The Connecticut Wits, and Other Essays

by Henry A. Beers

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This article was printed in the North American Review in two instalments, in May, 1905, and July, 1907. The growth of the literary drama in the last fifteen years has been so marked, and plays of such high quality have been put upon the stage by new writers like Barrie, Synge, Masefield, Kennedy, Moody, Sheldon, and others, that these prophecies and reflections may seem out of date. The article is retained, notwithstanding, for whatever there may be in it that is true of drama in general.

SHERIDAN

WITH the exception of Goldsmith’s comedy, “She Stoops to Conquer,” the only eighteenth century plays that still keep the stage are Sheridan’s three, “The Rivals,” “The Critic,” and “The School for Scandal.” Once in a while, to be sure, a single piece by one or another of Goldsmith’s and Sheridan’s contemporaries makes a brief reappearance in the modern theatre. I have seen Goldsmith’s earlier and inferior comedy, “The Good-natured Man,” as well as Towneley’s farce, “High Life Below Stairs,” both given by amateurs; and I have seen Colman’s “Heir at Law” (1797) acted by professionals. Doubtless other eighteenth century plays, such as Cumberland’s “West Indian” and Holcroft’s “Road to Ruin,” are occasionally revived and run for a few nights. Sometimes this happens even to an earlier piece, such as Farquhar’s “Beaux’ Stratagem” (1707), which retained its popularity all through the eighteenth century. But things of this sort, though listened to with a certain respectful attention, are plainly tolerated as interesting literary survivals, like an old miracle or morality play, say the “Secunda Pastorum” or “Everyman,” revisiting the glimpses of the moon. They do not belong to the repertoire.

Sheridan’s plays, on the other hand, have never lost their popularity as acting dramas. “The School for Scandal” has been played oftener than any other English play outside of Shakespeare; and “The Rivals” is not far behind it. Even “The Critic,” which is a burlesque and depends for its effect not upon plot and character but upon the sheer wit of the dialogue and the absurdity of the situations—even “The Critic” continues to be presented both at private theatricals and upon the public stage, and seldom fails to amuse. There is no better proof of Sheridan’s extraordinary dramatic aptitude than is afforded by a comparison of “The Critic” with its model, Buckingham’s “Rehearsal.” To Boswell’s question why “The Rehearsal” was no longer played, Dr. Johnson answered, “Sir, it had not wit enough to keep it sweet”; then paused and added in good Johnsonese, “it had not vitality sufficient to preserve it from putrefaction.” “The Rehearsal” did have plenty of wit, but it was of the kind which depends for its success upon a knowledge of the tragedies it burlesqued. These are forgotten, and so “The Rehearsal” is dead. But “The Critic” is not only very much brighter, but it satirizes high tragedy in general and not a temporary literary fashion or a particular class of tragedy: and, therefore, nearly a century and a half after its first performance, “The Critic” is still very much alive. The enduring favor which Sheridan’s plays have won must signify one of two things: either that they touch the springs of universal comedy, la comédie humaine—the human comedy, as Balzac calls it: go down to the deep source of laughter, which is also the fountain of tears; or else that, whatever of shallowness or artificiality their picture of life may have, their cleverness and artistic cunning are such that they keep their freshness after one hundred and fifty years. Such is the antiseptic power of art.

The latter, I think, is Sheridan’s case. His quality was not genius, but talent, yet talent raised to a very high power. His comedy lacks the depth and mellowness of the very greatest comedy. His place is not among the supreme creative humorists, Shakespeare, Cervantes, Aristophanes, Molière. Taine says that in Sheridan all is brilliant, but that the metal is not his own, nor is it always of the best quality. Yet he acknowledges the wonderful vivacity of the dialogue, and the animated movement of every scene and of the play as a whole. Sheridan, in truth, was inventive rather than original. His art was eclectic, derivative, but his skill in putting together his materials was unfailing. He wrote the comedy of manners: not the comedy of character. In the greatest comedy, in “The Merchant of Venice,” or “Le Misanthrope,” or “Peer Gynt” there is poetry, or at least there is seriousness. But in the comedy of manners, or in what is called classical comedy, i.e., pure, unmixed comedy, the purpose is merely to amuse.

He never drives his plowshare through the crust of good society into the substratum of universal ideas. We are not to look in the comedy of manners for wisdom and far-reaching thoughts; nor yet for profound, vital, subtle studies of human nature. Sheridan’s comedies are the sparkling foam on the crest of the wave: the bright, consummate flower of high life: finished specimens of the playwright’s art: not great dramatic works.

