“Shikspur? Shikspur? who wrote it?” says Kitty, in High Life below Stairs, when the worshipful Lady Bab asks her if she had never read Shikspur. There are perhaps not many Mrs Kitties of the present day who would give a similar answer. But although the name of the great dramatist has become a household word amongst us, and his works are perhaps better known than those of any other writer in the language, he is known rather as an author to be read than as a dramatist whose plays are to be witnessed. It is not to be denied that upon the great majority of the British people, and especially of the middle classes, the theatre has had little or no influence. It is utterly ignored by them. From the days of Elizabeth and James, when the mayor and aldermen of London did what they could to discountenance the drama, and to oust Shakespeare and Burbage from the Blackfriars’ Theatre, up to this present hour, the playhouses, frequented by the aristocracy of birth and the aristocracy of education, and the players honoured as “His Majesty’s Servants,” or, “The Lord Chamberlain’s Company,” have been regarded with suspicion by the sober citizens of the middle class. When the theatres rose into importance, the Puritans rose into importance, and the former have never recovered from the denunciations of the latter. These denunciations, it is true, were often most intemperate, and based on the most ridiculous grounds (as when Gosson denounced the acting of women’s parts by boys as the sin which brought the fiery judgment of heaven upon Sodom and Gomorrah), yet when in so many of the plays of the period, and still more of the profligate reign of the second Charles, we find profanity, obscenity, and hardness of heart presented as the most brilliant of qualities, it is nothing wonderful that the commonalty should have been estranged. From the memory of those impurities the theatre has never entirely recovered, and there are multitudes among us nowadays who regard it as little better than a lazaretto. It has indeed been very much altered, so that in every respectable theatre he must be nearly as squeamish as those Americans who are said by Sam Slick to have put trousers on the legs of their pianofortes, who is offended with what he sees or hears: and yet still the old repugnance remains; as if, like the man who had the devil cast out of him, the people regard it as a house swept and garnished only to receive seven other devils worse than before. The fact is, that it is not enough to introduce a negative morality into the theatres: it is not enough that the old devil should have been smoked out, and the house swept and garnished, if we find no positive substitute. It is a genuine and noble substitute that is wanted, not electroplate, nor nickel silver. The most offensive part of stage morality at present is its hypocrisy. We should infinitely prefer seeing the downright licentiousness of Etherege and Sedley to the sham sentiment and the canting virtues that sometimes take the place of it on the modern stage—we mean especially in the afterpieces. The former is an open enemy, the other a disguised one. And until we have true poetry in the sentiment, and true chivalry in the action, and that reverence which is implied in poetry and chivalry, it is not likely that the English people, as a whole, will ever look to the theatres. At present, the greater number of dramatic writers seem to expend their energies in the most ephemeral manner. The burlesques and pantomimes, we have said, are about the best things produced on the British stage. They are often very amusing, and display a strange prodigality of power—but power all run to seed. The wit consists of punning; the humour consists of practical jokes, horrible grimace, and elaborate buffoonery; the dialogue is in the vernacular of the London taverns and caves of harmony;[[14]] the plot is not simply improbable, it is impossible and incomprehensible; the characters are little better than marionettes, and their sentiments the sentiments of puppets. Of course there are exceptions, and brilliant ones they are. Bulwer Lytton, Sheridan Knowles, Douglas Jerrold, Charles Reade, and a few others, have shown what they can do in a more serious vein. But, as a whole, the dramatic literature of the day is, as it has ever been since the Restoration, more remarkable for quantity than quality. Few persons out of London, and not many even in London, are well acquainted with that literature, the extent of its surface, the multiplicity of its currents, its utter shallowness, and the incredible mud that lies at the bottom of it; and were we to attempt a very slight analysis of its contents, run up a few statistics, give one or two extracts, and, in a word, describe it in its proper colours, a tale would probably be unfolded which would not only somewhat astonish those who, living in the provinces, seldom or never enter a theatre, and are thus blessedly ignorant of the carrion fare on which metropolitan playgoers fatten at half-price, but would also make some of those who frequent the dramatic temple not a little ashamed that afterpieces which are unreadable for their insipidity,[[15]] disgusting for their bad taste, and still worse, contemptible, although not so much for their licentiousness as for the cant and tremendous humbug of their hypocritical moralities, should have power, in the hands of a clever actor, to charm the purer sensibilities of their nature to sleep, so that, as if glamour had been cast in their eyes, trickery and tinsel pass for reality, falsehood appears to be true, evil good, and ugliness beautiful. In such a state of things it is not likely that the theatre should achieve a popularity which it has never enjoyed; and certainly its entire spirit must be revolutionised ere it can find a large welcome in the heart of the nation. Read the modern novelists and read the modern dramatists, and observe the difference of tone. There is in the common run of modern dramas—whether tragedy, comedy, or farce—such an utter absence of noble purpose, that not a whole army of claqueurs could ever succeed in establishing their popularity.
