Mr. Whelks being much in the habit of recreating himself at a class of
theatres called ‘Saloons,’ we repaired to one of these, not long ago, on
a Monday evening; Monday being a great holiday-night with MR. WHELKS and
his friends.
The Saloon in question is the largest in London (that which is known as
The Eagle, in the City Road, should be excepted from the generic term,
as not presenting by any means the same class of entertainment), and is
situate not far from Shoreditch Church. It announces ‘The People’s
Theatre,’ as its second name. The prices of admission are, to the boxes,
a shilling; to the pit, sixpence; to the lower gallery, fourpence; to
the upper gallery and back seats, threepence. There is no half-price.
The opening piece on this occasion was described in the bills as ‘the
greatest hit of the season, the grand new legendary and traditionary
drama, combining supernatural agencies with historical facts, and
identifying extraordinary superhuman causes with material, terrific, and
powerful effects.’ All the queen’s horses and all the queen’s men could
not have drawn MR. WHELKS into the place like this description.
Strengthened by lithographic representations of the principal superhuman
causes, combined with the most popular of the material, terrific, and
powerful effects, it became irresistible. Consequently, we had already
failed, once, in finding six square inches of room within the walls, to
stand upon; and when we now paid our money for a little stage box, like
a dry shower-bath, we did so in the midst of a stream of people who
persisted in paying their’s for other parts of the house in despite of
the representations of the Money-taker that it was ‘very full,
everywhere.’
The outer avenues and passages of the People’s Theatre bore abundant
testimony to the fact of its being frequented by very dirty people.
Within, the atmosphere was far from odoriferous. The place was crammed
to excess, in all parts. Among the audience were a large number of boys
and youths, and a great many very young girls grown into bold women
before they had well ceased to be children. These last were the worst
features of the whole crowd, and were more prominent there than in any
other sort of public assembly that we know of, except at a public
execution. There was no drink supplied, beyond the contents of the
porter-can (magnified in its dimensions, perhaps), which may be usually
seen traversing the galleries of the largest Theatres as well as the
least, and which was here seen everywhere. Huge ham-sandwiches, piled on
trays like deals in a timber-yard, were handed about for sale to the
hungry; and there was no stint of oranges, cakes, brandy-balls, or other
similar refreshments. The Theatre was capacious, with a very large
capable stage, well lighted, well appointed, and managed in a
business-like, orderly manner in all respects; the performances had
begun so early as a quarter past six, and had been then in progress for
three-quarters of an hour.
It was apparent here, as in the theatre we had previously visited, that
one of the reasons of its great attraction was its being directly
addressed to the common people, in the provision made for their seeing
and hearing. Instead of being put away in a dark gap in the roof of an
immense building, as in our once National Theatres, they were here in
possession of eligible points of view, and thoroughly able to take in
the whole performance. Instead of being at a great disadvantage in
comparison with the mass of the audience, they were here _the_ audience,
for whose accommodation the place was made. We believe this to be one
great cause of the success of these speculations. In whatever way the
common people are addressed, whether in churches, chapels, schools,
lecture-rooms, or theatres, to be successfully addressed they must be
directly appealed to. No matter how good the feast, they will not come
to it on mere sufferance. If, on looking round us, we find that the only
things plainly and personally addressed to them, from quack medicines
upwards, be bad or very defective things,—so much the worse for them and
for all of us, and so much the more unjust and absurd the system which
has haughtily abandoned a strong ground to such occupation.
We will add that we believe these people have a right to be amused. A
great deal that we consider to be unreasonable, is written and talked
about not licensing these places of entertainment. We have already
intimated that we believe a love of dramatic representations to be an
inherent principle in human nature. In most conditions of human life of
which we have any knowledge, from the Greeks to the Bosjesmen, some form
of dramatic representation has always obtained.[1] We have a vast
respect for county magistrates, and for the lord chamberlain; but we
render greater deference to such extensive and immutable experience, and
think it will outlive the whole existing court and commission. We would
assuredly not bear harder on the fourpenny theatre, than on the four
shilling theatre, or the four guinea theatre; but we would decidedly
interpose to turn to some wholesome account the means of instruction
which it has at command, and we would make that office of Dramatic
Licenser, which, like many other offices, has become a mere piece of
Court favour and dandy conventionality, a real, responsible, educational
trust. We would have it exercise a sound supervision over the lower
drama, instead of stopping the career of a real work of art, as it did
in the case of Mr. Chorley’s play at the Surrey Theatre, but a few weeks
since, for a sickly point of form.
Footnote 1:
In the remote interior of Africa, and among the North American
Indians, this truth is exemplified in an equally striking manner. Who
that saw the four grim, stunted, abject Bush-people at the Egyptian
Hall—with two natural actors among them out of that number, one a male
and the other a female—can forget how something human and imaginative
gradually broke out in the little ugly man, when he was roused from
crouching over the charcoal fire, into giving a dramatic
representation of the tracking of a beast, the shooting of it with
poisoned arrows, and the creature’s death?
To return to MR. WHELKS. The audience, being able to see and hear, were
very attentive. They were so closely packed, that they took a little
time in settling down after any pause; but otherwise the general
disposition was to lose nothing, and to check (in no choice language)
any disturber of the business of the scene.
