IN TRAGIC PATHS
The average comedian will whisper, if you are fortunate enough to get
him in confidential mood, that he was really designed by nature to
tread the stately walks of tragedy; that had not cruel fate intervened
he would now be enthralling the town with his Hamlet, Macbeth, or
Othello, and that even yet he has not lost all hope of adorning the
kingdom of Melpomene. But he is not to be believed, in at least
ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, and while we listen politely to
his story of blasted ambition our hearts are exceeding thankful that
the chance he looked for never came.
Nance Oldfield brilliantly reversed this order of things. Although she
shone in comedy with the brighter light, she could play serious rôles
with majesty and power, and feel, or pretend to feel, a trifle bored
in so doing. "I hate to have a page dragging my train about," she used
to cry, with a pout of the pretty mouth; "why don't they give Porter
those parts? She can put on a better tragedy face than I can." Yet
whatever might be the undoubted capabilities of Porter for assuming
the tragic mask, audience and manager sometimes insisted that Nance
should banish all the sunlight and becloud her features with the
sorrows of a high-strung heroine.
One of these heroines was Andromache, the title personage of "The
Distressed Mother," an adaptation by Ambrose Philips of Racine's
"Andromaque." This play seems heavy enough if we bother to read it
now, but it had a thousand charms for theatre-goers in the days when
Mr. Philips frequented Button's coffee-house and there hung up a cane
which he threatened to use upon the body of the great Mr. Pope.[A]
Addison, whom tradition credits with writing the entertaining
epilogue, took all manner of interest in the tragedy, and the
_Spectator_ treated it to an advance notice which we degenerates might
term an unblushing "boom."
[Footnote A: Pope had ventured to sneer at Philips' "Pastorals."]
"The players, who know I am very much their friend," says the
_Spectator_[A] "take all opportunities to express a gratitude to me
for being so. They could not have a better occasion of obliging me,
than one which they lately took hold of. They desired my friend Will
Honeycomb to bring me the reading of a new tragedy; it is called 'The
Distressed Mother.' I must confess, though some days are passed since
I enjoyed that entertainment, the passions of the several characters
dwell strongly upon my imagination; and I congratulate the age, that
they are at last to see truth and human life represented in the
incidents which concern heroes and heroines. The style of the play
is such as becomes those of the first education, and the sentiments
worthy those of the highest figure. It was a most exquisite pleasure
to me, to observe real tears drop from the eyes of those who had long
made it their profession to dissemble affliction; and the player, who
read, frequently threw down the book, until he had given vent to
the humanity which rose in him at some irresistible touches of the
imagined sorrow."
[Footnote A: _Spectator_, No. 290, February 1, 1711-12. This essay has
been credited to Steele.]
This picture of woe would hardly suit the theories of those
hard-hearted players who believe that the true artist is never
"carried away," or affected by the pathos of his part. Surely, the
scene is ridiculous rather than imposing, and one is tempted to
suggest, albeit with bated breath, that the _Spectator_ was indulging
in a bit of good-natured exaggeration. Exaggeration did we say? The
modern newspaper writer, who is always glad, when off duty, to call
things by their plain names, would brand the notice of the "Distressed
Mother" as a bare-faced puff. And who could quarrel with his
scepticism? Actors are not in the habit of weeping over the reading of
a play; they have little time for such briny luxury.
Yet in this very number of the _Spectator_ we have George Powell, who
was cast for Orestes in Mr. Philips' tragedy, writing that the grief
which he is required to portray will seem almost real enough to choke
his utterance. Here is what the hypocrite says:
"Mr. SPECTATOR,--I am appointed to act a part in the new tragedy
called 'The Distressed Mother.' It is the celebrated grief of Orestes
which I am to personate; but I shall not act it as I ought, for I
shall feel it too intimately to be able to utter it. I was last night
repeating a paragraph to myself, which I took to be an expression
of rage, and in the middle of the sentence there was a stroke of
self-pity which quite unmanned me. Be pleased, Sir, to print this
letter, that when I am oppressed in this manner at such an interval, a
certain part of the audience may not think I am out; and I hope with
this allowance, to do it with satisfaction.--I am, Sir, your most
humble servant, GEORGE POWELL."
