The author’s early visits to Crow-street Theatre—Interruptions of the
University _men_—College pranks—Old Mr. Sheridan in “Cato” and in
“Alexander the Great”—Curious _scene_ introduced, by mistake, in the
latter tragedy—Mr. Digges in the Ghost of Hamlet’s father—Chorus of
cocks—The author’s preference of comedy to tragedy—Remarks on Mr. Kean
and the London moralists—Liston in “Paul Pry”—Old Sparkes—The Spanish
_débutante_—Irish Johnstone—Modern comedy—The French stage.
From my youth I was attached to theatrical representations, and have
still a clear recollection of many of the eminent performers of my early
days. My grandmother, with whom I resided for many years, had permanent
silver tickets of admission to Crow-street Theatre, whither I was very
frequently sent.
The playhouses in Dublin were then lighted by tallow candles, stuck into
tin circles hanging from the middle of the stage, which were every now
and then snuffed by some performer; and two soldiers, with fixed
bayonets, always stood like statues on each side the stage, close to the
boxes, to keep the audience in order. The galleries were very noisy and
very _droll_. The ladies and gentlemen in the boxes always went dressed
out nearly as for court; the strictest etiquette and decorum were
preserved in that circle; whilst the pit, as being full of critics and
wise men, was particularly respected, except when the young gentlemen of
the University occasionally forced themselves in, to revenge some
insult, real or imagined, to a member of their body; on which occasions,
all the ladies, well-dressed men, and peaceable people generally,
decamped forthwith, and the young gentlemen as generally proceeded to
beat or turn out the residue of the audience, and to break every thing
that came within their reach. These exploits were by no means uncommon;
and the number and rank of the young culprits were so great, that
(coupled with the impossibility of selecting the guilty,) the college
would have been nearly depopulated, and many of the great families in
Ireland enraged beyond measure, had the students been expelled or even
rusticated.
I had the honour of being frequently present, and (as far as in
_mêlée_,) giving a helping hand to our encounters both in the
play-houses and streets. We were in the habit of going about the latter,
on dark nights, in coaches, and, by flinging out halfpence, breaking the
windows of all the houses we rapidly drove by, to the astonishment and
terror of the proprietors. At other times, we used to convey gunpowder
squibs into all the lamps in several streets at once, and by longer or
shorter fuses contrive to have them all burst about the same time,
breaking every lamp to shivers and leaving whole streets in utter
darkness. Occasionally we threw large crackers into the china and
glass-shops, and delighted to see the terrified shopkeepers trampling on
their own porcelain and cut-glass, for fear of an explosion. By way of a
treat, we used sometimes to pay the watchmen to lend us their cloaks and
rattles: by virtue whereof, we broke into the low prohibited
gambling-houses, knocked out the lights, drove the gamblers down stairs,
and then gave all their stakes to the watchmen. The whole body of
watchmen belonging to one parish (that of the round church, St.
Andrew’s) were our sworn friends, and would take our part against any
other watchmen in Dublin. We made a permanent subscription, and paid
each of these regularly seven shillings a week for his _patronage_. I
mention these trifles, out of a thousand odd pranks, as a part of my
plan, to show, from a comparison of the past with the present state of
society in the Irish metropolis, the extraordinary improvement which has
taken place in point of decorum within the last half century. The young
gentlemen of the University then were in a state of great
insubordination;—not as to their learning, but their wild habits:
indeed, the singular feats of some of them would be scarcely credible
now; and they were so linked together, that an offence to one was an
offence to all. There were several noblemen’s sons with their
gold-laced, and elder sons of baronets with their silver-laced gowns,
who used to accompany us, with their gowns turned inside out: yet our
freaks arose merely from the fire and natural vivacity of uncontrolled
youth: no calm, deliberate vices,—no low meannesses,—were ever
committed: that class of young men now termed “dandies” we then called
_macaronies_; and we made it a standing rule to thrash them whenever we
got a fair opportunity: such also as had been long tied to their
“mothers’ apron-strings” we made no small sport with when we got them
clear inside the college: we called them _milk-sops_, and if they
declined drinking as much wine as ordered, we always dosed them (as in
duty bound) with tumblers of salt and water till they came to their
_feeding_, as we called it. Thus generally commenced a young man of
fashion’s novitiate above fifty years ago. However, our wildness,
instead of increasing as we advanced in our college courses, certainly
diminished, and often left behind it the elements of much talent and
virtue. Indeed, there were to the full as good scholars, and certainly
to the full as high-bred, and much more talented gentlemen educated in
the Dublin University then, than in this wiser and more cold-blooded
era. But it has utterly degenerated.
