our test to be applied 
 to a burlesque on some mythological or historical 
 story ? Here, again, a transposition of the subject 
 matter into, or its contrast with, some inappro- 
 priate time or condition, produces mirth. Thus, 
 how droll is it to see one of Shakespeare's plays 
 done at country theatres by inferior actors, — with 
 their inferior shifts and pretences at dignity and 
 grandeur. The effect is proportioned to the earnest- 
 ness of the actors ; let them but show they are con- 
 scious of the ridiculous situation in which they are, 
 or rather, let them wish to show it to the audience, 
 and the ' fun ' disappears. The contrast too of 
 togas, &c, with the face, bearing, and speech of 
 the present time, has something comic. But a yet 
 truer test is this. The real humorist knows that 
 human nature must be the same materially in all 
 
Burlesque. 155 
 
 times, and he will try and reproduce his old 
 Romans and Greeks as nearly as possible with the 
 weaknesses and conditions of our every-day life ; 
 showing that it is only the dress that makes the 
 difference. And this task he will carry out with 
 perfect earnestness and gravity. Again, knowing 
 how inconsistent such old manners and customs 
 are with our present habits, he will exaggerate the 
 former so as to make the discordance more start- 
 lino;. The consummate art of Cervantes has in- 
 vested "Don Quixote with a pathetic interest. He 
 is a gallant and sincere, though crack-brained, gen- 
 tleman. Otherwise he had been a sublime type of 
 burlesque from his very earnestness, and we can 
 laugh with safety at the minor incidents which his 
 ridiculous craze brings about. 
 
 A good illustration of the utter misapprehension 
 of the true principles of burlesque is to be found 
 in some recently published college squibs of Mr 
 G. 0. Trevelyan, and which are strangely described 
 by the generally discriminating Spectator ' as sin- 
 gularly good specimens of modern burlesque.' The 
 1 fun ' lies in investing Horace, during his known 
 stay at the University of Athens, with the attri- 
 butes and associations of a modern Cambridge 
 
156 Burlesque. 
 
 student. This is done on an old common trick, 
 which is purely mechanical, and consisting in 
 fitting modern offices and modern characters and 
 manners to old names. For instance : 
 
 ' Don't you know him ? 
 The same that got the Chancellor's Prize Poem ; 
 Who wears six rings, and curly as a maid is ; 
 Who's always humming songs about the ladies ; 
 Who never comes inside the gates till four ; 
 Who painted green the Senior Tutor's door.' 
 
 Taking these six lines, it is plain that the pro- 
 cess is merely mechanical ; that is, rhyme in the 
 incidents of modern college life, and substitute 
 Latin names and allusions. So with the battle of 
 Philippi, where a ' Times ' correspondent is intro- 
 duced, Quintus Russellus Maximus, though there 
 is a touch of humour in the name ' Maximus ' : 
 
 ' What means this most discreditable bustle? 
 I am the correspondent, Quintus Russell. 
 Describe the enemy, that I may draw him. 
 Sol. We can't describe him, for we never saw him. 
 Rus. You never saw the foe ! This is indeed 
 A most confused, unsoldierlike stampede ; 
 I never met with such a shameful scene, 
 As daily correspondent, though I've been 
 (At least, I doubt if you will find a dailyer) 
 In every fight from Munda to Pharsalia.' 
 
 All this is simply English talk, not Roman. 
 
Burlesque. 157 
 
 Now, what would be the true principle ? To try 
 and project oneself into the mind of a Roman, who 
 was inclined to be satiric on the subjects of the 
 time ; or better still, go back again to that master- 
 piece of burlesque, the imitator of Scott, in the 
 1 Rejected Addresses.' That was supposed to be 
 written by a friend and admirer of the lost Hig- 
 ginbotham, who believed himself a poet, and 
 wished to write with as much feeling upon a sub- 
 ject he considered as full of dignity as Marmion. The 
 result is something exquisitely ludicrous. He did 
 not take Scott's thoughts and allusions, and parody 
 them, substituting firemen's slang ; but he wrote 
 as a poetical fireman zvould do on such a subject. 
 
 We are accustomed to invest these old scenes 
 with an unfamiliar air and almost heroic gran- 
 deur ; and the surprise at finding that their heroes 
 are inspired by our own earthly motives and in- 
 clinations produces a comic efiect. What the true 
 tone of this sort of ridicule should be, could be 
 well shown by another illustration not drawn from 
 the stage. One of the happiest satires of nearly 
 two generations a<?o was a novel called ' Little Ped- 
 dlington,' and which, though forgotten as a story, 
 has been preserved by name in the commonplace 
 
1 5 8 Burlesque. 
 
 book of literature. There is far more real humour 
 iu it thau in M. Sardou's ' Nos Bons Villageois,' 
 which is founded on the same notion, and its pur- 
 pose is to show, that in the most rural little corners 
 there is as much meanness and pettiness as in 
 greater communities. The gem of the whole is 
 ' The Guide-Book ' of the place, a delicious parody 
 of the unconscious vauntings and vanities of such 
 chronicles. Now, an inferior satirist of our time, 
 who had got hold of the same idea, would do with 
 it as the burlesque writers do with their ideas, and 
 in falling into raptures over the beauties of the 
 town, would pitch on absurd far-fetched things, 
 such as no real guide-book maker would choose. 
 At every turn we should see the comic writer him- 
 self behind what he was writing. Not so that 
 superior artist, John Poole, who is perfectly in 
 earnest all through, and writes his guide-book as 
 if he were the real guide-book writer of Little Ped- 
 dlington, proud of the new cast-iron pump which 
 replaced the wooden one, of the ' portion of the old 
 stocks ' preserved in the museum, the beauties of 
 the crescent, ' Yawkins' Library,' &c. "We are told 
 that but a footstep separates the sublime from the 
 ridiculous ; but our present funny writers seem to 
 
Burlesque. 159 
 
 think it is a yawning crevasse, and use propor- 
 tionate exertion. The true humorist, knowing 
 that every highly-strained emotion and incident 
 verges on this peril, chooses only the most pro- 
 minent points whereon to dwell ; a slight exag- 
 geration disturbs the balance, and without further 
 exertion on his part, produces the effect for him. 
 
 But it is hard — as it was in the old discussion 
 on the definition of wit— to define nicely what a 
 burlesque should be. It is easy to show what it 
 has been, and also to show that its present shape is 
 utterly faulty, flat and insipid. That we have 
 reached a sort of finality is certain ; the old com- 
 mon forms are used up ; they have been inter- 
 changed, compounded together with something like 
 desperation. "What the state of burlesque now is, 
 whether it corresponds, not to the reasonable 
 canons of burlesque, but even to the lower standard 
 of buffoonery, may be illustrated by a piece lately 
 played at the Royal Strand Theatre, and which 
 purports to be a burlesque history of Joan of Arc. 
 Xow, at the outset it may be doubted whether there 
 was tact in the choice of such a subject, owing to 
 the dignity and purity of that famous heroine ; in- 
 deed, a glance at the familiar little statue, the bent 
 
160 Burlesque. 
 
 head, and the sword clasped devoutly, would seem 
 to forbid ridicule. Burlesque, abashed, might pass 
 on. But the true comic view, — if one was to be 
 taken, — would seem to be drawn from the position 
 of a modern lady of our day in some similar atti- 
 tude. The practical tone of our times would jar 
 at every turn upon such a conception. But, in 
 truth, the task would be difficult, — in fact, impos- 
 sible ; for the sincerity and gallantry of the maid 
 must interpose at every turn, and check the at- 
 tempt to ridicule. 
 
 Another gross mistake is in choosing subjects 
 for burlesque that are but little familiar, or with 
 which the public mind has made but recent ac- 
 quaintance. The idea of burlesquing a play is a 
 false one. The object of a burlesque should be 
 something existing in the mind of the public, part 
 of the common stock of popular knowledge, not 
 something that has been seen by mere eyes, heard 
 by mere ears, and that by the eyes and ears of but 
 a few. In this ' Joan of Arc ' a good deal is made 
 to turn on the historic character of a Prince of 
 Burgundy, utterly unknown to pit and galleries, 
 and the lowest depth of mimetic fun is reached as 
 he exhibits on his cuirass a painted bottle and two 
 
Burlesque. 1 6 1 
 
 wine-glasses filled with Burgundy. This is labelling 
 fun with a vengeance : and the author might 
 nearly as well take his stand in front, a wand in 
 his hand, and point, and explain the meaning of 
 his characters, as in a wax-work. 
 
 But, indeed, this utter want of intelligibility 
 is a special feature of the existing burlesque. 
 Scenes and antics succeed each other, song follows 
 song, in a sort of dreary monotony, till we wonder 
 what is going on. We hear, certainly, laughter 
 about us, but laughter is not a certain sign of 
 enjoyment. So simple and cheap a movement as 
 a wink has convulsed many an audience : and, 
 stranger still, the proposing, or taking of, a kiss 
 never fails to excite roars. With a little judicious 
 compounding of these certain elements, a laugh 
 may be generally counted on to cheer the player's 
 efforts. 
 
 How many dreary, weary hours have we to 
 
 lay to the account of what is called so compli- 
 
 mentarily ' a capital burlesque ; ' or, to quote the 
 
 hoardings, 'The last glorious burlesque; 400th 
 
 night.' The elements are familiar enough : and 
 
 the following is no exaggeration of the modern 
 
 11 
 
1 62 Burlesque. 
 
 fashion of putting a bill of fare before a childish 
 public : 
 
 KOYAL THAMES THEATRE ! 
 
 GLORIOUS AND UNEQUIVOCAL SUCCESS ! 
 
 CHARLES THE FIRST; or, THE ROYAL BLOCK- 
 HEAD. 
 
 Sculptured by Noll-ekins. 
 
 THE GREAT TOPICAL SONG, 
 Encored six times every evening. 
 
 Miss Polly Buxom as King Charles. 
 Prince Rupert . . Miss Bessie Green, 
 
 Mr D. Jacks as Old Noll. 
 Noll's Daughter . . Mr Toms. 
 
 A HOUSE OF COMMONS DEBATE. 
 
 The Speaker . . Miss Nelly Grace. 
 
 'TAKE THAT BAUBLE AWAY!' 
 Encored six times nightly. 
 
 Roars of laughter at the Roundheads' Dance. 
 
 double break-down. 
 
 We are enticed in, and enter with a certain 
 alacrity, as believing that a delightful night is 
 before us, yet not without misgivings. What fol- 
 lows we all know. We can read it in the faces of 
 
Burlesque. 1 63 
 
 the departing audience about eleven o'clock. The 
 feeling experienced by the listeners is very much 
 akin to that felt after sitting out a long service 
 in a church; it cannot compare to the absorbed 
 interest with which we pass a whole day fol- 
 lowing a trial, or ' a severe cross-examination ; ' 
 or the little sense we have of the progress of 
 minutes and hours passing by unappreciated, in a 
 real dialogue, or struggle, between a cross-ex- 
 aminer and his witnesses. This is, indeed, the 
 fault of our modern acting; all has become so 
 conventional that we have actually now the spec- 
 tacle of actors imitating other actors ; and the 
 tricks and gags of a leading tragedian, or funny 
 man, are copied with veneration by his provincial 
 brothers. The simple result of all this is repetition, I 
 monotony, and fatigue. The ' screaming ' new 
 burlesque at the Royal Thames is the screaming 
 old one of six years ago, with its cards shuffled. 
 The rival ' Nellys ' and ' Pollys ' in the pink satin 
 or blue satin * tights ' go .through their little 
 dances as before, and the funny man wears a 
 higher false forehead and a more startling shape 
 of moustache, say five inches longer than his last 
 
 pair. The ' great topical song ' which this artist 
 
 11 * 
 
1 64 Burlesqtie. 
 
 favours us with is usually a feeble doggerel of this 
 nature : — 
 
 ' Once more has Rachel been refused 
 
 To be let out on bail ; 
 Enough to make the ladies all 
 Become so very pale. 
 
 Burden, to a facetious air. 
 What it means — ■ 
 What it screens — 
 I'm sure I cannot tell.' 
 
 The ' encoring ten times ' is contrived by the 
 singer retiring at the end of each verse, as if he 
 had quite finished, and reappearing, as if much to 
 his own annoyance. This takes in the simple 
 stranger at first ; but more amazing still is it to 
 hear the fanatic applause with which rhyme and 
 sentiment far inferior to the above are welcomed. 
 At one of our leading funny theatres, the other 
 night, a perfect hurricane of applause greeted 
 something worse than the following extract from 
 ' the great topical song : ' — 
 
 ' And so the cabman's fare, at last, 
 Is settled, nearly quite ; 
 I'm sure there's no one here will grudge 
 Poor Cabby all that's right. 
 
 Burden. What it means — 
 What it screens — 
 I'm sure I cannot tell.' 
 
Burlesque. 165 
 
 But who can blame the ' funny ' writers who 
 supply this stuff? Better would not, perhaps, ex- 
 tort even a reluctant guffaw. At houses of this 
 sort it is a fact that the players actually encore 
 themselves ; and when an indifferently comic trio, 
 ' My airy love blooms in the airy,' obtains a faint 
 nutter of applause, the singers often wait, half 
 bowing acknowledgment, half asking for more, 
 until the groundlings — always delighted to be 
 allowed to take part in anything going on — re- 
 spond to the challenge faintly. 
 
 ' Txion ' seemed to give our conventional no- 
 tions of mythology quite a modern turn. Yet, as 
 will be seen by-and-by, this is a very ancient idea, 
 and has been tried very often, from the days of 
 ' Midas ' downwards. ' Black-Eyed Susan,' too, 
 was a happy thought, and the old story, including 
 the conventional licentious captain of the British 
 navy, held the elements of burlesque. But still, 
 though the result was ' funny,' somehow the piece 
 had no relation to the original story, and formed a 
 mere diverting spectacle. Such was enough, it 
 will be said, and all that the manager asked. But 
 it would seem that there are elements of yet 
 deeper fun to be evoked, which would have pro- 
 
1 66 Burlesque. 
 
 voked more intense enjoyment. How utterly 
 astray public criticism was as to the true key-note 
 to be touched, was shown by a representation of 
 'The Admiral of the Black,' represented as a negro 
 in naval uniform, and which was loudly com- 
 mended and called attention to by the press, as a 
 device of true humour. This jest, in truth, bore 
 the same relation to real burlesque as a bad pun or 
 verbal quibble would do to real humour. There 
 could be no chord of humour touched, — indeed, 
 there was no real meaning, — in having ' William ' 
 played by a young girl in blue satin trousers. 
 One would have fancied that the weak point in 
 'William's' character, and its suitability for ridi- 
 cule, would have been found in his heroic senti- 
 ments, and the high-flown splendour of his diction, 
 which our own experience tells us are not the 
 common characteristics of the British tar. This 
 feature of the original drama has often amused the 
 spectator, notwithstanding its interest and popu- 
 larity. But, surely, to have a young girl in blue 
 satin trousers dancing break-downs and singing 
 comic songs is no way of bringing ridicule on the 
 gentle William. Captain Crosstree, with his spy- 
 
Burlesque. 167 
 
 glass and its exercise, it must be owned, did verge 
 on the humorous. But, if we look across the water, 
 we must own that the French are in possession 
 of the secret, as in the ' Belle Helene,' or in a 
 character or two of that piece. A leading figure is 
 Calchas, the high priest. Under English treatment 
 the point would be to extract as much 'fun' 
 from him as possible, by giving him artificial cor- 
 pulence, an artificial nose, and vast spectacles. 
 In fact, on such principles a heathen clergyman 
 was thus dealt with not long ago on the stage. A 
 vast umbrella was placed under his arm, from 
 which he never parted, and by whose aid he per- 
 formed the most grotesque dances. But the 
 French Calchas drew laughter from deeper but 
 more inexhaustible wells. With true native pro- 
 fanity, he transformed the heathen priest into 
 the modern clergyman : at every turn came out 
 the French ideal — for such it is — of modern 
 sacerdotalism. A thousand little touches pointed 
 at this. Above all, there was worked out a smug 
 air of comfortable imposture, such as the heathen 
 priest would have borne to a sharp-eyed sneering 
 Greek, who saw through the trickery. The ex- 
 
1 68 Burlesque. 
 
 quisite reality of the whole, — the character of 
 Calchas, his snuffiness, — the snuff not being taken 
 in that noisy conspicuous way which belongs to 
 the English stage, but in a corner, as it were, in a 
 greasy comfortable enjoyment, — his stoop and 
 walk, and his inimitably sly revelations of disbelief 
 in the imposture he was carrying on, — the con- 
 trast of this vivid every-day portrait to the old 
 heathen accessories and dresses, — the under-cur- 
 rent of hints conveyed, that these old pagans were 
 mumming and theatrical, even in their helmets 
 and dresses, — all these refined touchings made up 
 an idea of burlesque exquisitely mirthful. 
 
 The working out of English burlesque has got 
 to be inconceivably poor and trivial. We have not 
 even ' mere buffoonery,' which is often amusing. 
 The following, which seem the mere 'rinsings' 
 of the 'funny' mind, are taken from one of our 
 later burlesques : — 
 
 'Let's fly, love, we ne'er shall, if we elope 
 To Gretna Green, be e'er regrettirC a slope." 1 
 
 ' Who 'cross the Tweed, weds folks for trifling sums, 
 Oh, do leave off a-hveedling your thumbs.' 
 
 ' Give me the bag : now all of you stand bag.' * 
 
 * The following is more elaborate, and the reader will note the 
 labour and the number of lines required to bring in the poor, high, 
 much-prized conceit : — 
 
Burlesque. 169 
 
 This sort of jesting is almost effrontery, and 
 clever writers are obliged to furnish such an article. 
 But whether these puns be bad or good, there 
 arises another question : — What amusement or 
 
 ' My detested enemy 
 Shall find his threats, his hatred low and trickey, 
 His deep-toned vows of vengeance, are all — dickey. 
 
 [Brings a dickey from the hag. 
 Don't be so sharp — 
 K. Folks mostly say I'm blunt. 
 
 A . Don't in that snappish manner take a front."" 
 
 But here are more flowers of fun : — 
 
 ' How I should like to hocus him — ho-cass him ! ' 
 'His skill they all then questioned — each bold prancer 
 Got for his question a sharp little V oncer? 
 
 And for fear this conceit should not have strength to carry itself 
 through, a stage direction is added, — 
 
 [' Makes a motion of thrusting.'] 
 
 But this is not enough, and it is pushed further : — 
 
 ' My fish I landed with one little VookJ 
 ' Making one cry when he the street is haunting. 
 Pray cease ! Troubadour! end — chanting.'' 
 
 The following specimen is literally unintelligible : — 
 
 ' My love is not return'd, my letters are, 
 Under which circumstances, ha ! ha ! ha ! ' 
 Or,— 
 
 ' Oh, he's come ! Yes, mum, 
 That's why I feel all froth, because he's come.' 1 
 
 1 On his feet high lows. 
 — Oh, why should hi lose him ? ' 
 
170 Burlesque. 
 
 entertainment can there be in such quibbling ? 
 Any person in private life, persistently troubling 
 us with such remarks, we should think imperti- 
 nent, or should form a very low opinion of the 
 mind that could find enjoyment in such tricks. 
 But when we have such jokes learnt, studied, set 
 off with dress and scenery, and officially brought 
 forward under the dignified influence of 'the 
 stage,' their thin, poor, frail character, seen in all 
 its barrenness, is revealed ; and their unsubstantial 
 framework seems to creak lamentably under the 
 load of dressed, and too often undressed, figures, 
 which are stuck upon it. As well keep one's eye 
 fixed all the day to a peep-showman's box, and see 
 repeated again and again the daubed battles, and 
 the triumphant processions, and the crowned heads. 
 Again and again must it be repeated that there is 
 nothing dramatic in what appeals merely to the 
 eyes and ears. Something else must be stirred. 
 Our senses are unintelligent, and, like country 
 bumpkins, when the first stupid stare of surprise 
 is over, show astonishment at nothing. To rouse 
 this dull languor there is but one method by the 
 framers of the so-called burlesques of the day, — 
 the method by which the dram-drinker must rouse 
 
Bztrlesqtie. 171 
 
 himself, — namely, by repeated doses and more fiery 
 draughts. These the manager must supply to a 
 sated and querulous public, and, as there is nothing 
 known more fiery than cayenne, the term of such 
 stimulants is soon reached. 
 
 Some twenty or thirty years ago a very different 
 species of humour was offered to the public, — 
 which might then without compliment be called 
 a discriminating one. The rabble of dancing girls 
 then found no encouragement, or were confined to 
 their proper regions at the opera-house. The 
 antics of a Polly This, or Patty That, would have 
 been reckoned an insufferable familiarity, and the 
 humorists of those days would have laughed con- 
 temptuously had they been called on to supply 
 situations, the whole point of which turned on 
 a fast young king being played by a girl, and a 
 severe-looking woman by a man. Some of the 
 pleasant pieces of these more fortunate days were 
 delightful scenes of fun, conceived in the happiest 
 spirit of true burlesque, the best of which we owe 
 to that excellent artist, Mr Planche. His name 
 is more popularly associated with pieces of what 
 the French call ' feerie,' — a kind of dreamy and 
 spiritualized version of one of our fairy tales, done 
 
172 Burlesque. 
 
 with a certain seriousness, very niucli as it would 
 appear to a child's eye. His name recalls the 
 ' Sleeping Beauty in the "Wood,' ' King Charming,' 
 ' Invisible Prince,' and many other pieces as- 
 sociated with the Vestris triumphs. Not so 
 familiar are his truly humorous satires and pieces 
 of pure burlesque on the old stories of mythology, 
 where the doings of the gods and goddesses are 
 ridiculed with a quiet gravity. His treatment of 
 a single classical story, ' The Golden Fleece,' is an 
 excellent example, and may recall to a forgetful 
 public the true principles of the art of raising 
 laughter. In some instances he has followed less 
 respectable models, and repeated the common 
 jingles and puns, which disguise other works. Few 
 play-goers will forget Mr Charles Mathews in his 
 representation of that odd portion of the Greek 
 dramatis personae, the Chorus, — that tedious body 
 of moralizers and incessant interrupters of the 
 business, who have perplexed and wearied so many 
 a schoolboy with their Jeremiads and explana- 
 tions. Any reader of Euripides or Sophocles will 
 recollect the dismal commentaries of ' the Chorus.' 
 The terrible grandeur of the Greek plays made 
 such an adjunct quite in keeping, and lifted it 
 
Burlesque. 1 73 
 
 above the possible bathos of a dangerous fami- 
 liarity. But to the scoffing Greek we can quite 
 conceive the utterances of these supernumeraries 
 furnishing a subject for inextinguishable ridicule ; 
 and, indeed, no more legitimate subject for bur- 
 lesque could have been supplied to a Planche 
 living at Athens. But there is this peculiarity in 
 real burlesque, as distinguished from the false, that 
 even those unacquainted with the subject that is 
 satirized can see there is something ridiculous in 
 what is satirized. 
 
 Fancy a body of old men sitting where the mu- 
 sicians now play, and after each situation, or at the 
 end of each scene, turning to the audience with 
 some such remark as this : ' Ah, the unhappy 
 Lady Clara ! ! ! What is to become of her now ? 
 How is she to escape from that bold, bad baronet ? 
 Surely she is overwhelmed with more wretched- 
 ness than she deserves. Is there no Providence ? 
 Where are the good men ? Ah ! what is to become 
 of her ? ' Or, again, when the bold, bad baronet 
 is unexpectedly killed by his own pistol going off 
 as he is scaling the wall to Lady Clara's window, 
 the commentators in the orchestra, if the drama 
 were conducted on Grecian dramatic principles, 
 
1 74 Burlesque. 
 
 would turn to the audience and say : ' See there ! 
 Such is the consequence of indulging our own un- 
 bridled passions. He lies there, that unfortunate 
 baronet, a bleeding corpse. Punishment, though 
 slow, hath o'ertaken him. Ah ! what will happen 
 now ? — what will become of us all ? Wonderful 
 are the decrees of fate ! Not one of us can escape 
 them ! ' 
 
 The story of the ' Golden Eleece ' is, of course, 
 familiar to all, — at least in its broad outline. 
 There is the arrival of Jason, the labours appointed 
 for him before he can win his bride, his desertion 
 of her for Glauce\ her fury, and her sacrifice of 
 their children. There would be a regular recipe 
 for dealing with this tale by the workmen of our 
 day, which our experience can supply.* 
 
 * The leading funny man would be the King of Colchis, — witfi a 
 red nose, an enormous artificial forehead, &c, and a reasonable wager 
 might be accepted that he would be described in the play-bills after 
 this fashion : — 
 
 JEetes, King of Colchis (so gluttonous that he would eat-us, 
 and possibly fond of cold cheese). 
 
 Jason would, of course, belong by right to one of the pert and 
 familiar young ladies of the establishment, who would appear in small 
 satin ' tights,' with an eye-glass and moustache and whip ; would talk 
 with a drawl, and use ' demmes ' and ' bay Jove's,' sing slang songs, 
 and, like Mr Fezziwig in the ' Carol,' appear ' to wink with her legs.' 
 The bill would, of course, run : — 
 
Burlesque. ij$ 
 
 How very different and even artistic is Mr 
 Planch^' s treatment ! The real gravity and earn- 
 estness becoming to burlesque are not lost sight of. 
 The image of the Greek theatre is retained, and 
 the Chorus sits in front. How pleasant and 
 natural the flow of the introduction ! — 
 
 Chorus. Friends, countrymen, lovers, first listen to me : 
 I'm the Chorus ; whatever you hear or you see, 
 That you don't understand, I shall rise to explain — 
 It's a famous old fashion that's come up again, 
 And will be of great service to many fine plays, 
 That nobody can understand now-a-days ; 
 And think what a blessing, if found intervening, 
 When the author himself scarcely knows his own meaning. 
 You may reap from it, too, an advantage still further, 
 When an actor is bent on marriage or murther, 
 To the Chorus his scheme he, in confidence, mentions, 
 'Stead of telling the pit all his secret intentions ; 
 A wondrous improvement you all will admit, 
 And the secret is just as well heard by the pit. 
 Yerbum sap — -To the wise, I'll not put one more word in, 
 
 Jason (a young swell from an a.-jasont country), Miss Polly Lightleg. 
 
 Medea would, as a matter of course, and without discussion, be 
 done by the well-known comic gentleman of the house, who has done 
 queens, and countesses, and washerwomen, and governesses, and 
 Minervas. There would be the captain of the ' Argo,' like the captain 
 of a steamer ; policemen, as a matter of course ; in short, any play-goer 
 could sketch out the framework. The effect on the mind would be the 
 usual one, — nothing distinct or special, a general sense of ' break- 
 downs,' romping, and bad puns, and the great ' topical ' song as before. 
 
176 Burlesqtie. 
 
 Or instead of a Chorus they'll think me a hurden ; 
 But just say, this is Colchis, and that's King iEetes, 
 And this is young Jason, he coming to meet is. 
 And there are the forty odd friends of young Jason, 
 And that's their ship Argo, just entering the basin. 
 At the end of each scene I shall sing you some history, 
 Or clear up whatever is in it of mystery. 
 
 Compare, too, the song in which the Chorus — 
 and Mr Mathews as the Chorus — tells the story of 
 the Fleece, with the average common form of a 
 burlesque song. The easy, natural way in which 
 he converses with the audience, without the com- 
 mon gagging and familiarity with which such 
 communication is generally carried on, on the stage, 
 is inexpressibly amusing : — 
 
 However, my business at present is merely 
 To tell what may not have appear'd quite so clearly, 
 The cause of the voyage, which in the ship Argo 
 Young Jason has taken ; and why this embargo 
 Is laid on the fleece, which lies here on the shelf; 
 And as I'm the Chorus, I'll sing it myself. 
 
 SONG.— Chorus.— 1 The Tight Little Island.' 
 
 There reigned once on a time, o'er Bceotia's clime 
 
 A King (Athamas he's known by name as) ; 
 He packed off his first wife, and thought her the worst wife, 
 
 Till the second the first proved the same as. 
 The second was Ino, who, you know, 
 
 Was very displeasing to Juno, 
 And a shocking step-mother the children of t'other 
 
 Found her, to their cost, pretty soon, oh ! 
 
Burlesque. 177 
 
 She tkreaten'd with slaughter her step-son and daughter, 
 
 But a ram with a fine golden fleece, sir, 
 Flew up thro' the sky, with them so very high, 
 
 They could not see the least spot of Greece, sir ! 
 They got in a deuce of a fright, sir, 
 
 Poor Helle, she couldn't hold tight, sir! 
 She fell in the sea, but the young fellow he 
 
 Came over to Colchis all right, sir ! 
 
 What do you think this nice man did, as soon as he landed 
 
 And found himself safe, the young sinner ? 
 He saw the king's daughter, made love to, and caught her, 
 
 And had the poor ram kill'd for dinner. 
 'Twas very ungrateful you'll say, sir, 
 
 But, alas ! of the world it's the way, sir, 
 When all a friend can, you have done for a man, 
 
 He'll cut you quite dead the next day, sir. 
 
 The rhymes here, and even the puns, are all 
 witty and flowing ; and the very source and spring 
 of the story is something like that a facetious 
 Greek, bent on ridiculing one of the legends of 
 his country, would have conceived. 
 
 Now, beside this versified narrative let us put 
 one taken from the introduction to a modern bur- 
 lesque : — 
 
 SONG-.— Fernando. Air, ' Cork Leg.' 
 
 The late count had a brace of sons, 
 
 Extremely plump and handsome ones, 
 
 As like as two new Enfield guns, 
 
 Or as a couple of hot cross buns. 
 
 Quite true, all true, ritooral, &c. 
 
 Chorus. Quite true, &c. 
 12 
 
i y8 Burlesque. 
 
 A gipsy's son, of poaching fond, 
 
 The count sent o'er the herring pond. 
 
 The very day he went away 
 
 Our master's younger brother — 
 All. Eh? 
 
 Ferr. Was lost, right tooral, though the rural policeman did search. 
 
 Chorus. Right tooral, &c. 
 
 'Twas thought the poacher's mother did 
 Feloniously prig the kid. 
 Wherever could young master be ? 
 Has always been a Mister E. 
 
 Eight tooral, &c. 
 
 If ever that misguided gal 
 Should be by master caught, my pal, 
 Her life will not be of much val- 
 — ue, ritooral, ritoo-raZ. 
 
 Chorus. Ritooral, &c. 
 
 For years a morbid man lived Count di Luna, 
 Till he saw Lady Leonora — sooner 
 Than you could say ' Jack Robinson,' plump fell 
 Into love's meshes that Italian swell. 
 Nightly to love him here he has brought her, 
 And though they empty on him jugs of water, 
 And heavy boxes, too, of mignonette, 
 Hoping by such means some repose to get, 
 He sings his solo, though him they do wet ; 
 And though they hope to vex him, past a doubt, 
 It doesn't quench love's flame, or put him out ; 
 But soft ! his idol comes ; it's very clear 
 That we must not be caught thus idling here. 
 
 What inferior stuff this is beside the other ! On 
 the other hand, how truly humorous, especially to 
 
Burlesque. 179 
 
 one recalling his weary hours of hammering over 
 the Greek plays, is the appeal of the Queen to the 
 Chorus : — 
 
 He's gone ! and yet his god-like form before us 
 
 [Chorus advances. 
 
 Appears to hover. Ah, my gentle Chorus — 
 
 You the impartial confidant of all — 
 
 You, to whom every Colchian, great or small, 
 
 Imparts his hope or fear on this sad stage, 
 
 Have I done wrong with Jason to engage 
 
 In this great struggle 'gainst my royal sire ? 
 Chorus. It's rather — 
 Medea. Silence, sir, I don't require 
 
 To be told that, whatever it may be 
 
 You were about to say : but answer me, 
 
 Have I done wrong ? 
 Chorus. You — 
 
 Medea. Interrupt me not. 
 