Poor dashing, dissipated, brandy-bibbing George! Perhaps you had as
keen an eye to the value of advertising as have certain players who
never heard your name.[A]
[Footnote A: The original cast of the "Distressed Mother" included
Booth (Pyrrhus), Powell (Orestes), Mills (Pylades), Mrs. Oldfield
(Andromache), and Mrs. Porter (Hermione).]
The production of the "Distressed Mother" (March, 1712), was
accompanied by an exciting popular demonstration which must for the
nonce have made Powell quite forget those lines which gave him such
exquisite sorrow. It all came from the jealousy of Mrs. Rogers, she of
more virtue on the stage than off, and who always cherished, with the
assistance of kind friends, a very sincere belief that her powers far
exceeded those of Oldfield.[A]
[Footnote A: The rivalry between Rogers and Oldfield once reached such
a pass that Wilks sought to end it, and stop the complaints of the
former's admirers, by a severe expedient. "Mr. Wilks," says Victor,
"soon reduced this clamor to demonstration, by an experiment of Mrs.
Oldfield and Mrs. Rogers playing the same part, that of Lady Lurewell
in the 'Trip to the Jubilee;' but though obstinacy seldom meets
conviction, yet from this equitable trial the tumults in the house
were soon quelled (by public authority) greatly to the honour of Mr.
Wilks. I am, from my own knowledge thoroughly convinced that Mr.
Wilks had no other regard for Mrs. Oldfield but what arose from the
excellency of her performances. Mrs. Roger's conduct might be censured
by some for the earnestness of her passion towards Mr. Wilks, but
in the polite world the fair sex has always been privileged from
scandal."]
So when Nance was cast for the distraught Andromache there was
trouble. Rogers demanded the part, and on being refused set about to
make things as unpleasant as possible for her detested rival. Friends
of the disappointed actress packed Drury Lane when the "Distressed
Mother" was performed, and the appearance of Oldfield was made the
signal for a riot. Royal messengers and guards were sent to put an end
to the disorder, but the play had to be stopped for that night.
Colley, who had ever an eye to the pounds, shillings and pence, was
disgusted at what he chose to call an exhibition of low malevolence.
"We have been forced," he says, "to dismiss an audience of a hundred
and fifty pounds, from a disturbance spirited up by obscure people,
who never gave any better reason for it, than that it was their fancy
to support the idle complaint of one rival actress against another, in
their several pretentious to the chief part in a new tragedy. But as
this tumult seem'd only to be the Wantonness of _English_ Liberty, I
shall not presume to lay any further censure upon it."
Finally the combined charms of Oldfield and the "Distressed Mother"
triumphed, and young beaux who had helped to swell the riot were
glad to come back meekly to Drury Lane and extol the attractions of
Andromache. In the play itself Nance must have been all that the
troublous part suggested, but it was when she tripped on gaily and
gave the humorous epilogue that the house found her most delightful.
She, who could reign so imperially in tragedy, had glided back to her
better-loved kingdom of comedy, and what cared her captivated hearers
if this self-same epilogue made an inharmonious ending to a serious
play. It was quite enough that Andromache, with all her sufferings
dispelled, should say melodiously:
"I hope you'll own, that with becoming art,
I've play'd my game, and topp'd the widow's part.
My spouse, poor man, could not live out the play,
But dy'd commodiously on wedding-day,[A]
While I his relict, made at one bold fling,
Myself a princess, and young Sty a King.
You, ladies, who protract a lover's pain,
And hear your servants sigh whole years in vain;
Which of you all would not on marriage venture,
Might she so soon upon her jointure enter?"
[Footnote A: This is a coy reference to Pyrrhus, who was murdered
while his marriage to Hector's widow was being celebrated with royal
pomp. As he fell, it will be remembered, the King placed his crown
upon the head of Andromache.]