Yet when all deductions have been made, Sheridan’s is a most dazzling figure. The brilliancy and versatility of his talents were indeed amazing. Byron said: “Whatsoever Sheridan has done, or chosen to do, has been par excellence always the best of its kind. He has written the best comedy, the best drama, the best farce and the best address; and, to crown all, delivered the very best oration ever conceived or heard in this country.” By the best comedy Byron means “The School for Scandal”; the best drama was “The Duenna,” an opera or music drama; the best address was the monologue on Garrick; and the best oration was the famous speech on the Begums of Oude in the impeachment proceedings against Warren Hastings: a speech which held the attention of the House of Commons for over five hours at a stretch, and was universally acknowledged to have outdone the most eloquent efforts of Burke and Pitt and Fox.

Sheridan came naturally by his aptitude for the theatre. His father was an actor and declamation master and had been manager of the Theatre Royal in Dublin. His mother had written novels and plays. Her unfinished comedy, “A Journey to Bath,” furnished a few hints towards “The Rivals,” the scene of which, you will remember, is at Bath, the fashionable watering place which figures so largely in eighteenth century letters: in Smollett’s novel, “Humphrey Clinker,” in Horace Walpole’s correspondence, in Anstey’s satire, “The New Bath Guide,” and in Goldsmith’s life of Beau Nash, the King of the Pumproom. Histrionic and even dramatic ability has been constantly inherited. There are families of actors, like the Kembles and the Booths; and it is noteworthy how large a proportion of our dramatic authors have been actors, or in practical touch with the stage: Marlowe, Greene, Jonson, Shakespeare, Otway, Lee, Cibber, the Colmans, father and son, Macklin, Garrick, Foote, Knowles, Boucicault, Robertson, Tom Taylor, Pinero, Stephen Phillips. These names by no means exhaust the list of those who have both written and acted plays. Sheridan’s career was full of adventure. He eloped from Bath with a beautiful girl of eighteen, a concert singer, daughter of Linley, the musical composer, and was married to her in France. In the course of this affair he fought two duels, in one of which he was dangerously wounded. Now what can be more romantic than a duel and an elopement? Yet notice how the identical adventures which romance uses in one way, classical comedy uses in quite another. These personal experiences doubtless suggested some of the incidents in “The Rivals”; but in that comedy the projected duel and the projected elopement end in farce, and common sense carries it over romance, which it is the whole object of the play to make fun of, as it is embodied in the person of Miss Lydia Languish.

It was Sheridan who said that easy writing was sometimes very hard reading. Nevertheless, whatever he did had the air of being dashed off carelessly. All his plays were written before he was thirty. He was a man of the world, who was only incidentally a man of letters. He sat thirty years in the House of Commons, was Under Secretary for Foreign Affairs under Fox, and Secretary to the Treasury under the coalition ministry. He associated intimately with that royal fribble, the Prince Regent, and the whole dynasty of dandies, and became, as Thackeray said of his forerunner, Congreve, a tremendous swell, but on a much slenderer capital. It is one of the puzzles of Sheridan’s biography where he got the money to pay for Drury Lane Theatre, of which he became manager and lessee. He was a shining figure in the world of sport and the world of politics, as well as in the world of literature and the drama. He had the sanguine, improvident temperament, and the irregular, procrastinating habits of work which are popularly associated with genius. The story is told that the fifth act of “The School for Scandal” was still unwritten while the earlier acts were being rehearsed for the first performance; and that Sheridan’s friends locked him up in a room with pen, ink, and paper, and a bottle of claret, and would not let him out till he had finished the play. This anecdote is not, I believe, authentic; but it shows the current impression of his irresponsible ways. His reckless expenses, his betting and gambling debts resulted in his arrest and imprisonment, and writs were served upon him in his last illness. I do not think that Sheridan affected a contempt for the profession of letters; but there was perhaps a touch of affectation in his rather dégagé attitude toward his own performances. It is an attitude not uncommon in literary men who are also—like Congreve—“tremendous swells.” “I hate your authors who are all author,” wrote Byron, who was himself a bit of a snob. When Voltaire called upon Congreve, the latter disclaimed the character of author, and said he was merely a private gentleman, who wrote for his own amusement. “If you were merely a private gentleman,” replied Voltaire, “I would not have thought it worth while to come to see you.”

Dramatic masterpieces are not tossed off lightly from the nib of the pen; and doubtless Sheridan worked harder at his plays than he chose to have the public know and was not really one of that “mob of gentlemen who write with ease” at whom Pope sneers. Byron and many others testify to the coruscating wit of his conversation; and it is well-known that he did not waste his good things, but put them down in his notebooks and worked them up to a high polish in the dialogue of his plays. It is noticeable how thriftily he leads up to his jokes, laying little traps for his speakers to fall into. Thus in “The Rivals,” where Faulkland is complaining to Captain Absolute about Julia’s heartless high spirits in her lover’s absence, he appeals to his friend to mark the contrast: