How much it is to be regretted that the art of writing comedy has passed away! They have vaudevilles here—charming things in their way; and we have farces at home that certainly cannot be thought of without enjoying the gratification of a broad grin. But for comedy, where the intellect is called upon as well as the muscles, it is dead and gone. The "Hunchback" is perhaps the nearest approach to it, whose birth I remember in our country, and "Bertrand and Raton" here; but in both cases the pleasurable excitement is produced more by the plot than the characters—more by the business of the scene than by the wit and elegance of the dialogue, except perhaps in the pretty wilfulness of Julia in the second act of the "Hunchback." But even here I suspect it was more the playful grace of the enchanting actress who first appeared in the part, than anything in the words "set down for her," which so delighted us.
We do now and then get a new tragedy,—witness "Fazio" and "Rienzi;" but Comedy—genuine, easy, graceful, flowing, talking Comedy—is dead: I think she followed Sheridan to the grave and was buried with him! But never is one so conscious of the loss, or so inclined to mourn it, as after seeing a comedy of Molière's of the first order,—for his pieces should be divided into classes, like diamonds. What a burst of new enjoyment would rush over all England, or all France, if a thing like "The School for Scandal" or "Les Femmes Savantes" were to appear before them!
Fancy the delight of sitting to hear wit—wit that one did not know by rote, bright, sparkling, untasted as yet by any—new and fresh from the living fountain!—not coming to one in the shape of coin, already bearing the lawful stamp of ten thousand plaudits to prove it genuine, and to refuse to accept which would be treason; but as native gold, to which the touchstone of your own intellect must be applied to test its worth! Shall we ever experience this?
It is strange that the immense mass of material for comedy which the passing scenes of this singular epoch furnish should not be worked up by some one. Molière seems not to have suffered a single passing folly to escape him. Had he lived in these days, what delicious whigs, radicals, "penny-rint" kings, from our side of the water,—what tragic poets, republicans, and parvenus from his own, would he have cheered us withal!
Rousseau says, that when a theatre produces pieces which represent the real manners of the people, they must greatly assist those who are present at them to see and amend what is vicious or absurd in themselves, "comme on ôte devant un miroir les taches de son visage." The idea is excellent; and surely there never was a time when it would be so easy or so useful to put it in practice. Would the gods but send a Sheridan to England and a Molière to France, we might yet live to see some of our worst misfortunes turned to jest, and, like the man choking in a quinsey, laugh ourselves into health again.
LETTER XXXV.
Soirée dansante.—Young Ladies.—Old Ladies.—Anecdote.—The Consolations of Chaperones.—Flirtations.—Discussion upon the variations between young Married Women in France and in England.—Making love by deputy.—Not likely to answer in England.
Last night we were at a ball,—or rather, I should say, a "soirée dansante;" for at this season, though people may dance from night to morning, there are no balls. But let it be called by what name it may, it could not have been more gay and agreeable were this the month of January instead of May.
There were several English gentlemen present, who, to the great amusement of some of the company, uniformly selected their partners from among the young ladies. This may appear very natural to you; but here it is thought the most unnatural proceeding possible.