An epilogue leading off with these lines was hardly an appropriate
ending to a tragedy, yet are we fastidious enough in these days to
sneer at the anomaly? We have banished prologue and afterpiece as
something old-fashioned and inartistic, but never turn one solitary
eyelash when Hamlet follows up his death by rushing before the curtain
and grinning his thanks. Desdemonas who come forward, after the
smothering scene, to receive flowers, and Romeos and Juliets who rise
from the tomb that they may bow and smirk before an audience--while
we have such as these among us, let us not cast stones at the early
playgoer.
Addison has left, in the _Spectator_, a delightful story of dear old
Sir Roger de Coverley's experience with the "Distressed Mother." Sir
Roger, it appears, confessed that he had not seen a play for twenty
years, and was very anxious to know "who this distressed mother was;
and upon hearing that she was Hector's widow, he told me that her
husband was a brave man, and that when he was a schoolboy he had read
his life at the end of the dictionary."[A] So the old gentleman,
accompanied by the _Spectator_, Captain Sentry, and a retinue of
servants, set out in state for Drury Lane, and on arriving there went
into the pit.
[Footnote A: _Spectator_, No. 335.]
"As soon as the house was full, and the candles lighted, my old
friend stood up, and looked about him with that pleasure which a mind
seasoned with humanity naturally feels in itself, at the sight of a
multitude of people who seem pleased with one another, and partake of
the same common entertainment. I could not but fancy to myself, as the
old man stood up in the middle of the pit, that he made a very proper
centre to a tragic audience. Upon the entering of Pyrrhus, the knight
told me, that he did not believe the king of France himself had a
better strut. I was indeed very attentive to my old friend's remarks,
because I looked upon them as a piece of natural criticism, and was
well pleased to hear him, at the conclusion of almost every scene,
telling me that he could not imagine how the play would end. One while
he appeared much concerned for Andromache; and a little while after
for Hermione; and was extremely puzzled to think what would become of
Pyrrhus.
"When Sir Roger saw Andromache's obstinate refusal to her lovers
importunities, he whispered me in the ear, that he was sure she
would never have him; to which he added, with a more than ordinary
vehemence, 'You can't imagine, sir, what it is to have to do with a
widow.' Upon Pyrrhus's threatening afterwards to leave her, the knight
shook his head, and muttered to himself, 'Ay, do if you can.' This
part dwelt so much upon my friend's imagination, that at the close of
the third act, as I was thinking of something else, he whispered me
in my ear, 'These widows, sir, are the most perverse creatures in
the world. But pray,' says he, 'you that are a critic, is the play
according to your dramatic rules, as you call them? Should your people
in tragedy always talk to be understood? Why, there is not a single
sentence in this play that I do not know the meaning of.'
"The fourth act very luckily began before I had time to give the old
gentleman an answer. 'Well,' says the knight, sitting down with great
satisfaction, 'I suppose we are now to see Hector's ghost,' He then
renewed his attention, and, from time to time, fell a praising the
widow. He made, indeed, a little mistake as to one of her pages, whom
at his first entering he took for Astyanax; but quickly set himself
right in that particular, though, at the same time he owned he should
have been very glad to have seen the little boy, who, says he, must
needs be a very fine child by the account that is given of him. Upon
Hermione's going off with a menace to Pyrrhus, the audience gave a
loud clap, to which Sir Roger added, 'On my word, a notable young
baggage!'"
We can imagine Sir Roger going, a year later, to see Mrs. Oldfield
carry all before her as Jane Shore in Nicholas Rowe's play of that
name. The author had once been an ardent admirer of the glacierlike
but lovely Bracegirdle, at whose haughty shrine he long worshipped in
the hopes that the ice of her reserve might some day melt; and the
wits of the coffee-house were wont to say, not without a grain of
truth, that when the poet wrote dramas to fit Bracegirdle as the
heroine, the lovers therein always pleaded his own passion[A]. Now
that the charmer had left the stage, Rowe was forced to entrust the
title character of Jane Shore to Nance, who vowed, no doubt, she was
thoroughly bored at having to walk once again through a vale of tears.
But she made another triumph (the author himself coached her in the
part), and helped to give the production all manner of success.
[Footnote A: As Cibber says, Mrs. Bracegirdle "inspired the best
authors to write for her, and two of them [Rowe and Congreve] when
they gave her a lover in a play, seem'd palpably to plead their
own passions, and make their private court to her in fictitious
characters."]
It is a curious fact that the writing of the tragedy was indirectly
due to political disappointment. Rowe had set himself assiduously to
the study of Spanish with the idea of securing from Lord Halifax a
diplomatic position, and his reward for this energy was so intangible
that he soon gave up hopes of foreign travel and turned his attention
to the tribulations of Jane. In other words, the noble Halifax merely
expressed his satisfaction that Mr. Rowe could now read "Don Quixote"
in the original.
Thus Nance played on, sometimes in comedy, and again in tragedy, when,
despite her customary objections, the pages had to drag her train
about. It was a train that swept all before it.
The speaking of trains and pages suggests the fact that in old times
the heroes and heroines of tragedy always wore, either in peculiarity
of dress or pomp of surroundings, the badge of greatness. Nowadays a
few bars of romantic music, to usher these characters on the stage,
will suffice. But things were different then; our ancestors insisted
that the aforesaid _dramatis personnae_ should be labelled, frilled
and furbelowed.
Addison has an interesting essay on the subject.[A]
[Footnote A: _Spectator_, No. 42.]
"But among all our tragic artifices," he says, "I am the most offended
at those which are made use of to inspire us with magnificent ideas of
the persons that speak. The ordinary method of making an hero, is to
clap a huge plume of feathers upon his head which rises so very high,
that there is often a greater length from his chin to the top of his
head than to the sole of his foot. One would believe that we thought
a great man and a tall man the same thing. This very much embarrasses
the actor, who is forced to hold his neck extremely stiff and steady
all the while he speaks; and notwithstanding any anxieties which he
pretends for his mistress, his country, or his friends, one may see by
his action, that his greatest care and concern is to keep the plume of
feathers from falling off his head. For my own part, when I see a man
uttering his complaints under such a mountain of feathers, I am apt
to look upon him rather as an unfortunate lunatic, than a distressed
hero.
"As these superfluous ornaments upon the head make a great man,
a princess generally receives her grandeur from those additional
encumbrances that fall into her tail; I mean the broad sweeping train
that follows her in all her motions, and finds constant employment for
a boy who stands behind her to open and spread it to advantage. I do
not know how others are affected at this sight, but I must confess my
eyes are wholly taken up with the page's part; and, as for the queen,
I am not so attentive to any thing she speaks, as to the right
adjusting of her train, lest it should chance to trip up her heels, or
incommode her, as she walks to and fro upon the stage. It is, in my
opinion, a very odd spectacle to see a queen venting her passion in
a disordered motion, and a little boy taking care all the while that
they do not ruffle the tail of her gown. The parts that the two
persons act on the stage at the same time are very different. The
princess is afraid lest she should incur the displeasure of the king
her father, or lose the hero, her lover, whilst her attendant is only
concerned lest she should entangle her feet in her petticoat."
In a succeeding paragraph the reader finds that a cherished
nineteenth-century custom--the representing of a vast army by the
employment of half-a-dozen ill-fed, unpainted supers--has at least the
sanction of age: "Another mechanical method of making great men, and
adding dignity to kings and queens, is to accompany them with halberts
and battle-axes. Two or three shifters of scenes, with the two
candle-snuffers, make up a complete body of guards upon the English
stage; and by the addition of a few porters dressed in red coats, can
represent above a dozen legions. I have sometimes seen a couple of
armies drawn up together upon the stage, when the poet has been
disposed to do honour to his generals. It is impossible for the
reader's imagination to multiply twenty men into such prodigious
multitudes, or to fancy that two or three hundred thousand soldiers
are fighting in a room of forty or fifty yards in compass. Incidents
of such a nature should be told, not represented."
Addison remarks that "the tailor and painter often contribute to the
success of a tragedy more than the poet," a trite saying which holds
good now, and he ends his essay with the belief that "a good poet
will give the reader a more lively idea of an army or a battle in a
description, than if he actually saw them drawn up in squadrons and
battalions, or engaged in the confusion of a fight. Our minds should
be open to great conceptions, and inflamed with glorious sentiments
by what the actor speaks, more than by what he appears. Can all the
trappings or equipage of a king or hero give Brutus half the pomp and
majesty which he receives from a few lines in Shakespeare?" Which is
all very true, yet "the tailor and painter" will continue popular, no
doubt, until the crack of doom.
The month of December 1714 saw the reopening of the theatre in
Lincoln's Inn Fields, under letters patent originally granted by
Charles II. to Christopher Rich, and restored by his broken-English
Majesty George I. The renewal created a dangerous rival to Drury Lane,
but it is not probable that the king worried over having planted such
a thorn in the sides of Messrs. Steele, Booth, Wilks, and Cibber[A].
He remembered, he told Mr. Craggs, "when he had been in England
before, in King Charles his time, there had been two theatres in
London; and as the patent seemed to be a lawful grant, he saw no
reason why two playhouses might not be continued."
[Footnote A: On the death of Queen Anne the old licence or patent of
Drury Lane lapsed, and when the new one was issued Steele was named
therein as a partner.] Several useful players left Drury Lane to go
over into Lincoln's Inn Fields,[A] chief among them being Mrs. Rogers,
who felt greatly relieved in transferring her affectations of virtue
to a house where she would no longer be overshadowed by the genius
of Oldfield. As for Nance, she was faithful to the old theatre,
and continued to be the fairest though perhaps the frailest of its
pillars, notwithstanding the personal charms of Mrs. Horton. The
latter was a strolling player recently admitted to the sacred
precincts of Drury. She had been in the habit of "ranting tragedy in
barns and country towns, and playing Cupid in a booth, at suburban
fairs. The attention of managers was directed towards her; and Booth,
after seeing her act in Southwark, engaged her for Drury Lane, where
her presence was more agreeable to the public than particularly
pleasant to dear Mrs. Oldfield."[B]
[Footnote A: 'Tis true, they none of them had more than a negative
merit, in being only able to do us more harm by their leaving us
without notice, than they could do us good by remaining with us: For
though the best of them could not support a play, the worst of them by
their absence could maim it; as the loss of the least pin in a watch
may obstruct its motion.--CIBBER.]
[Footnote B: Dr. Doran's "Annals of the Stage."]
So wagged the mimic world with Nance as its most attractive figure.
Sometimes she laughed her way through a play; and again she committed
suicide for the edification of the audience, as when she appeared in
"Busiris." This was a windy tragedy by Dr. Young (he of the "Night
Thoughts"), wherein Wilks, as Memnon, also had to kill himself.
The performance was, naturally enough, far from cheerful, and no
particular inspiration could have been obtained from the presence of
Busiris himself, that semi-savage Egyptian king to whom Ovid referred:
"'Tis said that Egypt for nine years was dry;
Nor Nile did floods, nor heaven did rain supply.
A foreigner at length informed the King
That slaughtered guests would kindly moisture bring.
The King replied, 'On thee the lot shall fall;
Be thou, my guest, the sacrifice for all.'"
Certainly a most ungenial host.
There were times when Oldfield could even arouse enthusiasm amid the
dullest and most unappealing surroundings. This she did, for instance,
in the stupid "Sophonisba" of James Thomson, who could write
delightful poetry about nature without being able to carry any of that
nature into the art of play-making. It was in this artificial tragedy
that the famous line occurred: "Oh Sophonisba! Sophonisba, o!" which
was afterwards parodied by "Oh! Jemmy Thomson! Jemmy Thomson, oh!"
and it was in the same ill-fated compilation that Cibber had the
distinction of being hissed off the stage. The latter, unlike
Oldfield, had a sneaking fondness for tragedy, and when "Sophonisba"
was first read in the green room he appropriated to his own use the
dignified character of Scipio. His egotism and foolishness had their
full reward. For two nights successively, as Davies tells us, "Cibber
was as much exploded as any bad actor could be. Williams, by desire of
Wilks, made himself master of the part; but he, marching slowly, in
great military distinction, from the upper part of the stage, and
wearing the same dress as Cibber, was mistaken for him, and met
with repeated hisses, joined to the music of cat-calls [notice, ye
theatre-goers of 1898, that the cat-call is not the invention of the
modern gallery god]; but, as soon as the audience were undeceived,
they converted their groans and hisses to loud and long continued
applause." Three years later, in 1733, Cibber retired from the stage.