I remember, even before that period, seeing old Mr. Sheridan perform the
part of _Cato_ at one of the Dublin theatres; I do not recollect which:
but I well recollect his dress, which consisted of bright armour under a
fine laced scarlet cloak, and surmounted by a huge, white, bushy,
well-powdered wig (like Dr. Johnson’s), over which was stuck his helmet.
I wondered much how he could kill himself without stripping off the
armour before he performed that operation! I also recollect him
particularly (even as if before my eyes now) playing _Alexander the
Great_, and throwing the javelin at _Clytus_, whom happening to miss, he
hit the cup-bearer, then played by one of the hack performers, a Mr.
Jemmy Fotterel. Jemmy very naturally supposed that he was hit
_designedly_, and that it was some _new light_ of the great Mr. Sheridan
to slay the cup-bearer in preference to his friend _Clytus_, which
certainly would have been a less unjustifiable murder, and that he ought
to tumble down and make a painful end, according to dramatic custom time
immemorial. Immediately, therefore, on being struck, Mr. James Fotterel
(who was the ugliest cup-bearer ever employed by any monarch) reeled,
staggered, and fell very naturally, considering it was his _first
death_; but being determined on this unexpected opportunity to make an
impression upon the audience, when he found himself stretched out on the
boards at full length, he began to roll about, kick, and flap the stage
with his hands most immoderately; falling next into strong convulsions,
exhibiting every symptom of exquisite torture, and at length expiring
with a groan so loud and so long that it paralysed even the people in
the galleries, whilst the ladies believed that he was really killed, and
cried aloud at the misfortune.
Though then very young, I was myself so terrified in the pit that I
never shall forget it. However, Mr. Jemmy Fotterel being dragged off by
the legs, soon re-entered in rude health, and was more applauded than
any Clytus had ever been;—even the slayer himself could not help
laughing most heartily at the incident.
The actresses both of tragedy and genteel comedy formerly wore large
hoops, and whenever they made a speech walked across the stage and
changed sides with the performer who was to speak next, thus veering
backwards and forwards, like a shuttlecock, during the entire
performance. This custom partially prevailed in the continental theatres
till _very_ lately.
I recollect Mr. Barry, who was accounted the handsomest man of his day,
and his lady (formerly Mrs. Dancer); also Mr. Digges, who used to play
the _Ghost_ in “Hamlet.” One night in doubling that part with (I
believe) Polonius, Digges forgot, on appearing as the _Ghost_,
previously to rub off the bright _red_ paint with which his face had
been daubed for the other character. A sprite with a large red nose and
vermilioned cheeks was extremely novel and much applauded. There was
also a famous actor who used to play the _Cock_ that crew to call off
the _Ghost_ when Hamlet had done with him: this performer did his part
so well that every body used to say he was the best _Cock_ that ever had
been heard at Smock-alley; and six or eight other gentry of the dunghill
species were generally brought behind the scenes, who, on hearing him,
mistook him for a brother cock, and set up their pipes all together: and
thus, by the infinity of crowing at the same moment, the hour was the
better marked, and the _Ghost_ glided back to the other world in the
midst of a perfect _chorus_ of cocks—to the no small admiration of the
audience.
