Moral Theatricals49
We have once or twice alluded to a scheme (forwarded to us by the Author) for rendering theatrical entertainments strictly moral; and, it appears to us, that no season can be better suited to its development than the present.
The gentleman, to whose exertions in the behalf of virtue and decency, the public are even now greatly indebted, and whose plan, if carried into effect, will entitle him to the gratitude of the nation at large, is the Rev. Mr. Plumptree, who has published a volume of dramatic pieces illustrative of his purpose, which blend with deep interest a purity of thought and propriety of language rarely to be met with in the theatrical works of the day.
The first of the dramas is called “Royal Beneficence, or the Emperor Alexander,” and is founded on an event which occurred to his Russian Majesty, on the banks of the Wilna, where he restored a drowning young man by the means prescribed by the Humane Society, which means of restoration are published with the play—evidently with the best intentions. Mr. Plumptree offered this piece to Covent Garden and to Drury Lane, but it was by both rejected; then Mr. Hindes, the manager of the Norwich playhouse, had the refusal of it; but he, like the London proprietors, objected to its appearance because a living character was introduced.
Mr. Plumptree reasons very fairly upon the futility of this excuse, and prints the detail of the Emperor’s indefatigable exertions, upon which his play is founded, together with many other interesting documents concerning the valuable charity to which the piece is dedicated.
The drama is full of interest and good feeling; and although, in the present state of the stage, there is, perhaps, a want of bustle, still the affecting incident at the end of the first act, where the dead body of the hero is dragged out of the water, and stripped upon the stage, under the immediate inspection of the Emperor, who says,—
“Lose no time in fruitless ceremony: this is our duty now; strip off his clothes; wipe him dry, and rub about his heart, his temples, wrists, and everywhere,”—
appears to us likely to have produced a great sensation in a British audience.
We must say, that the rejection of such a piece by the London managers reflects equally upon their taste and delicacy.
The next drama is called “Winter,” and is founded upon the story of Elizabeth Woodcock, who was buried in the snow for upwards of a week, and is extremely pretty. “The Force of Conscience,” a tragedy, follows, which ends with the execution of Mr. Morris, a blacksmith, on the new drop, during which awful ceremony he is assisted in prayer by the Rev. Mr. Jones; the spectators make comments, and the culprit his last dying speech, when the drop, or rather the curtain, falls, which ends “the strange eventful history.”
The next play is called “Mrs. Jordan and the Methodist,” and is founded upon a benevolent action (one of many) performed by that incomparable actress. We have too much affection for her memory to make a single comment upon Mr. Plumptree’s delicate attempt to commemorate her good qualities.
The next is a comedy, called “The Salutary Reproof, or the Butcher!” from which we intend to make a few extracts, in order to give a fair specimen of Mr. Plumptree’s dramatic talent and virtuous intentions; and we certainly do hope that one of the London theatres will afford the town an opportunity of judging for themselves the benefits likely to arise to their morals by such representations, without any curtailment of their amusement.
The play opens with a view of a country village; a public-house—sign the Salutation, on one side; on the other side, a baker’s house and shop, and next door a butcher’s house and shop; trees and a seat before it.
Enter the Rev. Mr. Shepherd—goes to the inn, and is shut out—he tries the baker, who will not give him a lodging—whereupon he proceeds to the butcher’s. As he advances, he hears a hymn sung by the butcher’s family, accompanied on the oboe. He is shortly after received by the butcher, and the scene changes to the inside of the butcher’s house, where, as it is described, there is “everything remarkably neat, and even elegant in a plain way.”
Enter Mrs. Goodman, George, and Ruth—then Goodman and the Rev. Mr. Shepherd.
The following conversation occurs:—
Goodman. Mary, here is a gentleman will lodge here to-night. Muggins is in one of his surly fits, and has denied him. Put clean sheets on the bed, and you shall sleep with Ruth, and I with—George!
Mrs. G. What will the gentleman be pleased to have? Pray, be seated, sir—take this great chair. Shall I do you a mutton chop, sir?
Goodman. Bring the ease-and-comfort, George.
In a long note Mr. Plumptree elaborately describes this machine, and benevolently observes, that no house should be without at least one of them.
Mr. Shepherd. I thank you—if it will not be giving you too much trouble, I should prefer tea before everything—nothing refreshes me after fatigue like tea.
Mrs. G. By all means, sir; the fire is not out in the back-house. Ruth, put on the kettle; it is hot; and get the tea-things.
George. (Bringing the ease-and-comfort.) Here, father.
Goodman. Will you rest your legs on this, sir? we call it ease and comfort.
Mr. Shepherd. ’Tis ease and comfort, indeed. I know it by the name of rest-and-be-thankful. I will beg, if you please, when I go to bed, the patriarchal hospitality of water for my feet, and that warm.
This conversation, which is quite refreshing from its naturalness, continues till it takes a turn in this manner:—
It will be observed that Goodman is a butcher.
Goodman. It is said that our laws do not allow a butcher to serve upon a jury in a case of life and death—supposing, from his business, that he must have less humanity than others.
Mr. Shepherd. But that, I believe, is not the case; and within my own confined experience I have known several truly respectable and humane butchers. Our laws themselves are sanguinary; and they do not make the same exception to the military or naval characters, both which professions have too much to do with the effusion of blood.