 Have I done wrong, I ask? if so, in what? 
 Chorus. I — 
 
 Medea. Ah ! your silence answers me too plainly. 
 
 Chorus. But — 
 Medea. And you offer consolation vainly. 
 
 'Gainst Fate's decree to strive, who has the brass ? 
 
 For what must be, comes usually to pass. 
 
 So let me haste and pack up my portmanteau — 
 
 I've got that horrid dragon to enchant, too ! 
 Chorus. If I might ask — 
 M> <J< a. Now what I mean to do ? 
 
 In confidence, I don't mind telling you. 
 
 The humour of this situation lies in the possi- 
 bility of the working of the chorus, actually leading 
 
 12 * 
 
1 8o Burlesqtie. 
 
 to such a painful discussion from the anger of the 
 august person they presumed to advise. The 
 weakness of human nature is pretty much the 
 same in all eyes : and with all the sanctity and 
 august prerogatives of this hand of advisers, they 
 were exposed to such a rebuff. 
 
 Excellent, too, for its gravity and earnestness, 
 is the conclusion of the first act, where the Chorus 
 again interferes in a soothing way, and where 
 there are quips our modern burlesquewrights 
 might envy. 
 
 Enter yEetes. 
 
 JEetes. My mind misgives me — wherefore was that shout ? 
 What, ho ! my slaves within — my guards without ! 
 
 Enter Guards and Sages. 
 
 We are betray'd ! robb'd ! murder'd ! See — oh, treason ! 
 
 Yonder he goes, that young son of — old iEson. 
 Chorus {advancing). Be calm, great king — "'tis destiny' 's decree. 
 ^Eetes. How dare you talk of destiny to me ? 
 
 What right have you with such advice to bore us f 
 Chorus. Sir, Tin the Chorus. 
 ^Eetes. Sir, you're indecorous. 
 
 There ,is something truly humorous in the verses 
 which we have printed in italics, — and, as was 
 before remarked, though few in the pit and gal- 
 leries may have known how the great tragedy 
 
Burlesque. 1 8 1 
 
 kings and queens of the Greek stage turn angrily 
 on the expostulating Chorus, — still the effect of 
 true burlesque should be humorous in itself, quite 
 independently of ridiculous absurdity. For those 
 acquainted with the Greek stage there is, of course, 
 a double enjoyment. 
 
 At the end of the piece Medea sends Glauce 
 the fatal garment which is to destroy her, and pre- 
 pares to kill her children. Many will recall the 
 late Mr Ptobson in this scene, but in another 
 version, constructed on the modern principles, and 
 which are dull enough ; above all from the Medea be- 
 ing played by a man. For there is this principle 
 also in burlesque which will surprise not a few, — 
 that there is a loss of ' fun ' by such inversion, and 
 that there is a far greater and more humorous con- 
 trast in the conception of a Medea as played by a 
 woman. When played by a man, this perversion 
 is always intruding — it takes the whole thing out 
 of the range of possibility. We know that the 
 personage we see could not be a ridiculously angry 
 and fiercely jealous woman, — a kind of trouble- 
 some Xantippe, worrying her husband; but is 
 merely a disguised man, going through grotesque 
 antics. 
 
1 82 Burlesque. 
 
 Medea. Tell me all — how do they fit her ? 
 
 Nurse. Fit her : she's frying in them like a fritter. 
 Medea. She stole my flame, and now in flames she lingers, 
 
 And, with my wedding ring, she's burnt her fingers. 
 
 The tyrant, Creon, too, does he not frizzle? 
 Nurse. He does — and so will you, unless you mizzle. 
 Medea. Fly — save thyself; I've still a deed to do, 
 
 No mortal eye may see, save my own two. 
 
 [Exit Nurse, L. 
 
 Yes, my poor children — yes, it must be done, 
 
 Your fate it is impossible to shun. 
 Chorus. What would you do to them ? Say, I implore. 
 Medea, (drawing a rod from out the sheath of a dagger) — 
 
 That which I never did to them before. 
 Chorus. Whip 'em ? Oh, wherefore ? Is the woman mad ? 
 
 What is their crime ? 
 Medea. They are too like their dad ! 
 
 [[Snatches up children and exit R. u. e. 
 Chorus. 'Tis plain her wrongs have driven her wild, or will. 
 
 Help, Jason, help ! 
 
 Enter Jason, L. 
 Jason. How now ? What more of ill 
 
 Has Jason now to dread ? The king's a cinder ; 
 
 My match is broken off — my bride is tinder ; 
 
 And I am left, a poor, unhappy spark, 
 
 To go out miserably in the dark. 
 
 Where is the wicked worker of these woes ? 
 Chorus. Inflicting, now, the heaviest blows 
 
 Upon thy children. 
 Jason. On my children — where ? 
 
 Chorus. Behind, of course. 
 
 Children, (within R.) Oh, mother, mother ! 
 
 Chorus. There ! 
 
 You hear them ? 
 
Burlesque. 1 83 
 
 Jason, (rushes to door) Paralyzed with awe I stand — 
 
 Medea, hold, oh, hold thy barbarous hand : 
 
 The door is fast, where shall I find a crow? 
 Chorus. You have one — 
 Jason. Where ? 
 
 Chorus. To pluck with her, you know. 
 
 Jason. I mean an iron crow, to force the gate 
 
 Which she has bolted. 
 Medea, (within E.) Fool, thou art too late ! 
 
 Jason. Too late, by Jove ! She's bolted, too — despair ; 
 Nurse. Gone in a dragon-fly, no soul knows where. 
 Jason. A dragon-fly ! How dare she so presume ! 
 
 A toitch's carriage ought to be a broom. 
 Chorus. I said that she was flighty, and she's fled. 
 
 [Thunder, &c. The palace sinks, and Medea is seen in a 
 chariot drawn by two fiery dragons, amidst the clouds. 
 
 The palace sinks — behold her there instead. 
 Jason. Thou wicked sorceress — thou vile magician ! 
 
 Come out, I say, and meet thy just punition. 
 Medea. I told you I would play the very devil, 
 
 If to another you should dare be civil ; 
 
 I've done the deed — didst thou not hear a noise ? 
 Jason. Barbarian, I heard you flog the boys. 
 Medea. I didn't flog 'em — I but made believe. 
 Chorus. Oh, shame ! the very Chorus to deceive. 
 
 The last line is admirable. But, indeed, a 
 whole homily could be delivered on this text, and 
 on this excellent bit of fooling. 
 
 It is hardly fair to judge a burlesque of the 
 day by the strict rules of burlesque, which it does 
 not claim to follow. Such are entertainments of a 
 
1 84 Burlesque. 
 
 special kind — a blaze of rich dresses — a flashing of 
 many twinkling feet — dancing of tremendous 
 energy — with songs and rhymes strung together. 
 This medley is addressed to a particular class of 
 the community, who require it, and enjoy it. How 
 obscure in its meaning, how incomprehensible, 
 how tedious, how disconnected a thing is a modern 
 burlesque, has been pointed out even to weariness. 
 It is a show — a piece of fooling ; but it has no 
 pretensions whatever to the name it bears, any more 
 than grinning through a horse-collar, which used 
 to be popular at fairs, is a burlesque. Indeed, 
 the principles by which this species of composition 
 are guided seem to defy apprehension. It might 
 be fancied that the story selected as the object to 
 be ' burlesqued ' would be followed as a guide, and 
 absurdly distorted. But the theory defies even 
 this elementary rule, and staggers on, a wild 
 succession of disconnected pranks — each player 
 trying to make ' fun ' for himself out of his voice, 
 dress, mouth, gestures, and, above all, legs. The 
 French, always exact and logical, have a name for 
 such an unmeaning piece, and call it a ' Buffoonery.' 
 This might be worthy of importation, and be 
 added to the list of other felonious takings from 
 
Burlesque. 1 85 
 
 the French. Now, besides the inherent dulness of 
 such performances — for the whole gamut of grins, 
 breakdowns, and grotesque dresses, &c, is soon 
 run out, and can only be repeated — they have the 
 had effect on public taste of leading it astray from 
 the richer pastures and laughing meads of true 
 humour. "We are content to accept these husks, 
 without thinking of the vast hoards of delicious 
 truffles which a little searching will find. Genuine 
 burlesque would be infinitely more diverting ; and 
 its principle a very simple one. Men in heroic 
 situations, when the foolish spirit of conceit and 
 affectation overpowers them, take a fatal step — 
 often only an inch or two — and become ridiculous. 
 A very happy coincidence allows of these two 
 principles — that of the false burlesque and of the 
 real burlesque, being placed side by side ; so that 
 any one with a sense of humour can see for him- 
 self which principle has the fairest claim to the 
 title. At the pretty theatre of St James's, which 
 looks as if it was the private theatre of the Grand 
 Monarque himself, with its blue and gold decora- 
 tions, is now playing a burlesque on the conven- 
 tial model, drawn from the story of ' Pocahontas,' 
 the Indian princess, who was married to Smith the 
 
1 86 Burlesque. 
 
 Englishman. This has been treated as might be 
 expected. The Indian Chiefs sit in council, and 
 parody the proceedings of the British Parliament, 
 talking of ' Mr Speaker,' and the like ; the leading 
 Chief sings comic songs, and dances comic dances. 
 The young princess is seen at an Indian school, 
 under the direction of a squaw governess ; and 
 there is a kind of parody introduced, of a popular 
 comedy now playing at a little theatre. Smith is 
 dressed in a fantastic old-fashioned garb, and 
 buffoons, and dances and sings with his Indian 
 mistress in all sorts of wild fashions. In short, 
 the subject would seem to have been chosen as 
 a good peg, or a series of pegs, on which to hang 
 contrasted buffoonery. It was Indian, and there 
 might be Indian dresses, tomahawks, &c. The 
 scenery is good, the dresses rich, the dancing 
 abundant, but it is unmeaning as a whole, though 
 taken in detached bits it may amuse. 
 
 Yet the story, properly treated, contains the 
 elements of true burlesque ; and one with the same 
 elements, though not the same names, was many 
 years ago put into the old-fashioned shape of bur- 
 lesque by one Kenney, and caused more tears of 
 genuine laughter than a bushel of modern so- 
 
Burlesque. 187 
 
 called burlesques. This was the farce of ' The 
 Illustrious Stranger,' a conception of true humour, 
 and rarely acted now, through the want of an actor 
 with the broad racy tone which it requires. The 
 story is that of Benjamin BoAvbell, an English 
 Cockney, wrecked on some fabulous island, the 
 daughter of whose barbaric king, the god of the 
 country has declared, must marry an 'illustrious 
 stranger.' He is found by the natives, carried to 
 Court, and informed of the glorious destiny in- 
 tended for him. In the treatment of these in- 
 cidents, everything is worked out seriously. The 
 rich dresses, procession, &c, all circulating round 
 the bewildered Cockney, who exhibits his selfishness, 
 and almost incredulity as to his good fortune ; his 
 chuckling over every fresh homage ; his uncon- 
 cealed laughter at the formal bowings of the 
 ' foreigners ' in this strange country ; his gro- 
 tesque imitation and return of their salutations ; 
 and, above all, the grand procession to barbaric 
 music, when he is placed in a splendid seat and 
 borne on men's shoulders to the temple, — this 
 becomes a spectacle that the most iron muscles 
 could not resist. A finer and more delicate 
 portion of the treatment is the vulgar arro- 
 
1 8 8 Burlesque. 
 
 gance of the man gradually developing under this 
 prosperity. Then conies a more grotesque situa- 
 tion still, when the princess grows ill suddenly, 
 and the courtiers come to congratulate him on the 
 glorious privilege of being allowed to die with the 
 princess ; the half alarm, half incredulity of the 
 man at this news ; his ' Go along now ! ' and 
 when the news of her death arrives, his being 
 solemnly congratulated by the courtiers on the 
 glorious privilege he will have, in being burnt on 
 the same funeral pile, according to the custom of 
 the country, — all these are elements of true hu- 
 mour. All this, too, is in a spirit of perfect 
 gravity, and the whole is one of those situations 
 which belong to the broad humour of all countries 
 and all ages, and would be effective in any 
 language. 
 
 But we should send our writers to Prance 
 l to learn the true spirit of burlesque. They never 
 forget that first principle — the being in earnest — 
 which is also helped by a certain exaggerated 
 splendour. In English historical burlesque, for 
 instance, from Henry the Eighth to Guy Eawkes, 
 the whole is as familiar and boisterous as an 
 Ethiopian serenader's buffoonery, or the blackened 
 
Burlesque. 189 
 
 Christy Minstrels' performance of ' Norma.' From 
 the ontset there is no attempt at realizing the 
 character of the time or the situation. The figures 
 are, as it were, ticketed with names, and dressed 
 a little after their models, and a faint outline of 
 history follows ; but there the likeness ends ; the 
 rest is wild and irregular tumbling, fooling, sing- 
 ing, punning, dancing. Any diligent frequenter 
 of say the Strand Theatre, will find it diffi- 
 cult to point in the performances of that face- 
 tious pair, Messrs James and Thomas Thome, any 
 special character belonging to the long series of 
 pieces they have played in. They each expend an 
 extravagant, untiring energy, that shows them to 
 be conscientious performers, bent on producing 
 what seems absurd. Further, many historical per- 
 sonages themselves must have been conscious that 
 they were lending themselves to a farce ; and at 
 times may have been inclined to be merry under 
 their functions and prerogatives, and to have gone 
 through them in a grotesque sense. This, a little 
 exaggerated, should be the foundation of bur- 
 lesque; and there are very few of the French 
 school that will not bear this test. 
 
 Thus ' Chilperic,' which a single clever French- 
 
190 Burlesque. 
 
 man has written, composed, brought to London, and 
 acted, is another specimen of the tone of legitimate 
 burlesque. It is impossible for any one, unfamiliar 
 with the days of that monarch, not to catch from 
 this piece the tone and flavour of the time and 
 social order it burlesques. To look at the bill and 
 read Chilpe*ric, Eredigonde, Druids, and such names 
 and officers, the prospect seemed to speak of the dry 
 bones of medievalism ; but the author, instead of 
 following the precedent of our English writers, 
 seizing on the meagre names and some meagre 
 legend, then putting English dresses on the cha- 
 racters, and putting English allusions into their 
 mouths, has followed a more true and philosophical 
 course. Take one portion of his legend, the dis- 
 missal of Eredigonde from the palace for fear of 
 being an ' inconvenience,' in respect of the mar- 
 riage with the Spanish princess. There the skilful 
 Erenchman looks around him, sees what has hap- 
 pened, and may happen, in royal families, or in great 
 houses, at a similar, and developes a comic, situation, 
 which his instinct tells him must be common to all 
 ages, whether mediaeval or even more remote. 
 Even the ' romp ' of an umbrella- dance has a vrai- 
 semblance from the way it is clone. We could fancy 
 
Burlesque. 191 
 
 a Court thus surprised iu a forest by a shower : and 
 the variegated colours of the umbrellas gave the 
 dignity of the situation. But in the hands of an 
 English workman we should have Mrs Gamp's 
 umbrella in every shape and form. 
 
 We have also the means of furnishing a con- 
 trast between English and Erench treatment, in a 
 burlesque of the same author, which, after a great 
 success in Paris, was literally ' hewn ' into shape 
 for the English market. This was the famous 
 ' Little Eaust.' It came to the Charing Cross 
 Theatre under the witty title of ' Little Eaust 
 and More Mephistopheles,' and was transformed 
 into one of those unmeaning English burlesques, 
 the meaning of which it is hopeless to follow. 
 Later, this clever M. Herve brought out an almost 
 literal translation at the Lyceum, and tried to teach 
 the English players some of the airy fun which 
 makes the charm of Erench pieces. The result is 
 brilliant, intelligible, and charming. Again, Ave 
 have Offenbach's ' Princesse de Trcbizonde,' at the 
 Gaiety, with such good players as Mr Toole and 
 Miss Earren — a piece founded on the most per- 
 fectly humorous subject, the sudden change of a 
 family of mountebanks from this profession to 
 
ic)2 Burlesque. 
 
 affluence. The exquisite treatment of this idea 
 by French artists is not to be described. The sud- 
 den breaking out of spinning of plates on sticks — 
 the old Adam — in the midst of finery, the striking of 
 attitudes, — all this was easily copied by the English 
 players ; but there, and in repetitions of these 
 simple symptoms, it all ended. Not so the French, 
 who in every look, motion, and general uneasiness, 
 showed the recollection of their old callins:. In 
 short, it is not by ' doing things ' that the actor en- 
 forces his part on the audience, but by a bearing, 
 a demeanour, a glance, a struggle between his 
 nature and what he assumes. 
 
 There is one, perhaps most familiar of all to 
 the public, whose merits as a composition have 
 been overpowered by the extraordinary popularity 
 of its music. No one will be at a loss to guess the 
 name of ' La Grande Duchesse,' associated with 
 the triumphs of the free, and too familiar, Schnei- 
 der. A word might be said for the piquant and 
 nicely-suited character of the music ; but the 
 story itself is admirably done, and still more ad- 
 mirably entangled with the musical pieces, which 
 seem to come in without violence. Going: a little 
 back, it will be seen how the burlesque notion of 
 
Burlesque. 193 
 
 this plot might have been evolved. It canie to 
 England, was, of course, hewn and chopped by the 
 adapter's adze to fit English players and audiences, 
 and it will be seen how the former imparted to it 
 their notion of burlesque. 
 
 The picture of the tiny German court, with its 
 exaggerated etiquette, needless abundance of state 
 officers, armies of thirty men, &c, has often made 
 the traveller smile. Some, too, in their descrip- 
 tions might use the phrase, ' burlesque of a Court.' 
 If they were asked why they used such a phrase, a 
 man like Thackeray might answer with those few 
 most amusing pages in ' Vanity Eair,' where the 
 Court of Pumpernickel is described gravely and 
 without any straining at comic effect — the cabal 
 about the dancer, the intrigues of the little officers 
 of the Court, &c. — and yet the effect is that of 
 exquisite burlesque. It arises from the contrast 
 between the grand machinery properly belonging 
 to great kings and courts being applied to some 
 petty matter. The best part of the whole is, the 
 actors themselves being utterly unconscious of 
 their producing this effect, and being firmly per- 
 suaded of their being equally important with those 
 who play on greater stages. 
 
 13 
 
1 94 Burlesque. 
 
 In this view those two consummate French 
 artists and collaborators, MM. Meilhac and Halevy, 
 pp roached their subject. Everything in that 
 story is burlesque, yet a burlesque regulated by 
 probability and seriousness. The very story was 
 chosen with a view to contrast such elements, and 
 was only what might have taken place at such 
 a Court. Thus the mere framework, a young 
 spoiled princess, newly come to power — such 
 power as it was — surrounded with intriguing 
 ministers no higher than valets de chambre in 
 mind and intellect, taking fancies to men in the 
 ranks and giving way to other extravagances, was 
 quite in keeping. So with the intrigue for the 
 foreign alliance with Prince Paul, his tutor and 
 diplomatist Baron Grog; in fact, the whole has 
 quite the flavour of the old ' M&noires Secrets,' or 
 the ' Lettres Galantes,' written from Spa or some 
 other hotbed of intrigue. All who have been at 
 the Varietes will recall the wonderful ensemble, 
 the surprising delicacy with which it was played 
 by the original corps; and though the piece 
 abounded with cancans and other extravagances 
 that seemed not in keeping with probability, there 
 was this to be remembered, that all seemed the 
 
Burlesque. 195 
 
 possibly unnatural ebullition of absurd people, giv- 
 ing way to violent and insane bursts of spirits ; 
 with a sort of arrihre pense'e for the audience, that 
 they were trying obsequiously to court favour with 
 their wild young mistress, and imitate her in all 
 her pranks. Indeed, it was easy to see, from 
 those capital and round characters — Bourn, Prince 
 Paul, Fritz, and the Duchess herself — that the 
 writers had powers far above libretto writing — a 
 belief since justified by that exquisite little drama 
 of ' Erou-Erou,' now the success of the day. 
 
 But when this burlesque came, in due course, 
 to England, to be adapted, translated, and acted, 
 the transformation was marvellous. The most in- 
 structive part was really to see the different view 
 of the whole taken by the English players. It 
 seems to explain quite clearly what is called the 
 present decay. Their object, it was evident, was 
 not to set off the piece, but to get ' fun ' and busi- 
 ness for themselves out of each part. It was 
 assumed that if the Prince Paul was played as a 
 mere imbecile, unconscious of his own folly, an 
 audience would assume that this tvas the imbecility of 
 the actor, a common actor's delusion. At all 
 
 events, ' that sort of thing would not tell.' The 
 
 13 * 
 
196 Burlesque. 
 
 actor would make it tell, ' by business.' It was 
 astonishing how unmeaning the whole became by 
 the adoption of such a principle — how stupid, and 
 what a gross and clumsy joke the whole seemed ! 
 The ignorance began with the manager who placed 
 the scene on the great stage at Covent Garden, 
 with spectacle and a vast Covent Garden army, dis- 
 posed with all a stage-manager's art. "We think 
 of the little cabinet pictures at the Varietes — small 
 as Thackeray's little chapter — and see at once how 
 a pleasant garden of burlesque is utterly choked 
 by this vast, clumsy tree, with its large branches. 
 It was at once lifted from burlesque into serious 
 grandeur : for there was nothing ridiculous in so 
 sumptuous a Court, with its grand army and dresses. 
 This was the first blunder. Next, every char- 
 acter, in detail, was mistaken, and played accord- 
 ing to the glorious tradition of English burlesque. 
 First, the lady who acted the Grand Duchess gave 
 her fantastic orders, carried out her curious 
 whims, with an air of despotic stage grandeur 
 worthy of the Italian opera. She was called the 
 English Schneider; but that artist, with all her 
 shortcomings, was at least the character she 
 played. The Prince Paul at the Varietes was an 
 
Burlesque. 197 
 
 exquisite specimen of the character known as 
 niais — that unconscious imbecility which betrays 
 its own folly at every turn — excellently revealed 
 in the scene where he reads the passage from the 
 Gazette UHollande — the complacent and idiotic 
 enjoyment in which, and ignorance of its ridi- 
 cule, was exquisitely done. In London, this 
 was put into the hands of Mr Stoyle, a trained 
 burlesque actor, who proceeded to make a ' funny ' 
 part out of the materials. First giving it a lisp, 
 talking of the ' wight wing ' of the castle, he pro- 
 ceeded to turn it into an active and energetic 
 ' funny ' man, now speaking in a deep bass key, 
 now running up a sort of gamut of odd gutturals, 
 now simulating grotesque terror, now skipping 
 about with odd steps ; in short, making the Avhole 
 raw, coarse, and without any distinct character 
 whatever. There was a great deal of laughter at 
 these antics — funny enough in their way ; but all 
 reference to the piece was lost. The spectator 
 thought fondly of the subdued, graduated, delicate, 
 and infinitely more droll Prince Paul at Paris. 
 More lamentable was the contrast in that charac- 
 ter of true comedy Fritz, the low soldier, shy, yet 
 familiar, coarse, impudent, amusing. All this was 
 
198 Burlesqtie. 
 
 delicately conveyed by Dupuis, contriving to in- 
 terest us by a hundred little touches. In Eng- 
 land, a stiff player, and tolerable singing, made 
 the usual conventional ' rough soldier ' out of the 
 part, of coarse and strong flavour ; but with ' busi- 
 ness,' and therefore acceptable to the groundlings. 
 In the condition of the English drama there 
 are one or two symptoms of wretched decay, 
 which, strange to say, offer some reasonable hope 
 for the future. Out of the miserable decomposition 
 about us, a blooming fungus, as Dr Solomon might 
 put it, has shot up in the night. In a recent bill, 
 which the flagging audience peruses so vacantly, 
 is the following singular announcement : ' The fur- 
 niture b>j Mr Nosotti, of Oxford Street.' That is, some 
 gilt ' occasional ' chairs, an ottoman and cabinet in a 
 nobleman's mansion, were from the atelier of that 
 well-known upholsterer. This brought to mind a 
 late pantomime in which the dresses of a set of gay 
 ladies were announced as being from the millinery 
 warerooms of ' Messrs Stagg and Mantle, Leicester 
 Square.' This sort of thing is a healthy sign, be- 
 cause it puts matters on an intelligible footing. 
 We know whither we are moving. It is right that 
 the drama, having become a reproduction of railway 
 
Burlesque. 199 
 
 trains, steam-boats, and houses on fire, should 
 boldly glory in their humble aspirations, and call 
 whatever spade it uses, a spade. Thus in the same 
 play the practicable ' Putney Bridge ' might surely 
 have been made more effective had the assistance 
 of a professional gentleman been sought, and his 
 service acknowledged by a line, — 
 
 ' The Bridge constructed under the superintend- 
 ence of Mr Foreman, of the Messrs Cubitt.' 
 
 By-and-by we shall come to this. A garden 
 scene by moonlight might be rendered doubly 
 attractive by applying the same principle : 
 
 ' The Garden laid out by Mr McTVhirter, Head- 
 gardener to his Grace the Duke of .' 
 
 This wretched system would at least be hon- 
 est ; and let the drama enjoy, what it is at pre- 
 sent, though it will not take the name of, an Ex- 
 hibition. 
 
PAET IV 
 
 THE FRENCH STAGE. 
 
 But it will be said, is not the drama, pure and 
 simple, flourishing as the drama never was ? We ' 
 look to the Eastern and Western Theatres, and 
 see them brimming over. Are there not Mr Ro- 
 bertson's ' sparkling ' comedies with their ' epi- 
 grammatic ' dialogue, supposed to quite restore 
 the old ' palmy ' days of the drama. People who 
 deny that sterling English comedy exists are 
 bidden triumphantly to look at the astounding 
 success of that little cabinet piece, now playing at 
 a little cabinet theatre, and called ' School ; ' look 
 at the same author's ' Home,' ' Progress,' ' David 
 Garrick,' ' Breach of Promise,' and other pieces. 
 Stalls have to be taken so many nights in advance ; 
 and even a blase and bloated aristocracy are con- 
 vulsed at the ' epigrams ' with which these pieces 
 abound. Most of these are shaped from French 
 sources, according to an easy formula, as readily 
 
The French Stage. 201 
 
 as a publican can doctor his spirits, beers, and 
 wine — according to a printed book of receipts, 
 or just as an ingenious man will see a patent 
 invention, and fit it, say, to a velocipede. After 
 all it must be some solace to the French artists 
 who are pillaged in this way, and exceeding 
 pride, to think that but for them the British 
 Drama must go out altogether; and though 
 they be furious at this systematic highway rob- 
 bery, still they must have many a sneer and 
 joke at these poor devils of English, who can't 
 write plays, and are like ' the purchasers of ladies 
 and gentlemen's second-hand wardrobes for export- 
 ation,' and which are trimmed, shaped, and patched 
 before being exhibited for sale. Not only that, but 
 they seem to be content with 'misfits,' ugly, uncom- 
 fortable garments, which suit neither their climate 
 nor their habits, as any one would find who took 
 the trouble to sit out ' Escaped from Portland ' or 
 ' A Life Chase.' 
 
 Translation and adaptation, i. e. the exportation 
 or alteration of ' used wearing apparel,' is destroy- 
 ing the drama. Such things do not entertain. 
 They are looked at more with expectancy and 
 curiosity than with amusement : they do not suit 
 
202 The French Stage. 
 
 the soil — nor the air. The playgoer will point 
 to the various great ' hits ' of the last ten or fifteen 
 years— the ' Ticket-of-Leave Man,' 'Still Waters 
 run Deep,' ' The Game of Speculation,' ' The Leap 
 for Honour,' ' The Streets of London,' with a whole 
 tribe of successes which have brought money into 
 the manager's treasury. All belong to another 
 country, to other manners, other associates, and 
 other wits. We have to import characters, and lively 
 dialogues, and, above all, stories. It is scarcely 
 consistent with dignity to be in this state of drama- 
 tic destitution, and to be so dependent on the aid 
 of others. That we should be anxious to see a 
 good piece, which has been successful abroad, 
 upon our own stage, is as natural as that we should 
 like to read a good novel through the medium of 
 a translation. Such becomes almost a duty. But 
 there is a further want of dignity, something that 
 in the case of a common social obligation would be 
 called meanness, in striving to disguise any sense 
 of such aid by the arts of adaptation. It was 
 seriously contended, not long since, that this pro- 
 cess actually amounted to original treatment, and 
 that the adapter exhibited quite as much genius as 
 the inventor. The evil, however, remains, that the 
 
The French Stage. 203 
 
 more this help is sought, the more helpless we 
 become ; and, like a person learning to swim with 
 corks, or one raising his spirits, with brandy, it is 
 at last found impossible to break off the habit. 
 Every new French piece is watched for, pounced 
 on by the dramatic body-snatchers, turned over — 
 to see if it can, in any way, be made to ' do ' for 
 the English anatomists. There is a vast amount 
 of clever 'knack' — but nothing higher — in the 
 English adapting trade. 
 
 The British stage is still the garden of trans- 
 planted plants and translated shrubs. So long as 
 this system continues we shall have no true stage 
 relish or enjoyment, which is the real point of the 
 drama as regards the audience. We shall only be 
 looking at maimed French plays acted in England, 
 just as a stranger would go to a Erench theatre in 
 Paris. Eor, as has been often shown, the drama is 
 a reflection of the manners and sentiments, the 
 special follies and humours, the essential story 
 of the life, of those who are looking on ; and this 
 single reflection will show how faithless for such 
 an end must any Erench play be to a British audi- 
 ence. And this is the more inevitable, as the 
 French are notoriously fond of viewing everything 
 
204 The French Stage. 
 
 from a French point of view, and of dealing with 
 such things only as take a local French shape. Of 
 course, a broad story of sympathy and passion is 
 common to all the world. But there are only a 
 few of these, and the more general they are, the 
 fewer points of interest they contain ; while a 
 special story, that draws its interest from local 
 colour and character, though it appeals to a 
 smaller circle, obtains, in proportion, a more in- 
 tense appreciation. We may form a notion of how 
 remote our sympathy is from incidents founded on 
 such special points, by the feeling with which we 
 regard an historical drama of some very early 
 period, where the figures and story seem about as 
 real and vital as one of David's Roman pictures in 
 the Louvre. But between us and French stories 
 and characters there is a specially wide chasm, as 
 will be seen by a little consideration of the charac- 
 ter and morals of that nation. Their dramas are 
 interesting because logically reflecting that charac- 
 ter and those morals. First, there is that cloud of 
 intrigue in which the Parisian lives, moves, and 
 has his being — that striving after bonnes fortunes, 
 that questionable species of chasse which gives the 
 zest to his life. It is notorious how disorganized 
 
The French Stage. 205 
 
 is Paris social life — not, be it observed, after a 
 guilty or forbidden fashion, but as an accepted 
 and approved rule of life, encouraged, and almost 
 necessary. The stage, therefore, duly and duti- 
 fully — in the hands of accomplished and nicely 
 logical writers — is made to reflect what is before 
 it ; and it is certain that every piece of merit and 
 success has this ' ground coat ' under much wit 
 and character. The first step of the adapter, 
 therefore, must be to maul, bend, and twist this \ 
 immoral curve with violence into a straight back- 
 bone, that will suit British morals. This was duly 
 done with that wonderful piece of Victor Hugo's, 
 Buy Bias — Mr Fechter's masterpiece — the whole 
 power of which lay in a secret liaison between a 
 woman of rank and a man of low birth, which at 
 every turn was on the point of precipitating horror 
 and confusion, and culminated in a guilty and 
 tragic end. Such was not to be tolerated — as it 
 was indeed repugnant to an English audience ; 
 and the objectional relation was ' watered ' down 
 into the conventional respectful but hopeless pas- 
 sion. This was worse even than leaving out 
 Hamlet ; and yet such was the artistic treatment, 
 the consummate dramatic force of the author, that 
 
2o6 The French Stage. 
 
 this emasculation escaped notice, and the lavish 
 wealth of the piece carried it through triumph- 
 antly — those only who reflected and who knew the 
 original, feeling how absurd and artificial was the 
 present arrangement. Again, the French character 
 ' has a vast deal of melodrama in it ; and a certain 
 amount of high-strung declamation and exaggera- 
 tion is made to envisager most situations in life. 
 The nation, through its books, journals, speakers, 
 and soldiers, is always willing to work up any in- 
 cident into something semi-romantic. This, too, 
 is reflected in the plays, which are therefore 
 pitched in too warm a key for the wondering 
 British Pittite, and are founded on a fashion of 
 viewing things which seems to us exploded. 
 Hence a real French romantic drama loses its 
 whole bloom, its chivalrous air, when transferred, 
 and we seem to be dealing with unnatural people, 
 and with acts which belong to an era as romantic 
 as King Arthur's; or else the usual process must 
 be employed, and the whole made coarse and 
 strong. There is a delicacy, too, in working out 
 the finer emotions and characters, which requires 
 an audience accustomed to the daily exhibition of 
 such things, even in an artificial way, and which 
 
The French Stage. 207 
 
 ' seems Greek ' to an audience without such a 
 habit, or else mere childish refining. 
 
