' i ' ! 1 1 ' *' ' ' Wxt ^xt of the (Stage CHARLES LAMB. From a Drawing by Hancock, 1798. THE ART OF THE STAGE AS SET OUT IN LAMB'S DRAMATIC ESSAYS WITH A COMMENTARY PERCY FITZGERALD, M.A, F.S.A. REMINGTON & CO., PUBLISHERS HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN 1885 ALL RIGHTS RESERVKD ^0^ t^GV. US ^0. >4!5 t. » t- , t fc * € €/ C C * t ♦ t *- t, «■ ( « C (/ i/ C 1 INSCRIBED WITH MUCH REGARD TO EDWARD F. S. PIGOTT EXAMINE* OF PLAYS) » 36481 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2007 with funding from Microsoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/artofstageassetoOOIambrich ABSTRACT OF CONTENTS That a successful interpreter of Shakspeare has therefore a ' mind congenial with him ' is a misapprehension ' This suggested by the lines on Garrick in Westminster Abbey The actor cannot reach to the expression of the poet We confound the particular actor with the part, and think Hamlet to be Kemble The school ' spouting pieces ' destroy all appreciation from familiarity and repetition The reason for not acting Shakspeare is, that so much cannot be acted or seen by the eye Soliloquies : a form unnatural and unreal ... Love dialogues of Romeo become a controversy of elocution Chief portion of Hamlet's part communings with himself Yet has to think of the si^ectators ... Garrick's powerful rendering an appeal to eye and ear only . On which system, if re -written by Banks or LiUo, the melodramatic result might be the same as Shakspeare 's . . . People thus talk of Othello being ' so natural,' as George Barn- wall is natural They do not think of the inner texture of his mind . . . Even though it be true to what passes current in the theatre as the proper expression of emotion Hamlet's rough treatment of Polonius and Ophelia always ex aggerated, and tlie real delicate motive not conveyed to the audience iJfeal exposition of Hamlet 's feelings ... ■'ohakspeare's delicacy revealed in his sonnets ... Yet interpreted by a man full of mean jealousies and tricks (Garrick) Garrick not a true admirer of Shakspeare from his coarse mangling and alterations Richard III, interpreted by Cooke in the same style ... 2 ibid 3 4 5 ibid 6 7 8 ibid 9 ibid 11 12 ibid 13 14 16 ibid 17 ibid L^i \ ii ABSTRACT OF COJVTUFTS In the * murderous ' tragedies of Shakspeare on the stage, the act everything, the motive nothing ... ... ... 19 Lear put forward as an old man with a stick, but cannot be acted 20 In reading we only see Othello's colour in our minds: it is repul- sive on the stage ... ... ... ... ... 22 Tne supernatural, as the witches, impossible to pourtray ... 24 Elaborate copying of outside life in scenery, destroys the illusion 25 Thus a mere parlour is indifferent to us, and we aecept it : but elaborate supernatural effects do not awe us ... ... 26 We are not conscious of what kingly robes Macbeth has on . . . 27 The pictures in Hamlet must be 'lugged out ' ... ... 28 This want of ' imaginative treatment ' found in modern art as in ^..painting ... ... ... ... ... ... 31 itian's Ariadne reaches the ideal ... ... ... ... ibid Ea,pliael fails in the ' Presentation of Eve ' from this point of view ... ... ... ... ... ... 33 Martin, in his ' Belshazzar's Feast,' treats the subject wrongly 35 Illustration of the hoax at Brighton Pa villion ... ... 36 Here mere 'Vulgar fright:' in reality no one could see all the details of his temples, &c. ... ... ... ... 37 For ' not all that is optically possible is to be shown in every picture ' ... ... ... ... ... ... 38 Illustrated at length by the instance of Pompeii, of ' Lazarus rising from the dead,' by S. de Piombo ... ... 41 Eight and wrong mode of presenting a Dryad ... ... 42 And of the dockyards at Woolwich ... ... ... ... 43 Don Quixote, the true ideal of ... ... ... ... 44 In presenting character actors must not be too natural ... 48 A coward done to the life not successful ... ... ... ibid So with misers and infirmities of age: why are these acceptable as done upon the stage ? ... ... ... ... 49 Emery too much in earnest as ' l^y^^e ' ... ... ... 50 * A pleasant impertinent, ' must not be too much annoyed — it should be half put on ... ... ... ... 51 Of Mrs Jordan's playing ... ... ... ... ... 54 Her delivery of ' She never told her love, ' as if by impromptu suggestions ... ... ... ... ... ... 55 Bensley ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ibid His lago, no repellent villain ... ... ... ... 58 His Malvolio taken aw smewaj ... ... ... ... 59 Dodd 61 Fanciful account of Suett .. . ... ... ... ... 64 Jack Bannister — The Palmers ... ... ... ... 67 Acute distinction in playing a Footman; Ben, in Love for Love, too downright as played by Bannister ... ... ... 70 Vindication of the artificial comedy ... ... ... 71 Its code o/ morals, not to be taken seriously and belongs to the stage alone ... ... ... ... ... ... 73 No right or wrong in i/i/.5 domain ... ... ... ... 76 The School for Scandal now played seriously ; Sir Peter a per- secuted husband, ' capable of bringing an action ; ' Joseph, a villainous seducer ... ... ... ... ... 79 ABSTRACT OF CONTENTS ui Fine original caste of the Play- John Kemble as Charles ... Munden as ' Cockletop ' ... Literally makes faces His art of throwing * a preternatural interest ' objects Understands * a leg of mutton in its quiddity ' His death He never acUd in the common sense Criticism on him quoted ... Elliston... Continued his acting into real life ... This was the real man His * great style '.. . Anecdotes 81 82 84 86 over common 87 ibid & 89 88 89 90 92 95 96 97 ... ibid CRITICISMS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS Shakspeare's contemporaries Marlowe ... Decker ... Marston ... Heywood Middleton and "W. Rowley W. Rowley T. Middleton Rowley, Decker, Ford Cyril Tourneur ... Webster Ford Lord Brooke Ben Johnson Chapman Fletcher ... Massinger Massinger, Middleton, Rowley ■^'- >'^^hakspeare 'so few revolting characters' »^^^ut the King in Hamlet ' mean ' . . . /^^J'est as to whether Othello was a jealous character KOjily incredulous ^^''^ecimen of Shakspeare's divine reserve Theatrical criticisms Miss Burrell in Don Giovanni Miss Kelly at Bath The Jovial Crew ... The Hypocrite Barbara S.— rMiss Kelly)'... My first play The ' oilman ' who received Sheridan on his elopment Deaillusionment ... 102 103 106 108 110 111 113 114 115 ibid 116 118 120 121 124 127 129 130 ibid 131 ibid 132 ibid 133 134 135 137 141 143 150 159 160 164 iv ABSTRACT OF CONTEXTS THE COMMENTARY Objection taken to the 'theory, that the actor cannot be ' con- ^ ' genial ' to the poet ... ... ... ... ... 168 ^x^iakspeare gains by being acted, many neutral or colourless passages escaping the reader, unless acted ... ... 170 Lamb thinking of the ' stilted ' style of his own day .... ... 171 No reason why the acting should not correspond to the deli- cacies of the play ... ... ... ... ... 172 Ordinary familiar strain of conversations not to be used on the stage ... ... ... ... ... ... 174 King Lear's stick .. . ... .,. ... ... ... 175 The supernatural too much emphasized on the stage. . . ... 178 ' Keeping out of sight the meanness of the operations '. . . ... 182 ' Realism ' of material objects destroys illusion ... ... ibid Illustrations from painting ... ... ... ... 183 Limits of scenery ... ... ... ... ... 185 Illustration of ' The Green Curtain ' ... ... ... 186 Retinues and exhibition of State on the Stage ... ... 188 The Lyceum Revivals ... ... ... ... ... 189 The area of the stage a fixed quantity — what is on it variable 190 ' Archaic ' revivals ... ... ... ... ... 192 The church scene in ' Much Ado ' ... ... ... ... ibid Romeo and Juliet unfitted for sumptuous elaborate treatment 195 Imagination limited by imitating reality ... ... ... 200 Illustration from Martin's Paintings ... ... ... Ibid The same principle found in other arts ... ... ... 203 Illustration from portrait painting ... ... ... 204 Objections to the ' building up ' system ... ... ... 206 * What is the Scene ?' answered ... ... ... ... 208 It represents the zone about the actors ... ... ... 209 Hence the defect of representing a whole street or room ... 210 The position of the spectator discussed ... ... ... 211 Supposed to be in the room with the characters — not looking at them through an opening ... ... ... ... ibid Sections of double scenes T^nscemca^ ... ... ... 212 * Flats ' and side scenes nearer the true scenic system than the present one ... ... ... ... ... ... 213 Present lighting of the stage contrasted with the old system ... 214 Literal representation of crowds, armies, &c., a mistake ... 215 The Canons of scenic effect — Archaic scenery a mistake ... 218 * Cari)enters" scenes ... ... ... ... ... ibid The ' building-up ' system discussed ... ... ... 220 * Discordancy between jDainted scenes and real people ' ... 224 Lamb's theory of ' correspondence with the audience explained ' 227 A means of avoiding being ?i^e?'aZ ... ... ... ... 226 Illustrated by the modes of playing Joseph Surface... ... 227 The real life character not revealed, but to be guessed at ... 229 Palmer's playing the Footman and Ben ... ... ... 232 Illustration from Malvolio's threat of revenge ... ... 234 The quintessence of things only to be set on the stage ... 237 ABSTRACT OF CONTEXTS Bensley's lago and Malvolio Hamlet's instructions to the players expounded Illustrations from the Queen Mab Speech : ' All the world's a stage,' and ' She never told her love ' ' Facial expression ' Lamb's theory as to the morality of Congreve and Wycherley controverted ... ... ... Lamb's account of Elliston — true comedy .. Two sides to the character shown ... ' To the shade of Elliston ' The acting of Munden Made a pewter pot a play in itself ... Scene from the Cobbler of Preston quoted . 238 240 252 254 257 260 261 265 270 271 273 THE ART OF THE STAGE AS SET FORTH IN THE DRAMATIC ESSAYS OF CHARLES LAMB THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE, CONSIDERED WITH REFERENCE TO THEIR FITNESS FOR STAGE REPRESENTATION Taking a turn the other day in the ^'liey;, t was struck with the affected attitude- , of , a figure, which I do not remember to have se^n "^er^pre/'aa^, which upon examination proved to be a whole-length of the celebrated Mr Garrick. Though I would not go so far with some good Catholics abroad as to shut players altogether out of consecrated ground, yet I own I was not a little scandalised at the in- troduction of theatrical airs and gestures into a place set apart to remind us of the saddest realities. A 2 THE ART OF THE STAGE Going nearer, I found inscribed under this harlequin figure the following lines : — * To paint fair Nature, by divine command, Her magic pencil in his glowing hand, A Shakspeare rose ; then, to expand his fame Wide o'er this breathing world, a Garrick came, Though sunk in death the forms the Poet drew, ^ The Actor's genius bade them breathe anew ; Though, like the bard himself, in night they lay, Immortal Garrick call'd them back to day ; And till Eternity with power sublime Shall mark the mortal hour of hoary Time, Shakspeare and Garrick like twin stars shall shine, And earth irradiate with a beam divine.' It would be an insult to my readers' understand- ings to attempt anything like a criticism on this farrago of false thoughts and nonsense. But the reflection it led me into was a kind of wonder, how, from the days of the actor here celebrated to our own, it should have been the fashion to compliment * every performer in his turn, that has had the luck \ to please the Town in any of the great characters of Shakspeare, with the notion of possessing a mind congenial with the looet's : how people should come 't-h'uis; ;dLiia^>countably to confound the power of ^ ' originating poetical images and conceptions with Vc { ]ite;fad'ulty, o,f being able to read or recite the same when put into words;* or what connection that * It is observable that we fall into this confusion only in dramativ. y recitations. We never dream that the gentleman who reads Lucretius y^ in public with great applause is therefore a great poet and philosopher ; / nor do we find that Tom Davies, the bookseller, who is recorded to have recited the Paradise Lost better than any man in England in his day (though I cannot help thinking there must be some mistake in this tradition) was therefore, by his intimate friends, set upon a level vsdth Milton. THE TRAGEDIES OF SHAKSPEARE 3 absolute mastery over the heart and soul of man, \ "2 which a great dramatic poet possesses, has with those low tricks upon the eye and ear, which a player by observing a few general effects, which some common passion, as grief, anger, &c., usually has upon the gestures and exterior, can so easily compass. To know the internal workings afid:"^ ' movements of a great mind, of an O thello o r a Hamlet for instance, the rvhen and the why and the how far they should be moved ; t^O what pitch a passion is becoming ; to give the r^ins and to pull in the curb exactly at the mottient when the drawing in or the slackening is most graceful ; s eeiii a, to demand a reach of intellect of a vastly different extent from that which is employed upon the bare .imitation ^of the signs of these^ passions in tEe countenance or gesture, which signs are usually observed to be most lively _^ and emphatic in the weaker sort of minds, and which signs can, after all, but indicate some passion, as I said before, — anger, or grief, *=^--^ generally; but of the motives and grounds of the passion, wherein it differs from the same passion __-, in low and vulgar natures, of these the actor can . ^ give no more idea by his face or gesture than the . '-^ eye (without a metaphor) can speak, or the muscles utter intelligible sounds. But such is the in- >; stantaneous nature of the impressions which ^'^'^^^y no modification is made to affect us in any other manner than the same events or characters would do in our relationships of life. We carrv our fire- side concerns to the theatre with us! We do not go thither like our ancestors, to escape from the vNui i/u r ^ pressure of reality^, so much as to confirm our ex- .[ ' perience oT it ; to make assurance double, and take a bond of fate. We must live our toilsome lives twice over, as it was the mournful privilege of Ulysses to descend twice to the shades. All that ARTIFICIAL COMEDY 73 neutral srround of character, which stood between vice and virtue; or which in fact was indifferent to neither, where neither properly was called in question; that happy breathing -place from the burthen of a perpetual moral questioning — the sanctuary and quiet Alsatia of hunted causistry — is broken up and disfranchised, and injurious to the interests of society. The privileges of the place are taken away by law. We dare not dally with images, or names, of wrong. We bark like foolish dogs at shadows. We dread infection from the scenic representation of disorder, and fear a painted pustule. In our anxiety that our morality should not take cold, we wrap it up in a great blanket sur- tout of precaution against the breeze and sunshine. I confess for myself that (with no great delin- quencies to answer for) I am glad for a season to take an air beyond the diocese of the strict con- science — not to live always in the precincts of the Law Courts — but now and then, for a dream-while or so to imagine a world with no meddling restric- tions — to get into recesses, whither the hunter cannot follow me — -Secret shades Of woody Ida's inmost grove, While yet there was no fear of Jove. I come back to my cage and my restraint the fresher and more healthy for it. I wear my shackles more contentedly for having respired the breath of an Vimaginary freedom. I do not know how it is with 74 THE ART OF THE STAGE others, but I feel the better always for the perusal of one of Congreve's — nay, why should I not add even of Wyeherley's — comedies. I am the gayer at least for it ; and I could never connect those sports of a witty fancy in any shape with any result to be drawn from them to imitation in real life. They are a world of themselves almost as much as fairy- land. Take one of their characters, male or female (with few exceptions they are alike), and place it in a modern play, and my virtuous indignation shall rise against the profligate wretch as warmly as the Catos of the pit could desire ; because in a modern play I am to judge of the right and the wrong. [JThe standard of police is the measure of political justice. Jhe atmosphere will blight it ; it cannot live here. J It has got into a moral w^ortd, where it Kas^ot no business, from which it must needs fall headlong; as dizzy and incapable of making a stand as a Swedenborgian bad spirit that has wandered unawares into the sphere of one of his Good Men or Angels. But in its own world do we feel the creature is so very bad ? The Fainalls and the Mirabels, the Dorimants and the Lady Touchwoods, in their own sphere, do not offend my moral sense ; in fact they do not appeal to it at all. They seem engaged in their proper element. They break through no laws or conscientious restraints. They know of none. They have got out of Christendom into the land — what shall I call it ? of cuckoldry — the Utopia of gallantry, where pleasure is duty, and the manners perfect freedom. It is altogether a ARTIFICIAL COMEDY 75 speculative scene of things, which has no reference whatever to the world that is. No good person \ can be justly offended as a spectator, because no \ good person suffers on the stage. Judged morally ( every character in these plays — the few exceptions only are mistakes — is alike essentially vain and worthless. The great art of Congreve is especi- ally shown in this, that he has entirely ex- cluded from his scenes (some little generosities in the part of Angelica perhaps excepted) not only anything like a faultless character, but any pretensions to goodness or good feelings whatsoever. Whether he did this designedly, or instinctively, the effect is as happy as the design (if design) was bold. I used to wonder at the strange power which his 'Way of the World' in particular possesses of interesting you all along j| in the pursuit of characters, for whom you ab- r solutely care nothing — for you neither hate nor \ love his personages — and I think it is owing to this_yery indifference for any that you endure the^ whole. He has spread a privation of moral light, I will call it, rather than by the ngly name of palpable darkness, over his creations ; and his shadows flit before you without distinction or pre- ference. Had he introduced a good character, a sirigle gush of moral feeling, a revulsion of the judgement to actual life and actual duBes, the imper- tinent Goschen would only have lighted to the dis- covery of deformities, which are now none, because we think them none. 76 THE ART OF THE STAGE Translated into real life, the characters of his and his friend Wycherley's dramas are profligates and strumpets, — the business of their brief existence, the undivided pursuit of lawless gallantry. No other spring of action, or possible motive of conduct, is recognised ; principles which, universally acted. upon, must reduce this frame of things to a chaos. But we do them wrong in so translating them. No such effects are produced, in thehiMOvldi. When we are among them, we are" amongst a chaotic people. We are not to judge them by our usages. No reverend institutions are insulted by their proceedings, for they have none among them. No peace of families is violated, for no family ties exist among them. No purity of the marriage bed is stained, for none is supposed to have a being. No deep affections are disquieted, no holy wedlock bands are snapped asunder, for affection's depth and wedded faith are not of the growth of that soil. There is neither right nor wrong, gratitude or its opposite, claim or duty, paternity or sonship. Of what consequence is it to Virtue, or how is she at all concerned about it, whether Sir Simon or Dapperwit steals away Miss Martha; or who is the father of Lord Froth's or Sir Paul Pliant's children ? The whole is a passing pageant, where we should sit as unconcerned at the issues, for life or death, as at a battle of the frogs and mice. But, like Don Quixote, we take part against the puppets, and quite as impertinently. We dare not contemplate an Atlantis, a scheme out of which our coxcombical ARTIFICIAL COMEDY 77 moral sense is for a little transitory ease excluded. We have not the courage to imagine a state of things for which there is neither reward nor punishment. ' We cling to the painful necessities of shame and blame. We would indict our very dreams. Amidst the mortifying circumstances attendant upon growing old, it is something to have seen the School for Scandal in its glory. This comedy grew, our''or"Cbngreve and Wycherley, but gathered; some allays of the sentimental comedy which follow ' theirs. 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 villany of the part, so different from the pressure of conscious actual wickedness, the hypo- critical assumption of hypocrisy, which made Jack so deservedly a favourite in that character, I must needs conclude the present generation of playgoers more virtuous than myself, or more dense. I freely confess that he divided the palm with me with his better brother ; that, in fact, I like him quite as well. Not but there are passages, like that, for instance, where Joseph is made to refuse a pittance to a poor relation — incongruities which Sheridan was forced upon by the attempt to join the artificial with the senti- mental comedy, either of which must destroy the 78 THE ART OF THE STAGE other ; 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 ; you got over the paltry question as quickly as you could, to get back into the regions of pure comedy, where no cold moral reigns. The highly artificial manner of Palmer in this character counteracted every dis- agreeable impression which you might have received from the contrast, supposing them real, between the two brothers. You did not believe in Joseph with the same faith with which you believed in Charles. The latter was a pleasant reality, the former a no less pleasant poetical foil to it. The comedy, I have said, is incDagxupus ; a mixture of. Congreve_wiih_^ se£5SSeii±%l incompatibilities; the gaiety upon the whole is buoyant f buit it required the consummate art of Palmer to reconcile the discordant elements. A player with Jack's talents, if we had one now, would not dare to do the part in the same manner. He would instinctively avoid every turn which might tend to unrealise, and so to make the character fascinating. He must take his cue from the spec- tators, who would expect a bad man and a good man as rigidly opposed to each other as the death- bed of these geniuses are contrasted in the prints, which I am sorry to say have disappeared from the windows of my old friend Carrington Bowles, of St Paul's Churchyard memory — (an exhibition as venerable as the adjacent cathedral, and almost coeval) of the bad and good man at the hour of ARTIFICIAL COMEDY 79 death ; where the ghastly apprehensions of the former, and truly the grim phantom with his reality of a toasting-fork is not to be despised, so finely contrast with the meek complacent kissing of the rod — taking it in like honey and butter — with which the latter submits to the scythe of the gentle bleeder, Time, who wields his lancet with the apprehensive finger of a popular young ladies' sur- geon. What flesh like loving grass, would not covet to meet half-way the stroke of such a delicate mower ? John Palmer was twice an actor in this exquisite part. He was playing to you all the while that he was playing upon Sir Peter and his lady. You had the first intimation of a sentiment before it was on his lips. His altered voice was meant for you, and you were to suppose that his fictitious co-flutterers on the stage perceived nothing at all of it. What was it to you if that half -reality, the husband, was over-reached by the puppetry, or the thin thing (Lady Teazle's reputation) was per- suaded it was dying of a plethory ? The fortimes of Othello and Desdemona were not concerned in it. Poor Jack has passed from the stage in good time, that he did not live to this our age of seriousness. The pleasantold Teazle^l^in^ too^is gone in -good time. His manner would scarce have passed current mour day. We must love or hate, acquit or condemn, censure or pity, exert our detestable coxcombry of moral judgment upon every thing. Joseph Surface to go down now, must be a downright revolting villain — no compromise ; his first appearance must 8o THE ART OF THE STAGE shock and give horror; his spacious plausibilities, which the pleasurable faculties of our fathers wel- comed with such hearty greetings, knowing that no harm (dramatic harm even) could come, or was meant to come of them, must inspire a cold and killing aversion. Charles, the real canting person of the scene, (for the hypocrisy of Joseph has its ulterior legitimate ends, but his brother's professions of a good heart centre in downright self-satisfaction), must be loved, and Joseph hated. To balance one disagreeable reality with another, Sir Peter Teazle must be no longer the comic idea of a fretful old bachelor bridegroom, whose teasings (while King acted it) were evidently as much played off at you as they were meant to concern anybody on the stage — he must be a real person, capable in law of sus- taining an injury — a person towards whom duties are to be acknowledged — the genuine crim. con. antagonist of the villanous seducer Joseph. To realise him more, his sufferings under his un- fortunate match must have the downright pungency of life — must (or should) make you not mirthful but uncomfortable, 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 realisation into asps or amphis- ARTIFICIAL COMEDY 8r baenas ; and Mrs Candour (Oh, frightful !) become a hooded serpent. Oh ! who that remembers Parsons and Dodd — the wasp and butterfly of the School for Scandal — in those two characters, and charminsr natural Miss Pope, the perfect gentlewoman as dis- tinguished from the fine lady of comedy, in this latter part, would forego the true scenic delight, the escape from life, the oblivion of consequences, the holiday barring out of 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 perpetu9,l appeals, dulled rather, and blunted, as a faculty without repose must be, and his moral vanity pampered with images of notional justice, notional beneficence, lives saved without the spec- tator s risk, and fortunes given away that cost the author nothing ? No piece was^per haps ever so comp letely cast in all its parts as this managers comedy. ""Miss Farren had^^-succeeded to Mrs Abington in Lady Teazle; and Smith, the original Charles, had retired when I first saw it. The rest of the characters, with very slight exceptions, remained. I remember it was then,jtlie^ fasbiQii_ta_cryi.down JohnT^Kemble, who took_ the part of Charles after Smith, but I thought very unjustly. Smith, I fanc}^, was more airy, and took the eye with a certain gaiety of person. He brought with him no sombre re- collections of tragedy. He had not to expiate the F 82 THE ART OF THE STAGE fault of having pleased beforehand in lofty de- clamation. He had no sins of Hamlet or of Richard to atone for. His failure in these parts was a passport to success in one of so opposite a tendency. But, as far as I could judge, the weighty sense of Kemble made up for more per- sonal incapacity than he had to answer for. His harshest tones in this part came steeped and dulcified in good humour. He made his defects a grace. His exact declamatory manner, as he managed it, only served to convey the points of his dialogue with more precision. It seemed to head the shafts to carry them deeper. Not one of his sparkling sentences was lost. I re- member minutely how he delivered each in succession, and cannot by any effort imagine how any of them could be altered for the better. No man could deliver brilliant dialogue, the dialogue of Congreve or of Wycherley, because none understood it half so well as John Kemble. His Valentine, in Love for Love, was, to my re- collection, faultless. He flagged sometimes in the intervals of tragic passion. He would slumber over the level parts of an heroic character. His Macbeth had been known to nod. But he .alway^s seemed to me to be particularly alive to pointed and witty dialogue. The relaxing levities of tragedy had not been touched by any since him ; the playful court-bred spirit in which he con- descended to the players in Hamlet — the sportive relief which he threw into the darker shades of ARTIFICIAL COMEDY 83 Ricliard, disappeared with him. He had his sluggish moods, his torpors, but they were the halting stones and resting place of his tragedy — politic savings, and fetches of the breath — husbandry of the lungs, where Nature pointed him to be an economist, rather, I think, than errors of the judgment. They were, at worst, less painful than the eternal tormenting unappeasable vigilance, the ' lidless dragon eyes,' of present fashionable tragedy. ON THE ACTING OF MVNDEN Not many nights ago I had come home from seeing this extraordinary performer in Cockletop ; and when I retired to my pillow his whimsical image still stuck by me in a manner as to threaten sleep. In vain I tried to divest myself of it, by conjuring up the most opposite associations. I resolved to be serious. I raised up the gravest topics of life; private misery, public calamity. All would not do : -There the antic sate Mocking our state- his queer visnomy, his bewildering costume, all the strange things which he had raked together, his serpentine rod swagging about in his pocket, Cleo- ACTING OF MUNDEN 85 patra's tear, and the rest of his relies, O'Keefe's wild farce, and his wilder commentary, till the passion of laughter, like grief in excess, relieved itself by its own weight, inviting the sleep which in the first instance it had driven away. But I was not to escape so easily. No sooner did I fall into slumbers, than the same image, only more perplexing, assailed me in the shape of dreams. Not one Munden, but five hundred, were dancing before me, like the faces which, whether you Avill or no, come when you have been taking opium — all the strange combinations, which this strangest of all strange mortals ever shot his proper countenance into, from the day he came commis- sioned to dry up the tears of the town for the loss of the now almost forgotten Edwin. Oh, for the power of the pencil to have fixed them when I awoke ! A season or two since, there was exhibited a Hogarth Gallery. I do not see why there should not be a Munden Gallery. In richness and variety, the latter would not fall far short of the former. ^ There is one face of Farley, one face of Knight, one (but what a one it is !) of Liston ; but Munden has none that you can properly pin down and call his. When you think he has exhausted his battery of looks, in unaccountable warfare with your gra- vity, suddenly he sprouts out an entirely new set of features, like Hydra. He is_ not one, but legion ; not so much^a comedian as a company. If his name could be multiplied like his countenance, it might fill a play-bill. He, and he alone, literally 86 THE ART OF THE STAGE makes faces: applied to any other person, the phrase is a mere figure, denoting certain modi- fications of the human countenance. Out of some invisible wardrobe he dips for faces, as his friend Suett used for wigs, and fetches them out as easily. I should not be surprised to see him some day put out the head of a river-horse ; or come forth a pewitt, or lapwing, some feathered metamorphosis. ' I have seen this gifted actor in Sir Christopher Curry, in old Dornton, diffuse a glow of sentiment which has made the pulse of a crowded theatre beat like that of one man, when he has come in aid of the pulpit, doing good to the moral heart of a people. I have seen some faint approaches to this sort of excellence in other players. But in the grand grotesque of farce, Munden stands out as single and unaccompanied as Hogarth. Hoo:arth, strangfe to tell, had no followers. The school of Munden began, and must end, with himself. * Can any man wonder like he does ? can any man see ghosts like he does ? or fight with his own shadow, 'SESSA,' as he does in that strangely- neglected thing. The Cobbler of Preston, where his alternations from the Cobbler to the Magnifico, and from the Magnifico to the Cobbler, keep the brain of the spectator in as wild a ferment, as if some Arabian Night were being acted before him ? Who like him can throw, or ever attempted to throw, a preternatural interest over the commonest ACTING OF MVNDEN 87 daily life objects? A table or a joint stool, in his conception, rises into a dignity equivalent to Cassiopeia's chair. It is invested with con- stellatory importance. You could not speak of it with more deference, if it were mounted into the firmament. A beggar in the hands of Michael Angelo, says Fuseli, rose the Patriarch of Poverty. So the gusto of Munden antiquates and ennobles what it touches. His pots and his ladles are as grand and primal as the seething-pots and hooks seen in old prophetic vision. A tub of butter, contemplated by him, amounts to a Platonic idea. He understands a leg of mutton in its quiddity. He stands wondering, amid the common - place materials of life, like prima3val man with the sun and stars about him. THE DEATH OF MUNDEN (Addressed to the Editor of the * Athenceum.^J ' Dear Sir, — Your communication to me of the death of Munden made me weep. Now, sir, I am not of the melting mood; but in these serious times, the loss of half the world's fun is no trivialdeprTvation. It was my loss (or gain shall I call it ?) in the early time of my play-going, to have missed all Munden's acting. There were only he and Lewis at Covent Garden, while Drury Lane was exuberant with Parsons, Dodd, &c., such a comic company as, I suppose, the stage never showed. Thence, in the evening of my life, I had Munden all to myself, more mellowed, richer, perhaps, than ever. I cannot say what his change of faces produced in me. It was not acting. He was not one of my ' old actors.' It might be better. DEATH OF Ml)l\DEN 89 His power was extravagant. I saw him one even- ing in three drunken characters. Three farces were played. One part was Dozey — I forget the rest — but they were so discriminated, that a stranger mightTTave seen them all, and not have ilream ed~ tha t Ti e was seeing the same actor. I am jealrrus'for the actors who pleased my youth. He was not a Parsons or a Dodd, but he was more wonderful. He seemed as if he could do anything. He was not an actor, but something better, if you please. Shall I instance Old Foresight in Love for Love, in which Parsons was at once the old man, the astrologer, &c. Munden dropped the old man, the doater — which makes the character — but he substituted for it a moon-struck character, a per- fect abstraction from this earth, that looked as if he had newly come down from the planets. Now\ that is not what I call acting. It might be better>\ He was imaginative ; he could impress upon an ) audience an idea — the low one perhaps of a leg of mutton'and turnips; but such was the grandeur and singleness of his expressions, that that single expression wouhl convey to all his auditory a notion of all the pleasures they had all received; from all the legs of mutton and turnips they had' ever eaten in their lives. Now, this is not acting] Nor do I set down Munden amongst my old actors He was only a wonderful man, exerting his vi impressions tli rough the agency of the stagQ^ one only thing did I see him a ct — that is, support, a character /dTit was in a wrerched"'^'ce called 90 THE ART OF THE STAGE Johnny Gilpin, for Dowton's benefit, in which he did a Cockney ; the thing run but one night ; but when I say that Liston's Lubin's Log was nothing to it, I say little ; it was transcendent. ;. And here, let me say of actors — envious actors — that of Munden, Liston was used to speak, almost with the enthusiasm due to the dead, in terms of such allowed superiority to every actor on the stage, and this at a time when Munden was gone by in the w^orld's estimation, that it convinced me that artists (in which term I include poets, painters, &c.) are not so envious as the world think. I have little time, and therefore enclose a criticism on Munden's Old Dozey and his general acting, by a fifentleman, who attends less to these thinojs than formerly, but whose criticism I think masterly. *C. Lamb; ' Mr Munden appears to us to be the most classical of actors. He is that in high fa^c^. which Kemhile was in high tfaggdyr'^TEe^lines of these great artist^~^fe^'it inust be admitted, sufficiently distinct ; but the same elements are in both, — the same directness of purpose, the same singleness of aim, the same concentration of power, the same iron-casing of inflexible manner, the same statue- like precision of gesture, movement, and attitude. The hero of farce is as little affected with impulses from without, as the retired Prince of Tragedians. There is something solid, sterling, almost adaman- tine, in the building up of his most grotesque DEATH OF MUNDEN 91 characters. When he fixes his wonder-working face in any of its most amazing varieties, it looks as if the picture were carved out from a rock by- Nature in a sportive vein, and might last for ever. It is like what we can imagine a mask of the old Grecian Comedy to have been, only that it lives, and breathes, and changes. His most fantastical gestures are the grand ideal of farce. He seems as thouo:h he belono^ed to the earliest and the state- liest age of Comedy, when instead of superficial foibles and the airy varieties of fashion, she had the grand asperities of man to work on, when her grotesque images had something romantic about them, and when humour and parody were them- selves heroic. His expressions of feeling and bursts of enthusiasm are among the most genuine which we have ever felt. They seem to come up from a depth of emotion in the heart, and burst through the sturdy casing of manner with a strength which seems increased tenfold by its real and hearty obstacle. The workings of his spirit seem to expand his frame, till we can scarcely believe that by measure it is small : for the space which he fills in the imagination is so real, that we almost mistake it for that of corporeal dimensions. His Old Bozey, in the excellent farce of ' Past Ten o'clock,' is his grandest eflTort of this kind, and we know of nothing finer. He seems to have a ' heart of oak ' indeed. His description of a sea- fight is the most noble and triumphant piece of enthusiasm which we remember. It is as if the 92 TEE ART OF THE STAGE spirits of a whole crew of nameless heroes " were swelling in his bosom." We never felt so ardent and proud a sympathy w^ith the valour of England as when we heard it. May health long be his, thus to do our hearts good ; for we never saw any actor whose merits have the least resemblance to his, even in species ; and when his genius is withdrawn from the stage, we shall not have left even a term by which we can iitly describe it/ ELLISIONIANA My acquaintance with the pleasant creature, whose loss we all deplore, was but slight. My first introduction to Elliston, which after- wards ripened into an acquaintance a little on this side of intimacy, was over a counter in the Leaming- ton Spa Library, then newly entered upon by a branch of his family. Elliston, whom nothing mis- became — to auspicate, I suppose, the filial concern, and set it a-going with a lustre — was serving in person, two damsels fair, who had come into the shop ostensibly to inquire for some new publica- tion, but in reality to have a sight at the illustrious shopman, hoping some, conference. With what an air did he reach down the volume, dispassionately giving his opinion of the work in question, and 94 THE ART OF THE STAGE launching out into a dissertation on its comparative merits with those of certain publications of a similar stamp, its rivals ; his enchanted customers fairly hanging on his lips, subdued to their authoritative sentence. So I have seen a gentleman in comedy acting the shopman. So Lovelace sold his gloves in King Street. I admired the histrionic art by which he contrived to carry clean away every notion of disgrace, from the occupation he had so generously submitted to ; and from that hour I judged him, with no after repentance, to be a person with whom it would be a felicity to be more ac- quainted. To descant upon his merits as a Comedian would be superfluous. With this blended private and pro- fessional habits alone I have to do ; that harmonious fusion of the manners of the player into those of every-day life, which brought the stage boards into streets and dining-parlours, and kept up the play when the play w^as ended. * I like Wrench,' a friend was saying to him one day, ' because he is the same natural, easy creature on the stage that he is off! ' My case exactly,* retorted Elliston, with a charm- ing forgetfulness that the converse of a proposition does not always lead to the same conclusion, ' I ^ am the same person off the stage that I am on! The inference, at first sight, seems identical; but examine it a little, and it confesses only that the one performer was never, and the other always, acting. And in truth this was the charm of Elliston's ELLISTONIANA 95 private deportment. You had spirited performance always goings on before your eyes, with nothing to pay. As where a monarch takes up his casual abode for a night, the poorest hovel which he honours by his sleeping in it, becomes ipso facto for that time a palace ; so wherever EUiston walked, sate, or stood still, there was the theatre He carried about with him his pit, boxes, and galleries, and set up his portable playhouse at corners of streets, and in the market-places. Upon flintiest pave- ments he trod the boards still ; and if his theme chanced to be passionate, the green baize carpet of tragedy spontaneously rose beneath his feet. Now\ this was hearty, and showed a love for his art./ So Apelles always painted, in thought. So G. D/ ahvays poetises. I hate a lukewarm artist. I have known actors, and some of them of Elliston's own stamp, who shall have agreeably been amusing you in the part of a rake or a coxcomb, through the two or three hours of their dramatic existence ; but no sooner does the curtain fall with its leaden clatter, but a spirit of lead seems to seize on all their faculties. They emerge sour, morose persons, intolerable to their families, servants, &c. Another shall have been expanding your heart with generous deeds and sentiments, till it even beats with yearn- ings of universal sympathy ; you absolutely long to go home and do some good action. The play seems tedious till you can get fairly out of the house, and realize your laudable intentions. At length the final bell rings, and this cordial representative of 96 THE ART OF THE STAGE all that is amiable in human breasts steps forth a miser. Elliston was more of a piece. Did he flay Ranger ? and did Ranger fill the general bosom of the town with satisfaction ? why should he not be Ranger, and diffuse the same cordial satisfaction among his private circles ? With his temperament, his animal spirits, his good-nature, his follies per- chance, could he do better than identify himself with his impersonation ? Are we to like a pleasant rake or coxcomb on the stage, and give ourselves airs of aversion for the identical character, pre- sented to us in actual life ? or what would the per- former have gained by divesting himself of the impersonation ? Could the man Elliston have been essentially different from his part, even if he had avoided to reflect to us studiously, in private circles, and airy briskness, the forwardness, and scape- goat trickeries of his prototype ? 'But there is something not natural in this ever- lasting acting ; we want the real man.' Are you quite sure that it is not the man him- self, whom you cannot, or will not see, under some adventitious trappings, which, nevertheless, sit not at all inconsistently upon him ? What, if it is the nature of some men to be highly artificial ? The fault is least reprehensible in players. Gibber was liis own Foppington, with almost as much wit as A^anbrugh could add to it. ' My conceit of his person ' (\i is Ben Jonson speaking of Lord Bacon) ' was nevei* increased to- wards him by his place or honours; but I have ELLISTONIANA 97 and do reverence him for the greatness that was only proper to himself ; in that he seemed to me ever one of the greatest men that had been in many ages. In his adversity I ever prayed that Heaven would give him strength ; for greatness he could not want.' The quality here commended was scarcely less conspicuous in the subject of these idle reminis- cences than in my Lord Verulam. Those who 1 have imagined that an unexpected elevation to the direction of a great London Theatre affected the consequence of Elliston, or at all changed his nature, knew not the essential greatness of the man whom they disparag^. It was my fortune to encounter him near St Dunstan's Church (which, with its punctual giants, is now no more than dust and a shadow), on the morning of his election to that high office. Grasping my hand with a look of significance, he only uttered, — ' Have you heard the news ? ' — then, with another look following up the blow, he subjoined, ' I am the future manager of Drury Lane Theatre.' — Breathless as he saw me, he stayed not for congratulation or reply, but mutely stalked away, leaving me to chew upon his new-blown dignities at leisure. In fact, nothing could be said to it. Expressive silence alone could muse his praise. This was in his great style. But was he less great (be witness, ye powers of Equanimity, that supported in the ruins of Carthage the consular exile, and more recently transmuted, for a more illustrious exile, the barren G 98 THE ART OF THE STAGE constableship of Elba into an image of Imperial France), when, in melancholy after-years, again, much nearer the same spot, I met him, when that sceptre had been wrested from his hand, and his /-dominion was curtailed to the petty managership, and part proprietorship, of the small Olympic, his Elba ? He still played nightly upon the boards of Drury, but in parts, alas ! allotted to him, not mag- nificently distributed by him. Waiving his great loss as nothing, and magnificently sinking the sense of fallen "material grandeur in the more liberal re- sentment of depreciations done to his more lofty intellectual pretensions, ' Have you heard ' (his customary exordium) — * have you heard,' said he, ' how they treat me ? they put me in comedy! Thought I — but his finger on his lips forbade any verbal interruption — ' where could they have put you better ? ' Then, after a pause, — ' Where I formerly played Romeo, I now play Mercutio,' — and so again he stalked away, neither staying, nor caring for, responses. 0, it was a rich scene, — but Sir A C , the best of story-tellers and surgeons, who mends a lame narrative almost as well as he sets a fracture, alone could do justice to it, — that I was a witness to, in the tarnished room (that had once been green) of that same little Olympic. There, after his depo- sition from Imperial Drury, he substituted a throne. That Olympic Hill was his 'highest heaven ; ' himself ' Jove in his chair.' There he sat in state, while before him, on complaint of ELLISTONIANA 99 prompter, was brought for judgment — how shall I describe her ? — one of those little tawdry things that flirt at the tails of choruses — a probationer for the town, in either of its senses — the pertest little drab — a dirty fringe and appendage of the lamp's smoke — who, it seems, on some disapproba- tion expressed by a ' highly respectable ' audience — had precipitately quitted her station on the boards, and withdrawn her small talents in disgust. ' And how dare you,' said her manager, — assum- ing a censorial severity, which would have crushed the confidence of a Vestris, and disarmed that beautiful rebel herself of her professional caprices, — I verily believe he thought her standing before him — ' how dare you, madam, withdraw yourself, without a notice, from your theatrical duties V * I was hissed, sir/ * And have you the presumption to decide upon the taste of the town ? ' * I don't know that, sir, but I will never stand to be hissed,' was the subjoinder of young Confidence — when, gathering up his features into one significant mass of wonder, pity, and expostulate )ry indig- nation, in a lesson never to have been lost upon a creature less forward than she who stood before him, his words were these, — ' They have hissed me/ ' Twas the identical argument a fortiori, which the son of Peleus uses to Lycaon trembling under his lance, to persuade him to take his destiny with a good grace. * I too am mortal.' And it is to be believed that in both cases the rhetoric missed of loo THE ART OF THE STAGE its application for want of a proper understanding with the faculties of the respective recipients. ' Quite an Opera pit,' he said to me, as he was courteously conducting me over the benches of his Surrey Theatre, the last retreat and recess of his every-day waning grandeur. Those who knew Elliston will know the manner in which he pronounced the latter sentence of the few words I am about to record. One proud day to me he took his roast mutton with us in the Temple, to which I had superadded a preliminary haddock. After a rather plentiful partaking of the meagre banquet, not unrefreshed with the humbler sort of liquors, I made a sort of apology for the humility of the fare, observing that for my own part I never ate but one dish at dinner. ' I, too, never eat but one thing at dinner,' was his reply ; then after a pause — 'reckoning fish as nothing.' The manner was all. It was as if by one per- emptory sentence he had decreed the annihilation of all the savoury esculents, which the pleasant and nutritious food-giving Ocean pours forth upon poor humans from her watery bosom. This was great- ness, tempered with considerate tenderness to the feelings of his scanty but welcoming entertainer. Great wert thou in thy life, Robert William Elliston ! and not lessened in thy death, if report speak truly, which says that thou didst direct that thy mortal remains should repose under no inscrip- tion but one of pure Latinity. Classical was thy bringing up ; and beautiful was the feeling on thy SHAKSPEARIPS CONTEMPORARIES loi last bed, which, connecting the man with the hoy, took thee back to thy latest exercise of imagination, to the days when, undreaming of Theatres and Managerships, thou wert a scholar and an early ripe one, under the roofs builded by the munificent and pious Colet. For thee the Pauline Muses weep. In elegies, that shall silence this crude prose, they shall celebrate thy praise. CHARACTERS OF DRAMATIC WRITERS CON- TEMPORARY WITH SHAKSPE ARE When I selected for publication, in 1808, specimens of English Dramatic Poets who lived about the time ' of SlmksjJeaW, the kind of extracts which I was .anxious to give* were, not so much passages of wit and h time ur, t-hengh the old plays are rich in such, as scenes of passion, sometimes of the deepest quality, interesting situations, serious descriptions, that which is more nearly allied to poetry than to wit, and to tragic rather than to comic poetry. The plays which I made choice of were, with few ex- ceptions, such as treat of human life and manners, rather than masques and Arcadian pastorals, with their train of abstractions, unimpassioned deities, passionate mortals — Claius, and Medorus, and SHAKSPEARE'S CONTEMPORARIES 103 Amintas, and Amaryllis. My leading design was, to illustrate what may be called the moral sense of our ancestors. To show in what manner they felt, when they placed themselves by the power of imagination in trying circumstances, in the conflicts of duty and passion, or the strife of contending duties ; what sort of loves and enmities theirs were ; how their griefs were tempered, and their f ull-swoln joys abated ; how much of Shakspeare shines in the great men, his contemporaries, and how far in his divine mind and manners he surpassed them and ail mankind. I was also desirous to bring together some of the most admired scenes of Fletcher and Massinger, in the estimation of the world the only dramatic poets of that age entitled to be considered after Shakspeare, and, by exhibiting them in the same volume with the more impressive scenes of old Marlowe, Heywood, Tourneur, Webster, Ford, and others, to show what he had slighted, while beyond all proportion we had been crying up one or two favourite names. From the desultory criti- cisms which accompanied that publication, I have selected a few which I thought would best stand by themselves, as requiring least immediate reference to the play or passage by which they were sug- gested. CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE Lust's Dominion or the Lascivious Queen. — This tragedy is in King Cambyses' vein ; rape, and murder, and superlatives ; * huffing braggart puft I04 THE ART OF THE STAGE lines,' such as the play writers anterior to Shak- speare are full of, and Pistol but coldly imitates. Tamhurlaine the Great y or the Scythian Shep- herd. — The lunes of Tamhurlaine are perfect mid-summer madness. Nebuchadnazar's are mere modest pretensions compared with the thundering vaunts of this Scythian Shepherd. He comes in drawn by conquered kings, and reproaches these pampered jades of Asia that they can draw but twenty miles a day. Till I saw this passage with my own eyes, I never believed that it was anything more than a pleasant burlesque of mine ancients. But I can assure my readers that it is soberly set down in a play, which their ancestors took to be serious. Edward the Second. — In a very different style from mighty Tamhurlaine is the tragedy of Edward the Second. The reluctant pangs of abdicating royalty in Edward furnished hints, which Shak- speare scarcely improved in his Richard the Second, and the death scene of Marlowe's King moves pity and terror beyond any scene ancient or modern with which I am acquainted. The Rich Jew of Malta. — Marlowe's Jew does not approach so near to Shakspeare's, as his Edward the Second does to Kichard the Second. Barabas is a mere monster, brought in with a large-painted nose to please the rabble. He kills in sport, poisons whole nunneries, invents infernal machines. He is just such an exhibition as a century or two earlier might have been played before the Londoners ' by SHAKSPEARFS CONTEMPORARIES 105 the royal command/ when a general pillage and massacre of the Hebrews had been previously re- solved on in the Cabinet. It is curious to see a superstition wearing out. The idea of a Jew, which our pious ancestors contemplated with so much horror, has nothing in it now revolting. We have tamed the claws of the beast, and pared its nails, and now we take it to our arms, we fondle it, write plays to flatter it ; it is visited by princes, affects a taste, patronises the arts, and is the only liberal and gentleman-like thing in Christendom. Doctor Faustus. — The growing horrors of Faustus' last scene are awfully marked by the hours and half-hours as they expire, and bring him nearer and nearer to the exactment of his dire compact. It is indeed an agony and a fearful colluctation. Marlowe is said to have been tainted with atheisti- cal positions, to have denied God and the Trinity. To such a genius the history of Faustus must have been delectable food: to wander in fields, where curiosity is forbidden to go, to approach the dark gulf near enough to look in, to be busied in speculations which are the rottenest part of the core of the fruit that fell from the tree of know- ledge, *Barabas the Jew, and Faustus the conjurer, are offsprings of a mind which at least delighted to dally with interdicted subjects. They both talk a language which a believer would have been tender * Error, entering into the world with Sin among us poor Adamites, may be said to spring from the tree of knowledge itself, and from the rotten kernels of that fatal apple. — HowelVs Letters. io6 THE ART OF THE STAGE of putting into the mouth of a character though but in fiction. But the holiest minds have some- times not thought it reprehensible to counterfeit impiety in the person of another, to bring Vice upon the stage speaking her own dialect ; and, themselves being armed with an unction of self-confident im- punity, have not scrupled to handle and touch that familiarly, which would be death to others. Milton in the person of Satan has started speculations hardier than any which the feeble armoury of the atheist ever furnished ; and the precise, strait-laced Richardson has strengthened Vice, from the mouth of Lovelace, with entangling sophistries and ab- struse pleas against her adversary Virtue, which Sedley, Tilliers, and Rochester, wanted depth of libertinism enough to have invented. THOMAS DECKER Old Fortunatus. — The humour of a frantic lover, in the scene where Orleans, to his friend Gallo- way, defends the passion with which himself, being a prisoner in the English king's court, is enamoured to frenzy of the king's daughter Agripyna, is done to the life. Orleans is as passionate an inamorato as any which Shakspeare ever drew. He is just such another adept in Love's reasons. The sober people of the world are with him — -A swarm of fools Crowding together to be counted wise. SHAKSPEARE'S CONTEMPORARIES 107 He talks ' pure Biron and Romeo/ he is almost as poetical as they, quite as philosophical, only a little madder. After all, Love's sectaries are a reason unto themselves. We have gone retrograde to the noble heresy, since the days when Sydney prose- lyted our nation to this mixed health and disease ; the kindliest symptom, yet the most alarming crisis in the ticklish state of youth ; the nourisher and the destroyer of hopeful wits ; the mother of twin births, wisdom and folly, valour and weakness ; the servitude above freedom ; the gentle mind's re- ligion ; the liberal superstition. The Honest Whore. — There is in the second part of this play, where Bellafront, a reclaimed harlot, recounts some of the miseries of her profession, a simple picture of honour and shame, contrasted without violence, and expressed without immodesty which is worth all the strong lines against the harlot's profession, with which both parts of this play are offensively crowded. A satirist is always to be suspected, who, to make vice odious, dwells upon all its acts and minutest circumstances with a sort of relish and retrospective fondness. But so near are the boundaries of panegyric and invective, that a worn-out sinner is sometimes found to make the best declaimer against sin. The same high seasoned descriptions, which in his unregenerate state served but to inflame his appetites, in his new province of a moralist will serve him, a little turned, to expose the enormity of those appetites in other men. When Ceryantes with such proficiency of io8 THE ART OF THE STAGE fondness dwells upon the Don's library,' who sees not that he has been a great reader of books of knight-errantry — perhaps was at some time of his life in danger of falling into those very extrava- gances which he ridiculed so happily in his hero. JOHN MAESTON Antonio and Mellida — The situation of Andrugio and Lucio, in the first part of this tragedy, where Andrugio, Duke of Genoa, banished from his country, with the loss of a son supposed drowned, is cast upon the territory of his mortal enemy, the Duke of Venice, with no attendants but Lucio, an old nobleman, and a page — resembles that of Lear and Kent in that king's distresses. Andrugio, like Lear, manifests a kinglike im- patience, a turbulent greatness, and affected re- signation. The enemies which he enters lists to combat, * Despair and mighty Grief and sharp Impatience,' and the forces which he brings to vanquish them, ' cornets of horse,' etc., are in the boldest style of allegory. They are such a 'race of mourners' as the * infection of sorrows loud' in the intellect might beget on some ' pregnant cloud' in the imagination. The prologue to the second part, for its passionate earnestness, and for the tragic note of preparation which it sounds, might have preceded one of those old tales of Thebes of Pelops' line, which Milton has so highly commended, as free from the common SHAKSPEARFS CONTEMPORARIES 109 error of the poets in his day, of 'intermixing comic stuff with tragic sadness and gravity, brought in without di&cretipn., corruptly to gratify the peogle/ It is as solemn a preparative as tlie ^"warning voice which he who saw the Apo- calypse heard cry/ What You Will— 'Oh, I shall ne'er forget how he went cloath'd,' Act I, Scene 1. — To judge of the liberality of these notions of dress, we must advert to the days of Gresham, and the consternation which a phenomenon habited like the merchant here described would have excited among the flat round caps and cloth stockings upon 'Change when those 'original arguments or tokens of a citizen's vocation were in fashion, not more for thrift and usefulness than for distinction and grace.' The blank uniformity to which all professional distinctions in apparel have been long hastening, is one instance of the decay of symbols among us, which, whether it has contributed or not to make us a more intellectual, has certainly made us a le.ss imaginative people. Shakspeare knew the force of signs : a ' malignant and a turban'd Turk.' This ' meal-cap miller,' says the author of God's revenge against Murder, to express his indignation at an atrocious outrage committed by the miller Pierot upon the person of the fair Marieta. AUTHOR UNKNOWN The Merry Devil of Edmonton. — The scene in no THE ART OF THE STAGE this delightful comedy, in which Jerningham, * with the true feeling of a zealous friend,' touches griefs of Mounchensey, seems written to make^ the reader happy. Few of our dramatists or nove- lists have attended enough to this. They torture and wound us abundantly. They are economists only in delight. Nothing can be finer, more gentle- manlike, and nobler, than the conversation and ^^-compliments of these young men. How delicious is Raymond Mounchensey 's forgetting, in his fears, that Jerningham has a ' Saint in Essex ; ' and how sweetly his friend reminds him ! I wish it could be ascertained, which there is some grounds for believing, that Michael Drayton was the author of this piece. It would add a worthy appendage to the renown of that Panegyrist of my native Earth ; who has gone over her soil, in his Polyolbion, with the fidelity of a herald, and the painful love of a son ; who has not left a rivulet, so narrow that it may be stept over, without honourable mention; and has animated hills and streams with life and passion beyond the dreams of old mythology. THOMAS HEYWOOD A Woman Killed with Kindness. — Heywood is a sort of prose Shakspeare. His scenes are to the full as natural and affecting. But we miss the poet, that which in Shakspeare always appears out and above the surface of the nature. Heywood's characters in this play, for instance, his country SHAKSPE ARE'S CONTEMPORARIES in gentlemen, etc., are exactly what we see, but of the best kind of what we see, in life. Shakspeare makes us believe, while we are among his lovely creations, that they are nothing but what we are familiar with, as in dreams new things seem old ; but we awake, and sigh for the difference. The English Traveller. — Heywood's preface to this play is interesting, as it shows the heroic in- difference about the opinion of posterity, which some of these great writers seem to have felt. There is a magnanimity in authorship as in every- thing else. His ambition seems to have been con- fined to the pleasure of hearing the players speak his lines while he lived. It does not appear that Tie ever contemplated the possibility of being read by after ages. What a slender pittance of fame was motive sufficient to the production of such plays as the English Traveller, the Challenge for Beauty, and the Woman Killed with Kindness ! Posterity is bound to take care that a writer loses nothing by such a noble modesty. THOMAS MIDDLETON AND WILLIAM ROWLEY A Fair Quarrel. — Xhe insipid levelling jnorality to which the modern stage is tied down, would not admit of such admirable passions as these scenes are filled with. A puritanical obtuseness oT sentiment, a stupid infantile goodness, is creeping among us, instead of the vigorous passions, and virtues clad in flesh and blood, 112 THE ART OF THE STAGE with which the old dramatists present us. Those noble and liberal casuists could discern in the differences, the quarrels, the animosities of men, a beauty and truth of moral feeling, no less than in the everlastingly inculcated duties of forgiveness and atonement. With us, all is hypocritical meekness. A reconciliation scene be the occasion never so absurd, never fails of applause. " Our audiences come to the theatre to be complimented on their goodness. They compare notes with the amialBlF ^characters in the play, and find a wonderful sympathy of disposition between them. We have a common stock of dramatic morality, out of which a writer may be supplied without the trouble of copying it from originals within his own breast. To know the boundaries of honour, to be judiciously valiant, to have a temperance which shall beget a smoothness in the angry swellings of youth, to esteem life as nothing when the sacred reputation of a parent is to be defended, yet to shake and tremble under a pious cowardice when that ark of an honest confidence is found to be frail and tottering ; to feel the true blows of a real disgrace blunting that sword which the im^-ginary strokes of a supposed false imputa- tion had put so keen an edge upon but lately; to do, or to imagine this done in a feigned story asks something more of a moral sense, some- what a greater delicacy of perception in questions of right and wrong, than goes to the writing of SHAKSPEARIPS CONTEMPORARIES 113 two or three hackneyed sentences about the laws of honour as opposed to the laws of the land, or a commonplace against duelling. Yet such things would stand a writer now-a-days in far better stead than Captain Agar and his conscientious honour, and he would be considered as a far better teacher of morality than old Rowley or Middleton, if they were living. WILLIAM ROWLEY A New Wonder: A Woman Never Vext. — The old play-writers are distinguished by an honest boldness of exhibition, they show everything without being ashamed. If a reverse in fortune is to be exhibited, they fairly bring us to the prison grate and the alms basket. A poor man on our stage is always a gentleman, he may be known by a peculiar neatness of apparel, and by wearing black. Our delicacy in fact forbids the dramatizing of distress at all. It is never shown in its essential properties ; it appears but as the adjunct of some virtue, as something which is to be relieved, from the approbation of which relief the spectators are to derive a certain soothing of self-referred satisfaction. We tur^i away from the real essences of things to hunti after their relative shadows, moral