Goodman. What do you think, sir, of the post-boy who cuts and over-drives his horses?
Mr. Shepherd. What do I think of the gentleman who sits behind him, and permits it—nay, encourages him, and pays him extra for distressing them, merely to bring him a few minutes sooner to the end of his stage?
Goodman. Sir, I had rather be what I am.
Mr. Shepherd. And so had I—it is a consolation to me often, in my journeys on foot, that no beast suffers for my accommodation.
The vein of morality which runs through the dialogue is exquisitely touching, and in the hands of Terry or Macready we think Goodman might be made highly effective—Young would be excellent in the “Rev.” Mr. Shepherd, and in the latter part of the act, where Goodman discovers in the clergyman a friend who “put up at the Wheat Sheaf, at Blessbury, twenty-five years before,” would make a decided hit—when pushing away his ease and comfort, the Reverend Gentleman returns thanks for having made the butcher what he finds him.
The conclusion of the first act is happily imagined, and highly theatrical:—
Mr. Shepherd. If you please, I will retire to rest—I heard your evening hymn, and interrupted your prayer in the hope of joining in it. Of whose devotions do you make use?
Goodman. Bishop Wilson’s, sir—but you will be so good as to lead for us.
Mr. Shepherd. If you please—but in general I know not that you can do better than make use of the pious bishop.
Goodman. George, bring the book.
Mr. Shepherd. I will have it in my hand, if you please, but our own peculiar circumstances require our own peculiar thanks and petitions.
[George brings the book, and gives it to Mr. S., and whilst they are looking at him, as if waiting for his kneeling first, the curtain drops.]
It is impossible not to feel such a scene deeply—its dramatic quality and the powerful effect that such a style of representation could not fail to have upon a thinking audience.
In the second act Goodman dispatches a leg of mutton to Lord Orwell’s, and puts up a prayer—Mrs. Goodman inquires if the gentleman’s shoes are cleaned, and mentions that she must go and look at the rolls in the camp oven: subsequently to which we are presented with a scene at his Lordship’s, who desires the butcher to sit down, and enters into conversation about “Fiorin grass,” which Goodman says will produce six ton per acre. His Lordship then recommends a work called “The Experienced Butcher,” published by Darton and Harvey, Gracechurch Street, price 6s.—in return for which Goodman mentions the arrival of Mr. Shepherd, and recommends him for the curacy of Gladford, the new rector having refused to countenance him. Whereupon Lord Orwell says to the butcher (taking his hand), “Mr. Goodman, this, like every part of your conduct, raises you in my esteem; depend upon my services wherever they can be useful.”
Goodman. Your Lordship is too condescending—too good—to me too.
[Exit, putting his hand to his eyes, to wipe away the tears.
Lord Orwell. No profession, I see, however rude, can prevent the growth of humanity, where religion affords its kindly influence. Even conversation with this butcher I perceive to improve my humanity!
Enter Sir William Rightly.
Good morning to you, Sir William; you rested well, I hope?
Sir W. Quite so, I thank you; your Lordship is well this morning, I hope? You have been sending your butcher away in tears, I see. I passed him in the hall; he gave me a look that spoke I know not what; I felt it at my heart.
Lord Orwell. I think you must have heard me mention this butcher before; he is not only the best butcher for many miles round, but one of the best men!
His Lordship then characterises Goodman thus:—
I have a great regard for him. In addition to all I have said, there is a civility and gentleness in his manner—an ease and frankness—civil without servility—ease without familiarity, and gentle, with much animation!
Sir William. It seems, then, that the butcher, if not a gentleman has much of the gentleman about him.
Lord Orwell. Exactly so. But let us join the breakfast party.
[Exeunt.
There is so much genuine nature in all this, that we certainly should have no hesitation in foretelling the reception it would meet with on the stage, if acted. The dénoûment may easily be anticipated; Mr. Shepherd, instead of being continued as curate, gets the rectory at Gladford; and Lord Orwell and Sir William Rightly having walked down to the butcher’s, there conclude the play thus:
[Lord Orwell and Sir William alternately shake hands with Mrs. Shepherd and Mrs. Goodman; Mr. Shepherd and Goodman then take each other cordially by the hand, in the centre, while Lord Orwell takes Goodman’s hand and Mrs. Goodman’s; Sir William takes Mrs. Shepherd’s and Ruth’s; Mrs. Goodman takes Muggins’s, and Muggins George’s; Ruth takes Crusty’s, and Crusty his wife’s. The curtain drops.]
As we have already said, the great charm of these pieces is the perfect representation which they give of real life. The intimate knowledge of human nature, and of society, which shines throughout all of them; and, above all, that consummate skill which, while it affords the richest dramatic treat, conveys the purest moral lesson.
It certainly is not for us to prescribe to Mr. Elliston; but we do think that if the play, whence we have made the above extracts, were acted at Drury Lane, the effect produced would be extraordinary. To Mr. Plumptree we return our thanks for his volume, which having read with admiration, we lay down with infinite satisfaction; and if every author were to pursue his plan and publish the piece, which managers have refused, it would very soon put an end to all doubts as to the cabals and intrigues which agitate, divide, and govern theatrical cabinets.