Nature and Art, November 1, 18G6.] 
THE DRAMA. 
385 
THE D 
THE theatre is a strange domain, bounded as it 
is on the one side by literature, and on the 
other by showmanship. The inhabitants of the 
theatrical region are equally various, and range 
from poets and scholars to posture-makers, mum- 
mers, and showmen. Though there is never any 
absolute contest between these opposite personages, 
yet there is a great flux and reflux among them as 
to the possession of the stage. It must be con- 
fessed, however, that the showman’s party are in 
the ascendant ; and they have contrived to enlist 
on their side a good deal of art and talent, if not 
absolute genius and poetry. The theatrical season 
has set in with unusual severity ; and the love of 
public places, if not a love of the drama, fills every 
theatre. Philosophers of the old school have specu- 
lated on the cause of the decline of the drama, and 
the l’ise of the taste for theatres. What they call 
the decline of the drama, is an unwillingness to 
hear a good deal of fustian that formerly passed for 
heroic poetry ; and a mass of didactic spouting inter- 
mingled with a caricature of character. There is 
scarcely a play of the eighteenth century — except 
the “ School for Scandal” — that will outlive the nine- 
teenth century ; for the increasing good sense of the 
nation will not put up with the shams and pretences 
of a former age ; there being always plenty of them 
in the present time, whenever that may be. The 
drama of Shakespeare — not the Shakespearian 
drama — in his half-dozen great acting plays, will 
last as long as a religion ; though, by turns, like 
certain lighthouse lamps, it shows an increasing and 
diminishing lustre. 
The theatre has, in truth, but little to do with 
the past, and is essentially of the present ; for, as 
the purpose of playing, both at the first and now, 
was and is “ to hold, &c.,” of course, it was to 
show things that are, and not to merely speculate on 
things that may be. The passions of the three or 
four popular heroes of Shakespeare are essentially 
of the present, as much as any Irish sailor or old 
jockey of Mr. Boucicault’s. The stage, however, 
has more of reflex than Shakespeare’s famous defini- 
tion infers, and reflects things as well as morals ; 
and the mirror that is held up to the present 
public must show chairs and tables, and exact 
costumes, and rooms and actualities of all kinds ; 
and cares very little about the features of virtue, 
or the images of scorn. It wants facts, or appear- 
ances it mistakes for them ; and as people will run 
to see panoramas . and views of places they know, 
and do not care for those they do not know — re- 
joicing at views of Greenwich and Richmond, and 
neglecting the finest delineations of Timbuctoo or 
the Nyanza Ralls — so they like to see every-day 
realities presented to them. When we analyse 
this taste, we cannot but pronounce it childish and 
barbarous, being very like that of the savage, who is 
never weary of poring over the reflections 'in the 
first looking-glass placed in his hands. Such persons 
HAMA. 
are fond of the reflections they see in the mirror ; 
but these minds produce no new reflections in 
themselves. So it is, however. And not only to 
the vulgar— which generally means the poor, though 
it includes a large portion of the rich — does this 
assertion apply ; for the elegant people in the 
stalls are no whit before the roughest youths in 
the gallery, in delight at gaping at the imitative 
scenes on the stage. A i’eal pump with real water 
is to all a joy ; and a real horse, or even a real 
donkey, a dear creature they could fondle. This 
being so, it comes then to the question, for what 
do people go to the theatre 1 and the answer must 
really be, to get away from home, and to see and be 
seen. We are gradually becoming mor e of an out- 
door people ; and the uneasiness and dulness of 
home are beginning to be oppressive. Pater-Fa- 
milias long ago found it so, and took himself to his 
ancient tavern : now seeks his modern club. The 
sons soon followed, some going to the casinos. Mater- 
Fa mi lias, at last, revolted, and the incipient maters of 
course followed ; and stalls being timely invented 
at the theatres, they, too, were emancipated from 
the ever-wearisome routine of home. The multi- 
tude, without waiting for their betters, had invented 
the music-halls, whereto whole families thronged, 
ami avoided the dull homilies of home existence. 
Having thus, after some hundreds of years, come 
out of our hives, and tasted the delights of company, 
noise, and lights, we seem inclined to take our fill ; 
and, we believe, the thousands who seek for an 
evening’s amusement are very indifferent whether 
it be a music-hall, a theatre, or, to speak without 
profanity, a popular chapel, they frequent. They 
are contented not to be at home ; and are very little 
critical as to Avliat they see and hear. Such being 
the taste of the audiences, so must be the kind of 
fare presented to them. If it be good, it is owing 
to the better taste of the providers; if it be bad, it 
is because the public is so uncritical and indifferent ; 
and, as regards art, so ignorant that it will put up 
with anything. 
We have been lured into these introductory 
remarks because the facts stated lie at the founda- 
tion of our criticism upon them. The action on 
and reaction from audience and stage are equal. 
Each must regard the other in some degree ; and 
the seller must seek to please his customer. We 
have now fifteen theatres and thirty music-halls, 
besides many concerts and other resorts, opened for 
the entertainment of the British public ; and we 
are told, and truly, that even these do not suffice 
to amuse the monstrous mass that nightly craves 
for fresh entertainment. 
We will take a cursory view of the theatres, 
leaving other entertainments out of the inquiry ; 
and we cannot do better than take them in the 
order in which they opened for the season. As 
some of the smaller stars first begin to twinkle in 
the twilight, so the outlying theatres first open in 