duties ; where-l as, if the truth of things were fairly representedA the relative duties might be safely trusted ta\ H 114 THE ART OF THE STAGE themselves, the moral philosophy lose the name of a science. THOMAS MIDDLETON The Witch. — Though some resemblance may be traced between the charms in Macbeth, and the incantations in this play, which is supposed to have preceded it, this coincidence will not detract much from the originality of Shakspeare. His witches are distinguished from the witches of Middleton by essential differences. These are creatures to whom man or woman, plotting some dire mischief, might resort for occasional consultation. Those originate deeds of blood, and.._ begin bad impulses to men. From the moment that their eyes first meet with Macbeth's, he is^ spell-bound. That meeting sways his destiny. He can never break the fascination. These witches can hurt the body, those have power over the soul. Hecate in Middleton has a son, a low buffoon, the hags of Shakspeare have neither child of their own, nor seem to be descended from any parent. They are foul anomalies, of whom we know not whence they are sprung, nor whether they have beginning or ending. As they are without human passions, so they seem to be with- out human relations. They come with thunder and lightning, and vanish to airy music. This is all we know of them. Except Hecate, they have no names ; which heightens their mysterious- SHAKSPEARE'S CONTEMPORARIES 115 ness. The names, and some of the properties which the other author has given to his hags, excite smiles. The Weird Sisters are serious things. Their presence cannot co-exist with mirth. But, in a lesser degree, the witches of Middleton are fine creations. Their power too is, in some measure, over the mind. They raise jars, jealousies, strifes, ' like a thick scurf ' over life. WILLIAM ROWLEY, THOMAS DECKER, JOHN FORD, ETC. The Witch of Edmonton. — Mother Sawyer, in this wild play, differs from the liags of both Middleton and Shakspeare. She is the plain traditional old woman witch of our ancestors; poor, deformed, and ignorant ; the terror of villages, herself amenable to a justice. That should be a hardy sheriff, with the power of the county at his heels, that would lay hands upon the Weird Sisters. They are of another jurisdiction. But upon the common and received opinion, the author (or authors) have engrafted strong fancy. There is something frightfully earnest in her invocations to the Familiar. CYRIL TOURNEUR The Revengers Tragedy. — The reality and life of the dialogue, in which Vindici and Hippolito first ii6 THE ART OF THE STAGE tempt their mother, and then threaten her with it will be admitted of that oppressive and tedious tyranny, under which we have so long groaned. Who has not felt this when submitting to the ordeal of the average drama, where though an exciting story has been set out, the men and women seem to have stepped from the street to the stacre ? All this, indeed, is but the common principle of the other arts — painting, poetry, music, sculpture. The ordinary painter copies some incident, vividly and exactly it may be, but the result is simply 204 'J'HE ART OF THE STAGE an irritation of reality. The true artist, while imitating, to a certain extent, has thought only of the poetry or suggestiveness of his subject, and appeals to much more. This might be illustrated by the principles of true portrait painting, where the vulgar ideal is of a perfect likeness, copied literally, as if by photograph. 'It must be like,' will be the criticism, if the shape, colour, &c., be accurately followed. This question was happily raised in a late trial, and did something to enlighten the ignorant, though there was some obscurity as to that ' investing with artistic merit.' A simple cast from the human face might seem the most realistic likeness or copy of all, and yet be no portrait. For the true artist will seek even in the plainest and most prosaic alderman's face for some intellectual light, some poetry of rude sense and quick intelligence, some turn of shrewdness which will interest ; and he will look on the ac- curate delineation of the features, though necessary, as something secondary — a mechanical function. This illustrates forcibly the principle which should direct the transference of real life and real things — the crowd idly supposing that the accurate copying of the bold manners of social life is sufficient to excite the dramatic sense. It was thus assumed that the ' Robertsonian Comedy ' with its transcript of the fade and colourless utterances of dandies and girls, the making of tea, &c., were dramatic ele- ments just as much as the introduction of real fire ; things, as I have said, which are only a continuance A COMMENTARY 205 of the real life outside, ami cause no sense of change or novelty. Of course, the insipidity of dandy life is a subject for comedy, but the art is shown not in simple transference of inane talk, but in the piercing to the essence of the folly and selecting what is truly significant of the mental formation of the person. And what a fund of meditation in that passage about the Dryad, ' when an artist is called to paint "on demand" a Dryad, a naked figure, and furnished about with oaks, &c. — or it might be a Naiad, when he surrounds the same figure with fountains and falls of pellucid water ! ' Yet, how well he shows how the presumption is that influences of the surroundings should be expressed by the figure itself. And this is exactly what should operate on the stage, where the character should be equally independent of the scenery. Mr Ruskin in an exquisite passage has expressed the same idea. He describes himself, in presence of a striking scene in the Jura, as making the experiment with a view of arriving at the sources of its impressiveness, of imagining it for a moment a scene in some aboriginal forest of the New Continent. He says he well recalls the sudden chill and blankness which came over him. ' The flowers lost their light ; the hills became desolate ; a heaviness in the boughs of the darkened forest, showed how much of the former had been dependent on a life which was not theirs. Those ever-springing flowers 2o6 THE ART OF THE STAGE had been dyed byj^the deep colours of human en- durance, valour, and virtue.' The progress of science has curiously aided the scenic movement, for without the existence of the lime-light, the glittering clothes, the armour, the brilliant hues of the scene, could never have displayed their sheen to advantage. The rich plush stuffs now manufactured in profusion, and the ' silver armour ' — a modern discovery — have also * contributed to the show. Yet the thought often suggests itself — Does the brilliant view of a street in Venice, bathed in a flood of a gaudy glaring light, really resemble anything in the outside world ; or have not training and habit made us accept these conventional forms in despite of reason ? Certain it is that this unnatural and Plutonian atmosphere with its adjuncts must, of necessity, overwhelm the actors and the acting. It attracts the chief part of the spectators' attention, and makes the actors appear inferior. Under the older dispensations of the last century, four chandeliers, suspended over their heads, supplied the needful light, and the scenery was a simple painted screen behind, in low colouring, and but faintly illuminated. Hence, we can see how much the force, the impression, of the figures was inten- sified. They, and all they said, at once rivetted attention. There was nothing to look at, or attend to but the players. Again, modern scenery is now constructed on the ' building-up ' principle. Great houses and A COMMENTARY 207 other buildings, streets, &c., are all fashioned in their actual form, and drawn on the stage by- numbers of men, and, as one scene does for an act, there must be sufficient time to rear these edifices. The ' cloth ' is but rarely used, perhaps because it looks poor and ridiculous in company with so much solid matter. But is not this ' building-up ' system really opposed to the illusion of the stage ? The stage is but a small area, under the most favourable conditions, reaching to same forty or fifty feet in width, by, say, a hundred feet in depth. In this contracted space, the scene-builder proposes to exhibit a market-place, for instance, in an Italian city. Houses, fountain, flights of stairs, streets — — all are brought together in one view. In real life, only a fragment of these things could be seen at once from the same point of view. Possibly it may be urged that from the distance at which the spectator is seated, the eye would take in all the objects named. But, then, they would be far smaller and more indistinct, according to the rules of perspective. The living figures supply the scale of proportion. As it is, the arrangement is all at fault. For these ' built up ' structures are on a miniature scale, the tallest house being only some two or three times the height of the performer. It is like the apparition of a human face in a puppet show. The whole is, in short, an attempt to com- bine the conditions of reality with the conditions of illusion. The statement of a few simple principles — 2o8 THE ART OF THE STAGE conceded by all — will help us to a clear under- standing of the matter. It will be found that scenic effect depends on the same principle as dramatic effect. In both it is found, not in details, but in the essence of a number of details, as the untrained dramatist soon finds out to his astonish- ment. In real life when a o^enuine or excitinor dramatic situation occurs, it is surely not while richly-dressed people are symmetrically grouped around, nor in the exact centre of palatial apart- ments, nor at the moment that a procession is passing, nor with magnificent furniture appoint- ments and decorations specially arranged. These things rarely enter into the situation. A battle is a grand complex panorama to the mind ; but the real battle, to those who have witnessed it, is but a few men grouped near, and a cloud of smoke. The death of Lord Chatham, as painted by Copley, showing the House of Lords in all its extent, and all the peers in a vast crowd gathered round, is a good memorial. But those who witnessed the dramatic moment saw nothing of this, or saw it all faintly. For them there was only the dying orator and his agonies, and perhaps the one or two who supported him and who entered into the action. The simple answer to the question, 'What is " the scene " ? ' will help to clear up the matter more effectually. The ' Scene ' has, indeed, come to have a limited technical meaning, as applied to the whole surroundings of the action, either painted or ' built A COMMENTARY 209 up/ But it has a more abstract or general sense by which it seems to imply the dramatic moment of interest arising out of a situation, where two per- sonages, for example, are engaged in a room, either conversing or arranging a conspiracy, or busy with some other dramatic purpose. If they are inter- rupted by a third, he ' enters on the scene' and adds a fresh dramatic element. But, by our present very material scenic laws, this process is always carried out with a literal exactness. From the moment of the actor's appearance at the entrance, his progress must be according to the strict condi- tions of real life ; there must be a door for him to open and close, and from the door he must be followed across the real carpet till he joins the party in the centre. Yet surely in the case of a dramatic incident in real life these things are not thought of, noticed, or remembered. The late Lord Derby expressed the idea happily enough when he said ' he never knew whether it was John or Thomas that answered the bell.' For him it was simply the servant — or indeed the message he carried. A man who has been present at an exciting scene in some room, does not recall whether or how the door was opened, or how the person entered. All he remembers is that the person came and joined the party. He recollects that all were standing in the centre part of a great room, with a general notion of furniture, &c., in the background, which made no particular impression on him. But what took place within the zone that o 2IO TEE ART OF THE STAGE held the figures is vividly before him. So, when we read ' Scene — a Street,' it is not meant that a whole street should be displayed to convey to our greedy senses that something took place in the street. In real life, a person who has witnessed some dramatic episode 'in the street,' bears away with him a kind of abstract notion of 'street/ a corner, with a house or two as background. This generally is all that dramatic action asks for ; more interferes with its effects, and is surplusage. Hence, the merit of what was called 'old stock scenery,' when there was one general view of ■^ a street ' used in almost every play, a palace interior, a church, a cottage, which scenery did service in every drama. Of course there would be an absurdity in using an English street scene for an Italian play; but there is no doubt the scenery could be much more generalized than it is, and particular scenes could be used for many plays. And this principle applies particularly to the fashionable practice, before alluded to, of loading the stage with heavy furniture and ' built up ' ;scenes — obstructions, as they might well be called. For the theory of the stage, or ' the scene,' it must be repeated, is that it is a segment or fragment of the ground on which human figures move, and which should be clear and unencumbered. In real life, where anything dramatic occurs, one is conscious of this clear space, and when we recall it, the furniture, &c., seems to recede into indis- A COMMENTARY 211 tinctness. ' The Stage ' offers this ideal space, and the necessary encumbering objects belonging to the enclosing screens should be painted on the canvas. With this, too, is connected the problem of the position of the audience or spectator. Is he looking on, Asmodeus-like, from afar off, the wall of the room being removed to allow him to see what is going on ; or is that wall behind him — is he supposed to be in the room, and, though virtually at a distance, presumed to be close to the performer ? The adoption of the first theory really seems to have led to all the cumbrous abuses in the matter of scenery. For the opening, which is covered by the curtain, thus becomes a sort of ' peep-show ' ; everything, as we have shown, must be compressed and dwarfed so as to give a complete view — a complete cathedral interior, drawing-room, market-place, square, street, interior of a cottage, all must be fitted to the one Procrustean standard, while, oddest of all, the area of the cottage interior is equal to the area of the interior of the Italian market-place. Taking our original principle as the basis of all scenic effect, we shall see at once how it dis- poses of the ingenious but inconclusive effects, which the ingenuity of modern artists have devised, such as the stage divided, by a partition, into two or even four chambers, in each of which we see a different action going on. Nothing could be more rude, and ridiculous even, than the partition thus set, whose bare edge is thrust outward to the 212 THE ART OF THE STAGE audience, and from which the wall has been, as it were, torn away. Even accepting this as fiction, we see the characters come forward far beyond the boundary, so that we always feel that they have simply to glance, as it were, round the corner, and a single step would land them in their neighbours' room ! To be logically accurate, the wall should come down to the very orchestra. But it is an absurd shift, and contradictory of accepted stage illusion. In truth our ideal conception of the stage is that of successive actions in a fixed place ; that spot of ground on which the action takes place is typical, and the abstract of every place and situation, and unchangeable. These duplicate scenes, therefore, are arbitrary and unmeaning, and it will be found that, even in dramatic con- struction, they give no help, and are mere sur- plusage ; as in the instance in the ' Solicitor's Office/ with the ante-room, and where the visitor is seen waiting while a murder takes place in the inner room. Beyond tickling the eye, there is nothing gained by this arrangement which could not be gained, with more effect too, by the old simple way. Another theory really obtained till so lately as thirty years ago, when the stage represented not a complete interior or a complete area of any kind, but merely a segment. When there was a ' Flat ' exhibited, with ' side scenes ' to mark the exits and entrances, there was simply a background for the performers. They were not enclosed, and for persons in the pit and stalls, the background was A COMMENTARY 213 there, just as it was for the actors. They were only further removed. This system of flats, or painted cloths, may be considered the truly ' scenic ' one. By it, it is given to the painter to produce the effects with which the stage mechanic and ' builder up ' finds it impossible to grapple. The painter, by the arts of perspective and effects of colour, can supply enormous distance, heights as enormous, and subdue all to a proper proportion. More remarkable, however, is the effect of largeness and dignity in the action of the personages, which the use of flats and side-scenes supplies. Take the case of a 'Chamber in a Palace.' It is now usually presented as a sort of deep box with the side towards the audience removed. The flanking walls always give the idea of contraction and restraint. But. under the old system it seemed to stretch away to the right and left behind the scenes. We were only looking at a portion of the great chamber, the portion with which we were directly concerned, because the characters were there. Under this system too, the character entered and 'came on the scene,' not through a door, but from behind a side-scene, thus carrying out the idea that we see him only in his passage to join the characters. He had entered by the door, which might be somewhere behind the scenes. As we have seen, it did not matter, for dramatic purposes, how or when he entered ; all that we were concerned with was the zone, as I have called it, of dramatic interest, in the centre of the 214 THE ART OF THE STAGE chamber, and his passage to it. This and all that flows from it, tends to a largeness and dignity in the dramatic action. In this shape, of course, it is merely a rude principle, but with study and development it would be the foundation of a wonderful reform and would lead to the heighten- ing of genuine dramatic effect. Again, the system of intense lighting has operated seriously to the enfeebling or overpowering of dramatic effect. Now the whole stage is bathed and suffused in light from above and below. This has been prompted by the necessity of lighting-up all the accessories of remoter portions of ' the show.' Thus what is more to the front receives an undue portion of the light. This general suffusion, besides being quite false to nature, robs the figures of proper contrast, for even in the case of intense sunlight in the open air, there is abundance of shadows, which are not found on the stage. The older system in the pre-Garrick days was infinitely better, but then it was not intended to illuminate the materials, objects, and decorations. The four heavy chandeliers that hung down half-w^ay over the heads of the actors lit up just the zone in which they stood. In other directions, too, we see a great mistake, when it is attempted by a literal representation, on a limited area, to convey the presentment of what is real. This is physically impossible, and the failure is in proportion to the ambition of the attempt. Take the instance of 'an army,' or a A COMMENTARY 215 procession, or some retinue. The mode now is to enlist a vast number of supers, arm and drill them, and then marshal them across the stage. By stage law they take the one course, defiling down to the foot-lights, passing across, and turning transversely up to the back, where they spread out their ranks. This is assumed to be most effective, but, in truth, the effect only shows the poverty of the device ; for how can some fifty, or even a hundred men, squeezed into a space forty or fifty feet square, convey the idea of an army ? Formerly half-a- dozen ' soldiers ' did for the purpose, but this ridiculous force was no more absurd as representing ' an army ■ than the hundred men. At this moment such displays have become so conventional and familiar that they no longer impress. In real life, when a general comes to visit a potentate, he does not enter at the head of his ' army ' and defile round the room in such a style. So with battles on the stage, which somehow never appear natural, and generally verge on the ludicrous, however well done. It will be easily seen how the present system has grown into a vice which is impoverishing the stage, to say nothing of an impoverishment yet more literal. To the old system of ' cloth ' and side- scene should, of course, be applied all the resources of art, and great improvement might be made on the old and rude methods. The properties could be brought out with a startling vividness. I have seen attempts in this direction which for 2i6 THE ART OF THE STAGE effect were indistinguishable from the most elabo- rately ' built up ' efforts. One single result proves that the existing system is wrong, since it is impossible to change the scene once set in its place. The true ideal of a theatre is a succession of plays ; with the ' cloth ' system, the trouble of changing scene and scenery counts as nothing. But the in- telligence of the reader will deduce innumerable other blessings and advantages certain to flow when this devouring ogre has been destroyed. A few * canons,' based on the principles we have been considering, will be useful as a summary : — 1. The background, surroundings, &c., of a dra- matic incident should be as unimportant or sub- sidary on the stage as they are always in real life. 2. The less the importance given to scenery, the more that of the figure increases. 