The fact is, the Muse of the British drama seems at this moment inclined to vacate the theatres, and to take up her abode in the halls and concert-rooms. Like the old fairies of the story-books, who, disgusted with the treatment they receive in one family, go and bestow their favours on the household next door, the dramatic Muse—a very old fairy indeed—is tired of the position assigned to her in the theatres. What is that? On the ceiling, gracefully gyrating round the gaselier, are the four lightly-draped muses of the theatre, with dagger, and mask, and harp, and castanets in hand, while certain naked amorini carry festoons of flowers before them, and from every jutty, frieze, and coign of vantage on the cornice, horned satyrs and ivy-crowned bacchantes leer out with astonishment. The Muse of the British drama is tired of dancing over the gaselier, dancing over our heads, and wishes to come down to our hearts, and so she enters the music-halls and concert-rooms, where she patronises two distinct classes of entertainments, the one more strictly lyrical, the other more strictly dramatic.
With regard to the more musical kind of entertainment, it must have been observed, that while songs and ballads, and instrumentation have a large sphere assigned to them, the operatic airs are day by day assuming more and more importance. It is quite true that a cavatina sung in a concert-room is very different from the same cavatina sung on the stage. The singing in a concert-room is like the singing of statues—so expressionless. We would rather not look at a concert-singer—one who is merely a concert-singer. Goethe makes the same remark with respect to singers generally. They remind one of the ludicrous story which the monks report of St Benedict,—that he was heard singing psalms two or three weeks before he was born, and saw the light of day. You hear these singers singing long before their faces are born, long before they attain the life of expression. Exceptions of course there are occasionally, and chiefly when a duet, a trio, or a quartette is to be sung. And it requires only an operatic singer, whose reputation as prima donna or primo tenore will excuse such a liberty, to throw a truly dramatic expression into the solos, for the practice to become general. Why should not some attempt be made by those who can, to escape from the starched formality of the concert-room—to forget that they are in dress boots and white gloves—and to impart somewhat of the animation of the theatre into the pieces of music which they hold so affectionately in their hands, because it saves their hands from even the inclination to gesticulate? And with glee and madrigal unions in every town, why do not the dramatists see their opportunity, and infuse somewhat more of the dramatic element into those part songs, out of which in time a little drama might arise? Everything has its insignificant beginnings, and, discreetly managed, the incoherence of our concerts might gradually be developed into the organic unity of the drama. It is coming to this, in fact. The music-halls are becoming theatres under a new and unobjectionable name.
With regard to the more dramatic entertainments that are so popular in those public halls, the new life is still more apparent. We do not simply refer to dramatic readings, although these too have a vast influence—an influence as superior to that of the Elgin marbles in the British Museum, to which we once heard the plays of Shakespeare irreverently compared, as the spell of the Ladye of Branksome, who could raise the spirits to her bidding, was to the power of William of Deloraine, who lifted the massy tombstone, and fetched the mystic book from the coffin of the departed wizard; an influence, too, as superior to that of the rhapsodists who travelled through the cities of Greece reciting the lays of Homer (for they recited these lays in detached fragments), as the palace of Aladdin, built in a night, is superior to the single brick that Scholasticos carried about with him as a specimen of the house which he wanted to sell. It is needless to dwell, however, upon this influence, important and ennobling though it be, because its tendency is to keep alive the memory of the past; and we wish rather to indicate the new life that is stirring. Albert Smith’s Ascent of Mont Blanc is the best specimen of a class of entertainments that are now very popular—perhaps the most popular of all, and which, when further and duly developed, promise to rival the present theatres. Mr Albert Smith goes to Mont Blanc, returns, gets Mr Beverley to paint the scenes through which he travelled, and enlivens those scenes by the description and impersonation of what he saw and heard. We have no doubt that Mr Smith’s entertainment is far more amusing, far more intellectual, and ten thousand times more artistic, than anything of the kind which England could furnish in the thirteenth or fourteenth century; and he will not resent the comparison if we say that he reminds us of the holy palmers and pilgrims who, in those crusading centuries, returned from Palestine, and with the aid of rude pictures—“the city of Jerusalem, with towers and pinnacles,—Old Tobye’s House,—A Fyrmament with a fyry cloud, and a double cloud,”—attempted in miracle plays and mysteries to convey an idea of the scenes they themselves had witnessed in the Holy Land, or of the events which in the olden time had been enacted there, and so laid the foundations of a theatre that ultimately grew into the fair proportions of the Elizabethan drama, as the rude earthwork which Romulus in the Palilia founded on the Palatine, grew in greatness and in pride, until it embraced the seven hills, a city of palaces and the marble mistress of the world. We might have run the comparison still more closely, if we had not forgotten for the moment Mr Smith’s Eastern Travels and Overland Route. No matter. In these entertainments we find a certain resemblance to the miracle plays out of which the modern drama was developed; and do we not also find a certain nineteenth century likeness of the ancient moralities, in these life-dramas, death-dramas, and devil-dramas, in which our young poets delight to sow their wild oats; giving us all manner of caprices for imagination, hysterics for passion, revolting descriptions for the sublime, soliloquy for dialogue, and dialogue for action? Yea, verily, and out of all these elements we are not without hope that a drama may yet arise more worthy of fame than that which at present exists. But again, we repeat, no more Shakespearean imitations, and legitimate suicide; let the dramatists be wise in their generation, accept the tendencies of the time, and think the thoughts and wear the dress of this year 1856.