 The charming ' Roman d'un Jeune Homme 
 Pauvre' illustrates this excellently. A young 
 tutor, consumed with a passion for a lady above 
 him, and who, besides, exhibits all the mean 
 associations which destitution brings with it — ■ 
 hunger, &c. — would not be a character of dignity 
 on the English stage ; our notions of tutors and 
 music-masters being rather ' antiphathetic ' to 
 romance. We should be inclined to look with a 
 pitying derision on the sickly young men who 
 figure in French ballads, looking after flight of 
 birds, or on a flowing stream. But a young 
 French tutor in real life may lawfully look on 
 his profession as advantageous for prosecuting 
 ' amours ' either with his master's wife or daugh- 
 ter. This theory being accepted by the audience, 
 and perhaps approved, sympathy follows his stage 
 career, and all the struggles of the ' beau jeune 
 hommc, si gracieux, si charmant,' are watched 
 and commiserated — even his proud starvation, 
 which a good-natured landlady relieves with a 
 timely bowl of soup. All this, on English boards, 
 would be pronounced ' unmanly ' and sickly, and 
 
2o8 The Frejich Stage. 
 
 o 
 
 the young man a poor whining creature. The eye 
 of the British adapter wisely settled on the ' situ- 
 ation ' of the piece — the leap from the castle 
 window to save the honour of the lady ; the knife 
 and brush were used, entirely with a view to lead 
 up to that, and, with that stout centre-piece, a 
 tolerable British drama was tacked together out of 
 the debris. Wonderful French work ! — that bears 
 so much hacking, and still cannot be spoiled. 
 
 But coming to the lighter pieces, the exquisite 
 trifles, which are like expanded epigrams, or 
 flashes of wit drawn out — the farces, in short — it 
 is here that we find the fatal mistake that is 
 destroying the humorous side of the English stage. 
 As is well known, we draw our entire supply from 
 this source, and have done so for many years. Let 
 us see how this works. The English and French 
 characters are totally unlike in this lighter direc- 
 tion. Their lives are utterly different. Eirst, the 
 French are more of a community, and live more to- 
 gether. In the country, the great families live 
 together in clans, and married children live in 
 the same chateau with their parents. In Paris, as 
 we know, every house contains a whole colony dis- 
 tributed on different floors, with a common stair, 
 
The French Stage. 209 
 
 &c. Thus, people are going up and down, meet- 
 ing on a common thoroughfare, mistaking rooms, 
 wilfully or otherwise. Most people dine at cafe's ; 
 most people sit out on chairs on the Boulevards, 
 taking coffee, ice, &c. Again, as to persons and 
 characters ; with their notorious laxity as to con- 
 jugal relationship, a good husband is popularly 
 looked on as being always on the defence, and a 
 sort of marital policeman ; and, having to live 
 under the conditions described — common stair, &c. 
 — is at a fatal disadvantage. Further, the foolish, 
 stupid husband — bourgeois — stout, and in trade, 
 actively provokes attack. With all these elements 
 duly mixed together, the list of ' comic ' situations 
 becomes endless — situations that are highly prob- 
 able and do occur. Now, if we look at all our so-call- 
 ed English farces, from the English pens of Messrs 
 Morton, Williams, Charles Mathews, and others, 
 taking them with their adaptation, we shall see 
 that they all reflect a situation arising out of these 
 very French conditions, and a situation that could 
 never arise on British ground. Set the original 
 piece beside its adapted shape, and it will be seen 
 that the 'jokes,' story, and figures all turn on 
 
 those Erench attributes above described — that 
 
 11 
 
2io The French Stage. 
 
 living so much in public, in the open air, and in 
 a common house. With the characters it is the 
 same. There is a favourite character of an Eng- 
 lish farce, one which actually furnishes a distinct 
 ' line ' for leading ' funny ' comedians — that of a 
 dapper, smart Cockney, who talks with extra- 
 ordinary glibness — like Mr Charles Mathews, 
 using a sort of epigrammatic terseness, and falling 
 into odd mistakes ; as, for instance, ' Imagine my 
 rapture, when I discovered it to he a one-horse 
 woman in a fly — I mean, a fly in a one-horse 
 woman — no, I mean,' &c. Or, ' What was my joy 
 in finding she was a sky-blue creature in a sweet 
 young bonnet.' To his persecutors, such a person 
 replies with rapid utterances and quaint, flippant 
 repartee — a style, in short, that is quite familiar to 
 us. But this is all, as regards England, purely 
 conventional. We have no such characters, and 
 no one who would behave in such a way. The 
 Frenchman, on the contrary, gay, in good spirits 
 under any difficulty, ready to extract something 
 spirituel out of his inconveniences, is exactly such 
 a character. He belongs to them and reflects 
 them. We have grown to imagine there is some 
 prototype for such extravagance. So with that 
 
The French Stage. 1 1 1 
 
 free-and-easy relation of his story to the audience, 
 when a chair is taken and brought down to the 
 footlights. This freedom requires to be touched 
 airily, and, under the hands of our British actors, 
 becomes coarse and broad, and insufferably familiar 
 — it destroys the illusion of the scene; but in a 
 clever French actor's hands is conveyed the notion 
 of talking to himself in lively soliloquy. Indeed, 
 that sort of airy explanation, half- serious, half- 
 bantering, is precisely what a light-hearted 
 Frenchman is fond of delivering to any audience 
 that he can get together, and on the stage he will 
 take care to address it — not, as our English actors 
 do, to the real audience, thus breaking down the 
 barrier which should exist between the real and 
 the unreal mimetic world — but to fanciful hearers. 
 He will be still unconscious of the audience, and 
 they will have a more exquisite pleasure, being, as 
 it were, in the attitude of listeners overhearing 
 something. How absurd, too, and far-fetched the 
 incidents as presented in their English dress, and 
 at which we laugh ! That ' Cup of Tea,' in which 
 Mademoiselle Beatrice acted so pleasantly, ex- 
 hibited a gentleman who had been brought home 
 from a ball in the wrong carriage and to the 
 
 14 * 
 
212 The French Stage. 
 
 wrong house, a thing which could not have hap- 
 pened in England ; hut which in Prance, through 
 the system of floors, and also through the easy 
 code of manners, is not improhahle. The discreet 
 servants of that nation will allow many to come 
 and go. These scenes make us laugh, as in the 
 country itself we would laugh. But there would 
 he an essential want of sympathy to overcome. 
 How, then, is it that interest is actually excited 
 on our stage, and hearty laughter provoked? 
 Eirst, for the reason given, that through lack of 
 other entertainment, we have heen forced to make 
 ourselves relish these exotics. Again, they are 
 received on our hoards subject, of course, to 
 material alteration, or 'adaptation,' being con- 
 verted, as it were; and the foreign character, 
 which we know not, is shaped into a more con- 
 genial and intelligible figure, with glaring reds, 
 blues, and yellows thickly daubed on. It is so 
 daubed for the benefit of the actor, and he does his 
 best with it, so as to create a 'funny part,' with- 
 out regard to probability or plot. This is the 
 true rationale and the regular treatment by wilicli 
 Erench pieces are made acceptable. 
 
 The question wdll now be reasonably asked, 
 
The French Stage. 213 
 
 What is proposed, and what remedy is offered ? 
 As to rival the French in their neat sparkling 
 pieces, their vivacious march of thoughts and 
 events, their lively dialogue, that is simply hope- 
 less. We might as well hid a hesitating, hashful 
 man speak as finely as a practised orator. The 
 French are a people of finesse ; they require finesse 
 in their amusement, and they get it. We have no 
 finesse — at least, it is not a national characteristic. 
 We cannot hid it leave the pit and go upon the 
 stage. We must only cast about carefully, take 
 stock of what we have, see what and where our 
 strength is, and transfer that to the stage. It 
 would be idle now to condemn the handing over of 
 the stage to engineers, mechanicians, or to Messrs 
 Jackson and Graham ; for by this time it has been 
 discovered that there is nothing dramatic in 
 the exhibition of imitation steamers, race-courses, 
 houses, work-shops, &c, and, what is worse, no- 
 thing entertaining. It is a low shape of amuse- 
 ment, which is certainly akin to the ' clown ' de- 
 partment, as seen at circuses and pantomimes — 
 that prevailing ' gagging ' in look, and speech, and 
 gesture. We have been appealing to that for ages. 
 It has a certain result and success in its way, if we 
 
214 The French Stage. 
 
 can trust the loud and boisterous guffaws that 
 circle round the theatres. Yet laughter is no test. 
 On a fair green, the Cheap Jack and mountebank 
 brings his house down, and by careful training an 
 audience can gradually be brought to laugh at 
 anything. To laugh at a grotesque gesture, a 
 comic leer, a sudden verbal ' sell,' at an absurd 
 mask even, this is the very lowest A B C of hu- 
 mour. It may tickle a refined mid-rib acutely, 
 but only for once or twice. What is the remedy, 
 or where to look for it, is another question. The 
 roue who has impaired his health by dissipation 
 cannot blame the doctor who tells him, ' This is 
 your own doing. Such and such a sickness is 
 what is the matter with you. If you are to get 
 well, it is only after a great many years of patient 
 care and abstinence.' The beginning of a cure 
 would be to return to the first principles of the 
 drama, and let clever writers study to make it the 
 reflection of the humours, manners, oddities, follies, 
 and life-histories of the varied crowd who are look- 
 ing on, sitting in pit, boxes, and gallery. 
 
 In France the theatrical ground seems to bloom 
 with verdure, to flower with new and ever- varying 
 shapes of flowers and plants, with tropical luxuri- 
 
The French Stage. 215 
 
 ance of leaves, plants, and greenery ; and though 
 the abundance is almost rank, the prospect is de- 
 lightful to the eye. In our poor histrionic ground 
 a few dried shrubs enjoy a sickly and stunted 
 growth; the foliage is as meagre as that of a 
 Dutch garden, with its stagnant little canal and 
 plaster temples. The inferiority is wonderful. 
 
 To sit on one night, as the writer did lately, in 
 a stall of a Parisian theatre, and on the next in 
 that of a London one, furnishes the most curious 
 contrast conceivable. We pass at once into a new 
 order of things ; and the interval is so short, we 
 seem to travel straight from one playhouse to the 
 other. The general superiority of the French stage 
 is usually conceded ; but it is hardly credible that 
 the superiority could be so marked, — a superiority 
 extending to theatre, scenery, and actors; the 
 chief and most striking feature of the English 
 playhouse being a certain meanness, poorness, and 
 even squalor, in all things appertaining to the 
 theatre. This observation may lead us to consider 
 a few of the influences which seem to promote the 
 superior tone of the French stage. In matters of the 
 stage these influences act wholly apart from the 
 important elements of plays and of acting. The 
 
2, 1 6 The French Stage. 
 
 drama, entering as it does so largely into the life of 
 the Frenchman, — that is, of the Parisian, — the 
 plays even being read by a public as large as the 
 one that listens and looks on, — it is felt that this 
 important element in life should be treated hand- 
 somely. It is well known that the State does this 
 officially. The people are invited to recognize and 
 respect the stage as a great profession, and can 
 scarcely help doing so. The very buildings preach 
 this recognition. The British play-goer generally 
 makes his way to his favourite house through some 
 mean back street, and reaches at last a shabby, 
 barn-like edifice that seems to skulk away from 
 public notice. If it be in some more respectable 
 street, its individuality is lost, — it is absorbed into 
 the houses adjoining, or squeezed in between its 
 bourgeois-like neighbours. It seems as though 
 some remnant of persecution attached to the 
 builders of theatres, and that, like the professors 
 of proscribed faiths, they dared not challenge pub- 
 lic attention by the ostentatious erection of a build- 
 ing for their worship, but were obliged to adapt 
 and alter, unobtrusively, whatever structure they 
 could get. In this shame-faced, half-apologetic 
 fashion many of our London theatres seem to ask 
 
The French Stage. 1 1 7 
 
 toleration. In the provinces they almost inva- 
 riably lnrk and loiter in the very ghettos of the 
 town. Above all, but too mean, is the poor 
 and sometimes noisome alley of access by which 
 the players have to creep into their building. All 
 this is but some half-remnant of the old squire- 
 archical or magisterial theory that players were 
 rogues and 'vagabones,' and were to be dealt with 
 as such ; and perhaps, too, from an impression, that 
 the profession of a player, in a broad view, belongs 
 to an inferior caste ; and again, partly from the feel- 
 ing that a play-house is like any other venture in 
 business, in which all aesthetic feeling or dignity is 
 mere surplusage. It is not too much to say, that 
 a great deal of this sense is owing to the mean 
 housing of the drama, — to these shabby buildings 
 and poor quarters, — and to this hiding away out of 
 sight. 
 
 Abroad, on the contrary, what does the State 
 do ? It pitches on some open Place with a com- 
 manding position, and raises thereon a solid, hand- 
 some, spacious, showy, architectural pile. It is a 
 Temple. We can walk round it ; every side has 
 features of its own. We ascend to it by steps. 
 It is an object, — a landmark, as it were, — that has 
 
218 The French Stage. 
 
 been built by the town, and has cost about as much 
 as a Royal Palace. In France there is actually a 
 style of architecture for the theatres, and, side by 
 side with all the new Parisian improvements, there 
 have risen noble theatrical structures, vast and 
 massive outside, whose name the stranger is sure 
 to ask. On the Quai, the great houses of the Cha- 
 telet and the Lyrique face each other — a wide, 
 open space between, each with a handsome facade, 
 and that honest, self-asserting air of being a theatre, 
 which foreign houses display. Our theatres, 
 when they make any architectural pretence at 
 all, try something in the shape of a poor sham 
 portico or a scenic front, which, architecturally, 
 is neither fish, flesh, nor fowl. Round some of 
 the French playhouses, on the lower story, runs 
 the bright cafe, crowded between the acts, where 
 the bell from the stage rings to give notice that 
 the play is about to begin. There, too, is the 
 bright door, labelled ' Entrance for the artists,' — ■ 
 not in a mean alley, but opening on the broad 
 street. And artists, — the invariable title, — is a 
 much more complimentary name than stage- 
 players, as actors used to be contemptuously 
 termed with us. Even about the older French 
 
The French Stage. 219 
 
 playhouses there is a stately palatial air, a little 
 old-fashioned and rusted, but not in the least want- 
 ing dignity, as, for example, in the theatre at Mar- 
 seilles, and in the French Op<5ra Comique, and the 
 Fran^ais, that model of a stately theatre. But 
 even in the last century the rules that should 
 guide the building and arrangements of a theatre 
 had been carefully studied by the French archi- 
 tects, and, turning over the wonderful volumes of 
 the Encyclopedia, we find elaborate plans, drawn 
 to scale, for all the different kinds of theatre. 
 But the most perfect homage to the dignity of the 
 stage is found in the new French Opera, — the 
 most gorgeous temple in the world, vast, enormous 
 in its proportions, almost barbaric in its magnifi- 
 cence, — rich in gold and bronze, and crusted over 
 with precious marbles. This enormous pile, placed 
 on the most precious spot in the capital, where 
 every inch of ground might be covered with 
 napoleons, is an almost monumental proof by 
 which our gay neighbours wish to proclaim to the 
 world their respect for the dignity of the great 
 art. And the artists who are attached to the 
 service of such splendid temples must be propor- 
 tionally ennobled. This public recognition, then, 
 
i2o The French Stage. 
 
 seems to be an important reason for the superiority 
 of the French stage ; a recognition much more 
 substantial than our old, poor title of his Majesty's 
 Servants, which was in reality intended for any- 
 thing but a compliment. In Erance the come- 
 dians of the king, or of the emperor, or of the 
 republic, are in the service of the State, as much 
 as the soldier and the sailor ; and when their term 
 is complete, the State takes care of them with a 
 substantial pension. 
 
 It must be said that such a sense of dignity 
 prepares the play-going mind, and makes it respect 
 the drama it is going to witness. Thus as we enter 
 Drury Lane Theatre, and pass along its spacious 
 halls, its noble staircases, and fine corridors, and 
 see its old-fashioned stucco and decorations, it is 
 impossible not to have this feeling. But there 
 is no other theatre so magnificently laid out for 
 space. That huge mass, its colonnades, and its 
 standing by itself, makes it an important object : 
 and in all the purlieus, slums, and back streets 
 which stretch away from it, the great establish- 
 ment is spoken of with respect and awe. 
 
 Latterly there has been a vast improvement in 
 the style of the London theatres, and some of the 
 
The French Stage. 221 
 
 new theatres show great advances in comfort and 
 decoration. Yet it would seem that the architects 
 have not yet arrived at any fixed principles in the 
 construction of theatres. With the exception of 
 the Gaiety, built on a true French model, the in- 
 terior presents nothing more than a succession of 
 light galleries under each other, which is a false 
 principle. Galleries are fitting in a church as a 
 species of extra accommodation, where the floor is 
 the main feature ; but ' the house ' in a theatre is 
 as essentially constituted by the boxes, &c, as by 
 the pit. The artist, therefore, should exhibit these 
 as substantial parts of the house. But a miserable 
 economy interferes. The manager wishes that his 
 pit should stretch away far under the boxes, which 
 are thus obliged to be all hung in the air, as it 
 were. The architect, however, to give his theatre 
 a rich look, loads the panels of boxes and galleries 
 with a solid sort of decoration ; and yet the whole, 
 supported on thin iron pillars, wears an insecure 
 and unsubstantial look. The French have the 
 true theory, and have held it always. This system 
 of throwing back the pit into a place whence the 
 house cannot be seen, is owing to the stalls, 
 which are so close to the stage, and sunk down so 
 
222 The French Stage. 
 
 low, as to interfere with all pleasurable stage 
 effect. The French, on the contrary, build their 
 circle from the ground upwards — with a row of 
 boxes on the pit tier, which hold the occupants of 
 our stalls — and in front of the first tier throw out 
 the charming balcony only so far, as to act as a 
 sort of shade from the glare for those under it. 
 The house is thus fairly enclosed, and is far better 
 for sight and sound, which latter does not go travel- 
 ling away under the boxes. The ' Gaiety,' in its 
 decoration and construction and general air, is 
 quite a French theatre ; but Covent Garden Opera 
 House, with its vast space and fine proportion, is 
 truly English in stiffness and formality. The 
 boxes seem, indeed, a number of boxes piled on 
 each other, and look as if made of card-board. 
 Its stiff lines, its strange shape, its yawning am- 
 phitheatre, are all in harmony : the boxes, too, 
 are more like little windows, and do not reveal the 
 tenants, which give so dark and brilliant an air to 
 foreign houses. Some of the older theatres, like 
 Drury Lane and the Haymarket, want remodel- 
 ling in the steep slope of each gallery and the 
 sharp corners, which prevent the spectators seeing 
 well. 
 
The French Stage. 223 
 
 Another substantial reason for the superiority 
 of the Gallic stage is to be found in the national 
 character, which is eminently histrionic. In a 
 French conversation, a French speech, a French 
 sermon even, there is always present an eternal 
 vivacity, a gay helping out of the thought with 
 other aids besides that of the voice, — aids which 
 are quite as potent, namely, gesture, expressions 
 of the eyes and face, and even of the shoulders. 
 Then, too, there is the pleasant esprit, — wit almost, 
 — the constant lurking insinuation, in lieu of plain 
 statement, which lies at the bottom of true acting. 
 The half undomestic life of the Frenchman, which 
 sends him so much abroad of nights, renders him 
 more exigeant as to the character of the pastime 
 on which his entertainment so seriously depends. 
 
 Again, too, it must be said that the French 
 artists are a superior class to the English players ; 
 superior in tastes and accomplishments. Their 
 tastes, habits, mode of life, everything, are 
 superior. Their pastimes and accomplishments 
 would amaze our English players, and perhaps 
 excite their contempt. Many are collectors, and 
 what are called in France ' amateurs.' Grivot, of 
 the Vaudeville, is fond of etching, and is curious 
 
224 The French Stage. 
 
 in bronzes. St Germain collects rare books. 
 Desrieaux delights in pottery, and people go to 
 see his old specimens of old faience ware. The 
 more famous Doche has an exquisite little museum 
 of rare Dresden and dainty curiosities. Kopp, one 
 of the droll coterie who play in the Grande Duch- 
 esse, has a collection of pictures worth 80,000 
 francs. Lassouche, of the Palais Royal, gathers 
 china. One actor has a collection of clocks of 
 Louis XIV. ; another, a choice little cabinet of 
 Meissonier works ; a third is a good sculptor ; 
 a dozen paint landscapes, nearly all are musi- 
 cians, and many play on the violin. As for the 
 actresses, it is not too much to say that every 
 second one sings skilfully, and plays the piano- 
 forte as a matter of course. Many Erench actors 
 write elegant and lively verses, — ' proverbes ' 
 sometimes, which they act for their own amuse- 
 ment. All this betokens a refined tone of thought. 
 The directors of the theatres are generally skilled 
 and successful dramatists, and, more often still, 
 trained and refined critics, who have served an 
 apprenticeship on influential papers. The green 
 rooms are not like ours, bare, unfurnished apart- 
 ments, but noble salons, full of busts of great 
 
The French Stage. 225 
 
 players and dramatic authors, covered with pictures 
 of scenes from great plays, by great artists, and 
 furnished with presents from the kings of Prance. 
 As we look up from the street between the acts, 
 we see the attractive rooms of the Francais lit up 
 and glittering, looking like the rooms of a palace, 
 and know that the artists who are entertained 
 therein cannot but respect themselves, and have 
 their profession respected. 
 
 But, above all, the French stage is superior, 
 because its plays are superior. French play- 
 writers are artists, with a most delicate touch, and 
 a skill in construction that is almost instinct. They 
 give their actors characters to act ; the actors give 
 them in return a rich store of spirit, vivacity, and 
 abundant details of humour ; and player and 
 writer act, and re-act, upon each other. How firm 
 the touch, how elegant the treatment ; nothing 
 is ponderous, nothing laborious. And this, too, 
 is the secret of their success : they hold up the 
 mirror to their own curious social life ; at night 
 the Frenchman in his stall sees reflected to him 
 the oddities of the day, all that might have hap- 
 pened, and has happened. We adapt these trifles, 
 and the result is a burlesque exaggeration, — not 
 
 15 
 
226 The French Stage. 
 
 founded on reality, and nnsuited to an English 
 audience, who have no social standard to measure 
 it by. Long ago, when the English dramatist took 
 a simple and original course, and despised his 
 neighbours too much to borrow or adapt from them, 
 his pieces were real, living, and, what was better, 
 amusing and entertaining. It is surprising that 
 the incompatibility of these Erench plots, or more 
 properly Erench equivoques, to English customs 
 and manners, should not be perceived. Take, for 
 instance, a well-known little sketch of five or 
 six young ladies expecting a gentleman visitor, 
 of whom they have great hopes, and who at last 
 arrives, with rather showy dress and manners. 
 Later comes the piano-tuner, a retiring, quiet gen- 
 tleman, who remains in the background, as suits his 
 supposed position, and of whom only the amiable 
 girl of the party takes any notice. After an ex- 
 travagant display of devotion to the showy gentle- 
 man, and a corresponding contempt for the other, 
 it comes out at last that the tuner is the real 
 gentleman, and the showy one the tuner. This 
 little trifle will, of course, find its way to the 
 English boards, but we can conceive under what 
 disguise, and in what heavy native buckram. It 
 
The French Stage. 11 7 
 
 will not bear transplanting ; for the situation is 
 French, and might occur in any of those Parisian 
 ' flats,' where there is a common staircase, and 
 people are going up and down constantly. But, 
 when the piece comes to our boards, the tuner will 
 enter as Twingles ; the gentleman as Mr Fitz- 
 poppet. VTe shall have a bevy of the boisterous 
 young ladies attached to the 'burlesque,' and an 
 additional Betty or Mary as a comical household 
 housemaid to rush in, and cause fright, and intro- 
 duce comic ' concealing business ' — in the piano 
 perhaps — by the news that ' Missus is coniin' ! ' 
 
 That there is a difference between French and 
 English playing will be conceded, and that the 
 superiority lies with the French, will likewise be 
 admitted by all, save, perhaps, by the members of 
 the British branch of the profession. The reason 
 is because we are, in familiar phrase, moving on 
 another tack. There is as great a difference be- 
 tween a greatly successful French play and an 
 English one, as between the players in both. The 
 last famous Francais piece, Paul Forrestier, which 
 has the conventional French immorality, at least 
 shows us the admirable Favart, perhaps rather 
 
 passee now, but full of repressed passion, and who, 
 
 15 * 
 
228 The French Stage. 
 
 when she gives way to a burst, shows that she is 
 struggling to keep back as much passion as she 
 expresses. This is the true theatrical art, — 
 indicating, rather than expressing, emotion. Our 
 actresses might learn from her this disciplined 
 fury, this suppressed agitation, half revealed in 
 eyes, mouth, figure, attitude — in short, in the way 
 in which injured and outraged mothers and wives 
 might display their feelings in an ordinary draw- 
 ing-room or parlour. With her black dress and 
 pale face she gives us the look of shrinking 
 terror — the torrent of words stumbling, and trip- 
 ping over each other; the unconscious retreating 
 and cowering — not the stage stride ; the tying and 
 twisting of the handkerchief — in short, the life- 
 like air which must come from the fact of the 
 actress dismissing all conventional stage associa- 
 tions, and fancying she is in some real situa- 
 tion. Happy is the Francais in its young lover, 
 Delaunay, handsomest of adorers, who looks about 
 twenty, and whose cheeks are not ' blue ' from ex- 
 cessive shaving ; who walks like a gentleman, and 
 is exquisitely dressed. So with the no less ad- 
 mirable Got, his rough honest friend, who is in 
 love with the same lady. Never did stage lover 
 
The French Stage. 229 
 
 play rejection so admirably. The look of per- 
 plexity and distress, the not knowing what to 
 say — the attempt to speak and make a last appeal, 
 the going to the door, the general uncertainty — 
 were points new, and drawn from the great 
 volume of human nature. Why that volume, so 
 cheap, accessible, and translated into every lan- 
 guage, should not be in the hands of our English 
 players is incomprehensible. 
 
 The French romantic melodramas — where 
 love, passion, fighting, adventure, hair-breadth 
 'scapes, handsome men and women, and fine 
 dresses and scenery, all flash before us — have a 
 certain spell and fascination ; but they have a 
 charm in their own country which they lose when 
 transported to us. When deformed and adapted 
 to the English stage, they want the link of sym- 
 pathy ; for they are wholly Erench — in character, 
 manners, epoch, and adventure itself. They re- 
 flect the romantic sentiment of the country, which 
 has a corner in the breasts of the most practical 
 and mercantile among Erenchmen. The Erench 
 public, like the gallery of a transpontine theatre, 
 admires and weeps over representations of self- 
 devotion, self-sacrifice, the rescue of unhappy 
 
230 The French Stage. 
 
 ladies, and the satisfactory punishment of aris- 
 tocratic and heartless assailants of female virtue. 
 In this class of piece the story is usually drawn 
 from French history or romance, and the mirror 
 is, as it were, held up to French nature, in the 
 house. There is, therefore, a true rapport hetween 
 actor and audience such as we in England have 
 not. Again, we have not the true hero of ro- 
 mance — the noble melodramatic lover and fighter, 
 with a handsome face, a good figure, and an in- 
 teresting and heroic carriage and demeanour — and, 
 above all, with a melodious voice, and that demi- 
 chant, musical and melancholy, which is almost 
 ' de rigueur.' Over French melodramatic pieces — 
 extravagant, far-fetched as they are too often — 
 there is spread a charm which always interests. 
 But it is grievous to think that even this specialite 
 is beginning to disappear. We think of the old 
 Porte St Martin and its glories — that wonderful 
 playhouse run up, some forty years ago, in a few 
 weeks, to serve as a temporary booth until a new 
 and more enduring structure should be got ready, 
 and which has flourished ever since — and of its 
 long line of glories. No theatre could boast of 
 
The French Si age. 131 
 
 such an important series of plays, which have left 
 their mark 011 the French drama. The ' Tour cle 
 Nesle,' the ' Chiffonnier,' ' Belphegor,' the charming 
 ' Victorine,' ' Le Bossu ' — our ' Duke's Motto ' — the 
 ' Vautrin ' of Balzac, and ' Richard Darlington,' 
 are only a few among the list. But the mantle — 
 if a theatre has a mantle — of the old Porte St 
 Martin has been contemptuously thrown off, 
 and picked . up by a newer and more gorgeous 
 house — the Chatelet. There we can see the 
 villain's career worked out steadily, with dignity 
 and due magnificence. This noble building is 
 noted for its perfect arrangements, its enormous 
 coulisses, where the mechanical resources stretch 
 over a vast deal of ground, and where the joke 
 runs that the stage-manager rides about on 
 horseback to give his orders. The house is 
 famous for having the best theatrical orchestra 
 in Paris, directed by one of the Cheri family; 
 and let it be said that, for a stately and pathetic 
 melodrama, a full orchestra — rich in melodious 
 airs, that can give out broad and flesh-creeping 
 chords — is absolutely essential. A vast amount 
 of really good orchestral music may be noted as 
 one of the many strong points of the French stage. 
 
232 The French Stage. 
 
 At the Clifitelet was lately given the ' Yengeur,' 
 of which so much was talked hefore it was ready, 
 and which was considered a fiasco when it did 
 appear. It scarcely deserved such a condemnation, 
 and seemed an interesting and romantic piece, 
 catching happily enough the tone of the period 
 described. On the London stage we fancy our- 
 selves tolerably familiar with the Revolution, and 
 there is no period which the regular costumier 
 could mount so readily. Yet something more is 
 needed than tricoloured sashes, and top-boots, and 
 high-collared coats, and allusions to ' Mussier 
 Roberspear' and 'Darntong.' In the 'Yengeur' a 
 tone of heroic sacrifice is present throughout, and 
 the characters were played in a natural, unstagey 
 way, which imparts an air of perfect reality. The 
 piece turns on the nautical side of the Revolution. 
 A young sea-captain, pursued by a vindictive 
 rival, and separated from his sweetheart, finally 
 sacrifices himself for her sake, and goes down on 
 board the ' Yengeur ' in the fashion in which the 
 original vessel did not go down. This hero was 
 played by a handsome man, with a musical voice, 
 in whose bearing and face it was impossible not to 
 feel an interest. He seemed at home, also, in his 
 
The French Stage. 233 
 
 dress,: — one of the points in which our native 
 actors are deficient ; and indeed I find it noted, by 
 an acute critic, to the praise of the famous Bressant, 
 that ' he seemed to carry every suit of clothes he 
 put on, as if it was his ordinary dress.' We, who 
 have seen artists in our own land in Louis Qua- 
 torze dress, or, worse, in a dress evening suit of the 
 day, know what a divorce seems to exist between 
 the clothes and their wearers, and that an amount 
 of buckram is present for which no tailor is re- 
 sponsible. 
 