The distinguishing merits of the old actors I cannot recollect, and
indeed of many of the more modern ones I profess myself but a very
moderate judge. One thing, however, I am sure of;—that, man or boy, I
never admired tragedy, however well personated. Lofty feelings and
strong passions may be admirably mimicked therein; but the ranting,
whining, obviously premeditated starting, disciplined gesticulation,
&c.—the committing of suicide in mellifluous blank verse, and rhyming
when in the agonies of death,—stretch away so _very_ far from nature, as
to destroy all that illusion whereon the effect of dramatic exhibition
in my mind entirely depends. Unless occasionally to witness some very
celebrated new actor, I have not attended a tragedy these forty years;
nor have I ever yet seen any tragedian on the British stage who made so
decided an impression on my feelings as Mr. Kean, in some of his
characters, has done. When I have seen other celebrated men enact the
same parts, I have remained quite tranquil, however my judgment may have
been satisfied: but he has made me _shudder_, and that, in my
estimation, is the grand triumph of the tragedian’s art. I have seldom
sat out the last _murder_ scene of any play except “Tom Thumb,” or
“Chrononhotonthologos,” which certainly are no burlesques on some of our
standard tragedies.
In serious comedy, Kean’s _Shylock_ and _Sir Giles Overreach_, seemed to
me neither more nor less than actual _identification_ of those
portraitures: so much so, in fact, that I told him myself, after seeing
him perform the first-mentioned part, that I could have found in my
heart to knock his brains out the moment he had finished his
performance.[31]
-----
Footnote 31:
Nothing could be more truly disgusting than the circumstance of the
most ruffianly parts of the London population, under the general
appellation of a “_British audience_,” assuming to themselves the
feelings of virtue, delicacy, decorum, morals, and modesty—for the
sole purpose of driving into exile one of the first performers that
ever trod the stage of England!—and that for an offence which (though
abstractedly unjustifiable) a great number of the gentry, not a few of
the nobility, and even members of the holy church militant, are
constantly committing and daily detected in: which commission and
detection by no means seem to have diminished their popularity, or
caused their reception to be less cordial among saints, methodists,
legal authorities, and justices of the quorum.
The virtuous sentence of transportation passed against Mr. Kean by the
mob of London certainly began a _new series_ of British _morality_;
and the laudable societies for the “suppression of vice” may shortly
be eased of a great proportion of their labours by more active
moralists, (the frequenters of the upper gallery) culled from
High-street St. Giles’s, the Israelites of Rag-fair, and the Houses of
Correction. Hogarth has, in his print of “Evening,” immortalised the
happy state of the horned citizens at his period.
-----
Two errors, however, that great actor has in a remarkable degree: some
of his _pauses_ are so long, that he appears to have forgotten himself;
and he _pats his breast_ so often, that it really reminds one of a nurse
patting her infant to keep it from squalling: it is a pity he is not
aware of these imperfections!
If, however, I have been always inclined to undervalue tragedy, on the
other hand, the great comic performers of my time in Ireland I perfectly
recollect. I allude to the days of Ryder, O’Keeffe, Wilks, Wilder,
Vandermere, &c. &c. &c.
The effect produced by even one singular actor, or one trivial incident,
is sometimes surprising. The dramatic trifle or translation called “Paul
Pry” had a greater run, I believe, than any piece of the kind ever
exhibited in London, though it is a mere _bagatelle_—in itself
_nothing_. I went to see it, and was greatly amused—not by the piece,
but by the ultra oddity of one performer. Put any handsome, or even
human-looking person, in Liston’s place, and take away his _umbrella_,
and Paul Pry would scarcely bring another audience. His countenance
certainly presents the drollest set of stationary features I ever saw,
and has the uncommon merit of being exquisitely comic _per se_, without
the slightest distortion: no _artificial_ grimace, indeed, could improve
his _natural_. I remember O’Keeffe, justly the delight of Dublin: and
Ryder, the best _Sir John Brute_, _Ranger_, _Marplot_, &c. in the world:
the prologue of “Bucks, have at ye all!” was repeated by him four
hundred and twenty-four times. O’Keeffe’s _Tony Lumpkin_, Vandermere’s
_Skirmish_, Wilder’s _Colonel Oldboy_, Wilks’s _Jessamy_, and the
performances of several others in the comic line, came as near nature as
acting and mimicry could possibly approach. There was also a _first
edition_ of _Liston_ as to drollery, on the Dublin stage, usually called
“Old Sparkes.” He was very tall, and of a very large size; with
heavy-hanging jaws, gouty ancles, big paunch, and sluggish motion; but
his comic face and natural drollery were irresistible. He was a most
excellent actor in every thing he could personate: his grotesque figure,
however, rendered these parts but few. _Peachum_, in the “Beggar’s
Opera,” _Caliban_, (with _his own_ additions) in “The Tempest,” and all
bulky, droll, low characters, he did to the greatest perfection. At one
time, when the audiences of Smock-Alley were beginning to flag, Old
Sparkes told Ryder, if he would bring out the afterpiece of “The
Padlock,” and permit him to manage it, he would ensure him a succession
of good nights. Ryder gave him his way, and the bills announced a first
appearance in the part of Leonora: the _débutante_ was reported to be a
Spanish lady. The public curiosity was excited, and youth, beauty, and
tremulous modesty were all anticipated; the house overflowed; impatience
was unbounded; the play ended in confusion, and the overture of “The
Padlock” was received with rapture. Leonora at length appeared; the
clapping was like thunder, to give courage to the _débutante_, who had a
handsome face, and was very beautifully dressed as a Spanish donna,
which it was supposed she really was. Her gigantic size, it is true,
rather astonished the audience. However, they willingly took for granted
that the Spaniards were an immense people, and it was observed that
England must have had a great escape of the Spanish Armada, if the men
were proportionably gigantic to the ladies. Her voice too was rather of
the hoarsest, but that was accounted for by the sudden change of
climate: at last, Leonora began her song of “Sweet Robin”—
Say, little foolish fluttering thing,
Whither, ah! whither would you wing?
and at the same moment Leonora’s mask falling off, Old Sparkes stood
confessed, with an immense gander which he brought from under his cloak,
and which he had trained to stand on his hand and screech to his voice,
and in chorus with himself. The whim took: the roar of laughter was
quite inconceivable: he had also got Mungo played by a _real_ black: and
the whole was so extravagantly ludicrous, and so entirely to the taste
of the Irish galleries at that time, that his “Sweet Robin” was encored,
and the frequent repetition of the piece replenished poor Ryder’s
treasury for the residue of the season.
I think about that time Mr. John Johnstone was a dragoon. His mother was
a very good sort of woman, whom I remember extremely well. Between fifty
and sixty years ago she gave me a little book, entitled “The History of
the Seven Champions of Christendom,” which I have (with several other
books of my childhood) to this day. She used to call at my
grandmother’s, to sell run muslins, &c. which she carried about her hips
in great wallets, passing them off for a hoop. She was called by the old
women, in pleasantry, “Mull and Jacconot;” sold great bargains, and was
a universal favourite with the ladies. Young Johnstone was a remarkably
genteel well-looking lad; he used to bring presents of trout to my
grandmother, which he caught in the great canal then going on close to
Dublin. He soon went into the army: but having a weakness in his legs,
he procured a speedy discharge, and acquired eminence on the Irish
stage.
I never happened to meet Mr. John Johnstone for many years in private
society till we met at dinner at Lord Barrymore’s, in 1812, where Col.
Bloomfield, my old and good-hearted friend Mr. Richard Martin, and
others, were assembled. I was glad to meet the distinguished comedian,
and mentioned some circumstances to him which proved the extent of my
memory. He sang that night as sweetly as ever I heard him on the stage,
and that is saying much.
Mr. Johnstone was a truly excellent performer of the more _refined_
species of Irish characters; but Nature had not given him enough of that
original _shoulder-twist_, and what they call the “_pot-sheen-twang_,”
which so strongly characterise the genuine national _vis comica_ of the
lower orders of Irish. In this respect, Owenson was superior to him, of
whom the reader will find a more detailed account in a future page.
