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THE DRAMA AS IT IS.
The drama is a poetry which, in its legitimate scope, must be addressed
to all ranks of society—must wear the common garb and speak
the common language of all. It is the forum where all ranks meet and
are but equal; where the base of mankind unlearn their ferocity and
divest themselves of their callousness; and where, likewise, the noble
and gentle must dispense with artificial feelings, and know, whatever
be the shell, the kernel is at best but a man.
—Anon.
There are few subjects, if any, that have elicited
a greater flow of words, than what is termed the
“decline of the legitimate drama.” It is one of the
most approved and enduring themes extant for
small declamation, and has consequently become
the almost exclusive property of “smart young men”
and unfledged scribblers, who think it looks well to
lament the non-enactment of Shakspeare, and to
indulge in little frothy vituperations against the bad
taste of the public, and the intellectual depravity of
the managers, actors, and modern authors. They
discuss in the most flippant aad self-satisfied manner
a question involving the most vexing and perplexing
difficulties, and pass their silly censures and give
are profoundly ignorant. When a satirist, like Lord
Byron or Mr. Charles Sprague, or any man of talent,
undertakes to lash the vices of the stage, the
lack of practical knowledge is overlooked in the
display of poetic power; they present us with a forcible
picture of what is bad, but without pointing
out the efficient means of making that bad better;
they dwell much upon the faults and follies of the
system, because faults and follies are the food of the
satirist; and they will even, at times, give very fine
advice, which has only the fault of not being practcable.
They ought to bear in mind what Portia
truly and sensibly says, “If to do were as easy as
to know what were good to do, chapels had been
churches and poor men's cottages princes' palaces.
It is a good divine that follows his own instructions.”
Lord Byron, when he dipped his pen in gall, and
wrote his “English bards and Scotch reviewers,”
denounced the stage among other existing follies;
but when he actually became concerned in the
management of Drury-lane, he found it a great deal
easier to censure than amend. And yet now the
A. and B. newspaper critics prate about the offence
given to their delicate tastes, when a profitable piece
of nonsense happens to be enacted, instead of Shakspeare
or the “sterling English comedies!” But the
whom we have had the misfortune to become acquainted
with, in reality know no more of the sterling
English comedies (except a few of the most
popular) than they do of Homer in the original;
and as for Shakspeare, their knowledge of him is
confined to his Macbeth, Othello, Richard the Third,
and a few more of his acting plays; while his more
imaginative ones, his Tempest and Midsummer
Night's Dream, are so much heathen Greek to them;
may, one whom we knew, that pretended a most
overweening admiration for the immortal bard, actually
did not know that he had written either songs
or sonnets; and upon being told that the popular
song of “Bid me discourse,” was one of his, resented
the information as an impudent attempt to undervalue
his understanding and impose upon his
credulity! Yet this is, for the most part, the sort
of people that affect a stately supremacy, and talk
about managers “dazzling the eyes of the ignorant
vulgar,” and “catering for the vitiated taste of the
public.”
Now we are by no means going so far as to contend
that the “drama as it is,” is any thing like
the “drama as it ought to be:” but we do mean to
say, that there is an “infinite deal of nothing,” or,
at least, nothing but unmingled cant, preached
Shakspeare is played ten times to any other author's
once, and would, if the public attended, be enacted
still more frequently; and for this simple and satisfactory
reason, that his drama has not one half the
expense of modern pieces, for they have the beauty
that
and decorations,” is all saved; and to those who,
for want of a genuine admiration of that truly immortal
man, counterfeit an ardent longing for his
more frequent presentation on the stage, we would
say—or rather we will tell them an anecdote which,
though old, is good and applicable, and may be
more to the purpose than argument.
A certain king of France had a very pretty queen
whom he loved “passing well,” at least, considering
that he was a Frenchman and she was his wife, but
still not with such exclusive devotion as to prevent
undertook to lecture his majesty upon the subject,
and expressed his surprise that he could slight so
beauteous a lady for others evidently her inferior.
the priest what dish he was most partial to. “Partridges,”
answered the friar, in an emphatic tone,
while his eyes glistened and his lips moved involuntarily
at the ideas which the mention of has favorite
repast called forth—“partridges, your majesty.”
The next morning the worthy clergyman
was lodged in prison, and for fourteen days, morning,
noon and night—breakfast, dinner, and supper
—partridges and partridges only were set before
him, until the gastric juices of the worthy ecclesiastic
could no longer endure this horrible monotony,
and he exclaimed, in an agony of feeling, that
“they might imprison him as long as they liked, if
they would only give him something else to eat!”