On our arrival, MR. WHELKS had already followed Lady Hatton the Heroine
(whom we faintly recognised as a mutilated theme of the late THOMAS
INGOLDSBY) to the ‘Gloomy Dell and Suicide’s Tree,’ where Lady H. had
encountered the ‘apparition of the dark man of doom,’ and heard the
‘fearful story of the Suicide.’ She had also ‘signed the compact in her
own Blood;’ beheld ‘the Tombs rent asunder;’ seen ‘skeletons start from
their graves, and gibber Mine, mine, for ever!’ and undergone all these
little experiences, (each set forth in a separate line in the bill) in
the compass of one act. It was not yet over, indeed, for we found a
remote king of England of the name of ‘Enerry,’ refreshing himself with
the spectacle of a dance in a Garden, which was interrupted by the
‘thrilling appearance of the Demon.’ This ‘superhuman cause’ (with black
eyebrows slanting up into his temples, and red-foil cheekbones,) brought
the Drop-Curtain down as we took possession of our Shower-Bath.
It seemed, on the curtain’s going up again, that Lady Hatton had sold
herself to the Powers of Darkness, on very high terms, and was now
overtaken by remorse, and by jealousy too; the latter passion being
excited by the beautiful Lady Rodolpha, ward to the king. It was to urge
Lady Hatton on to the murder of this young female (as well as we could
make out, but both we and MR. WHELKS found the incidents complicated)
that the Demon appeared ‘once again in all his terrors.’ Lady Hatton had
been leading a life of piety, but the Demon was not to have his bargain
declared off, in right of any such artifices, and now offered a dagger
for the destruction of Rodolpha. Lady Hatton hesitating to accept this
trifle from Tartarus, the Demon, for certain subtle reasons of his own,
proceeded to entertain her with a view of the ‘gloomy court-yard of a
convent,’ and the apparitions of the ‘Skeleton Monk,’ and the ‘King of
Terrors.’ Against these superhuman causes, another superhuman cause, to
wit, the ghost of Lady H.’s mother came into play, and greatly
confounded the Powers of Darkness, by waving the ‘sacred emblem’ over
the head of the else devoted Rodolpha, and causing her to sink into the
earth. Upon this the Demon, losing his temper, fiercely invited Lady
Hatton to ‘Be-old the tortures of the damned!’ and straightway conveyed
her to a ‘grand and awful view of Pandemonium, and Lake of Transparent
Rolling Fire,’ whereof, and also of ‘Prometheus chained, and the Vulture
gnawing at his liver,’ MR. WHELKS was exceedingly derisive.
The Demon still failing, even there, and still finding the ghost of the
old lady greatly in his way, exclaimed that these vexations had such a
remarkable effect upon his spirit as to ‘sear his eyeballs,’ and that he
must go ‘deeper down,’ which he accordingly did. Hereupon it appeared
that it was all a dream on Lady Hatton’s part, and that she was newly
married and uncommonly happy. This put an end to the incongruous heap of
nonsense, and set MR. WHELKS applauding mightily; for, except with the
lake of transparent rolling fire (which was not half infernal enough for
him), MR. WHELKS was infinitely contented with the whole of the
proceedings.
Ten thousand people, every week, all the year round, are estimated to
attend this place of amusement. If it were closed to-morrow—if there
were fifty such, and they were all closed to-morrow—the only result
would be to cause that to be privately and evasively done, which is now
publicly done; to render the harm of it much greater, and to exhibit the
suppressive power of the law in an oppressive and partial light. The
people who now resort here, _will be_ amused somewhere. It is of no use
to blink that fact, or to make pretences to the contrary. We had far
better apply ourselves to improving the character of their amusement. It
would not be exacting much, or exacting anything very difficult, to
require that the pieces represented in these Theatres should have, at
least, a good, plain, healthy purpose in them.
To the end that our experiences might not be supposed to be partial or
unfortunate, we went, the very next night, to the Theatre where we saw
MAY MORNING, and found MR. WHELKS engaged in the study of an ‘Original
old English Domestic and Romantic Drama,’ called ‘EVA THE BETRAYED, OR
THE LADYE OF LAMBYTHE.’ We proceed to develope the incidents which
gradually unfolded themselves to MR. WHELKS’S understanding.
One Geoffrey Thornley the younger, on a certain fine morning, married
his father’s ward, Eva the Betrayed, the Ladye of Lambythe. She had
become the betrayed, in right—or in wrong—of designing Geoffrey’s
machinations; for that corrupt individual, knowing her to be under
promise of marriage to Walter More, a young mariner (of whom he was
accustomed to make slighting mention, as ‘a minion’), represented the
said More to be no more, and obtained the consent of the too trusting
Eva to their immediate union.
Now, it came to pass, by a singular coincidence, that on the identical
morning of the marriage, More came home, and was taking a walk about the
scenes of his boyhood—a little faded since that time—when he rescued
‘Wilbert the Hunchback’ from some very rough treatment. This misguided
person, in return, immediately fell to abusing his preserver in round
terms, giving him to understand that he (the preserved) hated
‘manerkind, wither two eckerceptions,’ one of them being the deceiving
Geoffrey, whose retainer he was, and for whom he felt an unconquerable
attachment; the other, a relative, whom, in a similar redundancy of
emphasis, adapted to the requirements of MR. WHELKS, he called his
‘assister.’ This misanthrope also made the cold-blooded declaration,
‘There was a timer when I loved my fellow keretures till they deserpised
me. Now, I live only to witness man’s disergherace and woman’s misery!’
In furtherance of this amiable purpose of existence, he directed More to
where the bridal procession was coming home from church, and Eva
recognised More, and More reproached Eva, and there was a great to-do,
and a violent struggling, before certain social villagers who were
celebrating the event with morris-dances. Eva was borne off in a tearing
condition, and the bill very truly observed that the end of that part of
the business was ‘despair and madness.’
Geoffrey, Geoffrey, why were you already married to another! Why could
you not be true to your lawful wife Katherine, instead of deserting her,
and leaving her to come tumbling into public-houses (on account of
weakness) in search of you! You might have known what it would end in,
Geoffrey Thornley! You might have known that she would come up to your
house on your wedding day with her marriage-certificate in her pocket,
determined to expose you. You might have known beforehand, as you now
very composedly observe, that you would have ‘but one course to pursue.’
That course clearly is to wind your right hand in Katherine’s long hair,
wrestle with her, stab her, throw down the body behind the door (Cheers
from MR. WHELKS), and tell the devoted Hunchback to get rid of it. On
the devoted Hunchback’s finding that it is the body of his ‘assister,’
and taking her marriage-certificate from her pocket and denouncing you,
of course you have still but one course to pursue, and that is to charge
the crime upon him, and have him carried off with all speed into the
‘deep and massive dungeons beneath Thornley Hall.’
More having, as he was rather given to boast, ‘a goodly vessel on the
lordly Thames,’ had better have gone away with it, weather permitting,
than gone after Eva. Naturally, he got carried down to the dungeons too,
for lurking about, and got put into the next dungeon to the Hunchback,
then expiring from poison. And there they were, hard and fast, like two
wild beasts in dens, trying to get glimpses of each other through the
bars, to the unutterable interest of MR. WHELKS.
But when the Hunchback made himself known, and when More did the same;
and when the Hunchback said he had got the certificate which rendered
Eva’s marriage illegal; and when More raved to have it given to him, and
when the Hunchback (as having some grains of misanthropy in him to the
last) persisted in going into his dying agonies in a remote corner of
his cage, and took unheard-of trouble not to die anywhere near the bars
that were within More’s reach; MR. WHELKS applauded to the echo. At last
the Hunchback was persuaded to stick the certificate on the point of a
dagger, and hand it in; and that done, died extremely hard, knocking
himself violently about, to the very last gasp, and certainly making the
most of all the life that was in him.
Still, More had yet to get out of his den before he could turn this
certificate to any account. His first step was to make such a violent
uproar as to bring into his presence a certain ‘Norman Free Lance’ who
kept watch and ward over him. His second, to inform this warrior, in the
style of the Polite Letter-Writer, that ‘circumstances had occurred’
rendering it necessary that he should be immediately let out. The
warrior declining to submit himself to the force of these circumstances,
Mr. More proposed to him, as a gentleman and a man of honour, to allow
him to step out into the gallery, and there adjust an old feud
subsisting between them, by single combat. The unwary Free Lance,
consenting to this reasonable proposal, was shot from behind by the
comic man, whom he bitterly designated as ‘a snipe’ for that action, and
then died exceedingly game.
All this occurred in one day—the bridal day of the Ladye of Lambythe;
and now MR. WHELKS concentrated all his energies into a focus, bent
forward, looked straight in front of him, and held his breath. For, the
night of the eventful day being come, MR. WHELKS was admitted to the
‘bridal chamber of the Ladye of Lambythe,’ where he beheld a toilet
table, and a particularly large and desolate four-post bedstead. Here
the Ladye, having dismissed her bridesmaids, was interrupted in
deploring her unhappy fate, by the entrance of her husband; and matters,
under these circumstances, were proceeding to very desperate
extremities, when the Ladye (by this time aware of the existence of the
certificate) found a dagger on the dressing-table, and said, ‘Attempt to
enfold me in thy pernicious embrace, and this poignard—!’ &c. He did
attempt it, however, for all that, and he and the Ladye were dragging
one another about like wrestlers, when Mr. More broke open the door, and
entering with the whole domestic establishment and a Middlesex
magistrate, took him into custody and claimed his bride.
It is but fair to MR. WHELKS to remark on one curious fact in this
entertainment. When the situations were very strong indeed, they were
very like what some favourite situations in the Italian Opera would be
to a profoundly deaf spectator. The despair and madness at the end of
the first act, the business of the long hair, and the struggle in the
bridal chamber, were as like the conventional passion of the Italian
singers, as the orchestra was unlike the opera band, or its ‘hurries’
unlike the music of the great composers. So do extremes meet; and so is
there some hopeful congeniality between what will excite MR. WHELKS, and
what will rouse a Duchess.