No modern comedy, in my mind, equals those of the old writers. The
former are altogether devoid of that high-bred, witty playfulness of
dialogue so conspicuous in the works of the latter. Gaudy spectacle,
common-place clap-traps, forced dialogue, and bad puns, together with
ill-placed mongrel sentiment, _ad captandum vulgus_, have been
substituted to “make the unskilful laugh,” and to the manifest sorrow of
the “judicious.” Perhaps so much the better:—as, although there are now
most excellent scene-painters and fire-workers, the London stage appears
to be almost destitute of competent performers in the parts of the old
genuine comedy, and the present London audiences seem to prefer
gunpowder, resin, brimstone, musketry, burning castles, dancing ponies,
and German hobgoblins, to any human or _Christian_ entertainments,
evidently despising all those high-finished comic characters, which
satisfy the understanding and owe nothing to the scenery.
In Paris the scenery and orchestra at the first theatre for _acting_ in
the world (the Theatre François) are below mediocrity. But there is
another species of theatrical representation extant in France—namely,
_scriptural_ pieces; half burlesque, half melodrame. These are
undoubtedly among the drollest things imaginable; mixing up in one
unconnected mass, tragedy, comedy, and farce, painting, music, scenery,
dress and undress, decency and indecency![32]
-----
Footnote 32:
“Samson pulling down the hall of the Philistines” is the very finest
piece of _spectacle_ that can be conceived!—“Susannah and the Elders”
is rather too _naked_ a concern for the English ladies to look at,
unless through their fans: _transparent_ ones have lately been
invented, to save the expense of blushes, &c. But the most whimsical
of their scriptural dramas is the exhibition of Noah as a
_ship-builder_, preparatory to the deluge: it is a most splendid
spectacle. He is assisted by large gangs of angels working as his
_journeymen_, whose great solicitude is to keep their wings clear out
of the way of their hatchets, &c. At length the whole of them _strike_
and turn out for wages, till the arrival of a body of _gens d’armes_
immediately brings them to order, by whom they are threatened to be
sent back to _heaven_ if they do not _behave themselves_!
-----
I have seen many admirable comedians on the continent. Nothing can
possibly exceed Mademoiselle Mars (for instance) in many characters: but
the French are _all_ actors and actresses from their cradles; and a
great number of performers, even at the minor theatres, seem to me to
_forget_ that they are playing, and at times nearly make the audience
forget it too! Their spectacle is admirably good; their dancing
excellent, and most of their dresses beautiful. Their orchestras are
_well filled_, in every sense of the word, and the level of musical
composition not so low as _some_ of Mr. Bishop’s effusions. The French
singing however is execrable; their tragedy rant; but their _prose_
comedy nature itself!
In short, the French beyond doubt exceed all other people in the world
with regard to theatrical matters: and as every man, woman, and child in
Paris is equally attached to _spectacle_, every house is full, every
company encouraged,—all tastes find some gratification. An Englishman
can scarcely quit a Parisian theatre without having seen himself or some
of his acquaintances characteristically and _capitally_ represented: the
_Anglais_ supply certainly an inexhaustible source of French mimicry;
and as we cannot help it, do what we will, our countrymen now begin to
practise the good sense of laughing at themselves! John Bull thinks that
roast beef is the finest dish in the whole world, and that the finest
fellow in Europe is the man that eats it: on both points the Frenchman
begs leave, _tout à fait_, to differ with John; and nothing can be
sillier than to oppose opinions with a positive people, in their own
country, and who never yet, right or wrong, gave up an argument.
No part of this world, I believe, combines corporeal and intellectual
luxuries to an equal extent with Paris; and I am sure no place can
afford them on such easy terms. There is a variety for the eye, the
mind, and the palate quite inexhaustible, and within the reach of _all
purses_.—However, no persons but those some time resident in the
metropolis of France can even imagine its conveniences or its pleasures,
and their _cheapness_: nor can there be any city where strangers are
more kindly used, or more sedulously protected. In point of courtesy,
sociability, animated good-nature, address and dress, I regret to say we
cannot approach their well-bred females.