No More Learning

He also claimed, but did not really often
exercise, the right to begin the line with a short syllable, which
can hardly be so well allowed? The result was a cantering
.
measure, rather ‘ungirt,' if not actually ricketty, with a special
tendency to break itself, not into irregular halves as a hexameter
should, but into a rocking-horse rhythm of three parts, two feet in
a
each, yet sometimes providing fine lines, which, however, always
suggest the anapaestic arrangement above referred to. This
metre was, in turn, taken up by Longfellow, who made it rather
more tunable as a whole, but even looser and more ricketty.
II. On the other hand, strict believers in quantity, as necessi-
tating either long-vowel sound or 'position,' revolted against the
acceptance of stressed syllables as “long,' and began in various
ways to meet their own difficulty. Some met it by selecting for
their long syllables such as combined stress with one or both of
the other qualifications; and the most successful examples of this
plan are Tennyson's experiments—of which, however, he himself
saw the futility.
But yet others, including some persons of unquestionable
scholarship and talent, not to say genius-Spedding, Cayley,
Calverley, Clough in his later experiments, and others down to
the late W. J. Stone, with the support of the present poet laureate-
determined either to neglect accent, or (in some cases basing
themselves on certain theories as to practice in the ancient
languages) to pit quantity against it, and to produce verses which
should scan by the first in the teeth of the second. The novelty
and startling character of these proceedings, and the undoubted
abilities of some of the practitioners, have given, at different times,
a certain amount of vogue to the system. As usual, nothing will
be attempted here beyond presenting a selection of the fruits for
judgment of the nature and merits of the tree. If the examples
given below are possible and euphonious English verses of
Frere, and one or two others, went further, and postulated an additional
('anacrustic ') syllable at the beginning.


## p. 247 (#263) ############################################

VII]
Later Prosodists
247
hexametrical, i. e. dactylic-spondaic rhythm, then that system is
admissible : and if not, not?
For some years, on each side of the very middle of the century,
attention was chiefly directed to this question; but, by degrees, it
widened, and the last forty or fifty years have been the most
fertile in prosodic study of any similar periods in English literary
history. A remarkably original, in some respects very acute, but,
in others, slightly chimerical, student of the subject (who, like most
persons of this blend, has exercised much influence lately) was
Coventry Patmore, author of The Angel in the House. He,
next to Tillbrook and Guest, and rather more than the latter, took
full cognisance of previous prosodic theory, and his later poetical
work (the earlier was rather facile, metrically speaking) showed
good knowledge of poetic practice. But he was somewhat given
to what the eighteenth century, with its usual practical wisdom,
would have called 'airy notions. ' It is mostly from him that a
rather favourite modern fancy of a sort of eternal fisticuffs
between the law of metre and the freedom of language? is derived,
though the hexameter controversies also started this. He held
very singular theories as to pauses and pause-endings, and, on the
whole, his prosody may be described in the terms of the modern
scientific foes of Bacchus as rather a stimulant than a food.
Towards the close of the sixties—perhaps owing to the great
developments of actual poetry during that decade, perhaps not-
a remarkable number of prosodic works appeared. In the single
year 1869 came Edward Wadham's English Versi fication, with
an entirely new terminology of a most fantastic character, not
much knowledge of the history of the subject and a certain
return to the eighteenth-century views about trisyllabic feet;
R. F. Brewer's A. Manual of English Prosody (since republished
and renamed), which is a useful magazine of fact, but does not
show much grasp of the subject from any point of view; a shorter,
1
Dons, undergraduates, essayists and public, I ask you.
(Herameter-Cayley. )
They, of Amor musing, rest in a leafy cavern.
(Pentameter—Clough. )
Is my weary travel ended ? much further is in store.
(Hexameter-Stone. )
? This, after the old manner, was taken up by the Germans and passed back again
to us; so that these conflict' theories have very recently assumed great prominence.
That a contrast, rather than a conflict, between rhetorical and metrical arrangement
is, in some cases, observable, cannot be denied, and is often very interesting to trace.
But to elevate it into a principle is, probably, a very great mistake; and would certainly,
if insisted on too much, lead to a new prosodic chaos.
>


## p. 248 (#264) ############################################

248 The Prosody of the Nineteenth Century [CH.
equally practical and sounder book, The Rules of Rhyme, by the
younger Thomas Hood; and the prosodic part of Abbott's
A Shakespearian Grammar, in which strict syllabic, and strict
accentual, doctrines are combined in the most peremptory fashion.
In the next few years there were added Sylvester's The Laws of
Verse, a book somewhat abstruse in appearance but very lively
and suggestive in fact; the prosodic section of Earle's Philology
of the English Tongue, and, a little later, the work of Henry
Sweet, both of them specially devoted to the sound value of
words and syllables; and (another starting point of much sub-
sequent writing) J. A. Symonds's Blank Verse, an interesting
but somewhat anarchical tractate which denies the possibility
of scansion on any scheme. Meanwhile was begun and carried
on the most elaborate of all treatises on English pronun-
ciation, that of A. J. Ellis, which includes an extraordinarily
intricate and minute scheme, extending to forty-five different
items, of syllabic value from the point of view, single and com-
bined, of pitch, force, weight, length and strength.
Later still, and in the last quarter of the century, may be
noticed Gilbert Conway's Treatise of Versification (1878), written
on uncompromising accentual principles, and reverting to such
pronunciations as 'int'resting,' 'am'rous,' 'del'cate'; the charac-
teristic eccentricity of Ruskin's Elements of English Prosody
(1880); and parts of two most interesting books by the late Edmund
Gurney, very strongly musical in system. These last, like two
later works by persons of distinction, the first in philosophy, the
second in physical science, Shadworth Hodgson and Fleeming
Jenkin, were largely influenced by the republication of Guest in
1882; and they all represent the attempts of men of distinguished
ability in certain specialised ways to theorise on prosody. They
are all, in the highest degree, ingenious and suggestive, and one is
loth to apply to them the obvious terms which are often used in
regard to excursions from the outside into technical subjects; but
they certainly suggest somewhat insufficient acquaintance with the
facts and the history of the matter. No such suggestion can be
made in respect of J. B. Mayor's Chapters on English Metre and
A Handbook of Modern English Metre, books in the highest degree
valuable for their general view of the subject and specially for
their criticism of Guest and of not a few of the writers just
mentioned.
Only three more prosodists can be individually noticed here.
In 1888 appeared an anonymous treatise (or part of one, for the


## p. 249 (#265) ############################################

VII] Principles here adopted 249
promised continuation never appeared) entitled Accent and
Rhythm explained by the law of Monopressures. This doctrine,
which was afterwards taken up and applied by Skeat, rests
the whole prosodic matter on, and practically confines it to,
a physiological basis—speech being regarded as only possible in
jets governed by the glottis. No examination of this can be given
here, but the objection brought against it that these jets, if they
exist, must be the raw material of prose and verse alike' seems
almost fatal of itself and could be carried a great deal further.
A year later appeared the most important book by a poet on poetics
that has ever been issued in English, Robert Bridges's Prosody
of Milton, which, later much expanded, has almost become a
treatise of stress prosody, while the actual history of the subject
was, for the first time, set before the public with full bibliographical
and large, if not exhaustive, critical detail by T. S. Omond.
Before concluding these remarks, or as an appendix to them, it
may not be impertinent to sum up very briefly the chief points of
the prosodic system from which (though it is believed without
prejudice to other views) they and the whole of their predecessors
in the prosodic chapters in this History have been made. For it
is a constant-whether in all cases or not a quite well justified-
complaint that writers on prosody do not make themselves clear
-that the reader does not understand what they mean. The
principle of the system-drawn from no a priori ideas as to metre
or rhythm, to quantity or to accent, but from simple observation
of the whole range of English poetry—is that it can, from the time
of the blending of romance and Teutonic elements in Middle
English, be best accounted for by admitting 'feet' corresponding
-as, indeed, all such things, whether called 'feet,''bars,'
'groups,'
'sections' or anything else, must, of mathematical necessity, cor-
respond to those of the classical languages, but composed of
syllables the contrasted metrical quality of which (called for
similar convenience ‘length' and 'shortness') is not arrived at
in exactly the same way as in Greek or in Latin. There, length
depended usually on vowel quantity or on “position, technical
accent' having nothing to do with it; though 'stress' could have
exceptional effect on what was called arsis and thesis. In English,
all these act, but, in the case of vowel-value and position, with
a much lesser and more facultative effect; while accent acquires an
almost unlimited power of lengthening syllables and can be dis-
regarded with impunity in few cases. With a reasonable accentual
system which, objecting to the word 'quantity' for this or that
-
6
>


## p. 250 (#266) ############################################

250 The Prosody of the Nineteenth Century [CH.
extraneous reason (such as that 'quantity’implies 'time '), formu-
lates its arrangements with the substitution of “accented' and
unaccented' for 'long' and 'short,' there need be no irreconcilable
quarrel; though such a system may be thought cumbrous and
open to a constant danger, which has often become disastrous, of
unduly neglecting the unaccented syllables, and their powers of
affecting the integral character of the accent-group. But, with
any system which simply strides from accent to accent, neglecting
or slurring other syllables, still more with any which would have
sequences of similar lines to be composed of discretionary bars or
sections varying like the rhythm clauses of prose, it may be
admitted that no concordat is possible ; nor any with those yet
cruder systems which, starting from a purely syllabic basis, would,
as did Bysshe and (partly) Johnson, either force extra syllables
into unnatural coalescence or forbid them altogether as illegitimate.
Nevertheless, an endeavour has been made to prevent colouring
the actual history unduly with opinion; and, as it would hardly be
possible to find anyone who can write on prosody without holding
prosodic opinions of some sort, serious objection to the method
adopted can hardly be taken.
As noted above, the history of the practical prosody of the last
two thirds of the century may be taken in three stages, the last of
which may be said to be still existing and, as has rarely happened
in our history, owes something directly to preceptist studies. In
the first, from the thirties to the sixties, the ever-developing genius
of Tennyson and Browning developed, in its turn, as has been
partly observed already, the prosodic enfranchisement of the first
romantic school, with definite, if not always with conscious, refer-
ence to that school's work. On almost every poet of the tiine
(except men who practically belonged not merely to the last
generation but to the last century), the lesson of equivalence
taught by Coleridge had its effect almost unresisted, though some-
times not fully understood, and nothing can be stranger than
Coleridge's own inability to recognise that in, for instance, The
Dying Swan, this lesson is simply exemplified—that you can
expound it out of his own mouth. The blank verse of Wordsworth,
on the other hand, had very great influence on Browning, less on
Tennyson, who may be said almost to have developed a fresh variety
of his own straight from Milton, but with very strong idiosyncrasy
of blend. Metrically, the influence of Keats on him, strong in
other ways, was less perceptible than that of Shelley, which, in
those same other ways, is not so noteworthy as it is on Browning


## p. 251 (#267) ############################################

VII]
Tennyson Browning Arnold
251
Nobody, indeed, before Matthew Arnold (and he only to relinquish
it) adopted the enjambed couplet of Endymion. But the so-called
‘irregular' lyric forms of both these great and too early removed
poets exercised the widest power, not merely in respect of abstract
form, but in directing the principal efforts of both their successors
towards lyrical poetry. If anyone demurs to this, let him perpend
the striking lesson of the first and second editions of Tennyson's
Princess, the first without, the second with, lyrical insets.
These two great poets continued, the one for nearly, the other
for more than, sixty years, to multiply examples of their metrical,
as of their poetical, powers. Towards the close of his career,
Tennyson perhaps exaggerated that free admission of trisyllabic
feet which he had made the differentia of his blank verse; and
Browning, in the same vehicle, undoubtedly carried to excess the
almost pedestrian looseness of his style. But, by this time, each
had made excursion into almost every principal province of
English metre, and in no one excursion had failed. The charge of
over-sweetness in 'numbers' brought against Tennyson was merely
a crotchet; that of over-discord brought against Browning had
more apparent, and even real, justification, but, on the whole, was
a mistake. And it is difficult to know where to look for other
examples of a metrical system-for it was really the same in both
despite its apparent differences of administration'-justified by
such entirely novel displays of craftsmanship as Tennyson's in the
anapaests of The Voyage of Maeldune and Browning's in the
Alexandrines of Fifine at the Fair, each written half a century
after the writer's first appearance as a poet.
The younger and lesser verse-writers of this time cannot be
reviewed here, but the prevalent tendency need not be better
illustrated than by the example already glanced at, in part, of
Matthew Arnold. His wellknown classicism and anti-Tennyson-
ianism might have been thought likely to lead him to discard
variety of rhythm, and did, indeed, produce a somewhat stiffer if
statelier form of blank verse in Sohrab and Rustum. But his best
and best beloved poems—The Forsaken Merman, The Scholar-
Gipsy and its sequel, the two Nights and others—are all in care-
fully and, for the most part, originally researched' metres, while,
in Tristram and Iseult, he alone, between Keats and William
Morris, tried and tried most successfully the enjambed heroic
couplet, and his wellknown experiments in unrimed (but not in
1 Some remarks may be found in the chapter specially devoted to them.


## p. 252 (#268) ############################################

252 The Prosody of the Nineteenth Century [CH.
the ordinary restricted sense 'blank') verse, from The Strayed
Reveller onwards, are characteristic of his time.
The school which made its appearance (the work of its eldest
member Dante Rossetti being accidentally held back except in
fragments) towards the close of the fifties cannot be said to
exhibit any general change from the prosody of Tennyson and
Browning, though it exhibited some very interesting minor de-
velopments. The most peculiar of these, which was chiefly taken
up and worked by rather younger men, and which produced some
very charming work, was the revival of the artificial forms of verse
-ballades, rondeaux, roundels, and so forth—which had been the
favourite occupation of French poets from the thirteenth century
till well into the sixteenth, and which, in the late fourteenth and
fifteenth, had been pretty largely practised in England. This
revival, however, after some years died off, chiefly, as it seems to
the present writer, because no poet had cared or dared, save in a
very few cases, to ease off the syllabic rigidity of the originals into
that equivalence which is the soul of English verse. But Dante
Rossetti himself, perhaps at the call of his Italian blood, wrote
sonnets in the more favourite Italian forms with an effect only
matched by those of his sister Christina; and showed, besides,
remarkable mastery of English measures, ballad, and other.
William Morris, besides reviving not merely, as has been said, the
overlapped Keatsian decasyllabic couplet, in The Life and Death
of Jason, but the hitherto unfollowed octosyllabic of The Eve of
St Mark, used both, and especially the latter, with extraordinary
effect in The Earthly Paradise. In Love is Enough, he tried
a bolder and, in most judgments, less successful archaism by
reviving alliterative and rimeless movements; but, later, in
Sigurd the Volsung, he adjusted this and the old rimed fourteener
(in fact, the Gamelyn metre)? into a really splendid metre for
narrative purposes.
Meanwhile, Swinburne combined the widest exercise in
prosodic practice with not a little definite theorising on the
subject. The most important result of the latter was his distinct
formulation of the doctrine that spondaic-dactylic measures in
English have a tendency to pass into anapaestics; it would be
impossible to analyse his practice fully in any space possible here.
In metrical 'virtuosity, it may be doubted whether he has ever
had a superior, and the immensely long lines in which, latterly,
this tempted him to indulge, though seldom, if ever, actual
1 See, ante, vol. II, chap. VII.


## p. 253 (#269) ############################################

VII)
Summary
253
.
failures, have too much of the tour de force about them. So, too,
the extreme fluency of language, which was often charged against
him, had a tendency to make both his blank verse and his couplets
too voluble. He may be said, indeed, to have combined, in a very
curious fashion, the characteristics of both Tennyson and Browning
in blank verse. But his more compassed and studied exercises in
this were frequently admirable; while a finer example of a peculiar
kind of couplet-again blended of stop and overlap—than the
opening of Tristram of Lyonesse it would be difficult to find. It
stands as a sort of contrast to the other remarkable blend in
Tennyson's Vision of Sin. But the sharper and more fretted
outline of lyric was what was wanted to bring out Swinburne's
prosodic power to the full, and no poet has ever exemplified those
general principles which have been kept in view during this
chapter as he did. The variation of the Praed metre into that
of Dolores, and of FitzGerald's quatrain in Laus Veneris, together
with the elaborate and triumphant stanza of The Triumph of
Time—these are only three out of scores, or almost hundreds, of
experiments which, however daring, never fail in bringing off the
musical and rhythmical effect.
This remarkable blend of sureness and freedom in rhythm may
be said to be the full result of the successive processes which have
been pointed out above in reference to the late seventeenth, the
eighteenth and the nineteenth century respectively. The period
in which Dryden and Pope ruled drove out—if, possibly, by too
severe a tariff of penalty and restriction—the indulgence in un-
certain, if not positively arrhythmic, caprices, which had marred not
merely the fifteenth but (after a premature resipiscence from Wyatt
to Gascoigne) the magnificent accomplishment of the late sixteenth
and early seventeenth centuries. Then, the Shakespeares and the
Miltons did as they would, but always did right; others, not always
much less than great, did as they would and frequently did wrong.
So, English verse had to return into the go-cart and stayed there for
a century and a half. Then it got free, and arose, and walked and
flew. But, about the time of which we are now specially speaking,
there began, partly in the realms of prosodic discussion, partly in
those of poetic production, and, now and then, in quarters where
the dissidents could both sing and say, a revolt against even quali-
fied regularity. The different schemes which have been glanced at
above of scansion by systems of irregular stress in corresponding
lines; by 'bars' of varying, and in none but a very loose way,


## p. 254 (#270) ############################################

2 54 The Prosody of the Nineteenth Century [CH. VII
equivalent length; and so forth, could not but suggest something
very different from that general identity as opposed to variety of
rhythmical arrangement which had hitherto been taken as the
great differentia of verse as compared with prose. And verse to
match the theory was, almost a generation ago, composed and has
been since attempted on methods of increasing 'impressionism’;
some recent examples being admittedly intended to be read like
prose, without any regard to supposed antecedent forms of corre-
spondence, or mainly to illustrate the theory, noticed above, of
a sort of prophetical cockpit-fight between quantity and accent,
metre and rhetoric, and, perhaps, other pairs also, which may be
left to suggest themselves.
But what success the efforts met
This story will not say--as yet,
to alter very slightly the famous and much discussed phrase in
Cadenus and Vanessa. To some tastes, this success has not been
great; the good verse produced being always scannable by the old
methods and that recalcitrant to those methods being, to such tastes,
not so good. But the whole principle of these prosodic chapters
has been to take good English verse at every time and exhibit its
characteristics of goodness without attempting to dictate. If
anyone continues to apply that rule to the present and future
efforts of English poets, he is not very likely to go far wrong.


## p. 255 (#271) ############################################

CHAPTER VIII
NINETEENTH-CENTURY DRAMA
a
THE drama in the nineteenth century was much affected, as
drama always must be, by social conditions, and by theatrical
conditions which social development brought about. When the
earlier years of the century had passed, and the fall of Napoleon
had relieved England of much danger and anxiety, the less educated
and the uneducated parts of the population began to improve in
manners and in mind; and one of the means of refinement of which
they showed a desire to avail themselves was the drama. Hitherto,
to a very great extent, the theatre had been the amusement of
educated classes only. The pit was still occupied by the acutest
critics, members of the professional or the higher commercial classes.
The people had not yet begun to take any wide or keen interest
in the drama. The nineteenth century saw the influx of the
populace into the theatre. And the populace, though ready to have
its taste improved, brought with it its love of sensational incident
and of broad humour. Not for it the elegant, if rather bloodless,
tragedy, and the fine comedy, of high life, which had been the
educated theatre-goers' staple fare. Caring nothing for poetry or
for the subtler shades of feeling, it needed a hearty kind of play,
full of excitement and written in expressive, high-flown language ;
it needed stories of passion, or terror, or lively fun. And, little by
little, the demand created the supply. The nineteenth century
saw the drama become, for the first time since the days of queen
Elizabeth, a popular amusement. For the most part, educated
classes and the higher ranks of society ceased to attend the
theatre. It needed the attraction of some famous actor-Kemble,
the two Keans, or Macready-to draw them back to what had
been their special province; and, until some years later than the
middle of the century, the creation of any drama of high quality
was dependent upon the fame of some great actor who could draw
refined and educated people to witness it.