Upon this the king sent for him. “How is this,”
said his majesty, “that you complain of your favorite
fare?” “Partridges are excellent,” quoth
the friar, “but always partridges!” “The queen
is excellent,” retorted his majesty, “but always the
queen!” and so the king had his joke, and the priest
a change of diet. Now we hope that no person whose
imagination particularly qualifies him for finding out
a bad moral, will infer from this, that we mean to applaud
his majesty's very improper and naughty behaviour;
all that is meant to be deduced from the
story is, that Shakspeare, always Shakspeare, would
to the public.
The mind of man requires a variety of intellectual
food, just as the stomach requires a variety of
animal nutriment; and that mind is perhaps the
healthiest, and that stomach the strongest, which
can enjoy themselves off whatever is set before
them: what they lose in extreme delicacy, they
make up in vigour. With some people, as the saying
is, “all is fish that comes to their net;” if they
can get a good tragedy or comedy, so much the better;
if not, an opera will do as well; if that is not
to be had, why then a broad farce, or a broader melo-drama;
or in default of these, even an extravaganza
or a pantomime; always provided, that the
thing be tolerably good of its kind; and the man
who on one night laughs heartily at the extravagance
of Hilson, or the extravagant extravagance
of Barnes, in some of their “broad-grin” parts, is
more likely on the next to relish the passion and
pathos, the exquisite poetry and divine philosophy
of Shakspeare, than one of those squeamish and
pedantic personages, whose
with any thing save what is of acknowledged excellence,
at the efforts of every author or actor who has not
as yet received the stamp of public approbation. It is
really amusing at times to sit in a theatre and witness
the behaviour of one of these gentry—to see
the air of critical primness which he assumes on
the entrance of a celebrated actor, or to observe the
smile of supercilious pity which he casts upon some
poor wretch beside him, who is thrown into ecstacies
by a comic song, a bad joke, Barnes's wig coming
off, or any other interesting incident which “Sir
Oracle” esteems frivolous. And when two of them
get together, the way in which they reflect each
other's folly—the looks of deep significance that
pass between them—and the air of conscious superiority
with which they survey the ordinary mortals
around them, is as instructing and amusing as the
play, let it be what it may.
In theatrical matters we must confess that our
own taste is by no means particularly fastidious,
but is capable of embracing all the different species
(not individuals) of the dramatic family, even the
tribe most vilified of all, known by the appellation
of melo dramas; and though, certainly, this class
owns many members too bad for human endurance,
yet there are others capable of interesting and exciting
the feelings in no common degree. Though
good melo-drama is not so bad a thing. It is a sort
of skeleton tragedy, without the stateliness and
poetry, where the murders are committed in simple
prose, and the villanies carried on without the aid
of blank verse. It is the sketch and outline of a
tragedy where actions are represented rather than
characters delineated, and where every thing is
broad and general, coarse and rough, but which
when well enacted and kept within the moderate
bounds of probability, sometimes excite the feelings
to a pitch that prevents sleep during the more interesting
scenes. Nay, so very unrefined is our taste,
that we cannot join in the prevailing hue and cry
against gaudy spectacles and splendid scenery, thinking
them very good in their place, and even feeling
an unbecoming interest in the “dresses and decorations,”
particularly of the ladies, for a well-dressed
woman is at any time pleasanter to look upon
than a dull play. There are, however, some things
occasionally exhibited which there is no getting
over, to wit, dogs, horses, elephants, and the brute
creation in general—real fire and real water, wonderful
ascensions from the stage to the gallery, impressive
ceremonies of shooting deserters—jugglers,
rope-dancers and little children—these are unalloyed,
unmitigated evils.
But though gaud and show, and spectacles and
melo-dramas are pleasant enough occasionally and
in their place, it is the interest and duty of every
one who values sound rational dramatic representations
to raise his voice against them when they are
too frequently introduced, and assume an undue
importance in the evening's entertainment. They
are well enough as a dessert after more solid and
substantial aliment, but if furnished as the principal
intellectual food for the theatre-going public, the
inevitable consequence will be depravity of taste,
and attenuation of intellect. Let a good tragedy or
comedy; which in itself contains enough poetry and
passion, wit and sense for any reasonable man for
one evening, be first enacted, and then let any
popular nonsense most in vogue occasionally follow,
by which arrangement all parties will be satisfied.
Though the public cannot justly be charged with
indifference in respect to Shakspeare, yet it is to be
regretted that they certainly do display an apathy
towards the genuine old comedies, (ah! they know
not the treasures which they pass unheeded by!) yet
this, in a great measure, arises from their not being
familiar with their merits. Managers ought to endeavour
to create a taste for the more correct appreciation
of the genuine excellencies of the old dramatic
authors. Let them not be discouraged by a
to set apart a particular night in each week for the
production of a sterling comedy, this would amount
to between forty and fifty pieces of real merit in the
course of the season—an immense acquisition.
And if the newspapers and literary journals were
to make a point of especially noticing and commenting
on that evening's performance, there is little
doubt that in a short time it would not only be creditable
and profitable to the managers, but credita-and
profitable to the public.
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