With Mrs. Oldfield the picture was far different. She could not make
of Thomson's tragedy a success, yet she played Sophonisba (one of the
last parts in which she was ever seen) with a grandeur of effect that
well earned the undying gratitude of the author.[A] In after years her
old admirers were wont to thrill with pleasure as they recalled the
passionate intensity she gave to that much-quoted line,
"Not one base word of Carthage, for thy soul,"
as she stood glaring at the astonished Massinissa.
[Footnote A: Mrs. Oldfield, in the character of Sophonisba, has
excelled what, even in the fondness of an author, I could either wish
or imagine. The grace, dignity, and happy variety of her action have
been universally applauded, and are truly admirable.--Thomson.]
Among those who saw Sophonisba was Chetwood, whose "General History of
the Stage" gives us many a charming glimpse of dead and gone actors.
Dead and gone? Nay, rather let it be said that they still live in the
ever fresh and graphic pages of contemporary critics, and thus refute
the gentle pessimism of Mr. Henley when he asks so gracefully:
"Where are the passions they essayed,
And where the tears they made to flow?
Where the wild humours they portrayed
For laughing worlds to see and know?
Othello's wrath and Juliet's woe?
Sir Peter's whims and Timon's gall?
And Millamant and Romeo?
Into the night go one and all."
"I was too young," says Chetwood, "to view her first dawn on the
stage, but yet had the infinite satisfaction of her meridian lustre, a
glow of charms not to be beheld but with a trembling eye! which held
her influence till set in night."
Of Nance's tendency to escape tragic plays the same writer tells us:
"When 'Mithridates' was revived, it was with much difficulty she was
prevail'd upon to take the part; but she perform'd it to the utmost
length of perfection, and, after that, she seem'd much better
reconcil'd to tragedy. What a majestical dignity in Cleopatra! and,
indeed, in every part that required it: Such a finish'd figure on the
stage, was never yet seen. In 'Calista, the Fair Penitent,' she was
inimitable, in the third act, with Horatio, when she tears the letter
with
"'To atoms, thus!
Thus let me tear the vile detested falsehood,
The wicked lying evidence of shame!'
"Her excellent clear voice of passion, with manner and action suiting,
us'd to make me shrink with awe, and seem'd to put her monitor Horatio
into a mousehole. I almost gave him up for a troublesome puppy; and
though Mr. Booth play'd the part of Lothario, I could hardly lug him
up to the importance of triumphing over such a finish'd piece of
perfection, that seemed to be too much dignified to lose her virtue."
* * * * *
Perhaps the reader may think that this chapter, like several others,
is (as the theatre-goer said of "Hamlet") too "deuced full of
quotation." Yet what can give a better picture of old stage life than
these quaint and often eloquent records of the past? Pray be lenient,
therefore, thou kindly critic, if the most faded books of the
theatrical library are taken down from the dusty shelf, and a few of
the neglected pages are printed once again. As these very books seem
all the better in their dingy bindings, so do the old ideas, the odd
conceits, the stories that charmed dead generations, take on a keener
zest when clothed in the formal language of other days.
If we want to get that formal language in all its glory, let us bring
from the library a copy of some early eighteenth-century tragedy.
Shall we close our eyes and choose one at random? Well, what have we?
The "Tamerlane" of our friend Nicholas Rowe, in which is set forth the
story of the generous Emperor of Tartary, the "very glass and fashion
of all conquerors." The play is prefaced by a fulsome "Epistle
Dedicatory," addressed to the sacred person of the "Right Honourable
William, Lord Marquis of Harrington," and showing, almost
pathetically, how frequently the literary workers of Queen Anne's
"golden age" were wont to beg the influence of some powerful patron.