3. The abundance of light now shed upon the scene diminishes the relief of the figures, whereas the comparative shade, or indistinctness of the background, throws out the figures. The colouring should be low in tone. 4. The object of scenery is negative rather than positive — the exclusion of the homely outside world and its details, with the creation of an illusive world ; instead of which the aim now appears to be to introduce the outside world and all its details, and join the stage to real life. 5. As dramatic character, diction, &c., is all general^ so the same principle should be, as far as possible, applied to scenery. . A COMMENTARY 217 6. The scene is the immediate segment of locality where the incident occurs; not a complete repre- sentation of the room, street, courtyard, &c. 7. The relative proportion of surrounding objects to the figures, as well as the sense of distance, can only be conveyed by painting. Painting conveys the illusion of relief far more effectively than material imitation. 8. The sense of dramatic interest and excitement is kindled more powerfully when left to the un- aided exertion of the performers; shows, vast groupings, elaborate ' built-up ' effects, more or less enfeeble the dramatic effect. Having obtained these principles to guide us, we enter more minutely on the consideration of the limits by which scenery should be bounded, for it must be admitted that, as Burke said of the power of the Crown, * it has increased, is increasing, and ought to be diminished.' . Minutely accurate details of scenery, based on archaeological research, ^instead of aiding, seem to enfeeble illusion. In the earlier times — so late, indeed, as the beginning of this present century — * A Street' — ' Interior of 's House ' — 'A For- est' — was the mode of description, and a set of ' general ' scenes were used for nearly all plays. Of course there was the objection that an English street would not serve for an Italian or a French one. But, on the other hand, the detailed accurate reproduction brings enormous difficulties. If it be an Italian street, then it must be a street of the 2i8 THE ART OF THE STAGE particular town, and the particular town at the particular era, which it would be hard to guarantee. On the other hand, keeping in view the principles we have hinted at, such a segment as one might see who was looking on, we might conceive the idea being conveyed of ' buildings ' — a background with an open causeway or road, which would be common to all cities. In the Ammergau play, there was some such fixed scene which seemed to be half in the open air, and half under cover. We might at least be satisfied with a set of ' stock ' scenes — some 'generally' Italian, or French, or English, as the case might be. And if carefully and handsomely done, the impressions left on the mind would be much the same as that left by the late sumptuous revivals. Any one now recalling Othello, the Merchant of Venice, Romeo and Juliet, Much Ado, Twelfth Night, or Hamlet, would find it a little difficult to distinguish between the scenery and dresses of each, and would own that much of the scenery and dress would have served indifferently for all. One of the inconveniences of what is called the ' carpenter's scene,' is, that it hinders illusion, and makes . the action that takes place during its term, of a make-shift and unimportant character. As in the scene in Hamlet, where the guilty King tries to pray, and cannot. Haunted by fear, rather than remorse, he seeks privacy, retiring to his chamber, where he will not be interrupted. It is a solemn act, and a solemn moment, for he goes A COMMENTARY 219 to confess to himself, kneeling. /How easy it would be to depict a back ground in keeping — the picturesque desertion — the shadowed — the solitary- light. Instead, what have we ? A great 'set scene's^ is to follow ; so this oratory scene must be a car- penter's one — a cloth very far forward in front, with an arch cut in it, to make room for a sort of altar. The cloth waves — as the men pass behind, .while the subdued sounds of hauling on great set pieces, disturbes the King's orisons. As for the scene itself, it is usually put close to the footlights, but it is a passage, rather than a room, and those front cloths are so close to the audience, that any attempts at perspective look absurd. So they certainly appear what they are, namely, a curtain hung down till what is going behind is got ready. And there the King prays, racking his conscience. Under such conditions, is there, or can there be any befitting vraisemblance ? Nay, the very system of great ambitious ' sets ' with the necessary ' carpenter's scene ' each, so as to give time for the ' setting * — is a lame and clumsy de- vice when the awkward cloth descends, and thrusts the characters on to the footlights. What is this obvious screen intended for ? The very sounds that come from behind the scene, when some large set is being hauled into its place by a corps of men, the strainings, creakings, rollings of wheels, shouts of command, the swaying of the curtain, all have their effect on the mind of the spectator,and give to the result of these preparations 220 THE ART OF THE STAGE ^^ importance that overpowers the dramatic business^ When the curtain discloses some interior of a great mansion, with steps, arches, recesses, windows, regularly built, and all with a view of Sir John or Lord A — having some conversation with his wife or son, or various guests, we feel a sense of waste — some tremendous Homeric action being expected. The action too has the air of being contrived pur- posely. Often too, the drama suffers from this tyranical exigence, and the action is distorted to suit the demands of the scene painter. Thus it is that Shakspeare's plays suffer particularly, as he did not write in view of the arrangements to which he is compelled by modern managers to submit. Hence the modern diflBculties of dealing with his plays where there is ever a quick suc- cession of short scenes, which must have supplied a vivacity and movement which we moderns are never indulged with. The first four scenes of the ' Twelfth Night ' are singularly short, and the changes are from the open air to the ' Duke's House,' to the ' Lady's House,' and, to the Duke's back again. Now the labour and noise which attend a change of scenes, necessary in this way, would destroy all illusion, and have a fretful dis- tracting effect. The impression left would be, that the trivial business was not worthy such ' a pother.' But could not the action go on marked by changes, noiselessly and quietly done ? It would be no more than what the reader feels when he turns over the page. The truth is this, 'scene turning,' and A COMMENTARY 221 changing business has encroached on the play when it ought to be subsidiary. The old system of ' cloths ' and flats, rude as it was, answered this end far better. No matter how short the scene, or succession of scenes, there was the conventional screen behind, always ready. But so monstrous, Herculean, and costly has the system of changing scene become, requiring a hundred or two of stout arms on the stage, that the tendency is to confine every scene to its own act, and thus the brisk motions and shiftings of dramatic action are curtailed. ^ Another matter connected with this is that the ' building up ' system throws everything out of proportion, and dwarfs the scene. If we look at buildings in a street in their reference to human figures, we shall see that they lie afar off at the back, while buildings close by us rise so high as to scarcely fall within the range of the eye. Yet our scene constructors contrive to bring every- thing — near and distant — within the same focus. The complete buildings close by, of which in life we could only see little beyond the base, are given in their completeness. On the cloths, however, distances, receding buildings, the idea of space, all may be supplied with perfect nature and success.* * One is often astonished, even in the most elaborate ambitious^ *sets,' to note the rudeness and dimension of the fitting together of the two systems — the old and the new. For we find the former usually retained for the upper part of the scene ; the roof being portrayed by means of ' sky borders ' or cloths, that hang down 2-22 THE ART OF THE STAGE The truth is, in real life, when, if we look at a street with buildinors, there is a 2:eneral inde- finiteness — the details are merged in shadows and distance. Of the remarkable picture of Hypatia which was lately in the Grosvenor Gallery, it was remarked, that the figure is well drawn, and all the accessories, in no way slurred, have been carefully subordinated to it, so that it is on Hypatia herself the eye rests, not on the marble mosaics, and the hangings of the church. This is surely the true principle for the stage. We should be dimly conscious that marbles and mosaics w^ere there, but they should not be intru- sive or distinct. And here it is noticeable how the accurately panelled or moulded images of such things fail. In real life — the details being in relief — they have their minute shadows — which at a distance suggest- this notion of detail which is yet indistinct. But. in the case of the painted details the ' third dimension ' is lacking : this indis- tinctness and blending is wholly wanting. The flood of light makes them obtrusive, and in the case of moulded detail they are all false in perspective, owing to their filling a space about a third the in a series one behind the other, and painted in perspective, whereas below the built up scenes stand at various angles. There is no attempt at joining these discordant elements, or at illusion, and the whole has the effect of lengths of canvas, touching the tops of the screens. So, too, with those elaborate stately interiors of grand chambers in mansions and palaces, where there is, say, a monumental lireplace reaching to the ceiling of Kenaissance pattern. This is often literally laid against the canvas- wall, with a space open between, owing to the warping of the wood. And so with many of these decorations which tell plainly that they have been ' carried on ' by the carpenters and laid in their place. A COMMENTARY 223 size of what they would fill in real life. lb is the very elaborate pretension of scenery that betrays its poverty. Again, as Lamb hints in a short but very pregnant passage, it is assumed from the effect which obtains in painting, that when the latter is transported to the stage the same result will follow. But he says truly, ' painting is a world in itself,' i.e. complete within the four corners of the frame. There is no attempt to deceive, and we are not invited to assume we are looking at a substitute, for say, real trees and houses. But on the stage, as Lamb says, * there is the discordancy never to be got over between painted scenes and real peo^^ie;' and he might have added that greater discordancy between the real boards or ground, that almost fixed area so many feet wide, and the vast painted distances: for, by retiring *up,' hills are brought to the same height or level as a pillar, which should be three times the actor's height ; or one may be standing beside a column whose shading only represents its circular form, which the actor's own solidity renders more feeble of effect."^ * This has been fully insisted on by Mr Parker, who, in his late work on the Nature of the Fine Arts, shows ingeniously how false to art is the mere imitation, so as to deceive, of ordinary objects, for that in painting this * third dimension ' of relief is not required. He shows that the somewhat artificial character of theatrical elocu- tion corresponds to this absence of 'relief,' of the third dimension. Hence all things on the stage should be regulated by the one principle, so as to be in harmony, and the introduction of realistic matter makes the rest discordant and unnatural. As an illustration, how often do we find the elaborately painted canvas wall set off with real curtains, which by contrast make the wall seem painted, while the wall makes the curtains discordant ! 224 THE ART OF THE STAGE Scenes as painted now are in far too gaudy a key; and combined with the fiercely blazing light, which beats upon the player from above and below, cause a sense of unreality and distraction. With such a background, the figures cannot stand out conspic- uously; nay, they seem subs tancel ess. Though scenes are now so much ' built up,' it is not noticed that they are without shadows or recesses — a great inconsistency. And here Lamb's remarks on stage dress, are quite consistent with his other principles. Speaking of the elaborate corronation robe worn by Macbeth — ' but so full and cumbersome, and set out with ermine and pearls, as our king wears when he goes to Parliament.' He asks, 'In the reading, what robe are we conscious of ? Some dim images of royalty — a crown and sceptre — may float before our Byes: but who shall describe the fashion of it ? ' Such should be the feeling in the theatre. Ill — STAGE ILLUSION Lamb touches all departments of the stage : acting, scenery, writing, in succession, and though there is no strict method in his treatment, we find his system perfectly homogenous. The same principle is at the bottom of all his speculations — viz., that a literal transcript of what we have with us in life, is no gain, and offers no genuine interest. It will be interesting to see with what finesse he works this out when dealing with acting, where perfect imi- tation of external types is sought, and where instead of the essence being grasped, details of dress, ' make up,' eccentricities of speech and manner are seized upon.* * As in that now very common stage character, * The Family Solicitor,' invariably presented in the one way, as a yellow faced husky being, with a sapient monosyllabic manner. Yet of such there are endless species — which the student of character, by his own instmct can vivify and lend variety to. P 2 26 THE ART OF THE STAGE At first sight his theory seems a little fantastical, being to the eifect that the actor should convey to the audience (like Bully Bottom to the ladies when personating the Lion) thathe is not wholly in earnest and does not intend all he says. No doubt he had in his mind that general — almost poetical elevation, or exaggeration — which is necessary in a play, and is the excuse for the high sounding verse and diction, as for the whole opportunities and para- phernalia of acting. This, as an actor can inform us, is almost opposed to the principles that regulate daily life and movement. Thus with the act of walk- ino: on the stao^e, which must in a manner be acted or emphasized ; otherwise ordinary walking would seem like shambling. Hence a sort of purposed stride appears like common walking — just as paint laid on the cheeks, seems to produce the effect of the average tint in daily life. The reason would appear to be the conspicuousness of the actor's posi- tion — the glare of light under which he moves, and the limited area over which his movements are descried, where everything must appear to have a purpose. Now, this ' optique ' of the scene is not limited to material things ; it applies to all the passions and emotions. In this rather misunderstood passage Lamb gives perhaps the most valuable instruction the actor could desire ; namely, that the system of literally copying from life destroys the airy tone of comedy: for truth, half the entertainment of our life consists in the fact that we do not reveal our A COMMENTARY 227 characters to one another, and that there is generally a contrast between a man's character and his bear- ing. This is really the foundation of all agreeable social intercourse, of persiflage, irony, and pleas- antry. Earnestness, or literalness, is in fact foreign to all society, and disturbs the relation. On the stage Elia maintains in several places that this idea is carried out by a sort of correspondence with the audience, or rather by letting them see that you are not wholly in earnest. This might be best explained by the illustration of the two ways of expressing the hypocritical Joseph Surface. The invariable mode is to present a crafty, smooth, canting, in- sinuating personage. As Lamb says the spectators expect — ' a downright revolting villain — no compromise.' He must inspire a cold and killing aversion, show two aspects of his character — the hidden hypocrisy and the outward bearing — letting the inner nature escape him by a hundred little arts and accidents — as it were malgre himself. This would be intended for the audience and for their enjoyment. 'All that neutral ground of character,' he goes on, ' a link which stood between vice and virtue ; or which, in fact, was indifferent to neither — is broken up and disfran- chised.' How pregnant, how significant this is of the happy indeterminateness and general absence of detail — which should fit the grand breadth of the stage. In real life is not one of the chief motives of interest in society — that sort of mystery which waits in our neighbour's character, who 228 THE ART OF THE STAGE never reveals himself in downright fashion, or speaks as he really thinks, or shows his anger, vexation, enjoyment in the candid way average dramatists enforce. Half the excitements and surprises of life are indeed owing to this opposi- tion between the reality and the superficial acting of men and women. A great deal of the dramatic charm and interest, on or off the stage, is owing to this double operation. On the stage the dramatist or actor lets the audience into the secret of the character of the personage, or into that of the true meaning behind the particular utterance — though the actors are assumed to be ignorant of it. More interesting still is when we see a lack of corres- pondence between the character, its utterances and acts, owing, not to an intentional lack of truth and to a purpose to deceive, but to the influence of prejudices, the weaknesses of vanity, anger, &c. Here we enter the field of comedy. To this department belong irony, sarcasm, persiflage, assumed indifference under attack, repartee, &c. In social life, no one who is injured openly threatens revenge, or reveals his private hatreds, or puts on the leering hypocrisy of a Maw-worm, or 'cants 'after the stage fashion of Mr Surface. This is surely the meaning of Lamb's excellent exposition of the old mode of acting this famous comedy. Joseph was a hypocrite and a canting one, but did anyone in society cant according to the established histrionic traditions, he would cease to be a hypocrite. He would not be listened to, or A COMMENTARY 229 allowed to impose on anyone. The player's argu- ment seems to run — 'My character is hypocritical, my only way of letting the audience know this is by presenting myself as such in speech and bearing ' — a false theory. Now, in real life there w^ould be speculation as to such a man ; his friends asserting that he was genuine, his enemies that he was a humbug, He would have a candid plausible air, perhaps frank, and so far resemble honest men. How different all this from the accepted stage mode, the upturning eyes, the sing song of the voice, duly labelled, or 'acted villainy.' This seems surely something of that intelligence with the audience which Lamb insists on, and that ' double intention ' which lends such a charm to comedy. The relations of the spectator to the persons on the stage is that of a bystander, and that 'fourth wall' of the room is behind the audience, enclosing both him and the players. He is let into the secret of the real characters,* and a great part of his entertain- ment consists in watching or speculating. ' Sir Peter ' must be no longer a comic idea of a fretful old bachelor bridegroom — he must be a real person, capable, in law, of sustaining an injury; to realize him more, his sufferings under his unfortunate match must have the downright pungency of life, must make you uncomfortable, yet mirthful, just as the same predicament would move you in a neigh- bour or old friend.' If then, the player is not to reveal himself or his character, how is the audience to know what his real 230 THE ART OF THE STAGE nature? This he enforces by his favourite theory, of a sub-intention, or this half -intelligence with the audience. Thus, Jack Palmer he describes as having two voices, one for the audience, a peculiar tone by which he marked certain things, as in italics. This double or mixed class of character is a caviare to many of our modern performers, who must play the part one way or the other, an excellent instance of which is furnished by Johnson's criticism on Garrick's Archer, who portrayed a gentleman disguised as a footman. Too often we find the player identifying himself with the livery he wears, waiting, handing, &c.,with allamenial's art; sometimes indeed, he raises a laugh by some act of comic awkwardness, but his aim is on the whole, as described, the mimicking of a servant. Yet, this single line of Johnson's opens a new direction, 'the gentleman does not break through the footman' — i.e., he should act the part, not as a footman, but as a gentleman that is playing a footman — the real character breaking through the assumed one, much as the figure shows itself beneath the draperies. The fine distinction drawn between the two Palmers, the one's acting always suggesting 'a gentleman, with a slight infusion of the footman ; the other with a still stronger infusion of the latter ingredient,' though merely descriptive, is still a distinction, for when the first was playing a ser- vant, ' you thought what a pity he was not a gentle- man;' and when the latter was playing an officer, there had been a suggestion that he had been ad- A COMMENTARY 231 vanced from the ranks, all which points to that double expression of character, which is such a histrionic art — as when an actor is called on to play such a character as a person originally of low station — who had been promoted — or vice versa, when a gentleman assumes the diss^uise of a footman. Here, as Elia hints, the gentleman should predominate, or, as we have said before, break through ' the footman ; ' and, in the instance of the promotion, the low element should struggle with the superficial refinements. Yet how faulty, tried by this test, have been the personating of vulgar parvenus, by our most capable comedians — it being conventionally established that the more vulgar, and coarse, in speech, and action, the more successful is the character. Yet, who in his own experience of such persons in society, has not noted that the vulgarity escapes, rather than is spontaneously obtruded ; for a person, who has been clever enough to raise himself, will be clever enough to make some attempt at imitating good manners. He is betrayed too by a certain awkwardness, and a palpable sense of discomfort, and by attempts at being like the rest, which at- tempts fail. The sketch of John Kemble playing Charles Surface, supplies an admirable general idea of his style of performance. He is here drawn to the life. His ' weighty sense,' and ' exact declamatory manners,' pointing the dialogue with precision, his ' sluggish mood and torpors,' husbanding of the 232 THE ART OF THE STAGE ' lungs ; which, however unsuitable, were to be pre- ferred to the ' eternal, tormenting, unappeasable vigilance ' of modern tragedy. That is to the fashion of making a point for every line, and making business out of everything. At the same time, he condemns ' that secret correspondence with the company before the curtain, which is the bane and death of tragedy, has an extremely happy effect in some kinds of comedy, in the more highly artificial comedy of Congreve, or of Sheridan, especially when the absolute sense of reality (so indispensable to scenes of interest) is not required, or would rather interfere to diminish your pleasure. The fact is, you do not believe in such characters as Surface. If you did, they would shock, not dirert you.' Thus he does not mean here that vulgar system of significant winkings and hint- irigs to the audience, but such an implied know- ledge, conveyed by demeanour, as a bystander at such a scene in real life would have. The absence of responsibility in real life is attractive enough, for the reason that there is a pleasant piquancy in seeing our neighbours carry off* their responsibilities with due gaity or indiffer- ence — and this process, which gave the actor the air of being out of rap'port with his fellows, might have seemed to Lamb to be a sort of camiaraderie with the audience. The illustration he supplies — one of Ben the sailor, in Love for Love, asking after his brother, quite forgetting that the news of the latter's death had been written to him — surely A COMMENTARY 233 does not support his view. He considers that, in real life, such insensibility would shock us, and that, by the airy, pleasant tone assumed by the actor, his winking, as it were, to the audience, not to take him in strict earnest, the offensiveness is carried off. He further adds the reason that the character is a fancy one — unreal, compounded, and therefore outside the possibility of shocking us. But such 'outside nature' characters would not touch us at all, and would be regarded as curiosities in a museum. Rather Ben's character pleases us, because it is so natural, and the touch quoted is truly characteristic. It amuses, because we relish seeing the professional nature so dominant, that it overpowers, for the time, natural feeling. To this we could be indulgent in real life. The accepted element of wit, viz., surprise, enters here. We expect the conventional sympathy or grief, as we see it every day, and instead, find this careless- ness. It would certainly 'shock,' the audi- ence if it were a real instance of unfeeling nature, but as it is not, it is merely professional habit. That Lamb has some such view underneath his odd theory, is clear from what follows. ' But, when an actor displays, before our eyes, a down- right concretion of a Wapping sailor, when, instead of investing it with a delicious confusedness of the head, and ordinary indicated goodness of purpose, he gives to it a downright daylight understanding . . . then we feel the discord of the scene. The scene is disturbed.' He adds, curiously, ' A. real 234 THE ART OF THE STAGE man has got in among the dramatis person88, and puts them out/ He surely means that the player interprets the character in too literal a way, making him as unfeeling as he can by laying emphasis on the foro-etfulness of his lost relations. A ofood instance of this realism of character, and which, seems out of place in real life, might be sup- plied from the comedy of the ' Twelfth Night/ At the close of the play, the befooled Malvolio, when quitting the gay scene of laughing courtiers, exclaims angrily, ' I will he revenged! This is often now de- livered with a savage intensity that suggested the denunciation of Shylock. Yet it seemed out of key and keeping with the rest, and many might be puzzled to account for this impression. The steward was sensitive, quick to resentment, had been cruelly treated, and might naturally think of revenge. But, in real life, how would it be. Say in a country house, some guest has been made the butt of the company, and on an outrageous practical joke being discovered, pulls out a revolver : there would be a perfect panic in the house. But we readily conceive of some butt turning on his tor- mentors angrily, and saying, ' I'll pay you all out for this ! ' which would produce a roar of laughter, for all would know that this was but the vexation of the moment, and that genuine revenge was not thought of. There is, however, a danger in the ex- cess of this principle. ' Comedians, paradoxical as it may seem,' says Lamb, 'may be too natural.' A most precious maxim, and well worth the actor's study. A COMMENTARY 235 Our gay well-tailored youths — lovers and brothers — who come on in boating suits, or lawn tennis 'flannels,' will think this ludicrous or unintelligible; but it truly destroys comedy. As our professor lays it down, ' it is not that unbending thing.' His illustration is the mirthful tale, where the teller is allowed some latitude is in point, for how often is the best of good stories spoiled by a certain literalness in the telling, whereas a certain air of irresponsibility and gaiety, commends it to the listener irresistibly. Admirable, too, is the illus- tration of the annoyed man. A person resenting being plagued and worried, excites our mirth. We see contending feelings — a desperate wish to appear unconcerned, the process of getting gradu- ally angry crescendo. It thus remains whimsical, whereas his expostulation 'in a tone that would excite a duel,' only excites contempt or pity. Lamb's sketch of Bensley in ' Malvolio, ' is familiar to every critic, and has a strange relish; not because of its tribute to a respectable, though rather obscure player, as from the value of the rare critical distinctions it sets out. These have a strange charm from their finesse and delicacy. How admirable his enumeration of the points of good acting, which, though felt, are so difficult to describe in suitable words. Were an}' good actor of our day to take this passage and study it carefully till he sounded all its depths of meaning what a profit — moral as well as pecuniary, he would reap. For the principle pertains to the acting of 236 THE ART OF TEE STAGE almost every character. He describes Bensley seizing the moment of passion at the exact moment, like a faithful clock never striking before the time; his absence of stage artifice, coming on the stage to do the poet's message, and his ' betraying none of that cleverness which is the bane of serious acting.' Every dramatic writer knows that there is a special mode of putting forward speeches and incidents on the stage ; things that read admirably are found ineffective and even unintelligible, on the stage. It is in truth another world, with a language and beings of its own, with its own ways and modes. It suggests indeed, that old-fashioned toy where the objects are drawn distorted, to appear quite correct and harmonious when looked at in the proper way. This great art and mystery can scarcely be taught. It is more an instinct, many of the best ' acting' and most powerful situations in the repertoire appear on reading to consist of a few bald sentences with little point or colour, whereas many an elaborate dialogue full of antithesis and sparkle, have no result whatever, and sound flat. The most curious contrast, however, is found be- tween modern so-called dramatic dialogues and the genuine work of Shakspeare and the great drama- tists, where single utterances of the latter seem to have no special point, and at the first glance to be colourless, but in truth have the profoundest ■significance, being appropriate to the character and situation. An appropriateness that is further based on large and general knowledge of human character, A COMMENTARY 237 and found on study to be what the character must utter in such a situation. It is thus in real life one might conceive of a most eccentric character, giving utterance occasionally to ordinary speeches. The modern system of play writing, on the con- trary, is that the character must reveal itself in every utterance. Again there is the great principle that it is the essence or quintessence of all things, which must be presented on the stage. The time is so short, and the attention of a large audience being a serious and important thing to demand, only what is strictly to the point, and representative may be offered, or if it do not fulfil these conditions, it will not command that attention. Mr Hayward used to lay down, that a good story should be ' cut to the hone, i. e., divested of all extraneous and un- essential 'fat' or matter. As it is an epitome of life that is going on before our eyes, all that is trivial and unnecessary for the purpose in hand- becomes impertinent. Above all, this principle of selection and abstraction being essential on the stage, only what is thus general, and because general at once recognisable, belongs to all ages and generations: the notes and tokens of human nature and character — these are what must be sought out and presented. The description of lago is full of delicate strokes ; as — * there was a triumphant tone about the character, natural to a general conscious- ness of power, with none of that petty vanity, which chuckles and cannot contain itself upon any little 238 THE ART OF THE STAGE successful stroke of its knavery .... it was not a man setting his wits at a child, and w^inking all the while at the other children, but a consummate villain entrapping a noble nature .... where the manner was as fathomless as the purpose seemed dark and without motive.' What a light is here ! What a revelation for an actor. He then passes to the well-known sketch of Malvolio, a delineation of delicate shades, is given, which, as a method, may be applied to other characters, and is a marvel of discrimination. Some of the touchings are ex- quisite in their delicacy. 'Malvolio is not essentially ludicrous. He becomes comic but by accident.' And again, ' he is cold, austere, repelling, but dignified, consistent, and his bearing is lofty, a little above his station. He is opposed to the proper levities of the piece.' These teachings would be an infallible guide to the intelligent actor, and in this spirit was it played by Irving. Unfortun- ately, the average actor is trained to a sort of code : as Lamb says elsewhere, he must be one thing or the other wholly — entirely comic or the reverse. There are no second or secret intentions with him. He cannot understand absurdities or comic utterance save as the expression of a comic soul within. Then as to the effect on the spectator thus produced ; that 'smiling to himself of Malvolio, as it is ordinarily personated, is meant to arouse the feeling, ' What an ass is this' — and induce the 'guffaws' of the gallery. And this is to be aided by a sort of ridiculous strut and grimacing, as though the player A COMMENTARY 239 was himself intent on exciting laughter. Yet thus, Elia, ' What a dream it was ! you were infected with the illusion and did not wish that it should be removed. You had no room for laughter,' which opens an entirely different view. Again, take the method of Dodd, one of the old actors. But first let us think how one of our broadly humorous * Comicks ' works, when about to utter somethinof farcical; he is either solemnly grave, or with a rollicking twinkle or leer ' pitches ' his jest right into the audience, or ; in his own phrase, ' sticks it into em.' Often he grins with them. He can gaze stolidly too, when something is addressed to him he does not comprehend, and then recognise the mean- ing with a sudden hearty burst. But turn to Dodd. 'You could see the first dawn of an idea stealing slowly over his countenance, climbing up little by little, with a painful process, till it cleared up at last to the fulness of a twilight conception. He seemed to keep back his intellect, as some have had the power to relax their pulsation. A glimmer of understanding would appear in a corner of his eye, and for lack of fuel go out again.' A funny and intelligent performer like Mr Brough would not fail to turn these marvellous writings to profit. Hamlet before giving his private theatricals, which ended in such a scandal, it will be recollected, took his performers aside, not merely to show them how he wished his ' little piece ' to be given, but for some general instructions in the principles of their 240 THE ART OF THE STAGE profession. In depth and knowledge the admoni- tions of the ill-fated Prince seem really to embody the whole treasury of acting science. Nor are they founded, as it might be thought, on technical knowled^re, or a Ions: course of critical observation : they are drawn from first principles common to all views of human nature and human character, and set out and enforced with marvellous sagacity. If all our English actors were to diligently perpend, comment, and thumb the single page on which these directions are printed, they would find them- selves in possession of all the knowledge that is needful for their profession. Nay, even the dra- matic author will find valuable principles under- lying the few weighty hints Hamlet has thrown out. What an admirable and accurate description of a well-constructed play does he give ! The first test : * It was never acted ; or, if it was, not above once : for the play, I remember, pleased not the million ; 'twas caviare to the general. How significant that ' for.' The manager, as it were, declined to take it, as it went over the heads of the people 'Twould not draw the crowd. Or one spirited manager may have been induced to bring it out, but it did not go beyond a first representation, and was then withdrawn — a succes cVestime, in short. Many of our great plays have experienced this fate — Gold- smith's, Sheridan's, and others. They have become accepted, not by losing some of their caviare, but by * the general ' being educated into the ranks of A COMMENTARY 241 the particular, and learning by tradition and in- heritance to relish the flavour. ' An excellent play,' because written on true principles ; ' well digested in the scenes ' — i.e. well constructed. Digested, too, is a word of full and correct meaning, for the process separates the essential ; each scene there- fore should hold so much as should carry forward the piece. ' Set down with as much modesty as cunning.' That is, as I conceive it, the writer should not thrust himself forward in the conceits that belong not to the character or plot, a test which would put much modern writing * out of court.' And in this view it is worth noting the development of the thought that follows :' I re- member one said there were no sallets in the lines to make the matter savoury, nor no matter in the phrase that might indite the author of affectation.' The sense of which, leaving aside antiquarian glosses, is clear enough. Our princely critic means that there were no ' verbal fireworks' as they are called — repartees, hon-mots, etc., belonging to the author, not to the character, to set off the situation. The matter in hand was expounded with all sin- cerity and directness. Nor were the sentiments garnished with flowers and far-fetched decorations ; nor, when the language was just and correct, was there ' matter ' or ' business ' introduced which would signify the author's humours or vanity. The style or method should not tickle the ear with conceits, but should be clear and classical; not tawdry but simple ; ' as wholesome as sweet — very Q 242 THE ART OF THE STAGE much more handsome than fine.' Even this last distinction between ' handsome ' and ' fine ' (that is, between what is nobly dignified and merely * showy') — as applied to writing — leads up to much that is profitable. It is when Hamlet comes to the players themselves that his profound knowledge of the principles of dramatic presentation become apparent. Let us even take that phrase where he commends them to the care of Polonius, calling them ' the abstract and brief chronicles of the time/ hackneyed enough as a quotation, and lightly quoted without any idea of its meaning. That word ' abstract ' is at the root of all true acting. The vice of the ordinary players is concrete or realistic acting, which is imitation. If a policeman or a costermonger be brought on,the player labours to present him ad ungueni in his clothes, mode of speech, and expression, giving a servile copy of some particular specimen he has encountered. So with those gentlemen and ladies who take tea and play tennis. But the true personation of such characters is founded on the general type ; and this knowledge is only attained by study and comparison by which the essential characteristics are reached. Otherwise the player will probably emphasize some immaterial point found in the model, but not peculiar to it. Hence, the result is flatness and failure. All elements appear to be there — dress, dialect, accent, extremes of speech; but character has been forgotten. A good instance can be found in that masterly drawing of Macklin's, ' The Man of A COMMENTARY 243 the World/ whom the author had studied in the diflferent types of greedy scheming Scots who were preying on the country in the days of Lord Bute, and has shown the workings of the Caledonian character under such conditions. Had Sir Pertinax been drawn literally, exhibiting his grasping, greedy, unprincipled nature, he would have been as revolting as uninteresting, but these odious qualities are shown disguised, as it were, and associated with so much that is natural and humorous, that we almost sympathise. An actor must be ' abstract ' in this sense; and the abstractness is only obtained by constant observation. It must be noted also that he styles them ' the brief chronicles ' of the time. That would signify, not that they presented a short epitome by way of reflection of what was going on, but the essentials — which was the essence, and had significance and meaning. For much is now trans- fer ed to the stage that is merely accident — not significant in meaning: just as a logical mind will in a few words give an exact definition of a particular thing which it would take another a whole page of description to portray, and which would even then fail to convey any distinct idea. This * brief and 'abstract' are not seen in imperfect and inartistically constructed plays which find their way to the boards. Again, events which fill an ordinary act would never in real life be comprised within so short a span. The writer should select for his purpose events of a startling and amusing kind, leaving out all neutral matter. But ordinary 244 "TEE ART OF TEE STAGE life is merely dotted with exciting passages, and these take a long period for development. Here, indeed, is the true significance of a play. Passages of real dramatic interest but rarely fall within the experience of common life, which is, on the whole, prosy enough : and this excitement is what the stage professes to supply. This is what we pay our money to see. The dramatist, therefore, that merely transfers the average common incidents of life — real cabs, ladies and gentlemen at tea, and the like — may be realistic as he fancies he is, but is certainly unentertaining. No one really cares to see what he can see outside the theatre, though he may be a little surprised at the good imitation. As John- son said of the dog walking on his hind legs, you do not admire the performance, but wonder at its being done. The art of the real dramatist consists in knitting together those events which ought to take long to develop, within a short compass, so artfully as to avoid huddling, and supplying the air of slow development. Another view of this ' brief ' and 'abstract' lies in the strange pregnancy of colourless words and phrases, which stand, how- ever, for action, intellectual or physical. The reader will pass them by, but behind them the action goes on, such as the often quoted ' Zaire tu pleures ? ' The Prince's instructions in the art of acting which follow, are more in the direction of avoiding blemishes. But these, of course, become positive precepts. They concern (a) elocution, (6) rant, (c) A COMMENTARY 245 gesture, (d) restraint, and (e) what is vulgarly called ' Sfao'gfins: ; ' within which circle of abuses are contained suggestions for making a good actor ; with, above all, (/) the purpose of acting and the stage itself. (a) Elocution. — * Speak the speech, trippingly on the tongue! The meaning of this is shown by the caution against the abuse that follows. The delivery is to be animated and rather declamatory, but not to run into boisterous ' mouthing.' On the other hand, an equally great mistake is to suppose that the colloquial style of drawing-rooms and the streets are to be transported to the stage. All the conditions of the stage are founded on exaggeration and a certain over-emphasis ; just as, to give the effect of natural everyday walk, it is necessary to assume a kind of laboured stalk. It is so with speaking. The conventional 'good-morn- ing ' and ' a fine day ' tones are without effect. Even the strong glare cast upon the performers makes every movement and every glance of impor- tance. And thus it is — the time bein^: so short and the attention being bestowed but for a very short time — trivial tones and trivial speeches sound hoTS de propos, and are out of keeping. ' Trippingly,' however — an admirable word — is what can barely be applied to the style of delivery of existing actors, which in many instances is slovenly and indistinct to a degree. ' Mouth it ' unhappily needs no description, and is familiar enough in ' the provinces.' Still, if we 246 THE ART OF THE STAGE come to preference, it is almost more ' to be endured ' than the other vice ; for it is an excess of a erood thinof. It is evident, indeed, from the whole spirit of the Prince's instructions, that this sort of * rant ' was the abuse of his time, as, indeed, it would seem to be of the stage generally in all times and places. Cumberland's well-known de- scription of Quin's roaring and declaiming, shows that it applied just as fairly then ; and even on the French stage at the present day the occasional ex- traordinary bursts of Mounet Sully approach the grotesque. Only on our own boards, singular to say, have we sunk into a sort of lethargic nonchal- ance. Some of this must be set down to the taste for familiar comedy as introduced by Mr Robertson ; but the real cause lies deeper — to the want of in- struction and lack of experience in our performers. Many of the younger London actors and actresses have had no training at all, and some could be named who, with no pifts but ^rood looks, orood address (and dress too), and good will, have obtained leading positions. ' Use all gently' A golden rule indeed. ' Ne quid nirais! Reserve, or the ' Reserved forces,' in short, is the secret of power. The Prince lays this down in reference to gesture : ' Do not saw the air too much, but use all,' etc. It is extraordinary, in- deed, how, on the English stage, tradition seems to admit but two modes of expression — vehemence of voice, and vehemence of gesture ; the extraordinary effects that can be produced by the face being A COMMENTARY 247 overlooked. Of course Mr Yaux- Clamant may retort: 'What, no expression in the elevation of my bushy eyebrows — in this haughty scowl — this scornful curling of the lips ? Go to ! ' These are but elementary. Our protagonist has little notion of what is alluded to. How few understand such finesse as this : the sudden shif tings or contention of emotion — e.g. an eager denial or self -vindication — as the first impulse, to be checked by a doubt, as the second ? Or the distrust or uneasiness con- veyed without frowning, or arching the brows, or other gymnastics — allowing the sentiment to be read in the face before the utterance ? Again, the expression by carriage, air, and manner. ' In the torrent of your passion acquire a temper- anee! Here is opened a most interesting quesx-ion which has engaged the most thoughtful critics, viz., whether the player should trust to the impulse of his passion, to ' its whirlwind,' or simulate it, thus * begetting a temperance.' It was Johnson that made the well-known speech, that if Garrick allowed himself for a moment to feel like Richard III, he deserved hanging on each occasion. But the truth is such ' tempests,' by repetition, would soon lose their spontaneous character, and the best opinions declare that all should be duly and methodically prepared. Of course, the actor should have the general tone and feeling of his character, but the path should be carefully marked out, and the player ' keep on the walk.' All great orators have prepared their speeches carefully : even their great 248 THE ART OF THE STAGE bursts have been, as it were, indicated beforehand ; the colouring, spirit, and vigour only being left to be supplied by the inspiration of the moment. In this reserve, however, the opposite vice of ' tameness ' is to be avoided, and a juste milieu secured. But how are our histrions to know ? Their ' own discretion is to be the guide.' But how, again, is this to be secured ? A really ' good thing' — that is, which secures a laugh — vwlgo, 'fat ' in short — what average actor could sacrifice ? He must ' fetch ' the audience at all risks. If there be a thing notorious on our stage it is that the interests of the scene, that particular self-efface- ment for the good of the whole, is little thought of — as a custom, that is. Everyone fights for his own hand. Of course, I do not speak of the rare well-directed houses. But ' discretion ' is indeed only the result of the highest and most careful training. It would take too long to discuss this point here, but it has been dealt with in a masterly way by Diderot, whom Mr Walter Pollock has translated. In an introduction to this volume, Mr Irving ha^ set forth his views, based on his own large and thoughtful experience. * The robustious periwig-pated fellow,' that tears a passion to rags, we have often seen in the provinces, where the groundlings delight in him. One or two popular peripatetics could be named who revel in this splitting of ears. Who does not sympathise with the Prince's bitter description of the ' groundlings ' — the ' pit ' in those days — the A COMMENTARy 249 ' gallery ' as it used to be ? But at the present time, when there is a general level of appreciation in all parts of the ' house/ ' the groundlings ' really applies to that portion of the audience, which not only enjoy ' noise,' but ' inexplicable dumb-show,' perhaps those vacuous tenants of the stalls, the patrons of ' leg-pieces ' and a certain type of bur- lesque. This dumb-show, or ' shows,' for there are both readings, is emphasized by the flourish of the ' toothpick and crutch,' and the relish of the ' awfully good ' pastime presented — grimace, tumblings, grotesque dress, the topical song, with a burden pointed by slapping of hands, while a fellow perforce does a ' breakdown ' — surely these are ' all inexplicable dumb-shows and noise,' which our refined groundlings are capable of, and the only things they are capable of. Pit and gallery have better taste. * Suit the action to the word, the word to the action:' an oft-quoted piece of advice, on which, again, a separate essay might be written. To find the proper action for the word, nay, to forbear action wholly where action might be fcoked for ; and how refreshing, how welcome, how infinitely more significant than a page of speaking is a truly significant action ! But this, again, is only found by the nicest observation of human characters, and perhaps a moment of inspiration. In the ' Princesse Georges,' at the Gymnase, one of the performers had to play a confidential butler, and after an interview with his mistress, which leads him into 250 THE ART OF TILE STAGE some strange speculations, he was told to withdraw. As he reached the door, he stopped to raise the wick of the imoderateur in a fashion that seems to convey his doubts and misgivings. There was an apparent interest in the operation, but the state of his mind was what was evident. There was also the mechanical sense of duty as a pretext for linger- ing. But the simple action was so fraught with meaning, and withal so delicately done, that a burst of applause used to greet it nightly. The purpose of playing 'was to hold the mirror up to nature.' ' To nature' mark, expounded, as it were, by the succeeding words, ' virtue's scorn' (vice, that is), and ' the age and body of the time.' Not ' dumb-shows,' it will be noticed, or ' noise ; ' he means what is all intellectual, to the exclusion of realism, or ' panorama.' It is curious indeed to see how what is shown in the mirror of the stage includes all that is really dramatic ; for besides the exhibition of what is good and bad, we have the special features of the society of the time, whose ' form and pressure' is to be shown — that is, their operation or action, which, from familiarity, would escape the observation of ordinary persons, and requires a writer of sagacity and knowledge to extract and compress. Thus, in Sheridan's day, the slaughter of reputations might seem to have become so habitual as to be assumed to be a proper thing ; its ' pressure and form' was not seen in full odious shape until he put his Sneerwells and Candours, with Sir Peter's comments, on the boards. Passing A COMMENTARY 251 over what follows, as being a repetition of stage exaggeration, we come to his last injunction — that concerning the leading ' comics,' your ' clowns/ ' Speak no 7)iove than is set down for them J That they do not 'gag,' in short, or set on 'barren spectators to laugh,' though some ' necessary ques- tion of the play be then to be considered.' An admirable description both of the clowns and their audience — to be seen exemplified at many a theatre. Houses could be named where whole scenes are spun out by two of these mimics, * capping' each other's gags, improvising antics and buffooneries. Meanwhile the play stands still. What was intended merely to be touched in a light way is magnified and lengthened beyond all proportion and the necessary question of the play which has been waiting becomes tedious by con- trast, and is huddled over. That this, both in writer and actor, is the great vice is evident from Hamlet s words — the hardest he uses : 'That's villainous: and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it It applies to the writer as well, who in eagerness to * set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh' (and how pitiful to curry favour with only a small fraction of an audience), knows not how to practise restraint, but, got hold of a good thing, must needs put it all in at any length. To take an illustration of this 'indiscretion,' there is that scene in Romeo and Juliet, where Mercutio utters the hackneyed burst about Queen: 252 THE ART OF THE STAGE Mab. This is held to be a capital ' point ' for the actor, and he works it up accordingly, so ^s to bring out, and illustrate every line — e.g., wh tn he comes to the word, ' drums in his ears,' it is de rigueur to sound it ' d — r — r — ums.' At the close there is applause, while the other characters who have waited patiently, while this is being ad- dressed to the audience, then resume their talk. But a competent player, such a s we speak of, reading the scene in the true spirit, will see that the low- spirited dreamy Romeo, is the centre of all. I'.e and his friends propose going to the masque ; he doubts, has presentiments, and dreams. At the word, Mercutio rambles off into this pleasant de- scription addressed to him in a light and airy, but still serious strain, and carried away by his theme — Romeo still indifferent, and in a reverie — is going on, 'thus, this is she,' when the other interrupts his friend — 'peace, peace.' This form is natural and poetical to a degree, it fits with the sad character and tone of the scene, which is in- tended to forebode evil. How different from the vulgar interpretation ; it almost seems a boy's spouting piece, delivered to the pit, by a boisterous man. This is in truth in the spirit of what Lamb has laid down on a corresponding occasion. Men- tioning another favourite bit of declamation, where the performer interrupts the business of the scene to address the audience, viz., ' She never told her love,' he says of Mrs Jordan, ' It was no set speech that she had foreseen, so as to weave it A COMMENTARY 253 into a harmonious! period,' but when she had declared her sister's history to be a blank, and that she never told her love,' here was a pause as if the story had ended ; then the image of the worm i' the bud came up as a new suggestion and heightened image — patience still followed after that. Admirable precepts, indeed, and commending themselves without argument. Or take the familiar ' All the world's a stage,' how detestable as a lugged- in-sp-^^-ch — all the courtiers waiting, the sylvan businoss interrupted, ^while the melancholy Jaques ' spouts ' with suitable illustrations ! These, and many more such the judicious actor may develop for himself out of these admirable councils. The actor will note this admirable criticism : ' She was particularly excellent in her unbending scenes in conversation with the clown.' (The Lady in 'Twelfth Night.') *I have seen some Olivias,' he goes on, ' and those very sensible actresses, too, who, in their interlocutions, have seemed to set their wits at the jester, and to vie conceits with him in downright emulation.' Who has not seen this or somethino; analoo:ous in a situation of the kind, each actor striving to make his retorts tell, and excite approbation ? The superficial performer, in the part of Olivia, would think she was doing admirably in ' putting the clown down.' But as Lamb explains it, we are lifted to a higher walk. His view is founded on human nature. Due allowance, however, must ever be made for the pressure of stage conventions, 2 54 'J'J^i^ ^^^' OF THE STAGE which force the player to score every point that he can. 'But,' goes on Lamb, 'she used him for her sport, to trifle a leisure sentence or two with, and then dismissed him.' The actress now-a-days allotted the part has only to take this instruction, and find a key to the whole character. Nor need she suppose that it meant merely the reserve of high rank ; for there is beside an unbending good humour. How, then, was familiarity to be avoided ? Let us read. ' She touched the imperious fan- tastic huinour of the part with nicety.' So in his account of Dodd, Lamb points to a department, as it may be styled, too much neglected by our performers ; namely, facial and corporeal expression. This is well-known and cultivated with great art on the French stage, where it, indeed, furnishes one chief enjoyment. It is based, too, on the habits of daily life society. Some embarrassing proposal is made of a sudden, and we see plainly in the face, a confusion, a struggle, a sense of annoyance, at variance with the courteous tone in which the answer is made. In ' Tricoche and Cacolet ' there is a certain duke who disguises himself as a servant, and his own munificent instincts prompt him to discharge various inconvenient debts of his mistress. As these, however, multiply and increase in amount, his feelings become mixed ; as she tells him gravely to pay the milliner — who is waiting — a very large bill, his face assumes a rueful cast, then one of annoyance, then of half-amused vexation, then of A COMMENTARY 255 contempt for himself, as who should say, 'I am donkey myself to do this, but here goes/ and with an assumed eagerness, his hand goes to his pocket, and he pulls out his purse. On the English stage this amusing pantomime would be dispensed with, there would be gestures of dissent and anger, and the money would be given at last with a sort of disgust and ' fuss.' But i\iQ finesse I have described is exactly in Lamb's manner in his account of Dodd. What a subtlety in the expression ' slowness of apprehension! This surely is a valuable in- struction, if the actor would learn how to develop the hint. Describing his meeting with Dodd in Gray's Inn Gardens, he again con- fesses to these powers of expression. He has the 'same vacant face of folly that looked out so formally flat in Foppington, so frothily pert in Tattle, so impotently busy in Backbite, so blankly divested of all meaning, and resolutely expressive of none in Acres, in Fribble, and a thousand agreeable impertinences.' It is astonishing, indeed, how Lamb attained to such a knowledge. In that com- ment on the playing of ' Twelfth Night' there is a histrionic philosophy that might be expounded into a science. The actor who had mastered, and could apply these precepts would be a lirst-rate performer or at least a judicious one. IV — ON SOME OF THE OLD ACTORS Connected with these theories, but a little fantastic, is his well-known vindication of the loose dramas of Wycherley and Congreve, which the Restora- tion seemed to discharge, like sewage, over the fair theatrical pasture lands. This pleasant thesis he works out in his delightful fashion, much as his own ' Jack Palmer ' might do, and, indeed, the whole description suggests Congreve himself, and has the smack and flavour of the comedy, which he so praises. He seems himself to speak with these ' two voices ' he has been expatiating upon, and to be interpolating aside to his listeners that they are not to take him as being wholly in earnest. This, ' taking an airing beyond the diocese of the strict A COMMENTARY 257 conscience ' ; this ' not living always in the pre- cincts of the law courts/ the imagining a world with no ' meddling restrictions, ' with characters who break no laws and conscientious restraints, * because they know of none,* and have got out of Christendom into the Utopia of gallantry, where pleasure is duty, and the manners perfect freedom, and where no good persons can be shocked, for the reason that ' no good person suffers on the stage,* all such arguments cannot be accepted as serious. * The great art of Congreve,* he says, * is shown by excluding any pretence to goodness or morality whatsoever. Everything is in harmony, for there is a general level of immorality undisturbed by a single wholesome leaven. We accept and are pleased with this strange state of things. Why ? Because "we are only a chaotic people," and who are not to be brought to the standard of morals that exists among the spectators. No revered institutions are insulted by their proceedings, for they have none amongst them ; no peace of families is violated, for no family ties exist among them. .... Of what consequence is it to virtue, or how is she at all concerned about it, whether Sir Simon steals away Miss Martha, or who is the father of Lord Froth's children.' It is a sufficient answer to this pleasant fooling, that our whole ground of interest in the stage is founded on its being the response to our own sympathies, and the reflection of our own feelings. It is not then, * a passing pageant, where we should R 2 58 THE ART OF THE STAGE sit unconcerned,' but concern is essential to our entertainment. This interest should be found in what is common to all, but only an audience of rakes could relish the productions alluded to. But Lord Macaulay has, in fact, disposed of these airy pleas, which he justly dismisses as ' sophistical.' He shows clearly, what indeed our instinct assures us of, that comedy is a world in which morals play their part, and 'if comedy be an imitation, how is it possible that it can have no reference to the great rule which directs life, and to feelings which are called forth by every mode of life.' ' The heroes and heroines have a moral code of their own, an exceedingly bad one, but not as Mr Charles Lamb seems to think, a code existing only in the imagina- tion of dramatists. It is, on the contrary, a code actually received and obeyed by great numbers of people. We need not go to Utopia or fairyland to find them, the morality of the Country Wife and the Old Bachelor is the morality, not of an unreal world, but of a world which is a great deal too real. And the question is simply this, whether a man of genius, who constantly and systematically endeavours to make this sort of character attrac- tive . . . does not make an ill use of his powers.' We find Lamb carrying this fantasy still further, taking the self -created delusion from the stage into real life. Speaking of Elliston's pleasant weak- ness of carrying on his acting off the stage — this pleasant conceit occurs to him, fit supplement for that Utopian standard of stage morality which A COMMENTARY 259 he had created in vindication of Congreve and Wycherley. ' Did he play Ranger, and did Ranger fill the general bosom of the town with satisfaction, why should he not be Ranger, and diffuse the same cordial satisfaction among his private circle. Are we to like a pleasant rake or coxcomb on the stage, and give ourselves airs of aversion for the identical character presented to us in real life ? ' As there was an artificial standard of morality on the stage, which was not to disturb us because it was different from that of the gospel, and because it entertains us, so, in real life, we might also accept false and arti- ficial manners, because they were agreeable and dramatic. One would be inclined to doubt if these theories were mere pleasant fantastical exercises after all, if we consider some other opinions re- vealed to us by the essayist. There is a piteous, despairing genuineness in that burst of his, when he declares that he is in love with the earth and its pleasures, and could not bear the notion of leaving it, and that its joys bounded all his desires. This, in itself is a base, degrading shape of morality, and may supply a key to that tolerating plea for the corruptions of the dramatists. ELLISTON Lamb's delineation of Elliston's character, in itself a fine piece of comedy, is an illustration of his own theory. It dwells prominently on the memory, like Mario w or Sir Peter Teazle, or any of these familiar characters. Elliston, if literally painted, would appear in these colours as a loose debauchee, a bad husband and father, a spendthrift, a borrower, a drunkard, a vain egotist, and a sort of buffoon, whose absurdities, uttered gravely and without consciousness of the ridicule, caused perpetual amusement to his friends. Now, a character made up of such elements and offered on the stage would be as repulsive as uninter- esting; it might be minutely elaborated by a professional hand, but the effect would be common- A COMMENTARY 261 place, much as that of 'a real hansom cab' driven on to the stage. But when one with real artistic insight comes, he does not bring ' him into court,' as it were, or 'makes him capable' of suffering serious injury at law ; he seizes on the light airy careless view with which society contents itself in such matters, and thus Lamb, after his own theory, seems to appeal ' aside' to the audience ; ' we know that he is a spendthrift, scapegrace, rake, &c., au fond, but see the pleasant quaintness and humorous contrasts of the character in the man!' And so it would be in real life. There would be the two views, one that of say the outraged wife, and family, friends, and protectors who would see but a shameful course of life, lacking in everything that was really decent: the other that of the acquaintance based on occasional contact, which had only to do with these unconsciously de- veloped humours and contrasts of character. Here, too, would be illustrated his other theory of the innocence of the Elizabethian dramatists, for Elliston, like their heroes, seems to belong to that artificial world where the moral sense is tem- porarily suspended ' the Utopia of gallantry, where pleasure is duty, and the manners perfect freedom.' In this wonderful portrait Lamb shows that he possesses a gift, such as he has described in Congreve, Wycherley, and other dramatists, of abstracting characters from life, and setting them before us with art. To few is now the name of Elliston known, and the fewer still who are familiar with 262 THE ART OF THE STAGE his character, hold him to be a sort of half-bur- lesque, half -serious creature, not always sound in his wits, and generally bemused with drink. They accepted his astonishing bombast and jocose solemnities as his humour. But a few touchings from Elia — a