## p. 256 (#272) ############################################

256
Nineteenth-Century Drama [CH.
Even so, it was presented under theatrical conditions that gave
it small chance of a fair hearing. The theatre was still under the
control of the court; and the only theatres which the court, as
represented by the lord chamberlain, recognised were the two
patent' houses, Drury lane and Covent garden, and the theatre
in the Haymarket. But the increasing number of theatre-goers
rendered these three insufficient for the public need. The patent
houses, and especially Drury lane, were enlarged until they reached
a size in which no drama of any delicacy or subtlety, none, indeed,
which was not spectacular and, in some manner, violent, could
be thoroughly effective. A quarter of the audience could neither
see nor hear; many of the rest could neither see nor hear well.
A theatre of enormous size had been no bar in Athens to the
existence of a noble drama ; but, in nineteenth-century London,
the conditions were different. Plays were not, as will be seen,
a vehicle for religion : religion chose to regard the theatre as an
enemy, and the theatre took what was, on the whole, a very mild
revenge. Moreover, since James I had turned the Globe and
Blackfriars company into an appanage of his court, the whole
tendency had been to divorce the drama from the national life.
The great size, therefore, of Drury lane and of Covent garden
meant that these were no fit places for the representation of the
plays enjoyed by educated classes ; and, considering the growth
in importance, volume and interest of the novel, it is not sur-
prising that educated classes stayed away from the theatre, except
when it was occupied by the fashionable Italian and French
opera and ballet, and left the drama almost entirely to the new
class of theatre-goers, drawn from the people. Meanwhile, the
demand for theatrical entertainment on the part of the populace,
and of the man of average refinement and intelligence, could
not be satisfied by three theatres only. In defiance of the law,
other theatres sprang into existence. By many undignified shifts,
these theatres succeeded in avoiding sudden extinction at the
hand of the lord chamberlain, and in increasing their number and
importance. But dramatists who wrote for them were, necessarily,
ill-paid, and the drama which they produced was, necessarily,
ephemeral. For not only was every such theatre liable to be
closed at a moment's notice ; each work of dramatic art had to
masquerade as something other than a play-to be interspersed
with music or dancing or exhibitions of performing animals-in
order that its producers might persuade themselves, or the lord
chamberlain, that they were not breaking the law. Not till the


## p. 257 (#273) ############################################

VIII]
The Decline of Tragedy
257
year 1843 did the Theatre Regulation act legalise the position
of illegitimate' houses. To these disabilities must be added
the deterrent effect of the lord chamberlain's power to forbid the
performance of plays on the grounds of seditious, blasphemous or
immoral matter in them. The effect of this power was to prevent
the drama from concerning itself with any of the subjects about
which intelligent people think and feel; and this restriction
militated against the production of good plays long after the
act of 1843 had given the public the right to have practically
as many theatres as it liked in which to develop the kinds of
dramatic production which it required.
Under these conditions, the plays of the first half of the century
were not likely to be endowed with much merit; and, in this
period, we reach the low-water mark of the English drama in
quality, together with a great increase in quantity. The death of
tragedy; the swift decline of the romantic or poetical drama and
the coarsening of comedy into farce are scarcely outweighed by
the rapid growth of an honest and fairly spontaneous, but crude,
domestic play suitable to the taste of the new theatrical public.
Theatrical conditions, rather than social, prevented the amalga-
mation of the popular drama with the existing drama into a
national drama that should, like that of Shakespeare, satisfy the
tastes of refined and homely alike. On the one hand, the ‘legiti-
mate' play declined into 'lugubrious comedy and impossible
tragedy, and the poetic play found itself wholly dependent
upon the popularity of some great actor to restore it to brief
semblance of life ; on the other hand, there came into existence
a vigorous school of little artistic merit, lacking the finer
qualities which the great Elizabetbans had contrived to combine
with the homelier.
6
” as
'Sophocles and Shakespeare,' wrote G. H. Lewes, are as "sensational”
Fitzball or Dumas; but the situations, which in the latter are the aim and
object of the piece, to which all the rest is subordinated, in the former are the
mere starting-points, the nodes of dramatic action’i.
In The London Magazine for April 1820, Hazlitt ‘proved,
very satisfactorily, and without fear of contradiction-neither
Mr Maturin, Mr Sheil, nor Mr Milman being present—that no
modern author could write a tragedy. The age was 'critical,
didactic, paradoxical, romantic,' but not dramatic. The French
revolution had made of the English a nation of politicians and
1 G. H, Lewes, On Actors and Acting (1875), p. 15.
E. L. XIII,
CH, VIII.
17