LESSONS FROM THE WAR.
The glimpse of peace just afforded us is almost as startling as the news of battle, so general has been the impression that the war must inevitably continue. Peace on such satisfactory grounds as are probable will descend on the heated nation like dew. Those who, after sending forth their sons, brothers, lovers, to the war, have been steeling themselves in the Spartan school, scarcely daring to hope again to see their soldier alive and unwounded, trying to believe that if they see him no more they will lament for him only with the chastened grief due to him who falls in arms, will have all their sternness melted in their breasts to warm soft hope. The soldier himself, shivering on those desolate Crimean plains before an invisible foe, and casting many a prolonged mental glance to the homes of England, will see the red glories of the anticipated campaign contrasted vividly with the cool fresh tints of peace—peace, a word to him suggestive hitherto of dim and dubious delights, once his, but perhaps to be his no more, and only to be dwelt on for a few short moments when some echo from England had quenched the ever-present din of arms. And, to touch on lower though yet more wide-spreading interests, there are many to whom the sordid thought, that they will no more be called on to contribute the share of expense which, in one form or another, was exacted from them by the war, will bring more pleasure than any accession of glory to England. For ourselves, peace on the basis of unconditional acceptance by Russia of the terms dictated by Austria, will leave us nothing to regret. But, turning for a space from this newer topic, let us glance at the position in which these chances of peace have found us, and speak, as it is still sound policy to speak, as though there were certain to be war in the coming year.
Like one who struggles in a fog through a quagmire, England has passed through the late campaign. Advancing a few paces, plunging waist deep, pausing in bewilderment, tenfold increased by the clamour of the volunteer guides who throng officiously to the brink, and, if often supported, yet also sometimes encumbered, by the companion-hand linked in hers, she has attained a temporary halting-place. Myriad-voiced instructions, mostly resolving themselves into the simple and valuable injunction to “go in and win,” were, up to Russia’s acceptance of the proposals, still echoing from all points of the compass—many a lantern, trustworthy as an ignis fatuus, glimmered through the surrounding mist. Disregarding for a time the well-meant attentions of these numerous advisers, we may attempt to throw on the devious track of the past some light uncoloured by the tints of party-spirit or of popular feeling, and so try to obtain some guidance for the future.
Glancing at the past year, we see the British army in new and strange alliance with its foe of centuries. Its leaders were either untried men, or men from whom, as previous trial had shown, nothing very remarkable was to be expected. Under such circumstances, the army was required to satisfy the expectations, not merely of a sovereign or a government, but a people. Accepting it as inevitable that the people will, in the absence of a strong government, virtually charge themselves with the conduct of the war, let us at least attempt to infuse into the collective wisdom of the nation the elements of deliberation, wholesome doubt, and self-restraint. To speak either of the pity or the scorn with which the more thoughtful and comprehensive order of spirits view a whole people, who claim to be the heirs of vast experience and civilisation, blindly clamouring after some blind leader at every turn of affairs, might answer no other purpose than to excite popular hostility. Yet to know that many of those to whom the nation cannot refuse its respect view with contempt, regret, or compassion the ordinary expression of popular opinion—to know that its most positive enunciations are held as akin to the sagacity of Dogberry and Verges—to know that the angels may well be deemed to weep at the consequences of its fantasies—might excite, even in the most determined advocate of the might, majesty, and power of the people, some obscure sensation of self-distrust and shame.
After for many years regarding their army either with indifference or dislike, and systematically confining it within the narrowest limits possible, the English people, at the outbreak of the war, dismissed their troops to the scene of action with such boastful applause as would have been unbecoming if offered by a nation which had made military glory its chief aim, to a veteran army habituated to victory. Anticipations were raised which it would be nearly impossible to realise, and to fall short of which would be disgrace. Forty years before, a small English army, composed of marvellous troops led by a marvellous man, had stemmed the progress of Napoleon, achieving exploits which, though meeting at the time with much detraction, eventually raised our soldiers to the first rank in the estimation of the world. Since then, public attention had been turned to totally different matters with great success; and we had distinguished ourselves by so many achievements in science and art, and had become so accustomed to lead the way in the pursuits of peace, that for any power to presume to dispute our supremacy was regarded as an impertinence calling for a chastisement, the promptness and weight of which it would be absurd to doubt.
Hitherto our object had been to attain a military establishment which should offer no shadow of offence to the most enthusiastic admirer of liberty, or the most ardent votary of progress. When with this object it was found desirable to combine the totally different one of possessing an irresistible force in war, some error was apparent in the result of the process; and the first impulse of our philosophic and reasoning nation was anger—at first directed on no one in particular, but after a time on all concerned in the conduct of the war, without any other distinction of persons than that arising from the respective shares borne in its administration, and consequent amount of presumed criminality. By some unknown process of logic, it was concluded that a sweeping change in the conductors of the war would restore our credit as a military power, and that a general and minister or two officially buried would be as the dragon’s teeth, from whence heroes would spring. Accordingly, some were dismissed, and some abused, pour encourager les autres.