 The scenery of this piece, too, suggests a re- 
 flection. It is commonly said that in that depart- 
 ment, at least, ' we beat the Erench,' and proof is 
 instanced in the scenes of Alhambra transformation 
 pieces, which have been sold to Erench theatres. 
 But this is altogether a mistake. In a landscape, 
 — in effects with the lime-light, in transformation 
 devices, in mechanical changes, in colour, our 
 superiority may be admitted ; but in purely pic- 
 turesque effect — in the tone of a scene and the 
 conception — the Erench artists show they are be- 
 coming masters. They have the true touch. Thus, 
 at the beginning of the ' Vengeur ' there was a scene 
 in old Paris, — a lonely street, admirably broken 
 
234 The French Stage. 
 
 up with Gothic houses and porches and effects of 
 shadow ; and over all there was a tone of tranquil 
 mystery thrown, as though the times were those of 
 danger and plots. The reel cap business and sabot- 
 clattering was not overdone, as it would have been 
 near home. The colours were all subdued. There 
 was a pleasant comic underplot turning on the 
 embarrassments of a portly barber. One scene in 
 this piece shows in a small way how perfectly the 
 French understand the true principles of fun. 
 The barber has been induced to let his shop for a 
 few hours to a stranger, who affects to have some 
 eccentric aim, but in reality is a Royalist con- 
 spirator who wants the place as a rendezvous. The 
 barber has no business himself, and chuckles over 
 having taken in the stranger. Almost at once a 
 customer arrives and wishes to be shaved. Then 
 another, and another, — in short, a legion of con- 
 spirators. The amazement of the barber at this 
 sudden influx of custom was admirable ; but not 
 less admirable was the bearing, the supremely 
 natural manner, of the strangers, mere super- 
 numeraries, with only a sentence to say, but who 
 actually seemed to be what they represented, — 
 people coming in from the street. 
 
The French Stage. 235 
 
 Later in the piece came a scene representing 
 the deck of a man-of-war of the old pattern, 
 which to those accustomed to our theatrical 
 decks, to 'Black-eyed Susan,' and even to the 
 ' Africaine' at Covent Garden, must have heen start- 
 ling, — so picturesque, so really original, was the 
 whole conception. Instead of going straight hack, 
 the ship ran diagonally across the stage. There 
 were sails, masts, cannon, portholes, cahins, all 
 indicated with that touch which is so much more 
 valuable and effective than the mere servile repro- 
 duction, or fac-simile making, which seems to be 
 the fashion on our stage. Then followed a Chant 
 du Vengeur, — a fine and spirited scene, grouped 
 with surprising taste and effect, and with a mid- 
 dies' dance, — wonderful in spirit and originality. 
 The last scene — the sinking of the vessel — was a 
 surprising triumph ; and though vessels rolling on 
 a practicable sea are familiar enough now, even 
 this was done in an original way, and on true 
 stage principles. At a certain London theatre in 
 one of Mr Robertson's pieces, there was given two 
 or three years ago, a piece in which there was a 
 ship also, on whose deck the characters were to talk 
 and move about. The vessel had to strike a rock 
 
236 The French Stage. 
 
 and go down slowly with all hands, the soldiers 
 standing gallantly to their post, refusing to save 
 themselves, before the ladies. The after- deck and 
 fore-deck were both brought in. There was a sail 
 set, and the whole was considered a triumph of 
 mechanical skill. Yet nothing more journeyman- 
 like, or untheatrical, could have been conceived. 
 The vessel, as it stood on the canvas waters, was 
 about the size of a small yacht. The figures of the 
 actors were about three times the height of the 
 hull of this large troop ship ; and though the 
 heroine came up — with difficulty — through a 
 little hutch that was called a cabin, and was made 
 love to by the lover, the helmsman, who was turn- 
 ing a practicable wheel about a foot off, heard 
 every syllable, there being no room for him to get 
 farther away. Such is the result of realism. The 
 true principle of theatrical effect is to convey the 
 idea of size, which will make a deeper impression 
 than size itself. Now this 'Vengeur' ship illustrated 
 the difference. They only brought on a portion of 
 the vessel. One half was under the rolling waves, — 
 the half nearest the spectator. We saw the whole 
 width of the deck ; at the stern, high in the air, a 
 huge stump of a mast banged to and fro, the hull 
 
The French Stage. 237 
 
 itself rolling, and getting deeper in. the water every 
 moment. There was very little more superficial 
 space used in this vessel than in the English yacht 
 before described. Yet the effect was overpower- 
 ing. 
 
 So, too, on the comparatively little stage of the 
 Olympic, in ' Little Emily ' was given the hull of 
 an emigrant ship, little more than seven or eight 
 feet long, and yet by adroit indication made to 
 convey the idea of a huge vessel. But, in truth, 
 scene constructors generally only study to repro- 
 duce or imitate, instead of laying their minds to 
 the theory of delusion. 
 
 There are a few other things we might copy 
 with advantage from the French as regards their 
 theatres. That gathering together of all the play 
 ' posters ' on one large sheet, at several fixed points, 
 in the same type, livery, and colour, commends 
 itself at once. Charles Lamb would have been de- 
 lighted to read the eager pondering faces, wistful 
 yet doubtful, drawn to this piece by inclination, 
 distracted by so many other pole stars, and who are 
 gazing at these radiant and glorified proclamations 
 through all hours of the day. Such a coup cTceil 
 is vastly convenient for the playgoer, and very 
 
238 The French Stage. 
 
 necessary ; for the theatres are not rigorous in 
 enforcing a long run of a successful piece, and of a 
 Sunday night a popular play is often withdrawn to 
 make room for the re-entry of a favourite actor and 
 another piece ; so that this fatal upas, ' the run ' 
 for two hundred and three hundred nights, is not 
 always spreading dark and hlighting branches over 
 the stage. But with a bit of scenic show, one of 
 those costly 'women-pieces,' where all is 'decors' and 
 dresses and procession, it is of course impossible to 
 suspend a run, from the bands of supernumeraries 
 engaged, and who are paid by the week. The 
 sumptuous appointments, too, cannot be allowed 
 to lie fallow, or rust even, for a single night, and 
 the manager must realize as fast as he can. But 
 in the more reasonable cases, the manager wisely 
 thinks he has another class of clients, whose in- 
 terests he must consult, namely, those who have 
 seen the successful play that is running ; and the 
 performance of so prodigiously successful a play as 
 * The Grande Duchesse ' is frequently interrupted 
 and alternated with something less familiar. It is 
 curious, indeed, to think of the philosophy under 
 this influence of a ' run,' and that the actual success 
 and popularity of particular pieces should be one 
 
Tlie French Stage. 239 
 
 of the reasons that is hurrying the stage to decay. 
 For there can be no question but that to be acting 
 a single piece for a year or longer must dwarf the 
 powers of the actors, and give them no field for 
 variety. Further, too, the same system shuts out 
 a large section of play lovers from their favourite 
 enjoyment ; since, like Mr Swiveller, in his credit 
 difficulties, he finds various streets and shops 
 1 blocked up ' and cut off from a too fatal familiar- 
 ity. In the old ' palmy ' days of the drama there 
 was a delightful variety, and at Drury Lane, under 
 Garrick's management, the playgoer could have a 
 fresh play and a fresh set of actors at least every 
 second night. 
 
 The universal box-offices, of which there are 
 some half-a-dozen in Paris, are another most con- 
 venient and agreeable feature in Parisian theatrical 
 arrangements. They are not on the select and 
 rather costly system that prevails with us, which 
 some music-sellers and libraries turn to a means of 
 speculation and profit. They are little halls, as it 
 were, open to the street, into which the playgoer 
 walks. Running round the sides are open models 
 three or four feet high, of every theatre in Paris. 
 The name of each class of seat is visible, the num- 
 
240 The French Stage. 
 
 ber of every seat is marked, and the play for the 
 night is pasted np over-head. The gandin and his 
 friend discuss the place they would like, and for all 
 purposes might be in the theatre they have chosen, 
 — select their numbers, and call over the ' adminis- 
 tration ' to announce it. The charm of this admir- 
 able plan is, besides its convenience, that a com- 
 mon bourgeois can walk in, and take even his one 
 franc pit-ticket. Every information is given, the 
 officials of these places are posted up even in future 
 theatrical arrangements ; they are most civil and 
 communicative. These places are open till ' all 
 hours,' and it is characteristic to find the playgoers 
 busily engaged peering into the miniature play- 
 houses, and eagerly taking places, even at mid- 
 night. 
 
 There are things, however, about the French 
 theatres that one would gladly see abolished ; 
 notably, the three violent knocks of the mallet 
 which causes such a thrill of delight to run 
 through the audience. This savours of barbarism, 
 seems to grow more noisy every year, and is 
 supplemented at some houses by a final disorderly 
 thundering of the same instrument on the boards. 
 To one accustomed to the more familiar ' ting ' of 
 
The French Stage. 241 
 
 English houses, the effect disturbs the nerves, and 
 corning at such a moment — always welcome — this 
 savage prelude routs everything dramatic. But 
 we may suppose the Erench to be attached to this 
 odious relic. Again, the women box-openers — one 
 of the few rapacious classes in the country — with 
 their footstools and worryings about cloaks, and 
 hats, and bills — are a serious drawback. It is sur- 
 prising how the audience endures their tyranny. 
 With the new theatres a crop of these plagues has 
 started up ready made. But the ' Eigaro Pro- 
 gramme,' sold between the acts, is welcome ; and 
 the invitation to 'Ask for the photographs of the 
 artists ' is more tolerable. Eor twopence-halfpenny 
 to acquire the faces of all the actors on a card, 
 with their names and characters in the piece 
 underneath, is a not unacceptable shape of sou- 
 venir. 
 
 The system of having the prompter's box in the 
 centre of the stage, as at the opera, may have its 
 advantages. It may, however, be open to the 
 objection that it would make the actor less in- 
 clined to rely on his own resources, who is thus 
 secure of support in every possible way. It is 
 characteristic, however, that it should be ren- 
 
 16 
 
242 The French Stage. 
 
 dered necessary by those great spectacular pieces, 
 where it is more requisite to see the prompter, his 
 motions, and directions, than to hear the text. 
 It might be introduced in the case of veteran 
 actors who are not well up in their parts, as in the 
 instance of Frederic Lemaitre, the very lees and 
 dregs of whose acting are more precious than the 
 choice runnings of the best existing histrionics. 
 This wonderful genius, for all his decay, his halt- 
 ings, his failing memory and powers, still left the 
 impression on one who had never seen him before, 
 of great and unconventional gifts, and of a round 
 and distinct character ; which remains present to 
 the mind long after. With that exquisite art 
 which is French, and French only, he had been 
 nicely and accurately fitted with a part that suited 
 him exactly ; an old schoolmaster, gentle and 
 pastoral, and whose whole life has been coloured 
 by the memory of a loved wife, who died years 
 before. This bereavement has given a gentle and 
 childish tone to his mind ; but later he discovers 
 suddenly that she had been unfaithful to him. 
 This shock unsettles his reason, and at the scene 
 where he makes the discovery, and begins to 
 wander, singing snatches of an old song, and then 
 
The French Stage. 243 
 
 suddenly turning to fury, it was possible to form 
 a perfect notion of what the old Frederic was. 
 Further on, when his little scholars gather round 
 him, and ask him if he did not remember them, 
 one of our conventional players would have had his 
 regular round of business ready, — an immense deal 
 of passing hands over the face, of tossing back his 
 hair, of looking up at the clouds, of rolling the 
 eye, finishing perhaps with a grin and much 
 shaking of the head. Not so this great actor. 
 He gave a little start as he was addressed, looked 
 eagerly but naturally at the questioners with a 
 puzzled air, and then said, with an indescribable 
 half-sad, half- vexed tone, ' No, dears, I do not 
 know you.' 
 
 In this piece was a new scenic device which 
 may be commended heartily to the professors and 
 mechanicians of sensation carpentry. The pro- 
 gramme was that a gentleman was to pay a fare- 
 well visit to a lady whom he admired, at midnight, 
 and was then to be assassinated as he came away 
 by an outside gallery and stairs which led down 
 into the garden. It is scarcely necessary to add 
 that the lady was not single. The lover was, 
 indeed, a tall man, of a vast girth round the waist, 
 
 16 * 
 
244 The French Stage. 
 
 which, as he came to pay his addresses in a scarlet 
 tightly-buttoned hunting-coat and buckskins, had 
 an almost ludicrous effect. But, to use the French 
 idiom, ' That does not hinder ' — sentiment fines 
 down even exaggerated corpulence, and on all 
 sides was heard, ' O mon Dieu, qu'il est charmant ! 
 Comme il est noble ! ' &c. The room in which he 
 took this midnight farewell was semi-circular, and 
 filled the whole stage ! but when he had passed 
 out it all began to glide away slowly to the right, 
 the prostrate lady lying overwhelmed with grief; 
 and then the outside front gallery, flight of stairs, 
 and garden itself began to come into view, and the 
 next moment, when the room had finally dis- 
 appeared, the escaping lover made his appearance 
 on the outside stairs, descended in the usual guilty 
 fashion, and was duly shot. This striking effect 
 produced a hurricane of applause, and was talked 
 of everywhere as the ' chambre a roulettes ' — the 
 room on castors. 
 
PART V. 
 
 ACTORS PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 The most disastrous part of this general decay 
 is, that at the present moment there can be found 
 in the ranks of the Profession excellent sterling 
 actors — some of the first quality, many with genius, 
 — only wanting material and opportunity to disjDlay 
 their abilities. Yet the line is meagre enough. 
 With the twenty theatres in esse and four in posse, 
 the list of notable players extends but to eighteen 
 or twenty, — not one for each. In fact, one or two 
 actors virtually represents each house, and bears 
 the leading business on his shoulders, — a meagre 
 promise for the audience, and fatal result of the 
 economic star system. And it is curious that the 
 question in society now always takes the shape 
 of, ' Have you seen A — , or B — ? ' the individual 
 rather than the piece, a sure sign of corrupt taste. 
 When there are glimpses of a more correct taste, 
 we ask, ' Have you seen School ? ' But this allow- 
 ance of an actor or two to each theatre speaks for the 
 
246 Actors Past and Present. 
 
 pieces as well as for the player, which are all 
 written to bring out the centre figure, and which 
 is in itself a want of art, and a bad reflection of 
 nature. In social life this general interest is 
 always desirable. We look back to Drury Lane 
 even after Garrick's retirement, and in the first 
 caste of a famous comedy, find King, * Gentle- 
 man Smith,' ' Jack Palmer,' Yates, Parsons, Dodd, 
 Parren, Mrs Abington, Miss Pope, and Mrs Hop- 
 kins, — ten artists of the first class, in a single piece ! 
 But the Drury Lane list was often far stronger 
 than this, and at one time comprised as many 
 excellent artists as there are now at the twenty 
 London theatres. But these were the ' palmy ' 
 days of the drama. 
 
 There are some curious phenomena in the 
 actor's constitution. Often in some obscure pro- 
 vincial theatre we are struck by an inferior cha- 
 racter played with such singular tact and propriety, 
 so perfectly, in short, that we wonder at the hard fate 
 which places the artist in such a position. But 
 the confusion which reigns in the profession ex- 
 plains it. An eminent living writer was so struck 
 by an instance of this sort, that he called on the 
 player and offered to use his influence with one of 
 
Actoi's Past and Present. 247 
 
 the leading London managers. An engagement 
 was accordingly offered, but a demand was made 
 for parts of the very foremost order, for Hamlet, 
 and characters of the same calibre ! And this is the 
 misfortune of there being no great theatre, or 
 school for acting, as in the last century. This am- 
 bitious player, seen perhaps by Mr Garrick in his 
 travels, would have been brought to Drury Lane, 
 and fitted with parts, strictly of the class in which 
 he had so distinguished himself. There every one 
 had his own department. Now an actor has some 
 success, and he strikes at the first place exorbitant 
 salary, and must at least manage a theatre. But 
 there is another shape of punishment which is 
 overtaking the actors of our day, in the shape of a 
 sort of competition from without. When it is 
 found so easy a thing to be an actor, it is not sur- 
 prising that any number of outsiders should care- 
 lessly step forward and compete, and this free-and- 
 easy fashion of taking up a great profession has 
 had its share in vulgarizing the stage. 
 
 There is another vulgarity which in itself helps 
 to degrade the stage. As we walk the streets the 
 eye is now and again attracted by some coarse and 
 gigantic picture representing an actor in some part 
 
248 Actors Past and Present. 
 
 now the rage. It is made as exaggerated, as 
 grotesque, as showily coloured as possible. That a 
 manager should ' work ' the advertising part of his 
 performance is only natural, and that, as far as print 
 goes, should puff his wares, may be a necessity of 
 excessive competition. But an actor who had 
 regard for his own dignity would not allow a cari- 
 cature of himself to disfigure the public hoardings 
 side by side with the pink and yellow and blue 
 manoeuvres of horsemanship and the daring riders. 
 And positively there is a dignity in the latter not in 
 the former. The horse-riding is addressed to the 
 eye, — it is a daring, dashing show, and those exag- 
 gerated pictures of leaping through hoops, and 
 flying round the arena, are done in a romantic way 
 which may once or twice betray us into stop- 
 ping and looking. But the actor's ' make up ' is but 
 incident to his part ; his real glories cannot be 
 painted. To see that clever artist, Mr Toole, in Wat 
 Tyler, the modern ' low ' radical, put back cen- 
 turies, is a pleasant night's entertainment. There 
 is a grotesqueness in his dress that, taken with what 
 he burlesques in the play, is fairly legitimate. 
 But such a figure set by itself in a poster might as 
 wellbe the picture of a buffoon or a tumbler. It 
 
Actors Past and Present. 249 
 
 really shocks us as we go by, and helps to lead public 
 opinion to feel contempt for a profession which 
 could invite us to admire it, by such means. Not 
 long ago people walking through the streets were 
 met by men carrying placards, on the top of which 
 were fixed a pair of boots, cut out in wood, ' in 
 profile,' as the property-man's phrase runs. This 
 was an advertisement of the astounding success of 
 an American player in some buffoonery part, named 
 ' Wellington de Boots ! ' The belief was, that the 
 public were drawn by this low conceit. A com- 
 pliment 'indeed to the kind 'patrons.' But by- 
 and-by the fruits of all this will be manifest. The 
 jesters and buffoons of the music halls have the 
 same modes of invitation open to them ; they are 
 not so much imitating the ways of actors, as actors 
 are following and imitating them. Very soon the 
 public, too contemptuous to take the trouble of dis- 
 criminating, will class all together, — tumblers and 
 singers, dancers and joke-makers. And this was 
 the class of 'scurrse,' 'buffoons,' which the classic 
 writers, and even the Fathers, were so loud in con- 
 demning, — a condemnation accompanied with the 
 bitterest contempt. Their object was to extort the 
 laugh anyhow and everyhow, no matter what the 
 
250 Actors Past and Present. 
 
 means. They were the slaves of a wanton master. 
 Everything is preparing the way for this lamentable 
 fusion, and confusion also. There are even certain 
 signs in the lamentable and suicidal abandonment 
 by players of that dignified privacy, which gave a 
 sort of veneration, as Hazlitt says, to the actor's 
 profession. We see this self-exhibition and fooling 
 at fancy fairs, where, so far from carrying out any 
 condescending mimicry of Merry Andrews, they 
 are only playing the Merry Andrew after a most 
 inferior fashion. We see it in free and familiar 
 speech-making, from the stage, and from other 
 places, justly offensive to any audience that has 
 respect for itself or for the profession. Again, that 
 prim figure of Garrick, which postures in West- 
 minster Abbey, might well shudder as he would 
 be told that now-a-days a play is interrupted, 
 while an audience actually encores five times the 
 reading of a letter. All this is the worse now, on 
 account of what may follow ; and in ordinary life 
 we know what the beginnings of an undue famili- 
 arity usually lead to. And can we wonder if 
 actors now find themselves hustled and shouldered 
 by ' artists ' from the music halls, — competed with 
 by persons who leave them behind in the gifts of 
 
Actors Past and Present. 251 
 
 audacious familiarity, who cau ' gag,' wink at the 
 audience, sing their slang songs, buffoon with every 
 limb, and make speeches ! Already we hear it stated 
 gravely that ' the music halls are excellent training 
 for the stage,' and managers, who must look to 
 their treasury when they find their own players in- 
 ferior in such gifts (gifts which are well appre- 
 ciated by their audiences), will naturally seek to 
 recruit their ranks from those who really excel in 
 this sort of genius. This is what we are hurrying 
 to: and we must thank Burlesque for bridging 
 over the old yawning gap between the Drama, and 
 what it is not too disrespectful to call Tom Foolery. 
 Indeed, the actor's position is becoming a 
 critical one. The new theatres of the present 
 taste have, indeed, created a demand, and the high 
 salaries for a few are tempting. But by-and-by 
 the ease with which an actor can be manufactured 
 will draw crowds into the profession : the com- 
 petition will be enormous ; the regulars will be 
 ' pushed hard ' by the untrained, the incapable, 
 and music hall gentry, who have a certain fertility 
 in devices, never wanting to the ' scurra,' and will 
 be unable to compete with them at such struggle. 
 It is as in societv. Let the man of refined satire 
 
i$z Actors Past and Present. 
 
 enter into competition with some rude, social 
 jester, and he will be worsted ; let him keep to 
 his own weapons, and his own dignity will be a 
 defence. 
 
 It is always a pleasant study, setting long- 
 established conventional usages at a distance, look- 
 ing at them as if we were strangers, and de- 
 manding Avhat they mean. Thus, the great aim 
 and struggle of life would seem to be what is 
 elegantly and vaguely called Fame, but which in 
 broader phrase is publicity ; to be the centre of a 
 crowd, to be talked of, stared at. There are only 
 a certain number of pedestals to be occupied, and 
 possession is to be obtained only by thrusting 
 down some one else. It is like a seat in the 
 House, or a bishopric. The fact remains that this 
 honour of having an audience, or a crowd, is at 
 the present time above all the prizes of the age. 
 
 Now, men of genius follow this ambition as a 
 means to an end, because the command of a crowd 
 gives them power. But meaner and cheaper na- 
 tures, the poor creatures of society, whose souls, 
 in stage phrase, are only ' in profile,' take the 
 means for the end. All they ask is, not the 
 grand and permanent audience, which a great man 
 
Actors Past and Present. 253 
 
 always has, and which never breaks up ; but a 
 crowd ever so little, to be got together anyhow — 
 bribed to sit by and look on while they exhibit 
 themselves. Vanity is at the bottom of all, and 
 will spare no expense to gratify itself. This is 
 what begets the amateur player or singer. 
 
 The race is increasing hourly, so much so that 
 dramatic amateur performers are a nuisance. The 
 common mistake that brings this alarming mob 
 to invade the boards is, the mistaking an easy 
 effrontery for gifts. Some free soldier who would 
 stand up and buffoon before the Queen and lloyal 
 family, finds himself so much at home before the 
 foot-lights, so ready with an extemporized joke, 
 that he assumes himself to be a born actor. Why 
 histrionic gifts are supposed to be convertible with 
 wearing a red coat, has always seemed a mystery, 
 but it seems to be accepted as a sort of gospel 
 truth. At every little town or watering-place the 
 regular proclamation greets us, 'The officers of 
 the — th will have the honour of giving a dramatic 
 performance ; ' while, between the two pieces, we 
 may certainly count on the Yorick of the regi- 
 ment — the side-splitting captain, who has ^gradu- 
 ated at the music halls, who knows and treats the 
 
254 Actors Past and Present. 
 
 facetious Codlin, and ' The Great ' somebody, and 
 is supposed to give ' Captain Jinks of the horse- 
 marines ' with far more real power than those 
 great artists. 
 
 This eruption of amateurs is really making itself 
 felt on the profession. These importunate postu- 
 lants, bursting in among the side- scenes, craving 
 some sort of employment, any office, so that the 
 foot-lights blaze on their faces, are causing a sort 
 of demoralization. It is as with a well-known club, 
 once a free-and-easy and delightful haunt, a mix- 
 ture of players, artists, humorists, but which in a 
 fatal hour gave in to the allurements of a Circe, 
 called Fashion. The result was that the club 
 became fine, the ' swells ' and others began to 
 ' bean ' the eccentric element, which had been the 
 charm of the place ; and it now stands a thing of 
 the conventional pattern, but warped from its 
 old original model. So with the stage. It is hard 
 for players to resist this pressure of amateurs, this 
 / ' treating,' as it were, or acquaintanceship with 
 swells, who require something substantial for pay- 
 ment. And yet, between the amateurs and the 
 playerS, what a broad trench ! Kean's or Kemble's 
 remark sums the whole up ; who, invited to an 
 
Actors Past and Present. 255 
 
 amateur performance, called out aloud when some 
 gave a message, ' Ah 1 there's an actor ! ' This was 
 really some poor professional supernumerary. An 
 amateur cannot import weight to the most trivial 
 sentence. He knows not the secret of that mea- 
 sured exasperation, which is like the coarse strokes 
 of the scene painter.* 
 
 Another great actor once protested that he 
 never saw an amateur who was worth eighteen 
 shillings a week. The truth is, no amateur is worth 
 
 * The writer once saw a performance at which, as a bait for the 
 
 public at a popular actor's benefit, it was announced that ' Mr , the 
 
 distinguished amateur, had promised his valuable services.' The 
 beneficiaire took a secondary part. He was a favourite. In vain the 
 distinguished amateur ranted and raved, — his audience affected not to 
 perceive; but when their idol made some insignificant remark in a" 
 level tone even, they all but cheered him, — a constant rebuke to the 
 intruder. On another occasion, an amateur, who had adopted 
 the stage as a profession, came on in a burlesque of the usual pat- 
 tern, as a ballet-girl in tulle. He had the whole ' fat,' as it is 
 termed ; all the business aud funny speeches. It was rumoured that 
 he had given ' a gratification ' to be allowed this exhibition. Yet, 
 with these advantages, he could not hold his own; the smaller charac- 
 ters, whenever in contact with him, took the wind out of his sails in 
 the most mortifying manner. Some poor fourth-rate jester, but who 
 knew stage business, would utter his quips with a point and energy 
 that raised him to first rank, especially as he had such a good foil. 
 The audience soon entered into the situation ; indeed, there was a ludi- 
 crous incompatibility between the grandeur of the part, — the displayed 
 type in the bill, and the overpowered performer. 
 
256 Actors Past and Present. 
 
 much more to • draw.' The amateur who takes to 
 the profession resolutely declines to begin in the 
 ranks, and must do his Romeo or Claude Melnotte. 
 The profession naturally refuses him such suspen- 
 sion of the usual training ; the amateur will not 
 give way, so the only course for him is to open his 
 purse and purchase the step ; either to subsidize a 
 manager, or hire a theatre for himself, as seems to 
 have been recently done in this metropolis, with a 
 rather disastrous effect. The amateur resents his 
 being thus heavily weighted in the race, and puts 
 forward a claim as a ' gentleman,' having tact or 
 elegance, which must make itself felt upon the 
 stage. But this is a great fallacy. It no more 
 follows that a born gentleman must appear a gen- 
 tleman upon the stage, with better effect, one who 
 imitates a gentleman, than that a real scenic spec- 
 tacle is more effective there than an imitation one. 
 The profession of acting hovers between 
 two positions, according as it is understood and 
 interpreted. It may be the most degraded and 
 contemptible calling that men or women can 
 take up, or it may rise to a dignity beyond that of 
 any other profession. At the outset there are some 
 perilous associations, some serious disabilities to get 
 
Actors Past and Present. 25 7 
 
 over ; and the public might fairly be inclined to 
 treat as an inferior caste those who had to dress in 
 strange clothes, fix on false hair, cover them- 
 selves with smirches of paint, sham the characters 
 that they are, and exhibit themselves, their weak- 
 ness and excellence, for money before vast crowds. 
 It was no wonder in old days that Jongleurs, tum- 
 blers, delineators, jesters, buffoons, and players were 
 all classed together ; and even now, if we would real- 
 ize the feeling, we have only to visit a flourishing 
 music hall, and see ' The Great Some-one ' singing 
 idiot songs, followed by his idiot dance, to the 
 vociferous bidding of the crowd. We may laugh, 
 but we feel the degradation of human nature. The 
 bare suggestion of ourselves or others, reduced 
 to such a position, makes us blush for shame, and 
 we almost pardon the harshness of the statute of 
 Elizabeth which classed such with rogues and 
 vagrants, unless they were servants of some great 
 baron. Yet actors, with all the accompaniments 
 of a theatre, the scene behind, the professional 
 clothes, the paint and patches, reduce themselves 
 to this level, when the intellectual part is for- 
 gotten. But one thing alone can lift them above 
 
 the livery, the smirching, and this abdicating of all 
 
 17 
 
258 Actors Past and Present. 
 
 independence from being placed at the mercy of 
 perhaps an ignorant mob; and that is the power of 
 real acting. Let them be actors, show ns human 
 nature, human character, the delightful science 
 of motive, mental strength or weakness — fields and 
 pastures boundless, inexhaustible, and ever new — 
 and they rise at once to a commanding place ; they 
 become associated with the glories of the fine old 
 art. Then there is dignity, command, power ; they 
 are kings, and we come to listen respectfully. It 
 was with some such feeling as this that Hazlitt, 
 more than fifty years ago, speaks of the delight 
 and interest with which actors were then regarded ; 
 even off the stage they were attended by a mys- 
 terious sympathy and regard. Now, the highest 
 standard of playing is to hit the public quickly, 
 and strongly, while novelty without propriety is all 
 that is asked for. Now, we feel that the actor who 
 exerts himself so much to entertain us, with his 
 grimacing, his antics, and his ready fertility of verbal 
 and corporal tricks, is only a very clever fellow, but 
 whom fifty others, with the same opportunities, 
 might excel in cleverness. We see them in the 
 street, but feel only the curiosity of a moment, not 
 the old respect and even veneration. The profes- 
 
Actors Past and Present. 259 
 
 sion cannot fairly protest against the intrusive 
 rage for amateur acting, which their own me- 
 diocrity is the cause of; for when playing is re- 
 duced to such elements as readiness, buffoonery, 
 and versatility in outward tricks, of course, with a 
 knowledge of stage-business, there is no reason 
 why outsiders should not enter into competition 
 
 and acquit themselves quite as well. 
 
 s 
 The mere exhibition of themselves by men or 
 
 women, with their various physical qualities or 
 gifts, has always been held by the world as some- 
 thing degrading ; and by the Church as something 
 immoral, or leading to what is immoral and de- 
 grading. And this is hardly surprising : for the 
 nice sense of retirement and modesty is outraged, 
 and the function of amusing a crowd, or gratifying 
 curiosity, by dancing, tumbling, low comic singing, 
 or grotesque feats, leads to a just contempt. A 
 barrister has indeed been compared to an actor ; 
 but the ostensible aim of his business is intellectual, 
 to help the innocent, or secure their rights for 
 the injured. But simple self-exhibition remains, and 
 always will remain, a degraded calling. Dancing- 
 girls in savage countries, the lower class of jug- 
 glers down to the old professional jester, have 
 
 17 * 
 
160 Actors Past and Present. 
 
 always been an inferior caste. For those whose 
 profession it is to amuse our eyes, we feel an 
 indifference or contempt. To follow the matter 
 further, a mere beautiful face, when intelligence is 
 wanting, scarcely affects us. Now, real acting is 
 not self-exhibition ; it is an appeal to our intellect 
 and our passions. It raises a mimic world before 
 us : the actor is a man, one of ourselves, and we are 
 with him in his struggles. His self-exhibition is 
 but a means to an end. The most grim ascetic, who 
 has witnessed a good play throughout, would not, 
 with the deepest antipathy, feel anything that was 
 not respect. There is something noble in it, when 
 followed on its true principles. But the more it 
 verges towards mere physical performance, the 
 more the actor runs the risk of falling under the 
 contempt that follows the other calling. 
 
 It might indeed be guessed that there was some- 
 thing unsound and decayed in the drama at present, 
 from a mere superficial glance at the criticisms of 
 old times. We wonder as we read the little 
 volumes in which Leigh Hunt, and Hazlitt, and 
 Lamb expatiated with love and discrimination on 
 the actors and acting of their time ; we rub our 
 eyes and wonder what sort of stuff that was upon 
 
Actors Past and Present. 261 
 
 which they expended so much loving judgment, 
 sagacity, and wit: what pleasant and acute un- 
 folding of these odd humours, the unbounded 
 treasures, and fitful motions of the human soul, 
 seized on and interpreted with infinite delicacy 
 through the medium of the tones, looks, gestures 
 of the great actors. As we read we find we are 
 getting hints of some forgotten art, some mystery 
 long since lost to us, certainly not in the least 
 corresponding with what we see to-day. The idea 
 of a man of wit and taste devoting a volume to de- 
 licate analysis of acting ; to elaborate expatiation 
 on the beauties of certain players, would seem in- 
 comprehensible at the present time. AVho could 
 imagine a whole poem in praise, like ' The Actor,' 
 or satirical, like Churchill's ' Roseiad,' and Croker's 
 ' Familiar Epistles,' or essays, like those of Hazlitt 
 and Hunt, being written on the ladies and gentle- 
 men of the Queen's Theatre, or of the Globe, or 
 Charing Cross, Strand, or indeed any of the ex- 
 isting Houses ? The most laborious and pains- 
 taking would be amazed at finding his honest 
 attempts, directed merely to the study of good 
 business, and the end of making the audience 
 laugh, his uncertain and haphazard effects, treated 
 
262 Actors Past and Present. 
 
 as the inspiration of genius, and made the subject 
 of admiring analysis. They would feel surprised, 
 as the late Mr Turner was said to have done, at 
 the profound meanings which an admiring art- 
 critic professed to see hidden in his paintings. 
 Even now the critic, who would be discriminating, 
 and re-open the choked-up wells of dramatic re- 
 finement, finds that there is no material to his 
 hand ; that what he would grasp is mere dust and 
 decay. He cannot make his critical bricks, wanting 
 both clay and straw. There is nothing to criticise ; 
 all that remains is to tell the story of the play at 
 
 length, and say that Mr acted ' with com 
 
 mendable praise,' that Miss 'threw much 
 
 spirit ' into her part, and Mr ' played with 
 
 much care and conscientiousness.' A mere glance 
 at a page of one of the older criticisms would 
 show that the fine sytem of acting which then 
 prevailed is quite lost to our players. Rather, in 
 a happy complacency, they believe that their faith 
 includes everything that could be necessary. Here 
 is a little test. The ' School for Scandal ' was 
 lately played at one of the theatres, and we might 
 fairly conceive a consultation being held, before 
 its production, as to the ' view ' to be taken of 
 
Actors Past and Present. 2.63 
 
 each character. Lady Teazle, for instance ; grant- 
 ing that all her speeches were to be made to tell 
 on the audience — all the ' points ' and traditions to 
 be well brought out, as they no doubt were by the 
 clever lady who played it — what would be the 
 general tone and complexion given to her charac- 
 ter ? Such a question put to an average actor and 
 actress of the day, who was skilful in the detailed 
 business of his part, would seem unintelligible, or 
 perhaps childish. Yet this was a matter on which 
 the audience of fifty years ago were critical, — the 
 delicate colouring of a character ; and proficient 
 critics looked to this as a matter of course. To a 
 trained audience such difference was as marked as 
 the ' manner ' and bearing of their own friends; and 
 the skilfully-trained actor was able to convey arti- 
 ficially, what a person in real life did by instinct. 
 Thus, when Miss O'Neill came out in Lady Teazle 
 she was severely judged by Hazlitt, who incident- 
 ally shows that there were three or four views to 
 be taken of the character, either ' the complete 
 finished air of fashionable indifference,' which was 
 Miss barren's way of playing it ; or the mixture 
 of artificial refinement and natural vivacity, which 
 appears the true idea of the character ; while Miss 
 
264 Actors Past and Present. 
 
 O'Neill gave the idea of the lady * being thrust 
 into a situation for which she was fitted neither by 
 nature nor education : ' and besides her mistaken 
 reading, there was ' a perpetual affectation of the 
 wit and airs of the fine lady, with an evident con- 
 sciousness of effect, or desire to please, without the 
 sense of pleasure.' An admirable distinction. And 
 this idea of colouring a part is hopeless to look for 
 among our players. They cannot grasp the notion. 
 They can make this speech and that ' tell,' and pro- 
 duce its laugh : they can make the part a ' good ' 
 one : they can supply this ' colour ' to their no- 
 tions by a good 'make-up,' and a never-flagging 
 grotesqueness of gesture, or some cant word ; but 
 can do no more. And it is not their fault. Eor 
 this bloom is to be secured not by long training, 
 but only in the school of tradition, and at best 
 by profound study and observation. In these old 
 criticisms there are a hundred points like this, 
 glanced at as things of course, but which might be 
 about Chaldaic to our existing actor. If ever 
 there was an actor of that old school, furnished 
 with the most delightful store of rare gifts, it was 
 that light and airy comedian who was fondly 
 called ' Jack Palmer.' Critics of such quality as 
 
Actors Past and Present. 26$ 
 
 Lamb, Hunt, and Hazlitt, were always looking wist- 
 fully back to his light and elegant comedy ; and as 
 we glance at the spirited little etchings they have 
 left of him, we look round vainly, and see that 
 nothing of the same quality and species, even in 
 the lowest degree, is with us. At what London 
 theatre can we find any player who acts on such 
 principles as the following ? As we read these pas- 
 sages let us have in our eye any Mr , of any 
 
 theatre, who will boldly — the very best of them — 
 lay sacrilegious hands on such sacred arks as ' The 
 School for Scandal,' and, being a quick study, 
 get the whole ' up ' in an incredibly short time. 
 ' Amidst the mortifying circumstances attendant 
 upon growing old,' says Elia, 'it is something to 
 have seen the ' School for Scandal ' in its glory. . . . 
 It is impossible that it should be now acted, though 
 it continues at long intervals to be announced in 
 the bills. Its hero, when Palmer played it at 
 least, was Joseph Surface. When I remember the 
 gay boldness, the graceful solemn plausibility, the 
 measured step, the insinuating voice, — to express 
 it in a word, the downright acted villainy of the 
 part, so different from the pressure of conscious 
 actual wickedness, — the hypocritical assumption of 
 
266 Actoj's Past and Present. 
 
 hypocrisy, which made Jack so deservedly a fa- 
 vourite in that character, I must conclude the 
 present generation of play-goers more virtuous 
 than myself, or more dense. Not but there are 
 passages, like that, for instance, where Joseph is 
 made to refuse a pittance to a poor relation .... 
 but over these obstructions Jack's manner floated 
 him so lightly, that a refusal from him no more 
 shocked you than the easy compliance of Charles 
 gave you, in reality, any pleasure.' Hazlitt took 
 the same view. ' No one,' he said, ' ever came so 
 near the idea of what the women call " a fine 
 man." ' And he then speaks of another demeanour 
 as lost, even to that day, ' a great deal of assumed 
 decorum, and a stateliness of manner.' Lamb 
 almost forecasts the fashion in which Joseph Sur- 
 face would be played in our time. ' To go down 
 now he must be a downright revolting villain, 
 no compromise — ' . . . ' his specious plausibilities 
 must inspire a cold and killing aversion. . . He 
 would instinctively avoid every turn which might 
 tend to unrealize the character.' He follows the 
 same notion through the other characters of the 
 play. Sir Peter Teazle must be 'no longer the 
 comic idea of a fretful old bachelor bridegroom, — 
 
Actors Past and Present. 16 7 
 
 he must be a person capable in law of sustaining 
 an injury ; a person towards whom duties are to be 
 acknowledged ; the genuine crini. con. antagonist 
 of the villainous seducer, Joseph. To realize him 
 more, his sufferings under his unfortunate match 
 must have the downright pungency of life ; must 
 (or should) make you not mirthful but uncomfort- 
 able, just as the same predicament would move 
 you in a neighbour or old friend. The delicious 
 scenes which give the play its name and zest 
 must affect you in the same serious manner as if 
 you heard the reputation of a dear female friend 
 attacked in your real presence. Crabtree and Sir 
 Benjamin, those poor snakes that live but in the 
 sunshine of your mirth, must be ripened by this 
 hot-bed process of realization into asps or am- 
 phisbaenas ; and Mrs Candour, oh, frightful ! 
 become a hooded serj)ent. Oh, who that remem- 
 bers Parson and Dodd — the wasp and butterfly of 
 the ' School for Scandal ' — in those two characters ; 
 and charming, natural Miss Pope, the perfect 
 gentlewoman as distinguished from the fine lady 
 of comedy, in this latter part; would forego the 
 true scenic delight ; the escape from life ; the ob- 
 livion of consequences ; the holiday barring-out of 
 
268 Actors Past and Present. 
 
 the pedant reflection ; those Saturnalia of two or 
 three brief hours, well won from the world ; to sit, 
 instead, at one of our modern plays — to have his 
 coward conscience (that forsooth must not be left 
 for a moment) stimulated with perpetual appeals — 
 dulled rather, and blunted, as a faculty without re- 
 pose must be, — and his moral vanity pampered 
 with images of national justice, national benefi- 
 cence, lives saved without the spectator's risk, and 
 fortunes given away that cost the author nothing ? ' 
 
 But it is so tempting looking over these sketches, 
 and so really approaching the next best thing to 
 seeing the actors themselves, that I shall ask par- 
 don for giving a few more ; that, at least, those who 
 act and those who see acting may feel that, in those 
 old-fashioned times, there was another ideal altoge- 
 ther, and may set it beside what they are now so 
 contented with. 
 
 Bannister was about the last of the Garrick 
 school, barely touching that famous era, and was 
 instructed by Roscius himself. We have on our 
 stage the conventional type of old man, played by 
 every one in the same way, according to certain 
 meagre canons, — a queer dress, gray hairs, quaver- 
 ing voice, and tottering gait. Let us see how acutely 
 
Actors Past and Present. 269 
 
 Leigh Hunt refines on, and illustrates, this matter. 
 1 The state of old age is a condition, of which no 
 man perhaps can enter exactly into the personal 
 feelings : it has no desire of motion ; but a player 
 is always wishing to be in a state of action, and 
 acquires a habit of exercising his limbs momentarily, 
 as may be seen sometimes in his gestures off the 
 stage. The principal deficiency in the representa- 
 tion of old age generally arises from this propensity 
 to motion. Thus an indifferent player, who natur- 
 ally thinks that a stick will add to the decrepit 
 appearance of age, forgets his support in the eager- 
 ness of winning applause by a show of energy, and 
 thumps the floor or amuses his chin with it. An 
 actor named Purser, who is very well when he 
 plays the fool, and then only when the fool is a 
 footman, sometimes misrepresents old age in this 
 manner, and beats his mouth with his cane when 
 he would affect an attitude of thought, like a 
 voun^ beau in a room who does it for want of 
 thought. But Mr Bannister in his old age is not 
 Mr Bannister in his manhood : he loses at once all 
 his natural vivacity and robustness of manner, and 
 sinks into that dependent feebleness which seems 
 at once to fear and to look for protection from 
 
270 Actors Past and Present. 
 
 every surrounding object. Other old men on the 
 stage take off their hats or pull out their handker- 
 chiefs as composedly as young men ; but Mr Ban- 
 nister has the perpetual tremulousness and impo- 
 tent eagerness of superannuation : if he takes out 
 a paper, he quivers it about before he can open it, 
 and if he makes a speech of any length, he enfee- 
 bles it by frequent breaks of forgetfulness and 
 weariness, with that sort of pause, which seems as 
 if he were recollecting what had already been said, 
 or preparing for what remained to be said. One 
 admirable mark of the feeble impatience of age 
 must ever be remembered as one of the most na- 
 tural originalities in Mr Bannister's personation of 
 the ' Old Steward.' In thanking the heir of his de- 
 ceased master for continuing some family favours 
 to him, and in promising to overcome the violence 
 of his grief for so heavy a loss, he trembles through 
 four or five words with tolerable composure ; but 
 suddenly bursts out into a weeping of impatient 
 recollection, and exclaims with rapidity — " But 
 when I think of my poor master my tears will flow." 
 An inferior actor would have added these words to 
 his promise of patience in the same tone ; but Mr 
 Bannister understands that violent grief becomes 
 
Actors Past and Present. 271 
 
 only the more violent from temporary repression.' 
 What fine shades of distinction in his sketch 
 of Elliston, especially in that description of a 
 special gift, which it is not too much to say any 
 intelligent actor of onr time conld make nothing 
 of. ' All art acquires its greatest effect from con- 
 trast, and particularly the art of humorous ridi- 
 cule, which in a grave dress pursues an end to 
 which its means are apparently inadequate. It is 
 full of contrast : its manner is easiest when its 
 intention is most violent ; it appears to be abso- 
 lutely indifferent when it is absorbed in attention ; 
 it says one thing when it evidently means an- 
 other; and its meaning, instead of being dissi- 
 pated, is peculiarly embodied and enforced by 
 this confusion. It might appear at first, like 
 attempting to reach a goal by running away 
 from it, or endeavouring to grasp a sword by 
 putting your hands in your waistcoat pockets ; 
 but in an instant the goal is reached, the active 
 sword is grasped. 
 
 ' The end of an actor, in the management of this 
 humour, is to talk in two languages ; one, the 
 language of the tongue ; and the other, that of the 
 manner and aspect united. Charles Kemble some- 
 
i~i Actors Past a? id Present. 
 
 times exhibits much nature in the lighter inter- 
 mixture of these opposite effects : he assents, for 
 instance, to a ridiculous proposition with a very 
 easy gravity that contradicts its necessity by its 
 indifference : but he cannot reach the perfect con- 
 viction of Elliston, who, with half-shut eyes, an 
 opened mouth, a shake of the head, and a nasal 
 depth of affirmation, perfectly cheats his interlocu- 
 tor without deceiving the audience a jot.' In the 
 representation of ' ludicrous distress ' — a very sim- 
 ple notion to the modern histrionic — and easily 
 enough portrayed — he was no less unrivalled. 
 
 ' It is extremely difficult,' says Hunt, 'to manage 
 this expression so as to render it agreeable to the 
 spectators, because it is calculated to excite their 
 contempt. The only method is to unite with it an 
 air of good-nature, for good-nature is a qualifica- 
 tion in the possession of which no degree of rank 
 or of sense can be altogether unpleasing.' Nothing, 
 indeed, is more conspicuous among the short- 
 comings of modern acting than the utter absence 
 of these double currents of humours, existing 
 side by side, and which are founded in human na- 
 ture. There is not this logical consistency in 
 every one's temper : the misers of life are not all 
 
Actors Past and Present. 273 
 
 raisers au bout ties ongles, villaias are not villains 
 through every successive instant. There is a fit- 
 fulness in our tempers which is not subject to iron 
 laws. There is another of these delicate principles, 
 also quite lost sight of, ' that peculiar self-command 
 of action, which is half the secret of gentility . . . 
 it gives him (Elliston) an unequalled grace in the 
 polished gentleman. Blest with the proper 
 medium between the extreme vivacity of that rest- 
 less actor, and the extreme langour and reserve of 
 Mr Charles Kemble, he appropriates almost exclu- 
 sively to himself the hero of genteel comedy, that 
 character which attracts the regard of the fair and 
 fashionable ; that, in its happiest point of view, 
 unites the most natural attractives of social pleasure 
 with the nicest repellants of familiarity.' A com- 
 mon situation on our modern stasre is where fine 
 ladies, or wits, are ' chaffing ' some one of in- 
 ferior station, their raillery being mingled with 
 ' regulation ' stage-laughter. Speaking of the de- 
 lightful Dora Jordan, he says, ' With this frankness, 
 too, she unites a power of raillery, seldom found 
 in a performer of her honest cast. Mrs Jordan 
 manages this raillery with inimitable delicacy ; 
 yet it does not carry with it an air of contempt, 
 
 13 
 
274 
 
 Actors Past and Present. 
 
 though such an air is one of the severest weapons 
 of the ironical humorist ; it is not delivered with 
 an indifferent air, though such an appearance gives 
 irony one of its most excellent reliefs ; nor does it 
 assume an air of gay acquiescence in the proceed- 
 ings of its object, though the object may thus 
 become doubly ridiculous in its misconception and 
 unconscious furtherance of the ridicule. These 
 three kinds of ridicule, considered with regard to 
 the speaker, form a contrast with his manner only, 
 since we can always discover his real meaning and 
 mind, and are not surprised at either ; but raillery 
 becomes much more effective in the mouth of 
 frankness and simplicity from the contrast it pre- 
 sents with the usual good-nature of the speaker, 
 and from the peculiar obnoxiousness of that object 
 which can rouse so unexpected and unusual a 
 reprover. Mrs Jordan utters her more serious 
 ridicule with the same simplicity and strength 
 of feeling that always pervade her seriousness 
 when it does not amount to the tragic, and she 
 gives it a very peculiar energy by pronouncing the 
 latter parts of her sentences in a louder, a deeper, 
 and more hurried tone, as if her good-nature should 
 not be betrayed into too great a softness and yet as 
 
Actors Past and Present. 2,75 
 
 if it wished to get rid of feelings too harsh for her 
 disposition. Her lighter raillery still carries with 
 it the same feeling, and her laughter is the hap- 
 piest and most natural on the stage. If she is to 
 laugh in the middle of a speech, it does not separ- 
 ate itself so abruptly from her words as with most 
 of our performers ; she does not force herself into 
 those yawning and side-aching peals, which are la- 
 boured on every trifling occasion, when the actor 
 seems to be affecting joy with a tooth-ache upon 
 him, or to have worked himseK into convulsions like 
 a Pythian priestess; her laughter intermingles 
 itself with her words, as fresh ideas afford her fresh 
 merriment ; she does not so much indulge as she 
 seems unable to help it ; it increases, it lessens with 
 her fancy, and when you expect it no longer ac- 
 cording to the usual habit of the stage, it sparkles 
 forth at little intervals, as recollection revives it, 
 like flame from half-smothered embers.' 
 
 But here is a picture of Sir Pretful Plagiary, 
 worthy of Zoffany, as played by the elder Mathews, 
 when the severe criticism is detailed by his mali- 
 cious acquaintance. ' While he affects a pleasantry 
 of countenance, he cannot help betraying his rage 
 in his eyes, in that feature, which always displays 
 
 18 * 
 
276 Actors Past and Present. 
 
 our most predominant feelings : if he draws the air 
 to and fro through his teeth, as if he was perfectly- 
 assured of his own pleasant feelings, he convinces 
 everybody by his tremulous and restless limbs that 
 he is in absolute torture ; if the lower part of his 
 face expands into a painful smile, the upper part 
 contracts into a glaring frown which contradicts 
 the ineffectual good humour beneath ; everything 
 in his face becomes rigid, confused, and uneasy ; it 
 is a mixture of oil and vinegar, in which the acid 
 predominates ; it is anger putting on a mask that 
 is only the more hideous in proportion as it is more 
 fantastic. The sudden drop of his smile into a 
 deep and bitter indignation, when he can endure 
 sarcasm no longer, completes this impassioned pic- 
 ture of Sir Fretful ; but lest his indignation should 
 swell into mere tragedy, Mr Mathews accom- 
 panies it with all the touches of familiar vexation : 
 while he is venting his rage in vehement expres- 
 sions, he accompanies his more emphatic words 
 with a closing thrust of his buttons, which he 
 fastens and unfastens up and down his coat ; and 
 when his obnoxious friend approaches his snuff-box 
 to take a pinch, he claps down the lid and turns 
 violently off with a most malicious mockery of 
 
Actors Past and Present. 277 
 
 grin. These are the performances and the charac- 
 ters which are the true fame of actors and dra- 
 matists. If our farcical performers and farcical 
 writers could reach this refined satire, ridicule 
 would vanish before them, like breath from a 
 polished knife.' This is admirable. 
 
 The 'testy old father' of the stage takes its 
 place as a proverb or cant phrase. But Dowton, one 
 of the old trained actors, was above all conven- 
 tionality. 'Who is so impressive, so striking, so 
 thrilling, as this actor in scenes of angry perturb- 
 ation, or of anger subdued by the patience or pleasantry 
 of its object ? His Captain Cape in the ' Old 
 Maid ' is a rough miniature of his Sir Anthony 
 Absolute in the ' Rivals,' and both are imitable 
 portraits of a mind naturally good, indulging it- 
 self in bursts of extravagant anger. Most actors 
 are content with straining their eyeballs, pro- 
 truding their lips, and pounding the air with one 
 arm, to express their rage ; in Dowton you see all 
 the approaches, the changes, and the effects of that 
 passion, which becomes impotent by its very 
 power. Most actors are content to stare with 
 stupid inaction at their interlocutor, while he is 
 combating or deprecating their rage ; Dowton still 
 
278 Actors Past and Present. 
 
 preserves the great feature of rage — impatience : he 
 twists about his fingers, changes his attitude and 
 gesture, mutters hastily with his lips, turns away 
 at intervals from the speaker with a mouth of con- 
 tempt, or seems unable to wait for his conclusion. 
 The scene with his son, Captain Absolute, in the 
 ' Rivals,' where he insists on the latter's marriage, 
 is for this reason the masterpiece of extravagant 
 anger. But then, when his son has won upon his 
 feelings or suddenly complies with his demand, 
 who at the same time can drop with such a fall of 
 nature from the height of passion to the most soft 
 emotions.' 
 
 In reference to this subject, a curious theory 
 was held by Charles Lamb, and enforced with 
 a strange persistency that seems to hint at its 
 approaching the affection borne for a hobby. It 
 is hard to dissent from any one of the fan- 
 tastic speculations of this charming humorist, 
 which are really always founded on some truth, 
 though put extravagantly. In praise of his idol, 
 ' Jack Palmer,' and of others, he would insist that 
 the grace of his airy acting lay in a sort of under- 
 current of by-play — addressed to the audience — 
 the whole purpose of which was a continued pro- 
 
Actors Past and Present. 279 
 
 test against their accepting the business of the 
 scene as anything approaching to reality. It was 
 as who should say, ' You must not take me an 
 grand serieux ; this is not earnest.' He enforced 
 this by some ingenious arguments drawn from the 
 nature of what he called ' artificial comedy.' 
 
 ' But, tragedy apart, it may be inquired whether, 
 in certain characters in comedy, especially those 
 which are a little extravagant, or which involve 
 some notion repugnant to the moral sense, it is not 
 a proof of the highest skill in the comedian when, 
 without absolutely appealing to an audience, he 
 keeps up a tacit understanding with them; and 
 makes them, unconsciously to themselves, a party 
 in the scene. The utmost nicety is required in the 
 mode of doing this ; but we speak only of the 
 great artists in the profession. The most mortify- 
 ing infirmity in human nature, to feel in ourselves 
 or to contemplate in another, is, perhaps, cowardice. 
 To see a coward done to the life upon a stage 
 would produce anything but mirth. Yet we most 
 of us remember Jack Bannister's cowards. Could 
 anything be more agreeable, more pleasant ? We 
 loved the rogues. How was this effected but by 
 the exquisite art of the actor in a perpetual sub- 
 
280 Actors Past and Present. 
 
 insinuation to us, the spectators, even in the ex- 
 tremity of the shaking fit, that he was not half 
 such a coward as he took hirn for ? We see all the 
 common symptoms of the malady upon him ; the 
 quivering lip, the cowering knees, the teeth chat- 
 tering ; and could have sworn " that the man was 
 frightened." But we forget all the while — or keep 
 it almost a secret to ourselves — that he never once 
 lost his self-possession ; that he let out by a thou- 
 sand droll looks and gestures — meant at us, and 
 not at all supposed to be visible to his fellows in 
 the scene, that his confidence in his own resources 
 had never once deserted him. Was this a genuine 
 picture of a coward ? or not rather a likeness, 
 which the clever artist contrived to palm upon us 
 instead of an original ; while we secretly connived 
 at the delusion, for the purpose of greater pleasure, 
 than a more genuine counterfeiting of the imbe- 
 cility, helplessness, and utter self-desertion, which 
 we know to be concomitants of cowardice in real 
 life, could have given us? Why are misers so 
 hateful in the world, and so endurable on the stage, 
 but because the skilful actor, by a sort of sub- 
 reference, rather than direct appeal to us, disarms 
 the character of a great deal of its odiousness, by 
 
Actors Past and Present. 281 
 
 seeming to engage our compassion for the insecure 
 tenure by which he holds his money-bags and 
 parchments. By this subtle vent, half of the hateful- 
 ness of the character — the self-closeness with which 
 in real life it coils itself up from the sympathy of 
 men — evaporates. The miser becomes sympathetic, 
 i. e. is no genuine miser. Here, again, a diverting 
 likeness is substituted for a very disagreeable 
 reality. Spleen, irritability, the pitiable infirmities 
 of old men, which produce only pain to behold in 
 the realities, counterfeited upon a stage, divert not 
 altogether for the comic appendages to them, but 
 in part from an inner conviction that they are 
 being acted before us ; that a likeness only is going 
 on, and not the thing itself. They please by being 
 done under the life, or beside it ; not to the life.' 
 
 The truth is, Lamb had in his mind the effect of 
 the acting of his time, which he so reprobated, and 
 which gave a coarse grossness to wicked parts. He 
 also mistook that ' airiness' of Palmer for a sign of 
 intelligence with the audience. The stupidity that 
 can only see the gross villain in Joseph Surface, 
 coarse and marked in his hypocrisy, as coarse in 
 his servility and insinuation, belongs to our day also ; 
 but without keeping up any correspondence with 
 
 
 
282 Actors Past and Present. 
 
 the audience, a true actor would remember that 
 Joseph Surface was a gentleman, carrying out his 
 schemes among gentlemen and ladies, and as such 
 would differ little from those about him in manner, 
 expression of face or line. If anything, he would 
 try to disguise all thoughts of the kind. But 
 how are the audience to pierce through his dis- 
 guise ? There lies the actor's art. Studying real life 
 and human nature, he will discover that there are 
 moments when the most trained are off their 
 guard ; that when people are acting a part they 
 do not always put on solemn hypocritical faces, 
 and run into extravagances of servility and whin- 
 ing ; that, on the contrary, they often assume a 
 light, cheerful manner. But to analyze all this 
 would amount practically to being a great actor. 
 The lightness and airiness which ' floated ' Jack 
 Palmer over the gross parts of his character, was 
 never so understood by others who had seen him. 
 It was in truth, with Joseph Surface, the airiness and 
 unconcern of a man whose sense of honour or of 
 conscience was quite dulled by selfishness, and on 
 whom his hypocrisies sat lightly. Further, like so 
 many in real life, though inconsistent in his fine 
 hypocritical phrases, for the moment he believes 
 
Actors Past and Present. 283 
 
 in them, or thinks only of the end in view ; and 
 this unconcern gives him that gay, natural, gentle- 
 manly air, which so enchanted Elia. 
 
 Again, if there he a character in which the 
 British actor is at home, it is that of the rustic, 
 so often burlesqued with his red waistcoat, and 
 dialect, and ostentatious virtue. There are hard 
 and fast lines, almost inflexible, within which such a 
 part lies ; and every actor, according to his degree, 
 plays it after the same fashion. Yet such a player 
 as the great Emery, whose Tyke has long been one 
 of the traditions of the stage, had distinct characters 
 of this order — the serious, the comic, and the tragi- 
 comic. And while speaking of this wonderful 
 power, Leigh Hunt makes a very acute remark, 
 and which — it cannot be repeated too often — shows 
 the histrionic vice of our time. He speaks of 'that 
 expression which diverts with its manner, while it 
 raises a serious impression with its sentiment, and 
 which is therefore so difficult in its complication,' 
 and of which Emery's Farmer Ashfield, in the 
 spirited comedy of ' Speed the Plough,' is an in- 
 stance. ' Inferior actors,' he says, ' indulge their 
 want of discrimination in representing every coun- 
 tryman as a lounging vulgar boor, for as they catch 
 
284 Actors Past and Present. 
 
 externals only, they are obliged to exaggerate them 
 in order to supply the deficiency of a more thorough 
 imitation.' Nothing can be more just than this, for 
 a meagre and unfurnished mind can well believe 
 that there are these fixed types distributed in their 
 own minds, into ' Leading Lady,' ' Chamber-maid,' 
 ' Walking Gentleman,' * Yorkshireman,' ' Irish- 
 man,' and the rest ; whereas true genius will de- 
 light in acutely observing shades of difference, and 
 subdivide nicely these various species. Such dis- 
 crimination is far higher art, and gives one more 
 pleasure. 
 
 Again, it may be asked, Where do we see the 
 following refinement carried out ? ' Comedy,' says 
 Leigh Hunt, ' deals more in equivocation ; the 
 humour of which is enforced by the opposite ex- 
 pression of look and tone, or by the agreement of 
 both differing from the speech itself.' This, too, is 
 founded on observation of social life ; for we are so 
 vexed with contrary and inconsistent humours, so 
 fitful in temper, that there is nearly always going 
 on this discordance between various modes of 
 expression. Being in critical situations where 
 we are obliged to do what is distasteful, the by- 
 standers are suffered at their own leisure to have 
 
Actors Past and Present. 285 
 
 every opportunity of closely investigating or search- 
 ing calmly into the very faces of those before them, 
 and probing their very hearts.' 
 
 We could not find a better illustration of the 
 sacrifices caricature demands from its slaves, than 
 the exaggerated close with which one of the most 
 original grotesque players of the day mars his 
 performance. Mr Howe's admirable performance of 
 Micawber illustrates how buoyancy and exuber- 
 ance, tempered by judgment, will carry onward a 
 good part. But after being perfectly true and 
 dramatic all through his part, at the end, when 
 Micawber becomes nautical, he comes out in an 
 absurd burlesque yachting dress, buttons the size 
 of plates, and all but buffoons with that new idea. 
 The result is an utter loss of effect, and the part is 
 at once vulgarized. The charm of the actor had 
 been his perfect genuineness all through, his con- 
 veyed belief in the nourishes of Micawber. His 
 deliverance of five words only, ' My foxy and 
 diabolical employer,' showed this nice sense. The 
 ordinary actor would have delivered this strange 
 description as something comic, labelling it, as it 
 were, as a joke. He would have shown that he felt 
 it was an absurd speech. Not so this actor. That 
 
286 Actors Past and Present. 
 
 combination of 'foxy and diabolical' was the 
 genuine Micawber view, his idea of odiousness, and 
 so the actor conveyed it. The greater the surprise 
 when we find him lapsing into such misplaced and 
 ill-judged caricature. The true test would have 
 been to speculate what sort of clothes Micawber 
 would have procured when seized with this nautical 
 eagerness. Probably clothes of the ordinary sort — 
 a pea-jacket, and hat. There would have been a 
 greater and more comical contrast between such, 
 and the odd Micawber character, than between 
 those pantomimic garments, and their buttons 
 large as soup-plates. Trifles like these are dwelt 
 on here, chiefly because they help us to get at real 
 dramatic principles. 
 
 But it is surprising how completely astray 
 writers are in their notion of the means necessary 
 to convey an idea to their audience. We may take 
 an example from a popular piece lately playing, 
 and entitled ' Uncle Dick's Darling.' A fine gen- 
 tleman, Mr Lorimer, is ' paying attention ' to a 
 married lady, and finds a low * Cheap Jack ' with 
 her, who interferes with his plans. The ' swell ' 
 begins to address him as ' my bucolic friend ; ' 
 and to show his vexation, superiority, and satire, 
 
Actors Past and Present. 287 
 
 speaks to hiin in a most offensive way, ridiculing 
 his manner and occupation to his face. Now, the 
 meaning of the writer was of course legitimate 
 enough, — to explain to the audience that this 
 ' swell ' was much put out at the intrusion, and 
 wished to show that he felt a supreme contempt — 
 as the manner of his order is — for a sort of ' chaw- 
 bacon,' so much his inferior. Now, the direct way 
 was of course to make the ' swell ' say so in plain 
 terms to the common fellow, and thus the audi- 
 ence were, in the shortest way, put in possession 
 of the fact. Yet only apply the test of real life, 
 and there will be found a much more artistic and 
 dramatic way of doing this. No gentleman in real 
 life, and in a similar situation, would behave in 
 that way. A gentleman, or a man of ordinary sense 
 who was not a gentleman, would scarcely choose 
 that fashion of conveying to a bystander that he 
 felt a metropolitan contempt for a countryman; 
 viz. by telling him to his face that he was a boor, 
 an ass, 'a bucolic friend,' &c. There is a far 
 more effective way than this ; and the true sneerer, 
 who acted according to the rules of society, would 
 be apparently perfectly courteous and deferential 
 to the object of his ridicule : his intention would 
 
Actors Past and Present. 
 
 be evident only to the bystander, or rather to the 
 audience, who would feel they were not addressed 
 directly. But instead, we must have the old stage 
 vice so denounced by Charles Lamb : the shortest, 
 coarsest way is the best; the actor must be con- 
 sidered, and not the piece. He gets in a little bit of 
 personal effect, bringing himself in contact, by 
 some telling sneers : whereas, by the opposite prin- 
 ciple, the audience would not so much think of 
 him, but of what he was saying, and of its effect 
 on the object sneered at. We may be excused 
 dwelling on trifles like this, and these remarks are 
 not made in disparagement of the piece, which is a 
 good one, but to show how the writer is obliged to 
 follow the vicious customs now laid down by the 
 actors. In short, it comes back to what has been 
 so often dwelt on in these pages, that -the stage 
 has become a raised rostrum, on which the players 
 bid with each other for the attention and interest 
 of the audience : and the latter have been gravely 
 taught that they are to go to see players, and not plays. 
 Let any one visit the theatres bearing this state- 
 ment in mind, and he will own its truth. 
 
 Again I say, how different the whole theory of 
 French dramatic art. How different the view of 
 
Actors Past and Present. 289 
 
 even the educated stranger who takes interest in 
 foreign literature. Two Frenchmen bring out that 
 exquisite dramatic picture, 'Frou-Frou,' which is 
 exquisitely acted, is seen by all France, and is now 
 making the round of civilized Europe. It comes 
 to this country merely in book shape, and is read 
 with more delight than any novel, by every one 
 of true taste and refinement. The impression 
 left is as of something added to the common stock 
 of recollections : it is as though we had been privi- 
 leged to be admitted to know such a person, and 
 had witnessed some such series of incidents. By- 
 and-by we long to see it on the stage and get 
 a new impression.* It is simply necessary to 
 state these few facts, and the idea of the contrast 
 will at once suggest itself. We have no piece of simi- 
 lar dignity that would bear treatment of the kind. 
 
 But players will say all these refinings are too 
 delicate for the stage. We must now exaggerate 
 to produce any effect. We must lay on our 
 colours and strokes as our brethren the scene- 
 painters do — thick, large, and strong : which at a 
 
 * Mr H. Sutherland Edwards prepared a good adaptation of this 
 charming piece ; but the French authors, by a scandalous legal quib- 
 ble, reaped no advantages here. 
 
 19 
 
290 Actors Past and Present. 
 
 distance look delicate and refined. There is some 
 truth in this, but there is a misapprehension too. 
 There must be an exaggeration to produce effect, 
 as we can see by comparing an amateur actor's 
 walk, and a professional's : but this must be go- 
 verned by the same nice rules, due allowance being 
 made. Thus there may be an exaggeration of 
 facial expression, but it must be such as when it 
 reaches the audience will appear moderate and 
 natural. Can our players' scowls, bellowings, 
 furious gestures, stridings, and stampings, be 
 matched with anything known or seen ? In fact, 
 the whole rules, traditions, conventionalities of the 
 English stage are radically false, unmeaning, and 
 monstrous. We accept them from habit and help- 
 lessness. To begin at trifles, how ridiculous the 
 practice of a mixed company of ladies and gen- 
 tlemen at a party, trooping off en masse when some 
 secrets are to be disclosed ; and all trooping off 
 arm in arm ! How absurd the bringing forward 
 the two chairs to the front when a conversation 
 is about to begin, or a story to be told. Why, too, 
 are hats kept on in drawing-rooms, and taken off in 
 forests and streets, with a number of strange cere- 
 monies and habits adhered to as religiously as if 
 
Actors Past and Present. 291 
 
 they were the religious rubrics of a church? 
 When wine has to be drunk out of a pasteboard 
 goblet, why is it put to the lips in a fashion that 
 shows it contains nothing ? There are a hundred 
 traditions of this sort which will surest them- 
 selves to every reader, and which, though scenery 
 and dresses have made such vast strides, are really 
 as antiquated as anything in the days of Garrick. 
 
 Again, there are little marks and tokens which 
 prove that the actor only thinks of himself, not 
 of his part. Not so long back we saw a clever 
 actor, the son of a brilliant actor, playing groom in 
 a piece, where the master is shocked to find that 
 his bride has a wooden leg. The groom is sup- 
 posed not to know this, and some humour is to be 
 got out of his unintentional allusions to the secret. 
 ' I suppose, sir,' he says, ' when she sees you, she 
 will put her best leg foremost ; ' any point in which 
 remark consisted in its being made with a stolid un- 
 consciousness, and genuine gravity. But no ; the 
 groom winked at the audience, gave a grotesque 
 nourish with his leg, tapped it, and grinned at his 
 master — of course producing a roar. At the end of 
 the scene he began to ' gag,' returning five or six 
 times to ring the changes on the same subject. ' Sir, 
 
 19 * 
 
292 Actoj's Past and Present. 
 
 a messenger from Cripplegate,' ' Get out, sir ! ' ' Sir, 
 there's a cove of Cork below.' ' Get out, sir ; how 
 dare you ? ' ' Sir, some one has left you a legacy,' &c. 
 All this was utterly false, and a sacrifice of what- 
 ever real humour there was in the situation. 
 
 Again, amid other things lost to the stage in 
 these days, is the important one of facial expres- 
 sion and utterance of the voice. Have we ever 
 wondered how, in days when Drury Lane and 
 CoverA Garden were the chief theatres, the most 
 delicate change of expression was seen aloft in the 
 galleries, or across the vast pit, and that too hy 
 the light of dull oil lamps and candles ? Now we 
 look across Drury Lane, and far smaller theatres, 
 and see but the two or three conventional expres- 
 sions of alarm, joy, or sorrow, forced into faces so 
 smooth and unmeaning, and in many instances so 
 positively marked with unintelligence, that we 
 wonder what could have introduced them to such 
 a profession. We turn to the old portraits of 
 actors, perhaps some of the most delightful por- 
 traits of all, and are amazed at the speaking 
 intelligence, the bustling vivacity, the lines and 
 channels of thought, and restless ideas, Avorn into 
 their very cheeks ; the roving brilliant eyes, the lips 
 
Actors Past and Present. 293 
 
 about to move. Prom these 'character' pictures we 
 see how, by sheer training and power of intellect, 
 they forced their features to signify what they re- 
 presented. Nothing is more remarkable than this, 
 and from the descriptions it is certain that this dra- 
 matic power and training triumphed over distance 
 and dimness, and carried into the heart of the far- 
 thest pittite the end of an electric chain. So with 
 the voice. In this matter there is now no training 
 at all. There is no practice of elocution, no train- 
 ing of the voice to that fulness and roundness, which, 
 without effort, helped it to fill the largest building. 
 And this at least was the advantage of the two great 
 patent theatres in the days of Garrick, when the 
 monopoly was almost equivalent to a direct found- 
 ation at the expense of the State. There was a 
 subordination, a reverence, a beginning with the 
 lowest class, a rising in the ranks, a training pur- 
 sued, as well from having the best models before one, 
 as by the all but certainty of a fixed provision and 
 dignity if the foremost ranks were reached. There 
 was a steadiness, a massiveness, in both the acting 
 and playing of those times. There was learnt the 
 almost mechanical art of pitching the voice and 
 making the features play ; arts that are completely 
 
294 Actors Past and Present. 
 
 neglected now. There was found the invaluable ser- 
 vice of a real true dramatic school, viz. a repertoire 
 where there were the stock plays, each with its stock 
 cast in readiness, and a different piece every night. 
 What variety, what delight both for public and 
 players, and what economy for the theatre ! As 
 shown before, our costly spectacles draw their 
 motley audiences for a time, when a fresh and 
 vaster outlay must be incurred for a new one. 
 Under the old reign of intellect the play-goers 
 attended their favourite plays, and of themselves 
 nearly filled up the house, — the balance was brought 
 by curiosity and chance. There were the stock 
 scenes, which did for nearly every play indiffer- 
 ently, and perhaps from their generality were 
 more theatrical and better helped the delusion. 
 There was a genuine, healthy, steady support, and 
 there was no need of stimulants. The actor, like a 
 physician in a hospital, was trained by the variety 
 of his cases. But what chance is there for educat- 
 ing an actor, say at the Prince of Wales' Theatre, 
 where a single piece runs more than a year, and 
 where he has but a single part to play ? The re- 
 sult must be positive detriment, a dwarfing and 
 stunting of the capacity. 
 
Actors Past and Present. 295 
 
 Another strange deficiency in our players is 
 the impossibility of finding any young fellows who 
 when called upon to play the lover, or youthful 
 hero, about whom the attraction of romance is to 
 float, shall not present an appearance extremely 
 uninviting, and even coarse. Their necks rudely 
 shaved, their air clumsy, their voices horny, and 
 extra declamatory for the occasion, these are the 
 only elements with which to make up an English 
 Jeune Premier. There is no attempt at the tender- 
 ness of voice and manner, that chivalrous air which 
 a Frenchman, even elderly and plain, can throw into 
 such a part, when his 'je vous aime ! ' thrills 
 through the house. This is a most mysterious de- 
 ficiency, but the truth is that we have hardly a 
 single presentable lover. It is not surprising, then, 
 that the providers of burlesque are driven into filling 
 every attractive male part with female performers. 
 To see beautiful young princes played by coarse 
 veterans would be a disenchantment indeed. But 
 it may be pushed too far. A really good bur- 
 lesque lately playing had its three young princes 
 played by ladies : and the course of the plot 
 obliges them to disguise themselves as girls. So 
 here is confusion worse confounded, — girls off the 
 
296 Actoi's Past and Present. 
 
 stage, then youths on the stage, and these youths 
 again disguised as girls — bewildering reversion. 
 But, as audience, we dislike such tricks, and the re- 
 sult is we dismiss the intervening stage of manhood, 
 and look on them as girls, what they are really. 
 This seriously affects the plot. The point of the 
 situation turned on the intrusion of young men 
 disguised as female pupils into a pastoral College 
 of Ladies, and all the humour sprang from this 
 unrecognized opposition between the two sexes. 
 As usual, dramatic propriety and dramatic interest 
 gave the fas to fine clothes, pretty faces, and ' a 
 good leg part.' In France, at any sacrifice, men 
 would have played the parts. 
 
PART VI. 
 
 THE ACTORS OF THE BAY. 
 
 We may now proceed to take store of our actors 
 and players, and classify the leading artists of our 
 time. Taking a true and legitimate school of 
 acting as a standard, we must place in the first 
 rank, Mr Webster, Mr Compton, Mr Phelps, and 
 Mr Lionel Brottgh. These are identified with 
 round full-coloured characters that linger on the 
 memory, richly painted and carefully studied, quali- 
 ties which give the actor who follows the laws and 
 traditions of a logical school an admirable ad- 
 vantage over his fellows, — distinctness and variety 
 in every character. In inferior artists with the 
 most grotesque diversity of ' make up ' and dress, 
 there is always a tedious sameness. They rely on 
 external differences, trick, manner, voice, and dress, 
 which are limited. While the storehouse of nature 
 within is literally inexhaustible. Mr Charles 
 Mathews and Mr Wigan stand alone in repre* 
 
298 The Actors of the Day. 
 
 senting the light airy school of comedy, founded, 
 however, more on French than English traditions; 
 Mr Buckstone also stands alone in a humour — 
 broad yet restrained, — chastened by the playing of 
 good characters of comedy, and by the influence of 
 a theatre which has classical traditions of its own, 
 with whom might be classed Mr Hare. Mr Toole, 
 Mr Belhore, and Mr J. Clarke represent the semi- 
 broad type of humour. Mr Sothern, the Ameri- 
 can Mr Clarke, with Mr Howe, his countryman, 
 stand for a line of specially grotesque characters. 
 Mr Vining belongs to melodrama, Mr Vezin 
 and Mr Barry Sullivan to tragedy, while Mr 
 Eechter is the only representative of the ro- 
 mantic school unapproached in that line. 
 
 As we look back to a list of really good actors 
 now living, they recur to us in the shape of some 
 remarkable figure which they have personated. 
 With such genius it is impossible to despair of the 
 English stage. Mr Benjamin Webster comes 
 before us associated with all that is powerful, 
 conscientious, solid and yet elaborate, trained 
 in that capital school of the old Adelphi, which 
 has traditions of its own. Pleasant memories are 
 associated with what was once called ' the Adelphi 
 
The Actors of the Day. 299 
 
 Drama ; ' ' Victorine,' ' The Wreck Ashore,' ' Green 
 Brushes,' ' Flowers of the Forest,' ' Willow Copse,' 
 and many more. Such things were most enter- 
 taining in their way, as the most perfect effect, from 
 careful acting, was given to them. His characters 
 are all ' round ' and full, well coloured as the old 
 portraits that hang upon the walls of the Garrick 
 club. The figure of Richard Pride, the sensitive, 
 witty, and pompous tippler, passes before us ; the 
 honest, feeling rustics, like Fielding in ' The Wil- 
 low Copse,' and his strange, all picturesque, half- 
 grotesque, and most touching picture of the decayed 
 music-copyist in the ' One touch of nature,' will 
 always be associated with the name of the mana- 
 ger of the Adelphi. There is but one character 
 which we must own he has made nothing of, and 
 from no fault of his ; the Eastern in the ' Night- 
 ingale,' the last he has attempted. 
 
 Mr Phelps and Sir Pertinax are convertible. 
 That amazing performance will never leave the 
 memories of those who have witnessed it. It is 
 simply perfect of its kind, perfect in its vitality, in 
 every motion, look, and tone. Charles Lamb would 
 have turned away from it, as too genuine, too 
 disagreeably real. It holds us enchained while we 
 
300 The Actors of the Day. 
 
 look on : and while we live we carry about with 
 us the impression of having met with some cold, 
 dry, heartless Scotch ' politecian,' whose ingenious 
 schemes for advancement shocked yet interested us. 
 With no other character has he so identified him- 
 self, and his other performances, though vigorous, 
 are of a conventional sort. 
 
 With a portrait as living and spirited must we 
 associate Mr Lionel Buough, in 'Tony Lumpkin.' 
 This spirited, artistic, and sustained performance 
 has jnaced him in the foremost rank. It is virtu- 
 ally an anachronism, for it is a bit of the old acting, 
 and conceived in the true spirit of the old models. 
 That unctuous humour, always being distilled, al- 
 ways oozing out in abundance, that surplusage of 
 fun, which when the work is done shows there is a 
 reserve — is a gift scarcely known to our present 
 comedians. Anything so rich in colour, so spirited, 
 as Mr Brough's acting of this character, has not been 
 seen for many a long day ; and he, and he alone, 
 has carried Goldsmith's play through its run of 
 over a hundred nights, in spite of one of the most 
 ludicrous misconceptions of character, in reference 
 to Marlow, that could be conceived. That most 
 delightful and airy of parts and gayest of rakes 
 
The Actors of t lie Day. 301 
 
 has been presented to us as a serious practical 
 gentleman. Yet, thus weighted, this brilliant play 
 has floated buoyantly, and gone on its course. But it 
 has made the reputation of the performer of ' Tony 
 Lumpkin.' One could hardly have expected that 
 the quality described as 'breadth,' so hard to define, 
 and which gives importance even to some trivial 
 remark, could be among us still. 
 
 Mr Compton makes a fourth among these ster- 
 ling players. He too has that invaluable gift of 
 iv eight and soundness of style, which by instinct or 
 diligent training on true principles, makes the most 
 insignificant sentence tell. His London servant in 
 ' The Unequal Match ' is a most amusing perform- 
 ance ; and his Doctor Ollapod in ' The Poor Gentle- 
 man ' is one of the most enjoyable treats conceivable, 
 and worthy of that most enjoyable comedy. The 
 only occasion when this fine actor failed, was when 
 he was thrust into a part translated from the 
 French, rough-hewn and mauled from a part 
 that in the original was one of a delicately drawn 
 French adventurer, but which became a coarse 
 tipsy ' Captain Mountraffe.' 
 
 There are two ' Mr J. Clarkes ' who enjoy 
 popularity. The one is an American, who for. 
 
302 The Actors of the Day. 
 
 some four hundred nights, ' uninterruptedly ' say 
 the bills, has drawn crammed houses to the little 
 theatre in the Strand ; and during this period 
 loud and most hysterical shrieks of laughter 
 have been extorted, more uproarious and sustained 
 than were ever heard in any London theatre. On a 
 careful analysis, and after several visits due to 
 piqued curiosity, the cause of these hursts could be 
 traced to the actor's well-expressed fear of burst- 
 ing a tight trouser, or to an assumption of oily 
 volubility, and to a coarse exhibition of the stage 
 of drunkenness known as ' beastly.' As he 
 shakes a pump handle and bows to it — and 
 an elaborate model is set up to enable him to 
 do this, proving Mr Crummies' notions to be 
 not so far-fetched — and as he staggers over a 
 paling, or, missing the table, falls prostrate, the 
 frantic shrieks of painful laughter rise higher and 
 higher ; and one feels something like pain and 
 shame, as the British audience interrupts the scene, 
 and calls forward its favourite, like a singer, to re- 
 ceive homage for this degrading exhibition. Very 
 different is the other player who bears the same 
 name, who has that wonderful art, so rare now, of 
 merging himself in his character. He lately took 
 
The Actors of the Day. 303 
 
 a part called Mr Mould, that of a low, dirty, de- 
 cayed, good-for-nothing old clerk, and anything so 
 dirty in mind, so mean and pitiful and spiteful, it 
 would be hard to conceive. Another good actor 
 took up the part later at another theatre, whose 
 abilities are as good but do not run in the same 
 direction ; and the result was the strangest failure. 
 The part became a mere card figure. Laughter was 
 indeed produced, but it was extorted by the conven- 
 tional tricks, which never fail whatever be the part. 
 This brings us to Mr Belmore, a very clever 
 comedian of the solid and legitimate sort. His 
 ' Grumley ' in ' Domestic Economy ' is a most en- 
 tertaining and natural piece of acting — a dissatisfied 
 grumbler finding fault with everything, and who, 
 when invited to take the direction himself, throws 
 everything into confusion. The real dramatic 
 touch here is the blind self-complacency, the stupid 
 insensibility, which, in spite of all blunders and 
 mistakes, will not let him own that he is wrong. 
 There is a benevolent attorney in ' the Long Strike ' 
 with a rough and savage demeanour purposely 
 assumed, but with the warmest heart underneath. 
 The struggle between these two principles was a 
 very finished piece of acting. In short, this good 
 
304 The Actors of the Day. 
 
 player makes the most out of every part he at- 
 tempts, though at times he is fitted with a very un- 
 suitable part. 
 
 But for something eccentric and original, some- 
 thing of the spontaneous richness and luxurious- 
 ness of detail which real good actors import into 
 their parts, an abundant unctuousness of touch, 
 commend us to that American Mr Howe, who 
 has been presenting Micawber to the audience 
 of the Olympic for some months back. About 
 this performance there are many opinions, some 
 holding it to be mere caricature of the Dundreary 
 order; some, a misconception of Mr Dickens' charac- 
 ter ; but with all drawbacks it is a most amusing 
 and original performance. There is such a racy 
 enjoyment, such an exact correspondence and 
 natural relation between the interior character and 
 the outward acts and gestures by which it is mani- 
 fested, that we feel it to be a mere accident his 
 playing the part in this particular fashion, and 
 that on another night he would illustrate the same 
 emotions and humour by agencies wholly different. 
 To convey this wealth kept in store as it were, 
 seems to be the sign of a good actor : just as the 
 idea, that he had but that one way of expressing him- 
 
The Actors of the Day. 305 
 
 self, is of an inferior one. Micawber is a most 
 enjoyable performance ; the player seems to revel 
 in the nnctuons platitudes and stick-flourishings 
 — the fitful changes — from hopeless despondency 
 born of ' pecuniary embarrassment from his cradle 
 Upwards ' — to pleasant and eager spirits, on the 
 mention of punch; his strange and original atti- 
 tudes, and quaint gamut of tones, make up a 
 very quaint and racy picture. All these oddities of 
 speech and attitude give the notion, that they are 
 an honest expression of what is within. Had 
 Mr Dickens' Micawber never been written, this 
 stage character would have been a very original 
 performance, but it shows what a vast dramatic 
 force lies in all Mr Dickens' characters. 
 
 Mr Toole always enjoys an extravagant popu- 
 larity in the provinces ; a popularity said to be 
 valued at a steady income, to be measured in thou- 
 sands — the curious result being that a mere con- 
 tinuous metropolitan engagement might not be 
 nearly so valuable. This author's genius lies in the 
 old Liston vein of humour, broad native fun ; and 
 his Simmons in the ' Spitalfields Weavers ' must cer- 
 tainly be on a level with the performance of any of 
 
 the old acting humorists. Unhappily he thinks 
 
 20 
 
306 The Actors of the Day. 
 
 his strength lies in compound parts, made so popu- 
 lar by the late Mr Bobson, old men, half pathetic, 
 half comic, a mixture of fun and querulousness. 
 Of these he has a whole list, from the Toymaker in 
 Mr Dickens' Christmas Story, down to ' Uncle 
 Dick's Darling.' In ' Dearer than Life,' he gave a 
 very artistic performance of a character of this de- 
 scription ; but caricature is his failing. 
 
 Mr Hare, of the Prince of Wales' theatre, is 
 an actor worthy of belonging to the old school ; all 
 his characters are so finished, and nicely touched. 
 Every one is familiar with his old ' Beau Earintosh ' 
 in ' School,' which is as forcible as it is delicate, 
 and marked with innumerable touches which 
 show the most accurate observation. He has at- 
 tempted nothing that has not been conscientiously 
 worked out, and which has proved thoroughly 
 successful. As Mr Vining chooses for his charac- 
 ters figures of low life, London cads, and repro- 
 bates, and Jew theatrical speculators, he has ne- 
 cessarily chosen a very limited range. There is 
 no vitality in street slang or street manners. The 
 professors servilely copy one another, and have no 
 originality. The changes to be rung are therefore 
 few. But in the Jew music hall proprietor of 
 
The Actors of the Day. 307 
 
 ' After Dark,' it must be conceded that Mr Vining 
 has power, and a perfect identification with his 
 character ; in dress, voice, bearing, the transforma- 
 tion is complete. But then it does not go much 
 beyond. There is little character in the part. It 
 is all on the surface. A man who is master of mere 
 surface peculiarities, worked out however elabor- 
 ately, will find himself at home only in surface 
 dramas. But we now come to Mr Sothern, per- 
 haps the most successful actor of the last twenty 
 years. His Lord Dundreary was one of the most 
 amazing triumphs, and it must be said, in spite of 
 ' pshas ! ' and contemptuous dismissal, as a bit of 
 mere buffoonery, it was a well-deserved triumph. It 
 was, unquestionably, original and elaborate, and also 
 inexpressibly laughter-moving. By constant over- 
 laying and repainting, it grew into caricature, vir- 
 tually in obedience to the requirements of the 
 audience, — very hard to resist. But still there was 
 the basis of character underneath, the air of vraisem- 
 blance, with the idea that we had seen something 
 strangely like all this earnestness in absurdity, this 
 belief in one's own superior wisdom, this fatuous 
 laying down the law. The whole represented a state 
 
 of mind, the evidences of which were skilfully exag- 
 
 20 * 
 
308 The Actors of the Day. 
 
 gerated ; and had there been a strong plot to have 
 brought out its follies and absurdities, the develop- 
 ment would have been most natural and dramatie 
 Although everybody in the kingdom must have 
 seen the piece, its vitality seems literally bound- 
 less, and it has only to be announced, to bring the 
 old crowds. One tribute to its popularity of a very 
 questionable sort, is perhaps unique ; namely, that 
 a comic actor at another House should attempt to 
 imitate what was an imitation : reproduce not 
 Lord Dundreary, but Mr Sothern. This seemed a 
 low stage indeed to which to go down. Mr Sothern 
 has made a reputation in parts of another descrip- 
 tion, — the gentleman-lover ; and in an adapted Ger- 
 man piece, •' David Garrick,' he played with great 
 vigour and versatility, and against the dead weight 
 of a story, that in its historical sense was ludicrously 
 false. An actor gifted with such nice observation 
 for the details of eccentricity, should devote him- 
 self to finding out a part based on some of the 
 follies which obtain in fashionable life ; in which 
 there are as many, and as marked species, as there 
 are genera in the collection of broad characters. 
 For instance, the weak and unconscious self-suf- 
 ficiency of the militaire — his respect for knowledge 
 
The Actors of the Day. 309 
 
 and learning, and delight in affecting to judge of 
 such matters, the excessive personality and pleasant 
 egotism that runs through his talk — the hail-storm 
 of c I 's,' his detailing of his own experiences, and 
 genuine belief of their interest for all the world, — 
 this done with sincerity is a character that might be 
 new, and would certainly bring out Mr Sothern's 
 powers. Mr Vezin is a good conscientious actor, 
 with a certain power, and a great deal of that ro- 
 mantic tone, which belongs to the foreign school. 
 Of Mr Barry Sullivan it is impossible not to 
 speak with respect, especially after his last gallant 
 struggle at the Holborn Theatre, where he fought 
 the battle of legitimacy with boldness and spirit, 
 and, it is said, with disastrous loss. Yet the cause 
 of the failure was in a measure owing to himself. 
 If he chose to revive the older dramatic pieces 
 there was no need of reviving the old-fashioned 
 school of declamation — the stiff pedantry of elocu- 
 tion which used to accompany it, with traditional 
 stalkings and stridings, and the whole collection 
 of old illustrations, long since exploded; which, 
 taken together, interposed between the audience 
 and the play. This is the mistake — thinking it 
 necessary to restore such an antiquated style of 
 
310 The Actors of the Day. 
 
 acting. Thus with ' The Gamester,' that really 
 heart-rending play : the long, stiff soliloquies 
 were delivered in the dry, solemn tones which 
 have been handed down from the days of Mr 
 Kemble : while the dying agonies, the tremblings 
 and bowlings, and contortions on the ground, 
 which only too faithfully exhibited the physical 
 agonies resulting from the workings of the poison, 
 were really a spectacle to excite uncontrollable 
 laughter, rather than sympathy. This was the old 
 regulation shape of presenting a violent death, a 
 sort of caricature of which still provokes amuse- 
 ment at theatres 'across the bridge.' A truer 
 sympathy with the tone of the revived pieces 
 would lead an actor of tact to ask himself, 
 how would the gentleman of the present day, 
 brought into such sore straits by gambling, be- 
 have ; how would a chivalrous officer in one of the 
 Queen's Regiments behave ? This should give the 
 whole key to the piece. But no ; vanity, applause, 
 the actor himself, his lusty lungs, his points, his 
 rounds of applause — these are the grand points to 
 be looked to. To see the same actor in the 
 romantic ' Lady of Lyons,' and his strange, 
 monstrous style of elocutionary love-making, was 
 
The Actors of the Day. 311 
 
 a no less antiquated spectacle. Quite a false 
 principle here obtained: the treating the play 
 as something to ' show off ' the ' star ' actor. 
 Hence the favourite passages, where traditional 
 points are made at all risks, and at all sacrifice 
 of propriety, with suspension of the dramatic in- 
 terest while the leading player harangues the 
 audience and ignores his fellows, challenging the 
 duly-earned ' round,' by the traditional striding 
 across the stage. How stiff and stale are the con- 
 ventionalities of business which are made to cling 
 to this charming drama, — the absurd dress of the 
 ' Prince of Como,' and that no less absurd hiding of 
 his features behind the enormous general officer- 
 like plume, when Claude returns from the wars ! 
 With many an actor, except with Mr Pechter, this 
 drama itself would lose its whole flavour and charm 
 were this bit of business withdrawn. As Mr Sul- 
 livan describes his ' Palace ' and its ' Gee-ardins ' 
 not to Pauline, but to the galleries, it is impossible 
 not to recall the famous sketch of another actor, 
 by the bitter Churchill : 
 
 ' Mossop, attached to military plan, 
 Still kept his eye fixed on his right hand man, 
 Whilst the mouth measures words with seeming skill ; 
 The right hand lahours, and the left lies still ; 
 
312 The Actors of the Day. 
 
 For he resolved on Scripture grounds to go, 
 What the right doth, the left hand shall not know*. 
 
 In monosyllables his thunders roll, 
 
 He, she, it, and, we, ye, they, fright the soul.' 
 
 What can be said of Mr Buckstone, save that 
 he is always welcome, always delightful, save when 
 he condescends to poor parts. His very face makes 
 one in the long gallery of humorous faces, like 
 those of Suett, Liston, Wright, with the curious 
 twinkle in the eye and lines of humour in the 
 cheek. He has the true vis comica, the genuine 
 buoyancy ; and though he lapses into extravagance, 
 it is the extravagance of an artist. 
 
 Miss Herbert is perhaps the only lady who 
 claims to be what is called a classical actress, and 
 she plays with great elegance and animation. It 
 would be well, however, if she could get rid of 
 a certain artificial tone, as well of manner as of 
 voice ; though this may seem an unreasonable de- 
 mand, when an actress has long since formed 
 her style and manner. To some parts she has 
 the art of imparting colour and tone, — in other 
 words, of conceiving it. She is apart from the 
 rest, and bears with her the traditions of an ex- 
 cellent school. For a pleasant interesting actress, 
 
The Actors of the Day. 313 
 
 with at times certain tenderness of passion, and a 
 sort of general level of steady playing, there is no 
 one to compare with Mrs Vezin. That charm 
 which makes up for so much that is wanting, 
 sympathy, an evidence of heart, she commands in 
 a great degree, and in the established heroines of 
 the stage, Pauline, Juliet, Mrs Beverley, ' the Wife,' 
 Julia, she is at this moment without a rival. She 
 is just old enough to have weight, just young 
 enough to impart interest ; her Pauline is an ex- 
 ceedingly graceful and interesting performance. 
 Her Mrs Beverley is something very natural and 
 womanly, in its passion and despair. 
 
 Miss Marie Wilton has a finished style, and a 
 certain brilliancy founded on training, and is per- 
 haps the only actress on the stage who has caught 
 the French, tone. Miss Oliver in her latest part, 
 as Mrs Onion in Mr Halliday's piece, may be con- 
 gratulated on a firmness of touch that is really 
 classical. But where are we to look for genius ? — 
 that something which draws every one when no one 
 thinks of theatre or company or scenery, and only 
 of that one charm ! The stage presents but one 
 dead level of female talent. Even Mrs Charles 
 Kean, in her decay, grown stout and old, was worth 
 
314 The Actors of the Day. 
 
 a legion of these genteel soubrettes, so popular with 
 the young men. 
 
 There are surprisingly few actresses, — none that 
 approach the type that is called ingenue in France ; 
 names that are associated with triumphs like 
 ' Frou-frou ' and the ' Famille Benoiton.' Our 
 skilled and trained actresses have too heavy a touch 
 for such airy delineations, and when training and 
 experience have placed them in the front ranks, 
 have to face a new difficulty, that of age and 
 physical defects. But in truth this ludicrous dis- 
 regard of propriety is common to hoth sexes and 
 to all ranks of the profession. 
 
 ' Superfluous lags the veteran on the stage,' 
 
 is a line unfamiliar to its ears, and it is not so 
 much the French public, as the nice sense of self- 
 respect in its actors, that makes them choose a 
 part exactly suited to their age. 
 
 There is a class of actresses on the stage who 
 have a noisy clientele, and whose reputation is 
 chiefly based on physical attractions, and agreeable, 
 unassuming histrionic powers. To this belongs 
 Miss Furtado, Miss Lydia Foote, and many more, 
 who play in a lady-like way, but without decided 
 power, or genius. The existing theory of realism 
 
The Acto7's of the Day. 3 1 5 
 
 on the stage leads them to believe, that it is only 
 necessary to reproduce the tame, tranquil hearing 
 of a lady, to he dramatic. The result is, the stage 
 is crowded with a number of young ladies, who 
 offer agreeable and even pretty faces, and who 
 play, in a nice unobjectionable, unobstrusive way, 
 the various Susans and Marys, the suffering daugh- 
 ters and injured wives of the modern drama. 
 Supposing the standard to be no higher than the 
 point at which they have fixed it, they may be satis- 
 factory. But even their greatest admirer must 
 admit there is no genius, no power, no training : 
 the play moves on in the conventional way, and 
 the heroine is lady-like and ' nice.' The drama 
 requires far more than this, — it demands situation, 
 and the exhibition of character produced by the 
 situation. And what is the result ? — parts of this 
 description now must take a shape corresponding 
 to the powers of those that act them, something 
 unobtrusive and tame. Neither the actresses nor 
 the parts they play hold the stuff sufficient to pro- 
 duce an O'Neil or a Jordan. A Jordan indeed ! 
 To heai old playgoers rave of that silvery joyous 
 laugh, heard ringing out behind the scenes, her 
 inexhaustible spirits that made every one joyous 
 
316 The Actors of the Day. 
 
 and enthusiastic ; and then turn to this race of 
 average couturier es without even the function of such 
 — styled affectionately ' Kate this ' and 'Polly that ! ' 
 The strange thing is, that they and their audiences 
 are more than content, and both believe that the 
 highest standard has been reached. The average 
 type in most plays is that of an insipid mediocre 
 young girl, sempstress, or young gentlewoman in 
 distress, whose soft voice and ' quiet ' manner 
 draw the fullest approbation. But it need only 
 be repeated, that a vast deal more than an inoffen- 
 sive mediocrity is necessary to make the stage 
 entertaining. There is actually a conviction in the 
 profession, that such a one gives the most perfect 
 type of the gentleman of social life, and such a one 
 of the lady, because they are ' quiet,' and get their 
 stage clothes at a fashionable maker's. They walk 
 about the stage, and talk with the pleasant indiffer- 
 ent carelessness of a well-bred man. As w T as laid 
 down before, we do not go out to the theatre to see 
 this servile copying of an original, which would 
 itself be more agreeable. The advantage of the 
 stage is, that it presents, within the compass of an 
 hour or two, rare situations, rare views of character 
 which we may only read of, or hear described by 
 
The Actors of the Day. 3 1 7 
 
 others, and which may never fall within our own 
 experience. To see therefore 'ladies and gentle- 
 men' merely performing the conventional every-day 
 round of their life, is nothing; but to see how the 
 special habits and characters of such a class act and 
 react on each other ; now what is evil, and now what 
 is good in its works — this is a very different thing 
 from a genteel or ' nice ' carriage and walk, or well- 
 cut suit of clothes. This false notion has in truth 
 resulted only in producing a crowd of these tame 
 decent young girls, without talent or training, or 
 any real gifts. 
 
 Miss Neilson, after many circuits of the pro- 
 vincial stage, has now come prominently before 
 London audiences, having taken a sort of fixed 
 classical position, through the indifference or lan- 
 guor of the public. She is eminently correct, and 
 what may be called a steady actress, but is highly 
 artificial and without much genuine passion, as 
 any one will discern for himself who listens to 
 the ' charnel-house ' tone of her voice. 
 
 Mr Vincent made a reputation in one play, the 
 ' Ticket-of-leave-man,' but has not advanced beyond 
 that one character. Mr Coghlan promises well. 
 A new actress has just been added to the ranks, 
 
3 1 8 The Actors of the Day. 
 
 with such singular natural attractions, and a face, 
 voice, and manner so powerful for drawing sympa- 
 thy, as to make it very difficult to pass an im- 
 partial judgment on her acting : moreover Mrs 
 Rottsby, such is her name, has had the disad- 
 vantage of receiving the most extravagant eulogy, 
 and we must wait to see how she will establish a 
 position. Mrs Scott Siddons, who had the 
 same remarkable advantages, as well as the par- 
 ticular one of relationship with a famous name, 
 has proved to be little more than an elocutionist, 
 with an indescribable coldness in all her acted 
 characters which verges on the artificial. This 
 sort of sympathy with the character played — a sort 
 of tone, like that of a picture — is what is sadly want- 
 ing to most English players, and is found invari- 
 ably in foreign artists. And to illustrate it again 
 from painting, it is the dashing sketch which some 
 careless dashing idle genius will throw off, set 
 beside the highly-finished, correct, well-drawn, but 
 tame and mediocre picture. Mile Beatrice, im- 
 perfect as she is in many points of her acting, 
 has this charm of sympathy to a wonderful de- 
 gree, and over her Juliet, unskilful and perhaps 
 unshakspearean as the performance is, there is 
 
The Actors of the Day. 319 
 
 a singularly human air and tone, to which even 
 her foreign accent contributes. The scene in 
 the garden, with Juliet's passionate expressions 
 of love, seemed to the writer of these notes to 
 convey, for the first time, the complete idea of a 
 young Italian girl, with whom that otherwise for- 
 ward confession of love seemed almost natural. Miss 
 Bateman, it has been discovered, is an actress of 
 but one character ; Leah, the Jewess, and herself 
 are, as it were, convertible. That is, indeed, a 
 wonderful performance — wonderful for the acting, 
 and helped by a genuinely dramatic play, even if 
 tried by the test, that it remains on the memory 
 as a strange and distinct picture of human pas- 
 sion. There is Mr H. Irving, who played at the 
 Gaiety Theatre, in a singularly satisfactory fashion, 
 and who, in a rather meagre part, that of a stage 
 Mr Dombev, has exhibited much delicate touching 
 and knowledge of human nature. Miss Amy Sed- 
 wick, in certain pieces, as in ' The Unequal Match? 
 shows finish, and a lady-like conception of the 
 part. But there is nothing striking. It was dif- 
 ferent with Mrs Stirling, whom to see, so spirited 
 and coquettish, in the little French trifle called ' A 
 Subterfuge,'' was simply delightful. Her store of 
 
3-o The Actoj's of the Day. 
 
 ' tricks,' as we might call them, and agaceries, was 
 unbounded, and gave a richness to the part. Miss 
 Carlotta Leclerq, who has caught much that was 
 French and dramatic from association with Mr 
 Fechter, touches a chord of sympathy where 
 passion is concerned, and has a certain tenderness 
 in her voice. There is a romantic tone over all her 
 characters, which, whatever defects there may be 
 in details, is like colouring to a picture. Perhaps 
 this may be due to some French blood, which her 
 name would seem to indicate. Let those who 
 would see something finished, who would see acting 
 and expression, nicely significant of character, — let 
 such go to the Gaiety and see Mr Alfred Wigan in 
 that exquisite little chrysolite of a drama, 'The 
 First Night,' booty, of course, from the French, 
 where it is known as ' Le Pere de la Debutante.' 
 There are many who may never have met an old 
 Frenchman speaking broken English, and helping 
 himself out in a foreign tongue with a whole 
 museum of shrugs and smiles, and vividly ex- 
 pressive motions. Yet to such, Mr Wigan' s old 
 actor would be an old and familiar friend. The 
 protean vitality of that single figure ; the many 
 shapes of expressing the one idea; his quaint 
 
The Actors of the Day. 321 
 
 and grotesque figure and dress, not assumed to 
 extort a guffaw from the galleries, but really in 
 harmony with, and the legitimate expression of, 
 the mind within, his agonies of doubt, his little 
 flatteries, his affection, his cleverness, — all these 
 things absorb us, and make up a most delight- 
 ful and interesting character, which, it is to be 
 suspected, could' never have found its way to the 
 English stage, unless by way of theft from the 
 profitable French. Actors would do well to study 
 this wonderful impersonation of Mr Wigan's, 
 which is founded on the best French traditions, 
 and which is also fortunate in having such an 
 admirable little piece to work on. 
 
 Many actors aim at a merely correct and 
 tame standard, a sort of dead level of mediocrity, 
 that neither rises nor sinks ; and quite flatter 
 themselves that they have attained a natural and 
 easy bearing ; and to this class belongs Mr Clay- 
 ton, who has besides a want of sympathy, not 
 to say stiffness, in both voice and movement. Wit- 
 ness his blacksmith in ' Uncle Dick's Darling,' 
 who is more a clerk than a blacksmith. Mr H. 
 Neville is the titular lover, but though an agree- 
 able actor, his tones have a peculiar affcctatio?i 
 
 21 
 
322 The Actors of tlie Day. 
 
 which is unpleasant. Mr Honey is a comedian of 
 the old broad, boisterous, exaggerated school, with 
 an obstreperous prominence, and an engrossing, for 
 the chief comic character, the whole attention and 
 applause of the audience. This, however, is but 
 the fault of his school : pieces were written ex- 
 pressly to bring out this rather selfish conspicuous- 
 ness. It must be said that his Wormwood in the 
 ' Lottery Ticket,' is an exceedingly amusing and 
 spirited performance, supported with unflagging 
 vivacity and activity. 
 
 There are a number of players who, though not 
 in the first rank, are good serviceable performers, 
 who, if they had opportunities for training, would 
 turn out excellently. Another, Mr Irving, is one of 
 this class, for his excellent identification of himself 
 with the part of Uriah Heep, in spite of caricature 
 in the over ' foxiness ' of the head, and the eel-like 
 twistings of his body. The former toned down, 
 and the snake-like twistings indicated, would 
 have produced a far more powerful effect. A first- 
 rate actor would, in fact, reverse the process : he 
 would make his conception as ' crawling ' as pos- 
 sible, and his bearing would unconsciously illus- 
 trate this feeling. But on the stage, at present, its 
 
The Acto7's of the Day. 323 
 
 mimetic gestures are the end, not the means to ex- 
 press the end. Still, in Mr Irving the reproduction 
 of Heep is wonderful. Miss Addison, who plays the 
 coldly malignant Rosa Dartle, shows talent, and 
 that gift of ' cleverness,' a word of which theatrical 
 critics are so fond. Yet here again we have that rigid 
 iron application of a principle which is so false in 
 practice. The aim was to exhibit a savage, un- 
 relenting hatred ; and the existing teaching of the 
 stage laid down that this was only to be done by an 
 exhibition of black hatred, never relaxing, colour- 
 ing every emotion, word, and look. But this is not 
 nature : and the audience should be admitted to see 
 the feeling of love for Steerforth which produced 
 that hatred to the boatman's - Little Em'ly.' 
 
 21 
 
PART VII. 
 
 THE MUSIC HALL QUESTION. 
 
 It might seem at first sight, that such enter- 
 tainments as are offered to a crowd, in the act of 
 eating, drinking, smoking, and talking, could not 
 be of an intellectual sort, and would, at least, be 
 below the dignity of serious examination. Yet 
 there can be no doubt that what is called the 
 Music Hall question is intimately connected with 
 the present decay of the stage, and, humiliating as 
 is the confession, bids fair to rise into equal import- 
 ance with the drama itself. For the music hall 
 and its entertainment now represent a principle of 
 false and spurious dramatic effect, and therefore 
 cannot be foreign to what we have been investi- 
 gating. In this place we propose examining the 
 rights of the curious and rather interesting dispute 
 which has arisen between the parties concerned, 
 but which, as will be seen, really involves a ques- 
 tion between true and false dramatic art. 
 
The Music Hall Question. 325 
 
 Viewed by all the principles which we have 
 been weighing, this point becomes a very 
 simple one. The conclusion to be arrived at is 
 that 'protection' of dramatic art is unfair, as 
 unmeaning as it is unfair, and that the music 
 halls, or any houses with proper license, should 
 have their plays and actors. How can it be ex- 
 plained to a foreigner visiting a place like the 
 Alhambra, and lost in admiration at its wonderful 
 scenery, stage effects, and ballet, that the place 
 dare not go one step further and have dramatic 
 dialogue ? But the fact cannot be disputed, that 
 for this sharp music hall competition, and this 
 threatened invasion of the dramatic province, the 
 stage has only to thank itself. Once it took up a 
 lower and debasing style of performance, it invited 
 competition. 
 
 At the present time, when the whole spirit of 
 monopoly is passing away, and when the idea of 
 any special privilege being guaranteed by the 
 State to any class or kind, is always protested 
 against, it could not be thought of for a moment, 
 that dramatic protection should be revived or 
 maintained ; and therefore under the present con- 
 dition of things, the confusion and laxity which 
 
316 The Music Hall Question. 
 
 exists, with every sort of performance, as it were, 
 running riot, is utterly unworthy of any legislative 
 countenance. It may be fairly urged by the con- 
 ductors of such places of amusement, that the 
 theatres are competing with them, and have in- 
 vaded their special department of dancing, tum- 
 bling, comic singing, and general buffoonery. If 
 there is to be protection at all, they say, let a 
 marked line of division be preserved, and the thea- 
 tres be kept in the strictest way to legitimate 
 business. 
 
 This, of course, would be the mere technical 
 way of viewing the matter. But the time has 
 come for the removal of all such antiquated restric- 
 tions, and, as the public wishes for any kind of 
 show, under any combination, all should be allowed 
 to compete for its support without any unfair 
 advantage being allowed to either party. The 
 question will then be solved in a way that managers 
 will little dream of; and though the advocates 
 and admirers of real dramatic art might wish that 
 there should be an arbitrary line drawn, and that 
 theatres should be obliged to keep to their pro- 
 vince, and music halls to theirs, — still, such a 
 distinct separation may, strange to say, be only 
 
The Music Hall Question. 327 
 
 looked for where there is unrestrained competition. 
 Managers will find that they cannot compete with 
 the resources of places like the Alhambra, gigantic 
 restaurants, whose profits from food and drinks 
 alone would be enormous ; and vet cannot offer the 
 same inducement, as the wit or words even of a 
 comedy could not be followed, amid the distrac- 
 tions, suppers, &c. On the other hand, the en- 
 franchised music halls would be debarred from 
 the same class of entertainment for the same reason. 
 The real play-going public would still demand plays, 
 and it is certain that for that minority good actors 
 and good plays must be found. Then let the 
 burlesque theatres become restaurants, and, work- 
 ing up their position, flourish honestly. 
 
 It is curious to think how this division between 
 mere unintellectual shows and the true drama has 
 always been maintained, and, that whenever the 
 stage has degraded itself, it has always been con- 
 founded with the meaner class of performances it 
 was aping, and been chastised accordingly. I cannot 
 but think that a retrospect of this nature will be 
 useful at the present crisis, and act as a wholesome 
 warning to both players and managers. That un- 
 erring evidence of all social relations — the Acts of 
 
328 The Music Hall Question. 
 
 Parliament — will prove this view for us. We can 
 start from the days of Elizabeth, when a Vagrant 
 Act was passed (39 Eliz. c. 3), which was meant to 
 deal with all ' rogues, vagabonds, and sturdy beg- 
 gars, fortune-tellers, fencers, bear-leaders, and com- 
 mon players of Enterludes,' who were to be taken 
 up, 'stripped from the waist upwards,' and sent back 
 to their own parish. There was an exception, how- 
 ever, in favour of such players as belonged to a 
 Baron of the Realm, and who could produce his 
 license. This exception, however, is as degrading as 
 the rule, for it classes all as servants. Old text- 
 writers, like Bacon or Hawkins, have much the same 
 view, classing stage-players with something ' disor- 
 derly ; ' and it is actually laid down that a play-house 
 may be a nuisance ■ like any other disorderly house.' 
 Now without leaning very much on the strict prim- 
 itive meaning of the interlude, which was clearly a 
 sort of irregular dramatic performance, a mixture of 
 singing and farce, it will be seen that it was some- 
 thing of a ' music hall ' pattern, and the legislature 
 seemed to think, as indeed most modern justices 
 have done, that anything in the shape of ' strolling ' 
 accompanied with mere buffoonery, must be classed 
 with what is disreputable, and is a gainst law and police . 
 
The Music Hall Question. 329 
 
 In the days of James I. the law was made 
 more severe (1 Jac. c. 7), and even the protection 
 of a nobleman's license was taken away. Two 
 years later an Act was passed, fining heavily, which 
 was virtually imprisonment, any stage-player using 
 holy names profanely. It is indeed hard to give 
 an idea of the tone used towards these players of 
 interludes. Erom the time of Edward IV. down- 
 wards, we find many sumptuary Acts, relating to 
 costly dressing, at the close of which the noble- 
 man's players and servants are always contemptu- 
 ously excepted. Various Vagrant Acts succeeded 
 that of James, until we reach the reign of Queen 
 Anne, when (13 Anne, c. 26), the cost of trans- 
 porting vagrants to their parishes was made lighter, 
 and again it was carefully defined that the law 
 should apply to ' fencers, jugglers, bear-leaders, 
 minstrels, and common players of interludes : who, 
 if found wandering, begging,' and mark, ' or mis- 
 ordering themselves as aforesaid, were to be ap- 
 prehended, whipped, and passed on.' All this might 
 not seem to apply to ■ the players in London ; 
 but not very long after, in the year 1733, their ex- 
 travagance, quarrels, rivalries, and vanities, their 
 opening of new competing houses, their fighting 
 
2)2,o The Music Hall Question. 
 
 with managers, and appeals to the public, and above 
 all, the scandalous personality and license of their 
 performances, brought them into contempt. The 
 barriers too between the stage and the audience were 
 broken down, and all the speeches and newspapers 
 of the time Avere full of complaints of the ' disorder ' 
 of the stage. And in that year the bold step could 
 be ventured on of actually arresting a player, one 
 Harper, under the Vagrant Act of Anne ! He was 
 actually brought before the justices and committed 
 to jail as a rogue and vagabond. He was indeed 
 released when brought up on habeas corpus before a 
 superior court of law, but this was done on a mere 
 point of law, he being able to show that he had a 
 settlement in town. But it is curious, that it was 
 actually contended by the prisoner's counsel that 
 he did not come within the description cf the Act, 
 ' players of interludes,' he being a comedian : thus 
 fortifying the view I have taken, that it is with en- 
 tertainments of the music hall order that the legis- 
 lature dealt so severely. Indeed we have only to 
 look at the stage itself, on the night Garrick first 
 appeared, to see evidence of this confusion : for there 
 was a cod cert of vocal and instrumental music, 
 with ' an entertainment of dancing ' by some 
 
The Music Hall Question. 331 
 
 French artists, a ballad opera, and Richard III. ! 
 So with the theatres, at the time of the actor's 
 arrest as a vagabond. House after honse was being 
 opened, solely from quarrels, secessions, and com- 
 petitions, not because they were wanted as schools 
 for acting.* Precisely as at the present day. 
 
 It was now high time to put some check to these 
 disorders, and a private member of the House, Sir 
 John Barnard, in 1735, brought in a bill to regu- 
 late the number of theatres, but owing to an 
 attempt on the part of the government to in- 
 troduce certain clauses, establishing a censorship 
 of plays, the authority of law instead of custom, 
 the mover preferred to let it drop. The question 
 of censorship was of course a distinct branch, 
 and without going into antiquarian lore, it may 
 be stated that there was always assumed by the 
 Master of the Revels, and then by the Chamberlain, 
 a control over the pieces to be acted, and then 
 over the stage itself. This would of course arise 
 out of the control over the theatre itself, derived 
 either under patent from the king, or license. Two 
 
 * The reader will find a curious picture of this state of things in 
 Sir John Hawkins' Life of Johnson, where he says every new theatre 
 was surrounded with a halo of Bagnios. 
 
2,^1 The Music Hall Question. 
 
 years after the withdrawal, Walpole, who was then 
 first minister, introduced a Bill of a very severe sort, 
 and actors should bear in mind, that only four years 
 before the appearance of the greatest star of their 
 order, they were once more brought under the ter- 
 rors of the Vagrant Act, under which they remained 
 until very recently, so late as fifty years ago. That 
 famous Act, known as the licensing Act, and entirely 
 directed against the players, was yet, rather offen- 
 sively, entitled a Bill to explain the Vagrant Act. 
 It was felt that the words 'players of inter- 
 ludes ' offered a loophole for escape, so the words 
 ' rogue and vagabond' were enlarged and made 
 to include any one who should act tragedy, comedy, 
 opera, play, farce, or other entertainment of the 
 stage, being at the same time without legal set- 
 tlement, patent, or license. Even supposing he 
 had a settlement, he was liable to a fine of £50.* 
 It became law, and thus it will be seen that the 
 actors owed this severity to their own desertion of 
 the true dignity of the drama, by putting them- 
 selves on a level with showmen and mountebanks. f 
 
 * They had even a forecast of the future music halls, for when any 
 interlude was given where liquor was sold, it was to he dealt with as 
 a theatre. 
 
 f Fielding's Pieces, with their personalities on the ministers and 
 
The Music Hall Question. 333 
 
 Fortunately after this crisis rose Garrick, 
 whose splendid talents, and admirable dignity of 
 administration, raised the stage and its actors to the 
 highest social condition. The competing houses 
 decayed away rapidly, for in the face of the talent 
 collected at Drury Lane and Covent Garden, they 
 could have no raison d'etre. This • palmy ' state of 
 things continued until Garrick' s retirement, when 
 disorder and confusion again broke out. 
 
 It was not until the present reign that a com- 
 prehensive view was taken by Act of Parliament of 
 the stage, and the whole system relating to players 
 and playhouses was solemnly regulated by the 6th 
 and 7th Victoria, cap. 68. The licensing of theatres 
 was divided between the Chamberlain and the ma- 
 gistrates, and the ' Stage-Play ' which they licensed 
 such houses to perform, was enlarged to include 
 ' tragedy, comedy, farce, opera, burletta, interlude, 
 melodrama, pantomime, or other entertainment 
 of the stage.' Though indeed explaining a 'stage- 
 play ' by an entertainment of the stage, recalls the 
 well-known definition of an archdeacon. 
 
 others, were the immediate cause of the Act, but Sir John Barnard's 
 first Bill was levelled at the actors, and at the disorders of the play- 
 houses. Personality and mimicry does not belong to true dramatic art, 
 but to the showman, or ' interluder.' 
 
334 The Music Hall Question. 
 
 On this Act have turned all the recent disputes 
 between encroaching music hall directors, and 
 managers of theatres. Music halls are literally 
 nothing more than gigantic restaurants, or, in Eng- 
 land, more public-houses than restaurants. Our 
 magistrates have always found it necessary to regu- 
 late places where crowds resort to take drink, on 
 account of the great disorders which may natur- 
 ally grow out of a crowd and stimulants in combin- 
 ation. When an entertainment of any description 
 is offered which shall detain the drinkers, and induce 
 them to drink more, the probabilities of disorder 
 are increased, and a stricter control, with fresh 
 license for music or dancing, is necessary. Now 
 though large halls where men and women may go 
 and drink must be tolerated, and can never be 
 dealt with further than in the direction of control 
 and restraint, and since it is conceded that they are 
 fruitful in many sources of evil, direct and indirect, 
 it would seem that the tolerating of fresh inducements 
 to invite and detain people in such places, is against 
 the pronounced policy of the State, its laws and 
 police. It seems strange that with one hand pub- 
 lic-houses should be watched with a jealous severity, 
 and licenses be served out with strict caution, while 
 
The Music Hall Question. ^35 
 
 with the other it presents them with this seductive 
 bonus, in the shape of the attractions of music and 
 dancing. In France such things take a more 
 rational shape. There is the Cafe Chantant in the 
 open air, where the real object is national enjoy- 
 ment of good music, with a little refreshment in the 
 shape of coffee, or limonade gazense, or the tiny glass 
 of cognac. It is indeed but another shape of going 
 to the play, and the refreshment is secondary. 
 
 In England a consistent police administration 
 would refuse singing and dancing licenses to gigan- 
 tic public-houses altogether, or it should at least 
 interpret the license in its most strict terms, 
 and allow nothing but ' shows,' such as jug- 
 gling, rope- dancing, dancing pure and simple, and 
 music. This ought to be the course, if the admin- 
 istration of the law was consistent with itself. But 
 as it is not, and as there is utter confusion of the 
 two provinces — theatres exhibiting music hall 
 business, and music halls encroaching on theatrical 
 business, — it would be best to abolish the farce of 
 apparent restriction, which is administered only in 
 justice, and let there be free trade in entertainments 
 of all kinds. 
 
 The meaning of a music hall license was surely 
 
2,2)6 The Music Hall Question. 
 
 founded on the old legal distinction between ' a 
 common player of interludes ' — classed with bear- 
 leaders and jugglers — and a comedian. The former 
 would find his proper place in the street, at a fair, 
 or in any raised and conspicuous place. It was in 
 short the difference between intellect and matter, 
 between what was addressed to the mind and to 
 the senses. The legislature felt there was no 
 danger of disorder from a crowd gathered for intel- 
 lectual entertainment, no more than from a crowd 
 gathered at a concert or at a lecture. But music 
 hall managers have gradually gone on advancing 
 in their encroachments, and it would be impossible 
 to visit the one, which for its splendour and popu- 
 larity holds the first place, and distinguish it from 
 a theatre. There are private boxes, pit and stalls, 
 though not thus officially styled, galleries, a noble 
 stage, and orchestra. The scenery is unrivalled, in 
 or out of England ; the ballet equals that of any 
 opera house, exhibits a story, and is accompanied 
 with gorgeous scenic changes, perfect transforma- 
 tion scenes, and groupings, not to be matched by 
 any regular theatres. It was not surprising that 
 theatrical managers should attempt to make a 
 stand against these gradual encroachments. When 
 
The Mtisic Hall Question, 337 
 
 a formal pantomime was attempted, with the regu- 
 lar 'personnel of harlequin and his companions, they 
 interposed. The word pantomime was actually- 
 used in the Act, so that attempt was put down. 
 Later when the ' ballet of action ' was represented, 
 and an amazon story exhibited, without dia- 
 logue, with scenery, groupings, and changes, as 
 at the Italian opera, the interference of the courts 
 was sought ; but strangely enough it was held, that 
 it was not within the province of the judges to 
 decide whether such amounted to c other entertain- 
 ment of the stage,' and that the question was one 
 for a jury. After such an intimation it was con- 
 sidered imprudent to take further steps, and ever 
 since, this house has gone on producing a series of 
 these magnificent spectacles^ worthy, as has been 
 said, of any opera house in Europe. 
 
 Yet it is impossible to doubt that such comes 
 within the meaning of a stage entertainment. It 
 is certainly within the meaning of the word inter- 
 lude, used in the Act. Even long ago, when it was 
 laid down by Lord Kenyon that he could not inter- 
 fere with c tumbling,' no more than he could with 
 fencing, it was for the reason that no written copy 
 
 of the performance could be sent in to the Lord 
 
 22 
 
338 The Music Hall Question. 
 
 Chamberlain — one of the requirements of the Act. 
 Now here is a test ; for there is a written story or 
 programme for every ballet : and, taking a more 
 aesthetic view, a ballet elaborately prepared, such as 
 Saconthala, an Indian tale, got up in Paris, and 
 written by a poet, such as Theophile Gautier was, 
 told a story, and left the impression of a story on all 
 who witnessed it. 
 
 It could of course be urged by the music hall 
 advocates, that any amount of elaborate scenery, by 
 itself, could not amount to a stage entertainment, 
 any more than a panorama or diorama would ; and 
 that the dancing of a woman, or of any number 
 of women, by itself, would be fairly in their province. 
 We may grant these positions : but it is the com- 
 bination that imparts the dramatic element. The 
 most elaborate transformation scene, if we went 
 merely to see it alone, at one of the patent theatres, 
 would be pronounced to be no more than a di- 
 orama. And if the public nocked to a concert 
 room to see a Taglioni, or a number of Taglionis, go 
 through steps, they would only go to see an ex- 
 hibition of dancing. But the two elements in 
 combination produce another effect. The scenery 
 begins to tell a story ; it is a mountain dell, or the 
 
The Music Hall Question. 339 
 
 palace of fire, where a succession of events is to take 
 place : and the dancing, instead of a. mere series of 
 muscular leaps and graceful attitudes, utterly with- 
 out meaning, brings out the significance of the 
 mountain dell, and of the palace of fire. 
 
 In short, summarizing the result of this in- 
 quiry, we arrive at these conclusions. The State 
 should act logically, and either enforce the dis- 
 tinction between these two departments of enter- 
 tainment ; or remove all restrictions, and let the 
 public, as it would surely do, bring about a separa- 
 tion between these confused elements. In the first 
 case it should remove the word interlude from the 
 Act, which, in its strict sense, belongs to the Music 
 Hall, and should mean the unassisted entertain- 
 ment of posturing, buffooning, mimicry, with or 
 without music : it should draw a line between what 
 is intellectual and dramatic, that is, the operation 
 of mind working on mind or material objects, 
 thus bringing out a story, and that mere phy- 
 sical enjoyment, the entertaining of ears and eyes, 
 produced by material means. Or else, let protection 
 of all sorts be abolished, and a general license of 
 performance, subject only to conventional police 
 restraints, be granted to all. The present arrange- 
 
34-0 The Music Hall Qticstion. 
 
 nient is unfair to all parties ; unfair to the manager, 
 who sees stage performances allowed at certain 
 Houses, which are allowed to combine the profits 
 of restaurants and public-houses, — a privilege un- 
 reasonably denied to him : — unfair to the music 
 halls, who may have theatre and stage, scenery, 
 and all that belongs to a theatre, — and are unrea- 
 sonably checked when they attempt to go a little 
 further, and have dialogue. Legislation of a broad, 
 sensible sort is wanted, and, it is hoped, will soon 
 be applied. 
 
 The managers of the other Houses have made 
 a desperate resistance, and say that such a con- 
 cession will be their ruin. They protest that 
 a simple theatre cannot compete with a theatre 
 and public-house combined. Yet managers have 
 brought this threatened mischief on themselves. 
 Eor many of them have been all but turning their 
 theatres into music halls, wanting only the pipes and 
 pewter pots in the pit, by exhibiting shows that ap- 
 peal chiefly to the eye, and in which, if the dialogue 
 be missed, the loss is small. Why should they be 
 protected in the interests of the drama, when they 
 have virtually departed from the drama itself? 
 But if we look at the result of removing this re- 
 
The Ahcsic Hall Question. 341 
 
 striction we shall see that it will actually benefit the 
 drama. For this change will certainly take place. 
 A number of the weaker theatres will be forthwith 
 invaded by capitalists, and converted into public- 
 houses with stages, on which the entertainment will 
 be of a broadly-marked kind, and the jokes ex- 
 hibited strong enough to overpower the din of pew- 
 ter, and the chink of glasses. Others will be built 
 specially for the purpose. Many of the actors too 
 will not be able to resist the temptation of higher 
 salaries. Then there will remain the theatres that 
 are now devoted to the corrupted drama — the specta- 
 cular and burlesque. The latter will nourish in a 
 renewed prime, and become really worth seeing. 
 For it is quite a different thing to witness one on a 
 broad music hall canvass; and it will be quite 
 intelligible, even satisfactory and humorous, when 
 looked at now and again, between morsels of 
 the ' devilled kidney ' and refreshing draughts of 
 ale. These weeded off, there will remain the 
 sober legitimate Houses, who, relieved of com- 
 petition under false colours, will draw together the 
 scattered host of real appreciators. For the others, 
 new audiences — music hall audiences — will mul- 
 tiply : but things will be on an honest footing 
 
342 The Music Hall Question. 
 
 and called by their right name. Further, these 
 1 spectacle ' pieces can then be produced on a scale 
 of stupendous splendour, as the additional profits 
 from food and drink will be so large. 
 
 No one, of course, can advocate the extension 
 of places of amusement of the music hall pattern ; 
 as at present conducted, their theatrical entertain- 
 ment is but a cloak for bringing vast audiences of 
 young men, who come for quite different ends. That 
 is a question for the magistrates who issues licenses 
 for music or dancing. But the existing illogical 
 restrictions are quite another matter. The 'two 
 branches of the profession,' as they are now virtually 
 considered, should be treated on equitable grounds. 
 If these are unmeaningly allowed to run to the 
 very verge of stage-representation, and, after using 
 scenery, dresses, pantomime, dancing, with a ballet 
 that leaves the Opera House behind, are then 
 checked abruptly ; the same rigour should be dealt 
 out to the theatres, and they should be restrained 
 from encroaching on the tumbling and dioramic 
 business of the music halls. The result of free 
 trade in the drama would, I conceive, be beneficial 
 even to music halls, and raise the tone of such 
 places. At the Alcazar at Brussels, a sort of 
 
The Music Hall Question. 343 
 
 gigantic theatrical public-house, on the model of 
 the Alhambra, we may see Offenbach's operas given 
 for the entertainment of an audience enjoying 
 their cigars, and wine, and other drinks. And 
 though that sort of social fungus ' the cad ' does 
 not spring up abroad with the unwholesome fer- 
 tility it does in London, and our music hall, and 
 the earthy sort of pleasure it offers has much to 
 do with its cultivation, in the presence of good act- 
 ing, and under the influence of good opera, his intel- 
 ligence would become refined. Offenbach, and his 
 gay music, agreeable dramas mounted with the 
 magnificent resources of such places, would be a 
 restraint. But with tumblers and ' scurree,' real 
 and genuine ' buffoons,' beside whom the honest 
 clown of the pantomime is a gentleman and an 
 artist, — in such a presence we cannot blame an 
 audience for feeling no respect. 
 
 The case of Wigan v. Strange (1 Com. Pleas 
 Rep. p. 175, 1865) exhibits that timorousness and 
 over-refining which is such a blemish in Eng- 
 lish law. There one of the managers attempted to 
 put down, at the Alhambra, a spectacle in which 
 amazons advanced and retreated and engaged in 
 mimic conflict, and in which the conventional 
 
344 The Music Hall Question. 
 
 ( ballet of action ' was exhibited. In the course of 
 the argument an acute distinction was taken, and 
 which seems to me almost conclusive, namely, 
 that the phrase * entertainment of the stage ' is a 
 different thing from ' entertainment on the stage : ' 
 for the latter would comprise many species of 
 entertainment which the Act would allow, but the 
 former must mean something purely dramatic. 
 Thus rope- dancing, fencing, juggling, concert sing- 
 ing or playing, tableaux vivans, acrobatic exercises, 
 dancing, like that of ' the great American clog 
 dancer,' the Highland fling, Irish jig, or English 
 country dance, all these might be entertainments 
 given on a stage, or in a theatre, but they could 
 not be called 'entertainments of the stage.' 
 
 Such seemed to be the view of the judges as to 
 the law of the matter, but they declined to decide 
 on a matter of fact, whether the incidents of the 
 Alhambra performance amounted to a regular 
 ballet. With all respect to this view, it seems 
 hard to understand their hesitation. The facts were 
 before them on oath ; were virtually admitted by 
 both sides, between whom the real question raised 
 was, did a ballet d* action come under the Act ? 
 There the question has remained ; and with such 
 
The Music Hall Question. 345 
 
 judicial authority in their favour, it seems surpris- 
 ing that the managers have not taken a further 
 step. There are some technical difficulties in the 
 way, as I believe the matter would have to be 
 decided by 'the justices,' who have already pro- 
 nounced in favour of the music halls, overruling 
 the magistrates' decision, which was the same as 
 that of the Court of Common Pleas. Any'one who 
 had seen 'Plamma, or the Child of Fire,' at the 
 Alhambra recently would have no hesitation in 
 pronouncing it an ' entertainment of the stage.' 
 
 We must now conclude this rather desponding 
 review, whose aim has been to contrast the high 
 standard of dramatic excellence of old days, both 
 in writing and acting, with the very modest re- 
 quirements of modern audiences. One thing alone 
 ought to disturb the placid public conscience, 
 and make it doubt if it be getting value enough 
 for its money, and long hours of attention: 
 viz., the fact, how easy it is to become an actor. 
 No one asks for training or for study. Excite a 
 laugh by some new familiar trick, and the ear of 
 the public is secured. It may be fairly asked, 
 then, are there no remedies to be suggested, or 
 how is reform to be brought about ? The audi- 
 
346 The Music Hall Question. 
 
 ences are content with what they get : why should 
 any one interpose ? But here is the truth : people 
 may grow accustomed to, and even relish, what is 
 always being presented to them, but they may all 
 the time be losing what is infinitely more enjoy- 
 able. The tone of the public mind is now to 
 follow like sheep. If managers will not learn, 
 English audiences will, later. One would have 
 thought that even the commercial principle of com- 
 petition would tempt managers to follow the lead 
 of the Prince of Wales' Theatre, and open pretty 
 little theatres, daintily decorated, with actors that 
 act, if without genius, at least with tact and even 
 elegance, or pieces of the same stamp as ' School.' 
 Even now a new theatre was lately opened, and 
 announced as being devoted to the furtherance of 
 pure comedy ; but very soon two burlesque players 
 of the most extravagant sort were associated with 
 a genteel comedian in the management; and as 
 these gentlemen must have their ' gags ' and 
 women's clothes, and the rest of the ' business,' we 
 may be certain of having lost a favourable chance 
 of reform. Can it be that no English writer is 
 capable of depending on his own resources for pre- 
 senting a successful little comedy to the public. 
 
The Music Hall Question. 347 
 
 The view of anything going on upon the stage is 
 always attractive, even from associations. Still, 
 however, there are signs of reform and reaction. 
 The astounding success of that little picture of man- 
 ners, ' School,' is a hopeful symptom ; for even the 
 languidly genteel, who have had their interest so 
 much excited as to go and see it seven or eight 
 times, unconsciously bear testimony to the force 
 of dramatic principle, and show that the spec- 
 tacle of their own habits and characters pleases 
 and entertains them. While this comedy of man- 
 ners has had an extraordinary ' run ' at the Prince 
 of Wales', at the Olympic an extract from Copper- 
 field and a burlesque, of a most agreeable and 
 legitimate sort, are enjoying a no less extra- 
 ordinary popularity. But the most healthful 
 token of all is that glorious comedy of Gold- 
 smith having now passed its hundredth night ; 
 propped, however, on the crutch of a poor 
 burlesque. This is not much, but it is some- 
 thing. We are now also having a regular French 
 dramatic season, and our players, if they are 
 wise, will find opportunity for picking up some 
 valuable lessons, useful for this reason also, that 
 they are founded on correct principles of human 
 
348 The Music Hall Question. 
 
 nature. It really looks as though such were the 
 solution of this universal borrowing from foreign 
 countries. It is as though they confessed to the 
 French. ' You alone know how to treat character, 
 and the dramatic changes consequent upon charac- 
 ter ; we must therefore take from you : ' just as 
 certain manufacturers import the wheels, &c. of 
 watches from Geneva, and put them together as an 
 English watch. It might be "safely affirmed that 
 were new theatres opened with such a pro- 
 gramme as elegant comedy, and tolerably trained 
 actors, they must always succeed. And though 
 bidding our actors copy the French in some mat- 
 ters, I may mention as a fact, a certain compliment 
 that has of late been paid them, and which may 
 encourage them. Some influential representatives 
 of the Societe cles Auteurs Dramatiques came over to us 
 in reference to some copyright matter, and went 
 round the theatres. They reported one point in 
 which they owned that the English stage had 
 begun to leave them behind. They said that the 
 stage gentlemen, in pieces like ' School,' were bet- 
 ter dressed, and in general appearance and 'get 
 up ' were far more like gentlemen than theirs. 
 
POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 "Whatever reception the reader may be inclined 
 to give to the conclusions drawn from this little 
 essay, there is, at least, one, founded on those pieces 
 of criticism quoted from writers like Hunt, Lamb, 
 and Hazlitt, which is certain to be accepted ; 
 namely, that stage critics of that day were toler- 
 ably skilled in human character, and could support 
 their judgment of mimetic passions and eccen- 
 tricities by principles drawn from the study 
 of human nature. This gives their work, and 
 the stage which they illustrated, a vitality and 
 substantial dignity, which makes the criticism it- 
 self not only valuable, but highly interesting and 
 instructive. It is impossible to look at the criti- 
 cism of our own time without feeling that it pro- 
 ceeds on quite a different principle, the fault of 
 which rests not so much with the critics as with the 
 meagre material they are called on to deal with. 
 
3 5 o Postscript. 
 
 There are, indeed, men of taste and culture, like 
 Mr Oxenford, who could deal with the drama, and 
 test it by the true and correct standard of human 
 character ; but the average criticism is very in- 
 ferior. This, it must be owned, is not their fault. 
 There is no substantial material for them to deal 
 with. It is impossible to exhibit nice discrimin- 
 ation, to express in words a picture of human 
 passion or emotion, where none such has been 
 before us, or is indeed intended. 
 
 Since the French company has visited us there 
 has been a valuable opportunity for lessons of 
 critical and histrionic wisdom, and nothing is 
 more deserving of note than some admirable re- 
 marks of Mr Tom Taylor, which illustrate better 
 than any words of mine some of the principles 
 urged in the preceding pages. Such criticism 
 could scarcely be applied to the case of our 
 own players. There is no ' stuff' to work on. 
 The following remarks will be found so just, that 
 I have no scruple in inserting them here. He is 
 speaking of Regnier. 
 
 'After the kindly senility of Noel, the old serv- 
 ant, in La Joie Fait Peur, and the perplexity of 
 Balaudard in Tine Chaine, it was well we should 
 
Postscript. 351 
 
 see how perfectly at home this master of his craft 
 is in the humours of an entirely different type and 
 time. As the parvenu of 1700, in flowing peri- 
 wig and crimson velvet coat, laced on all its 
 seams, a second-hand Grand Seigneur, always ready 
 for an adventure when his friend and exemplar, de 
 St Hereur, shows him the way — nothing could 
 better illustrate than did this performance the 
 difference between a master of the craft and a 
 pupil. Not a word or intonation of Regnier's was 
 lost by the audience ; not a point missed fire, 
 thanks to the admirable clearness of his elocution 
 and incisiveness of his delivery, though so entire 
 is the absence of strain or palpable artifice, that 
 his utterance seems the easiest and most natural 
 thing in the world. 
 
 ' It is now 27 years since Regnier first played 
 " Dubouloy " at the Theatre Erancais with Brin- 
 deau, then a very young actor, for the Comte 
 D'Anjou, and Firman, then in his prime, as 
 St Hereur. Regnier seems still as full of spirit, 
 his humour as buoyant, his movements as lithe, 
 as he did then. It is difficult to believe that 
 next April will close his 40 years of uninter- 
 rupted service on the first stage of Europe. He 
 
$51 Postscript. 
 
 retires from the active practice of his profession 
 with unimpaired powers, and he leaves no superior 
 even among the excellent troupe to which he bids 
 farewell. But mark the difference between French 
 theatrical administration and our own. Hegnier 
 ceases to act, but does not cease to teach acting. 
 He still continues as a Professor at the Con- 
 servatoire, to train pupils for the profession he 
 has so long adorned. The rich fruits of his ex- 
 perience, his intelligence, his good taste, his cul- 
 ture, have a chance of being transmitted, where 
 they find a congenial soil, through the actors 
 in whom he sows their seeds. And he retires, 
 for his good work, on a pension almost as large 
 as the salary he is now receiving as an actor. So 
 much for his future. Then for his past. Look 
 what his career has been. A member for 40 
 years of the same company, always composed 
 of the best actors and actresses of the time, in 
 pleasant and cordial relations with the most cul- 
 tivated society of Paris, acting on an average from 
 10 to 20 nights a month, with frequent intervals of 
 leisure, and abundant time for study, never obliged to 
 undergo the deadening and depressing influence of those 
 wearying runs, which, when they do not wear out the 
 
Postscript. 353 
 
 actor's strength, inevitably loiver his personation to a 
 mechanical act. Esteemed and beloved by the 
 public, working under the constant sense of close, 
 exacting, and intelligent criticism, in the pleasant- 
 est relations with familiar and congenial comrades, 
 feeling himself part of an establishment in which 
 his art is honoured, and which plays an important 
 part in the culture of his generation, can we 
 wonder that the actor so treated, so influenced, 
 so surrounded, gives to his work an impress of 
 refinement and self-respect which we can only 
 expect to find by a miracle in that of our own 
 players, buffetted from theatre to theatre, making 
 part of companies that change with the season, 
 if not with the piece, under no control of severe 
 criticism from press or public, scuffling through 
 careless and undisciplined rehearsals, followed 
 by wearisome runs, with neither leisure nor oppor- 
 tunity, in most cases, for self-culture or society, 
 having neither recognized connection with litera- 
 ture, nor part in the work of national culture, 
 treated too often in the theatre without respect, 
 and out of it neither claiming nor receiving much 
 consideration ? How, under such conditions, 
 is the English actor to maintain his faith in 
 
 23 
 
354 Postscript. 
 
 himself, or keep in view high ideas of his art ? Of 
 course there are exceptions to this general rule ; 
 but the general rule, as we have described it, is, 
 we fear, beyond contradiction. 
 
 ' And that it is so goes a great way to explain 
 the marked and painful inferiority in refinement 
 and intelligence in English acting and actors to 
 French of the corresponding degree. Believing 
 in the importance of the theatre as an instrument 
 of national culture, we make no apology for this 
 digression, suggested by the presence here of such 
 artists as those who have just closed these per- 
 formances at the Princess's.' All this is excellent, 
 as well for those who have witnessed the perform- 
 ances, as for those who have not : pleasant to read, 
 as embodying principles and reflections. 
 
 Since writing the above I have had the ad- 
 vantage of seeing some comedies of mark, and 
 which have significance as illustrating the Prin- 
 ciples which I have tried to lay down clearly 
 in the foregoing pages. These pieces are Mo- 
 liere's ' Malade Imaginaire,' ' Englished ' by Mr 
 
Postscript. 2>55 
 
 Charles Read, and Mr Robertson's new comedy, 
 ' M.P.' It may seem scarcely fair to the modern 
 writer to consider two such pieces together ; 
 though, on the other hand, it is all but certain 
 that the new piece will run for a period about 
 ten or twelve times as long as the old one. And 
 yet in this instance, as well as in that of Gold- 
 smith's ' She stoops to Conquer,' there is a pre- 
 cious opportunity for our modern play-writers to 
 learn the true broad Principles of Comedy, and 
 the secret of exciting the interest and sympathy 
 of an audience. 
 
 Mr Robertson's ' M.P.' is very pretty and 
 agreeably written, and ' laid out ' with the refine- 
 ment which is his characteristic. But it has 
 the same defects which most of his other pieces 
 exhibit — a want of story, a want of that conflict of 
 passion, or human weakness, with other passions or 
 weaknesses, with the consequent suspense, and the 
 practical effect of one character in the other. In 
 short, it seems to be little more than a series of 
 pretty tableaux, in which the ordinary ladies and 
 gentlemen of our day might frequently find them- 
 selves posed with those average, less marked types 
 
 of character, which we often encounter. This is 
 
 23 * 
 
3 $6 Postscript. 
 
 all agreeable, but it is not the drama — not comedy. 
 That oft- quoted and misunderstood principle, 
 'holding the mirror up to nature,' has many 
 other sins besides this on its shoulders, and has led 
 many a writer astray. 
 
 Even now when we would wish to describe 
 the plot of ' M.P.' it seems to elude the grasp — 
 it fades away. It is more an exhibition — a pretty 
 background — an old country house, a ruined 
 squire, his daughter, her admirer, seeking to be 
 elected M.P. ; scenes in the garden, scenes in the 
 house, and the final election. So with the epi- 
 grammatic dialogue with which it is garnished, 
 and of which I took down a few fair examples ; 
 those, too, which seemed to meet the greatest 
 applause. Suppose Shakespeare were abolished 
 by an Act of Parliament, ' the bill might pass the 
 House of Commons, it never would the Lords.' 
 A coarse, low character in a piece is ' a money-bag 
 with a dialect.' The heroine says ' she would 
 make a bad wife,' because ' she has had no 
 practice.' ' It is a pity that courtship always ends 
 in marriage ; it would be much better that mar- 
 riage ended in courtship.' The heroine says ' she 
 never can argue after travelling by railway.' A 
 
Postscript. 357 
 
 fair quakeress is described as ' looking like biscuit- 
 china.' One of the gentlemen is ' so big, but 
 lie 11 tone doivn after he is married.' ' Flesh is grass, 
 and mowed away by time.' (This a very old joke.) 
 The coarse ' money-getting character is addressed 
 as ' a ready-made man ; ' ' no, self-made, sir,' he 
 answers. The same person affects a gentle- 
 man in this way ; ' He leaves a dirty taste in 
 the mouth.' ' Of copper ? ' ' Xot of clean copper,' 
 is the answer ; ' but of dirty manufactured half- 
 j)ence.' ' Actors may marry according to law. In 
 fact, I know several actors who are married, &c.' 
 A Quaker girl adopts the conventional worldly 
 dress, and is described as ' Pennsylvania of the 
 past transformed into Paris of the period.' A 
 lady says she would wish to see her lover in 
 Parliament. "Why ? ' Because she would like to hear 
 him called to order.' (This produced a roar of 
 laughter that lasted some time.) Some one re- 
 marks, 'What a pleasant sound the river has.' 
 ' Yes,' is the answer ; ' sounds like water.' A 
 gentleman in love called attention to the forget-me- 
 nots. ' See these flowers up-side down,' says the 
 lady. The answer, ' That is because their heads are 
 turned,' which produced another roar. The old 
 
358 Postscript. 
 
 squire, taking some soda-water, remarks that 
 * life is very like soda-water ; youth is all effer- 
 vescence, corked down and wired ; manhood is, 
 &c. ; old age the empty bottle.' Again, c She 
 won't forgive me,' says the lover. ' Yes, she will,' 
 remarks his friend, ' because you are in the wrong. 
 Women always forgive men when they are in the 
 wrong. Now, if you had been in the right,' &c. 
 Then apropos of some one ' he kissed me, I set my 
 face against him.' * The lover addresses his flame 
 as ' Miss Dunscombe.' ' Don't call names,' she 
 answers ; ' it sounds so dreadfully abusive.' ' Ton 
 my word, women ought to have no votes because 
 they are so sharp.'' ' I got your four votes,' says the 
 lady. ' How ? ' 'By kisses.' ' No voter,' says the 
 coarse man, ' would give me a plumper if I offered 
 to kiss them.'' 
 
 There is a violent crowd outside. ' Not our side, 
 but the other — in fact, very much the other side.' 
 ' These are the things,' says the heroine contempt- 
 uously, ' they send to Parliament to keep us out.' 
 
 At the end, the old squire says to the coarse 
 
 * This, by the way, is the old riddle, ' Why do ladies dislike 
 moustaches ? Because they set their faces against them.' 
 
Postscript. 359 
 
 man, ' Skoome, give them your blessing. It's 
 cheap and — nasty.' 
 
 Now it would take too long to go over these 
 ' epigrams,' and show that they will not stand the 
 test which genuine wit would. First, it is the 
 author who is speaking, not the character ; as for 
 instance, that last ' hit ' which produced a roar, and 
 has been quoted with praise by the papers. No 
 staid, sober squire, or gentleman, would make such a 
 remark in his own house. It is ' out of character,' 
 and the strangest thing in these ' biting epigram- 
 matic hits ' is that the victim never resents them, 
 but the conversation goes on. Thus is proved the 
 fact that it is only the author who speaks. So 
 with that making a bad wife ' because I have no 
 practice : ' there is no ' epigram ' here, as it is 
 simply a statement of a truth, which, if enunciated 
 gravely, would be equally effective. Then, what is 
 the meaning of a man being ' so big, but he'll tone 
 down after he's married'? Making every allow- 
 ance for some witty arribre pensee, what does it 
 mean ? What is the figurative or even the literal 
 sense? But it would take long to analyze all 
 these quips and cranks. 
 
 The bold experiment of reviving Moliere's 
 
360 Postscript. 
 
 ' Malacle Imaginaire ' again presents an opportunity 
 of studying what should be the true principles of 
 dramatic effect. The subject might seem a pretty 
 one — a hypochondriac invalid, preyed on by 
 doctors, and whose eyes are at last to be opened to 
 their imposture, to his own imaginary diseases, and 
 to his domestic slavery. We know what farcical 
 treatment this theme would receive at the hands 
 of our modern playwrights ; how cleverly it would 
 be worked up ; how comically the invalid would 
 run about with a sheet around him ; what a comic 
 manservant there would be ; how Doctor Bolus 
 would order one medicine, and by a mistake the 
 patient would take another ; or, more probably still, 
 how Mary and Thomas, the two servants, fond of 
 ' master's ' wine, would take, say an embrocation, 
 by mistake, or think they had taken one, and run 
 about, their hands on their stomachs, in all the 
 agonies of supposed poisoning. This is no exag- 
 geration, and the play would be worked out accord- 
 ing to a fixed prescription taken from the dramatic 
 ' pharmacopoeia.' This really shows what is the vice 
 of the day in the drama, dealing with mere surface 
 peculiarities, instead of going lower, to the grand 
 principles common to every nation and to every 
 
Postscript. 361 
 
 age. It is really worth a few moments' reflection 
 to see how so great a writer as Moliere handles 
 a subject that to poorer minds would seem 
 merely farcical and trivial. To him the mere 
 hypochondriac's complaints and the foolish guffaws 
 they induce, were as nothing. There was another 
 side — the miserable self-worship, and sacrifice of 
 all other things to that idol, which such a delusion 
 fosters. Again, while the delusion seems to give 
 an apparent despotism and tyranny, it creates in 
 reality a miserable slavery, first to one's self, one's 
 humours and fears ; secondly, to others — to the 
 second wife, for instance — who rule through those 
 humours. See, again, with what artfulness and 
 with what truth the master works. Such a char- 
 acter depicted boldly could not take with it the 
 sympathy of the other characters, or of the audi- 
 ence. It would be simply repulsive. It was a 
 fine idea to show that this was but the decadence 
 of a fine and really emselfish nature — that the 
 heart was sound, the affections strong, all the time, 
 and that when the invalid's eyes were opened his 
 real character asserted itself. And again, how 
 naturally that moral cure was brought about. In 
 modern plays how violent, how improbable is the 
 
362 Postscript. 
 
 reflection we make in analogous pieces ? The sick 
 man pretends to have died in his chair, and the 
 hehaviour of those interested in that event reveals 
 to him those who like him, and also reveals to us 
 his own natural affections. The whole minor 
 details of the working out of this motif t the delicate 
 nuances, the glimpses of human nature, all strictly 
 suh servient to the main incident, and growing out 
 of it, the true humour, the wit, the little situations 
 constantly arising, the originality of the 'jokes,' 
 unite to make up a most delightful study. There 
 is also present* as there should be in true comedy, 
 a certain weight and seriousness in parts. What 
 a fine and artful touch that is when the ' Malade,' 
 wishing to test his family by the pretence of 
 his death, agrees with alacrity in the case of his 
 false wife, but hesitates with almost pathos in the 
 case of his little daughter. In the former instance 
 there was perfect security, from the confidence 
 that she was devoted to him ; in the latter a falter- 
 ing hesitation, from the fear that though he loved 
 his child, she might be thus proved not to love 
 him. Again, when the servant enters disguised as 
 a doctor, how artfully is her natural objection that 
 she would be recognized by her master, met. He 
 
Postscript. 363 
 
 does so recognize her, and calls for the maid, and 
 by a sudden pantomimic change outside, she ap- 
 pears as the maid, indignant at being taken away 
 from her cooking. This quite bewilders the master. 
 But the whole play is a ' masterpiece.' Not 
 the least of its merits was the reintroduction of a 
 first-rate actress, who brings the traditions of 
 the old school — Mrs Seymour, who in ' Toinette ' 
 was literally charming. Anything more spirited, 
 more firm and solid, than the rendering of this part 
 could not be conceived, and it would be well if 
 some of the free misses who consider ' Toinette ' to 
 be in their line, and who would ' get it up ' in a 
 day, had been there to see, and feel ashamed of 
 their own poor, feeble, and scratchy rendering of & 
 soubrette, beside this brilliant oil-painting of Mrs 
 Seymour's. It was easy to trace the training and 
 traditions of an older school in the play of feature 
 and expression — the ' note ' of a good actor or 
 actress. Instead of the usual weak pertness, there 
 was earnestness and force, and a controlled sauci- 
 ness ; and no one with a good ear, or who has 
 heard good acting, but must have welcomed those 
 unfamiliar elocutionary cadences of a trained voice, 
 which, a sure instinct told us, gave the best and 
 
364 Postscript. 
 
 most spirited expression to Moliere's speeches, and 
 to Moliere's humour. 
 
 Mr Tom Taylor's ' "Twist Axe and Crown,' an 
 historical play, has had a prodigious run, and has 
 the real elements of success — interesting story and 
 grand character. The same writer's comedy, ' New 
 Men and Old Acres,' after some hesitation, was 
 accepted by the public, and followed during its 
 career with real enthusiasm. Later again a new 
 writer, Mr Alberry, has brought forward a very 
 pleasant and interesting little comedy, ' The Two 
 Hoses,' in imitation of Mr Robertson's pieces ; and 
 having one really good character in it, was fortun- 
 ate enough to find an admirable actor, Mr Irving, 
 whom it has all but placed in the first rank. At 
 this moment there is nothing so delicately finished, 
 so elaborated, so controlled or so spirited, that can 
 approach this performance on the English stage. 
 And this success only helps to fortify the conclu- 
 sion which has been urged all through these pages, 
 namely, that good plays are necessary to produce 
 good acting, and that with scenic effects and proper- 
 ties, but without characters, a Garrick or a Clairon 
 could do nothing. But there are hopeful signs 
 
Postscript. 365 
 
 abroad ; already there are symptoms of a better 
 taste ; and with wonder managers have recognized 
 the fact, that at this moment the only paying houses 
 open are those where reigns the legitimate drama, 
 that is, a faithful picture of human character and 
 human emotions. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 Even as I write, the evils noticed in these pages grow worse, 
 and the observer can scarcely keep pace with them. There are 
 some points revealed occasionally in newspapers and other directions 
 which speak significantly for the thoroughly mercantile and shop- 
 like character of stage transactions at the present time. A pro- 
 vincial theatre was lately duly advertised, and one of its recommend- 
 ations was announced to be a level avenue leading from the road on 
 to the stage, so that an omnibus or other vehicles coidd be driven on 
 to it with the greatest facdity. Again, let any one look at the play, 
 bills, and say whether it is an advertisement for wares and trades, 
 or a puff of the merits and callings of various persons directly or 
 indirectly connected with the House. Every bill seems to be the 
 property of an enterprising perfumer, who has a whole page to him- 
 self, and to his perfumes. Thus we read that ' the registered Jewel 
 Lanterns in the dress circle lobby, and the illuminated Bouquet 
 
 Mirrors in the dress circle, are by and Co.' ' The valses 
 
 between the first and second act, published by and Co.' Then 
 
 we are told that the refreshments are, not ' supplied by,' but simply 
 ' by ' Messrs and . Surely gas and gas-fitting is an or- 
 dinary enough handicraft, yet there is given the name of the gas- 
 fitter to the House. So with the ' florist,' where flowers hang in 
 
 baskets. So with the dressmaker ; and ' the masks by ,' the 
 
 prompter, treasurer, stage-manager, scene-painters, house-decorators, 
 ' the ornaments in carton jpierre by Messrs ,' ' , box keepers, 
 
Appendix. 367 
 
 &c.' ' The furniture and mirrors in Act II. by Messrs and 
 
 .' All this is based on a mercantile view, and springs from the 
 
 present dedication of the stage to the gratification of the eye. 
 Where intellectual effects were produced, it was natural that we 
 should desire to know the name of the producer. Now, where the 
 grand effect of the night is a conflagration, or some mechanical struc- 
 ture, it is very fair that the handicraftsman, who has had the 
 labour and trouble, and is the actor, should not have his name 
 suppressed. Further, there is here an attempt to use the theatre 
 for making money in other ways besides its legitimate one ; for 
 
 these ' lustres by Messrs ' are supplied gratuitously by the 
 
 firm, in return for the advertisement. More detestable still was 
 the spectacle exhibited last Christmas at many theatres, where 
 whole scenes were covered over with huge advertisements, and it 
 shows the supineness and helplessness of an audience when, having 
 paid its money, it could allow itself to be affronted by such an 
 exhibition. The system of self-puffery, too, in the newspapers, 
 where it is not enough to announce the play for the night, but 
 there must be added 'roars of laughter at the new song;' 'the 
 Mill Scene, pronounced by the united press the grandest triumph 
 of realism ever attempted on this or any other stage ; ' has now 
 become so universal and necessary, as to reduce all to the same level 
 and give no advantage to any one of the number. But here, again, 
 this flows from the character of the entertainment. Anything in 
 the nature of a show must follow the ordinary rules of mercantile 
 dealing ; and where theatres are established like shops and houses of 
 business they must be ' pushed' like houses of business.* 
 
 But, in truth, it is impossible to look in any direction without 
 
 * In proof of what was state! in the body of this essay, that the large 
 number of theatres are the result of mere speculation, and subject to the 
 incidents of speculation, it may be mentioned that at this moment no less 
 
 than twelve have been obliged to close, or are about to close, their d s, 
 
 through failure of business, or managers. This is nearly one half the 
 number of existing theatres. These are the Surrey, Charing Cross. New 
 Royalty, Holborn, Lyceum. Ilaymarket, Astley's, Globe, Belgravia, Royal 
 Alfred, Princess's, Drury Lane. 
 
368 Appendix. 
 
 finding evidence of this perverse taste. Witness the follow- 
 ing. The ' Era ' says : — ' A " "Wee dog " dinner was given at Rich- 
 mond on Tuesday, to celebrate the extraordinary success of this 
 famous song in the Burlesque of ' La Belle Sauvage.' Among the 
 company were Mr Barton Hill, who wrote the original words of 
 the song ; Mr "W. H. Montgomery, who arranged the music ; Mr 
 Hingston and Mr Fiske, who composed additional verses ; Mr A. 
 W. Young, who has sung the song over one hundred and eighty 
 times ; Mr J. G. Shore, who has understudied the song ; and 
 Mr Lionel Brough and Mr Grainger, who appeared in the bur- 
 lesque.' But the reader will recall many other curious freaks. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 1 
 
 JOHN CHILLIS AND SON, PRINTERS. 
 
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