delicate analysis applied, and we find the key to the whole in that interpretation, which makes the character at once a delightful original acquisition, such as we would not part with, and certainly falling within the highest comedy. Such is the charm and power of the skilled interpreter, who thus skilfully expounds character. There are a number of humorous stories retailed of this actor, his solemn replies, full of a grotesque pretence, which sound to many positively of a half-cracked nature. But to this pleasant analyst the true reading came easily. He saw at once the double side to this nature ; the genuineness of his pretences. Elliston, according to his reading, is exactly what is one of the gay creatures in Congreve's or Wycherley's scenes. In real life, he applied that pleasant levity, that ' only half in earnest,' which makes the charm of comedy acting. His defence, then, is in itself, delightful comedy. ' Are we to like a pleasant rake or cox- comb on the stao^e, and give ourselves airs of aversion for the identical character presented to us in real life? But we want the real man. Are you quite sure that it is not the man himself whom you cannot see under some advantageous trappings?' It truly belongs to the stage to conceive of that A COMMENTARY 263 harmonious fusion of the manners of the player into those of everyday life, which brought the stage boards into streets and dining parlours. It may be conceived how this pleasant delusion would operate on a peculiar character. This was different from Garrick, of whom it' was said that it was only off the stage he was acting, but on the stage was natural, easy, and affecting. Elliston was acting both on as well as off the stage. But there is a nice discrimination, or distinction which might have escaped Goldsmith, for the ' acting,' as applied to Garrick, is used in a more professional sense — as a token of insincerity. But Lamb's idea of Elliston off the stage was that gay levity which offered assurances with an earnestness, and at the same time, a smiling glance at the pit, as who should say ' Don't trust me.' The traits and stories, which made such an impression on Lamb, are amusing from the very fashion of the telling. His 'great style ;' 'Have you heard the news,' the story of the dinner, ' reclcon- ing fish as nothing;' these things, and many like them, have been retailed in the memoirs, as pieces of absurdity or brag, and which made his friends laugh. Yet, who but Lamb could have given such an explanation of this last jest, of what was within — * the manner was all. It was as if, by one per- emptory sentence, he had decreed the annihilation of all the savoury esculents,' &c. There is a story of his that would have delighted Elia, had he heard it, it was also in his * great manner.' The manager 264 THE ART OF THE STAGE was about to retire, when the King, condescendingly, added his wishes for the lessee's success in his theatrical government ; on which Elliston, by one of those strange impulses so peculiar to him, re- plied, 'If you, sir, are loval, I must obcJtin a triumph/ This was the regal style. Here the pleasant reversal of the relation — the sovereign . being invited to be ' loyal ' to the subject, would have assisted Lamb largely. In this essay there are further glimpses of the true essentials of comedy, and of the appreciation of the art of the great masters of comedy. As in the sketch of the actor, as librarian at Leamington — strictly founded on fact. ' So have I seen him,' he, after an exquisite sketch of Elliston, 'expatiating on his goods to two lady visitors — a gentleman in comedy acting the shopman. I admired the histrionic art by which he managed to carry clean away every notion of disgrace from the occupation he had so generously submitted to.' Here we have Johnson's canon, as applied to Garrick, in Archer, of letting the gentleman break through the footman, and it may be repeated, that the player, who studied this sketch of Elliston, would find himself enriched with new interests, which could be applied — say, to such a character, as 'Young Marlow,' with its double course of whims and humours; the shy nature exhibited to the company, the bold and im- pudent to the supposed barmaid, and at other times the one ' breaking through the other.' TO THE SHADE OF ELLISTON [Lamb indulges in the following rhapsody on his favourite, which, as it contains nothing didactic, has been omitted from the collection of dramatic essays.] JoYOUSEST of once embodied spirits, whither at length hast thou flown ? To what genial region are we permitted to conjecture that thou hast flitted? Art thou sowing thy wild oats yet (the harvest time was still to come with thee) upon casual sands of Avernus ? or art thou enacting Rover (as we would gladlier think) by wandering Elysian streams ? This mortal frame, whilst thou did play thy brief 266 THE ART OF THE STAGE antics amongst us, was in truth anything but a prison to thee, as the vain Platonist dreams of this body to be no better than a county jail, forsooth, or some house of durance vile, whereof the five senses are the fetters. Thou knewest better than to be in a hurry to cast off those gyves ; and had notice to quit, I fear, before thou wert ready to abandon this fleshy tenement. It was thy Pleasure House, thy Palace of Dainty Devices ; thy Louvre, or thy White Hall. What new mysterious lodgings dost thou tenant now ? or when may we expect thy aerial house- warm insf ? Tartarus we know, and we have read of the Blessed Shades ; now cannot I intelligibly fancy thee in either. Is it too much to hazard a conjecture that (as the Schoolmen admitted a receptacle apart for Patriarchs and un-chrishom babes) there may exist — not far perchance from that store-house of all vanities, which Milton saw in a vision — a Limbo somewhere for Players ? and that Up thither like aerial vapours fly Both all Stage things, and all that in Stage things Built their fond hopes of glory, or lasting fame ? All the unaccomplish'd works of Authors' hands, Abortive, monstrous, or unkindly mix'd, Damn'd upon earth, fleet thither — Play, Opera, Farce, with all their trumpery. — There, by the neighbouring moon, (by some not improperly supposed thy Regent Planet upon earth,) mayst thou not still be acting thy managerial THE SHADE OF ELLISTOF 267 pranks, great disembodied lessee ? but lessee still, and still a manager. In green-rooms, impervious to mortal eye, the muse beholds thee wielding posthumous empire. Thin ghosts of figurantes (never plump on earth) circle thee in endlessly, and still their song is Fie on sinful phantasy ! Magnificent were thy capriccios on this globe of earth, Robert William Elliston ! for as yet we know not thy new name in heaven. It irks me to think, that, stript of thy regalities, thou shouldst ferry over, a poor forked shade in crazy Stygian wherry. Methinks I hear the old boatman, paddling by the weedy wharf, with rancid voice, bawling ' Sculls, Sculls ! ' to which, with waving hand and majestic action, thou deign- est no reply, other than in two curt monosyllables, 'No: Oars.' But the laws of Pluto's kingdom know small difference between king and cobbler, manager and call-boy ; and if haply your dates of life were con- terminate, you are quietly taking your passage, check by check (0, ignoble levelling of Death !) with the shade of some recently departed candle- snufFer. But mercy ! what strippings, what tearing off of histrionic robes and private vanities ! what denu- dations to the bone, before the surly Ferryman will admit you to set a foot within his battered lighter ! Crowns, sceptres, shield, sword, and truncheon. 268 THE ART OF THE STAGE thy own coronation robes (for thou hast brought the whole property-man's wardrobe with thee, enough to sink a navy), the judge's ermine, the coxcomb's wig, the snuffbox a la Foppington — all must overboard, he positively swears; and that Ancient Mariner brooks no denial ; for, since the tiresome monodrame of the old Thracian Harper, Charon, it is to be believed, hath shown small taste for theatricals. Ay, now 'tis done. You are just boat- weight; pura et pnta anima. But, bless me, how little you look ! So shall we all look — kings and keysars — stripped for the^ last voyage. But the murky rogue pushes off. Adieu, pleasant, and thrice pleasant shade ! with my parting thanks for many a heavy hour of life lightened by thy harmless extravaganzas, public or domestic. Rhadamanthus, who tries the lighter causes below, leaving to his two brethren the heavy calen- dars — honest Bhadamanth, always partial to players, weighing their parti-coloured existence here upon earth — making account of the few foibles that may have shaded thy real life, as we call it (though, substantially, scarcely less a vapour than thy idlest vagaries upon the boards of Drury), as but of so many echoes, natural re-percussions, and results to be expected from the assumed extravagances of thy ''secondary or mock life, nightly upon a stage — after a lenient castigation, with rods lighter than of those Medusean ringlets, but just enough to ' w^hip the THE SHADE OF ELLISTON 269 offending Adam out of thee,' shall courteously dis- miss thee at the right hand gate — the o. P. side of Hades — that conducts to masques and merry- makings in the Theatre Royal of Proserpine. PLAUDITO ET VALETO THE ACTING OF MUNDEN We are so accustomed to think o£ Lamb as an essayist, that we are apt to overlook his very- intimate connection with the stage, and knowledge of the drama. He was intimately acquainted with the leading players. He wrote several plays, which were produced or published, he criticised new pieces, was perpetually attending the theatre, and has left a body of official criticisms on the old dramatists, together with the well-known essays on the stage and the principles of dramatic effect. This taste and great familiarity must have been of important help to him; though it must be admitted, this admirable knowledge of principles did not aid him in practice, for there can be no doubt that his two humorous farces are failures, 'flat' and pointless A COMiMENTARY ^ 271 to a degree. It is surprising to think how such a piece as 'Mr H. — ' could have been accepted or produced — and a greater problem still is, how such a humourist could himself have accepted such specimens of dialogue — intended for humorous — as he puts into the ' Pawnbroker's Daughter.' Even in the most trifling of Lamb's critical sketches, there is a delicate analysis, which suggests far more than it describes, and brings before the mind something in the shape of dramatic action. As in the case of Munden's delineation of the * Cobbler of Preston,' where ' his alternations from the cobbler to the mao:nifico, and from the maij:- nifico to the cobbler, keeps the brain of the spectator in as wild a ferment, as if some Arabian Night were being acted before him.' In interpret- ing such a situation, there would be with us the oflScial system. As the magnifico, the cobbler, would be as droll and broadly comic as possible, taking the accepted ' business ' of ' Bottom, the Weaver,' as his guide. But Lamb hints at opening up another region altogether ; and what a wonderfully sugges- tive note for acting is struck in the following — ' Who, like him, can throw a penetrating interest over the commonest daily life objects. A table or a joint stool, in his conception, rises into a dignity equivalent to Cassiopeia's chair. It is invested with constellating importance. ... So the gusto of Munden antiquates and ennobles what it touches. ... A tub of butter, contemplated by him, amounts to a platonic idea. He understands a leg of 272 THE ART OF THE STAGE mutton in its quiditty/ In all which, is involved a mystery of acting, little thought of or scarcely believed in — viz: that of making the audience believe, by the player s showing that he believes. This really favours the performer himself — though he appears to be working for another. To show that he is affected by the delusion, is the best way to affect others, and this being overwhelmed by wonder, admiration, or belief in something, is a powerful source of effect. This faculty in the case of Munden was illustrated by a simple piece of acting not set down for him, but which was a true inspiration — a "play itself! A pewter is on the table, with which the player is alone. He says, ' some gentleman has left his beer,' and after a little hesitation, drinks. But the fashion in which this meagre text was worked out, was a marvel, exhibiting the whole gamut of passions — first sur- prise and pleased recognition ; then doubt, fear of detectl^on, resolve, hesitation again, greed, humour, &c. If we here supply Lamb's description of Dodd, the way in which the glimmer of an idea would begin to dawn, and then spread over his whole face, we shall see what power of true acting can underlie even facial expression, and how its incidents can almost be followed dramat- ically. Fj^ many minutes, the progress of this struggle was continued, the actor being drawn gradually within the cliarm of the pewter and its fascinations, until at last he succumbs. Yes, in that simple sentence, there was an art — 'some A COMMENTARY 273 gentleman has left his beer,' a simple statement of a historical kind, colourless, as it were; but the tone and expression of face, seemed an argu- ment, or at least an expression of contending emotions. He has left his beer — not intending to drink it ; or has forgotten it. Then why should not I — but then the risk, should he return. If I do not, some one else will — or, let me not heed the risk, and dare all ! That ' strangely neglected thing,' the Cobbler of Preston, even in this sketchy allusion, seems to bring before us at once something dramatic. We feel a sensation as if witnessing the play itself. The various turns and shifts would perforce operate on the actor of our day, whatever his talents, and bring out his resources. Thus, Kit the Cobbler having been found drunk by some gentlemen, they carry him to a fire, and play this trick on him. [The doors opened, the Cobbler discovered in a rich bed; servants on each side the stage. ) Kit. [yawning). — Heigh-ho ! a pot of small eale, Joan, for heaven's sake, a pot of small eale ; why do'st not come, woman ? Hey-day ! what ! — why certainly I am awake — Ah ! what ! I am most damnably frightened. I don't like these fellows ; who are they ? I dare not ask ; no, not for the soul of me. Enter Lorenzo. Loren. — Is my Lord awake, Diego? Dieqo. — Softly, Lorenzo, softly ; he is asleep still. Lm^en. — His Majesty has sent to know how he rested last night. Kit. — I am most horribly frighted. The Eling sends to know how I rest ! I am most damnably frighted. {Diego goes to the bed, and Kit sneaks his head under the bedclothes.) Diego. —Ten to one, now, when he awakes, he will ramble and rave as he used to do, about the story of the cobbler and his wife. S 2 74 THE ART OF THE STAGE Kit. — A cobbler and his wife ! why, they can't mean me, sure, al this while ! Kit. — What the devil are they about ? Here is some cursed blunder made ; I shall be liang'd, that is certain ; I am got into a lord's bed- chamber, I don't know how ; ay, and into his very bed, I don't know when. — [A strain of music.) Diego. — I will venture to peep once more, and see if he stirs yet. Kit. — Ah, Lord, now I am taken in the fact. Diego [softly at his curtains). — My Lord, my honour'd Lord. Kit. — What does your good worship say ? Here is nobody here but I. Loren. — Your lordship's gown. {They put on his goivn and set him at the foot of the bed.) Diego. — Will your lordship taste some chocolate, or tea ? Kit. — If you please, you mistake me for some other person. Loren. — Ah ! Diego, Diego ! he is still in the same unhappy dis- traction. Diego. — What clothes will your lordship please to wear to-day ? Kit. — Pho ! what do you mean ? I am Christopher Sly, of Preston heath. — Nay, nay, do not gear a body thus. Diego. — Your English brocade is too hot, and the Persian too cool ; I think your Genoa ash-coloured velvet will suit your honour best to-day. Kit. — Spain? — Am I a Lord? And have I such a lady? Or do I dream ? Or have I dreamed till now ? I do not sleep ; I see, I hear, I speak. Oh ! pooh ; it would be very rude and impertinent in me to doubt any longer. Well, bring our lady hither to our sight. And, prithee, friend, once more, a pot of the smallest eale. Mar. How fares my noble lord ? Kit. Marry, I fare well ; — here's cheer enough. But pray where's my wife ? Mar. — Here, my good Lord. I have brought you a learned doctor. What is your lordship's pleasure ? Kit. — Hah ! a goodly wench ! a hana roba in troth. Now shall I know whether this be a dream or no, in a moment. Are you my wife, forsooth? Ah ! why don't you call me husband ? My men say I am a lord, and I am your good man. Mar. My husband and my lord, my lord and husband. I am your dearest wife in all obedience. Kit. — Very well : I am glad to hear it. What must I call her ? Diego. — Madam, and nothing else ; so lords call their ladies. Kit. — Madam, they say that I have slept and dreamt some fifteen years, or thereabouts. Mar. — Yes ; and it seemed a tedious age to me. Kit. — Hah ! that's much ! Servants leave me and Madam alone, before I take t'other nap. Madam wife, come and kiss me. A Cobbler^ s Stall on one side of the stage, and a little poor bed on the other, Kit in bed ; a stool with the morning-goion ; a cobbler'' s working utool and tools. Boots, shoes, and galoshoes, tbc. Kit. [alone) — Hey oh ! where are my servants ? Here, some of A COMMENTARY 275 you bring me a whole butt of your English small-beer. Here Diego ! Lorenzo ! Bartolino ! why, where are my varlets ? I'll have the dogs' liveries stripped over their ears, and turn'em all out to grass. Ah ! what ! why this is my old flock hammock ! Ah, and there is my spacious shop too, of a yard long ! now am I most consumedly puzzled, to know whether I dreamt before, or whether I dream now, or whether 'tis all a dream from beginning to ending ? whether I am my lord What d'y' call him, or Kit the Cobbler ? somebody or nobody ? Enter Joan. Hold ! here comes one who will interpret all my dream, with a vengeance. Joan {busy sweepiivj and setting the room to right) "Was there ever such a sot ! All our neighbours cry shame o'en — wou'd he were here ! I would rattle him ! Good luck '• What a litter this shop is in ! We have a mort of work and not one stitch set ; there's neighbour Clumps' boots to be liquor'd ; there's Peter Hobson's shoe'n to be tapp'd ; besides Dame Goslin's pattens, and the curate's galoshoes that are to be lin'd with swan skin. O Lud ! Oh, thieves ! murther ! fire ! Kit. — How now ! what, is the woman mad ! Joan. — Thieves, thieves ! Kit. — Silence, I say. What has possessed the woman? Either take that abominable shrill pipe of thine a note lower ; or I will Joan. — Who are you? what are you? how came you here? and what business have you in this place ? Kit.— Ah ! Joan. — Oh ! lud ! Kit ! why, I left thee just now fast asleep at the constable's house. I staid but one moment at Goody Tattle's, to tell her to take her cow out of the lees. And see if thou hast not slipt home, and got into bed before me ! Kit. — Let us hear that again ! — Ah ! where didst thou leave thy husband, good woman, dost thou say ? Joan. — Why, I tell thee, Kit, I left thee at the constable's, drunk asleep ; and I marl how thou gottest home so soon ! -fi"!^.— Haud ye ! baud ye ! Not so fast, woman. I will take care thy husband shall come to no harm : he is an honest man : he loves a cup of ale, I have heard ; but that's a small fault. Go home, be easy ; my servants shall bring thee thy husband. Joan. — Thy servants ! Out, ye drunken sot. Why, Kit, what do you deny your lawful wife. Kit? {Crying.) Oh, oh! was ever poor woman so used by a saucy knave. Eecalling the description of Munden we almost see how this droll part should be done. Not certainly after the pattern that most of our modern comedians would apply. The condition would be to make fun, to show a comic bewilderment, that would extract 276 THE ART OF THE STAGE laughter. Thus, a modern 'comic/ getting into his royal robe, would make many sides ache. But this would not be a la Mwnden, or that complex web and warp of emotions — stupid bewilderment, delight, and enjoyment. And then, as Lamb points out — the extra bewilderment from the reversion to the old Cobbler's stall, and the renewed withdrawal from this again, which would end in fearsome bemuddlement ! EXPLANATORY NOTES P. 1. *A whole length of the celebrated Mr Garrick.^ This fan- tastic memorial was erected by Mr "Wallis ; and the lines, which excited Lamb's disgust, are by Pratt, a fashionable Poetaster of the day. P. IL ^George BarnwalV This piece on 'Uncle Murder' was regularly played at Pantomime time, until about thirty years back. P. 18. * Mr C. 's way of acting Richard. ' Mr G. Cooke. P. 50. ' Emery in Tyke. ' In Morton's drama, ' The School of Eeform.' P. 55. ' Bensley.'' This tolerably obscure actor will owe his reputa- tion to his being niched into Lamb's essay. A short account of him will be found in Taylor's Recollections, and a much fuller one by that excellent critic, Mr Joseph Knight, in the new National Biography. On his retirement he became a Barrack Master. P. 63. ' Dodd.' Dodd died about 1795. P. 65. ' Suett — his friend Matheiv^s mimicry.^ Suett died in 1805. Mrs Mathews describes the funeral; how in the mourning coach, the comedian took off his deceased friend's ' O la ! ' P. 67. * The Elder Palmer.^ His death is the 'leading case' of death upon the stage. This event took place in 171)8, and is in- variably described as having followed with mysterious apropos of his uttering, in. 'The Stranger,' the words, 'There is another and a better world ! ' But, as the performer who was playing with him assured Reynolds, it was after the words, ' I left them at a town close by. ' P. 68. 'The lies of Young Wilding.'' A character in Foote's play, 'The Liar.' P. 81. 'John Kemhle as Charles Surface. ' His friends, speaking of this curious attempt, called it Charles' Restoration ; but some wit said it was Charles' Martyrdom. One gentleman whom he had insulted insisted, as an amende, on liis promising never to play the part again. P. 95. ' G. D.' George Dyer, an eccentric literateiw. P. 98. ' Sir A. C' Sir Anthony Carlisle. NO' YB 74318, 7^?^ ^--« UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA UBRARY - - t