The dedication seems absolutely grovelling when viewed from the
present standards, but Mr. Rowe and his friends saw therein nothing
more remarkable than respectful homage to one of the world's great
men. The republic of letters was then an empty name.[A]
[Footnote A: "Tamerlane" was brought out in 1702, with Betterton in
the title rôle.]
The author of "Tamerlane" fears that in thus calling attention to the
play he may appear guilty of "impertinence and interruptions," and,
he adds, "I am sure it is a reason why I ought to beg your Lordship's
pardon, for troubling you with this tragedy; not but that poetry has
always been, and will still be the entertainment of all wise men, that
have any delicacy in their knowledge." Then, after wasting a little
necessary flattery on the noble marquis, he starts off into an
unblushing eulogy of King William III., whose clemency was mirrored,
supposedly, by the hero of the tragedy. "Some people [who do me a very
great honour in it] have fancy'd, that in the person of Tamerlane, I
have alluded to the greatest character of the present age. I don't
know whether I ought not to apprehend a great deal of danger from
avowing a design like that: It may be a task indeed worthy of the
greatest genius, which this or any other time has produc'd; but
therefore I ought not to stand the shock of a parallel lest it should
be seen, to my disadvantage, how far the _Hero has transcended the
poet's thoughts_"--and so on, _ad nauseam_.
To turn the leaves of the play, after wading through the slime of the
"Epistle," is to find amusing proof of the high-flown and at times
bombastic expression which elicited such admiration from audiences of
the old _régime_. (Do not laugh at it, reader; you tolerate an equal
amount of absurdity in modern melodrama). The very first lines are
charmingly suggestive of the starched and stately past. "Hail to the
sun!" says the Prince of Tanais:
"Hail to the sun! from whose returning light
The cheerful soldier's arms new lustre take
To deck the pomp of battle."
Playwrights of Rowe's cult loved to hail the sun. Just why the orb
of day had to be saluted with such frequency no one seemed able to
determine, but the honour was continually bestowed, to the great
edification of the groundlings. When Young wrote "Busiris," he paid
so much attention to old Sol that Fielding burlesqued the learned
doctor's weakness through the medium of "Tom Thumb," and wrote that
"the author of 'Busiris' is extremely anxious to prevent the sun's
blushing at any indecent object; and, therefore, on all such
occasions, he addresses himself to the sun, and desires him to keep
out of the way."
After the Prince of Tanais's homage to the sun we hear something
fulsome about the virtues of King William, alias Tamerlane:
"No lust of rule, the common vice of Kings,
No furious zeal, inspir'd by hot-brain'd priests,
Ill hid beneath religion's specious name,
E'er drew his temp'rate courage to the field:
But to redress an injur'd people's wrongs,
To save the weak one from the strong oppressor,
Is all his end of war. And when he draws
The sword to punish, like relenting Heav'n,
He seems unwilling to deface his kind."
A few lines later and we find one of the characters drawing a parallel
between Tamerlane, otherwise William, and Divinity:
"Ere the mid-hour of night, from tent to tent,
Unweary'd, thro' the num'rous host he past,
Viewing with careful eyes each several quarters;
Whilst from his looks, as from Divinity,
The soldiers took presage, and cry'd, Lead on,
Great Alha, and our emperor, lead on,
To victory, and everlasting fame."
How changeth the spirit of each age! Imagine Bronson Howard or
Augustus Thomas writing a play wherein the President of the United
States was brought into such irreverent contact with the Deity.[A]
[Footnote A: Yet it cannot be easily forgotten that a certain
clergyman, preaching, several years ago, at the funeral of a rich
man's son, compared the poor boy to Christ. And this very ecclesiastic
probably looks upon the stage as a monument of sacrilegiousness.]
But we need not follow the platitudes of Tamerlane and his companions,
nor weep at the sententious wickedness of Bajazet, that ungrateful
sovereign typifying Louis Quatorze, King of France, Prince of
Gentlemen, and Right Royal Hater of His Protestant Majesty William of
Orange. Heaven rest their souls! and with that pious prayer we may bid
them farewell, as
"Into the night go one and all."