## p. 258 (#274) ############################################

258
Nineteenth-Century Drama [ch.
6
9
newsmongers ; and tragedy, being 'essentially individual and
concrete, both in form and power' was irreconcilable with this
'bias to abstraction' in the general. There had hardly been a
good tragedy written, he declared, since Home's Douglas. Never-
theless, tragedy was written in considerable quantities. It was
a favourite exercise with men of letters, whether or no they
possessed any power of dramatic invention. Wordsworth tried
his hand at tragedy ; Coleridge, Godwin, lord Byron, Mary
Russell Mitford, Disraeli and many others, whose writings are
dealt with elsewhere in this work, composed tragedies, some of
which were produced upon the stage, while others remained polite
exercises in a literary form. The present chapter will touch upon
the minor tragedians, of whom the three mentioned in the quo-
tation from Hazlitt given above are the first to call for notice.
Richard Lalor Sheil, who is more famous, perhaps, as politician
than as dramatist, first came before the public with Adelaide ; or,
The Emigrants, a tragedy of the French revolution, which was
produced in Dublin in 1814 and at Covent garden, where it occupied
the stage for one night only, in 1816. The savagery of Hazlitt's
attack upon this tragedy in The Examiner may be due, in great
measure, to his resentment of the author's endeavour to drench
an English audience with French loyalty' to the house of Bourbon.
In spite of this, Hazlitt's condemnation is scarcely excessive, though
there are passages of modest merit in the verse. Sheil's second
tragedy, The Apostate, produced at Covent garden in 1817, met
with more success. A tragedy of the Moors in Spain, this piece
pleased Hazlitt a little better, because it contained a passage on
the horrors of the inquisition; but he is just in his strictures,
that the tragic situations are too violent, frequent and improbable,
and that the play is full of a succession of self-inflicted horrors.
It is effective stage-work, if far from being fine tragedy; and the
versification has an appearance of vigour which, possibly, might
conceal from the hearer, though it cannot from the reader, its
essentially commonplace character. There are lines in it which
amused even its first hearers-notably the heroine's exclamation :
"This is too much for any mortal creature ! Sheil's next tragedy,
Bellamira; or, The Fall of Tunis (produced at Covent garden in
1818), is the best of his original plays. The language is purer and
less extravagant, though by no means free from sound and fury;
but Leigh Hunt, in The Examiner for 26 April 1818, was right in
censuring
the tendency to mistake vehemence for strength, the impatience of lowness


## p. 259 (#275) ############################################

VII]
Sheil and Maturin
259
for the attainment of height, and excessive tragic effect physically over-
powering for real effect at once carrying away and sustaining.
In other words, Bellamira is, again, a telling piece of stage-work,
and an inferior piece of dramatic art. Sheil was more successful
as dramatic artist in his next play, Evadne ; or, The Statue,
produced in 1819 ; but, here, he had the advantage of a foundation
taken from Shirley's play, The Traytor. It may seem strange that
a play of 1631 connected with the Italian renascence should be able
to steady a dramatic author of the early part of the nineteenth
century; but so it was. Sheil altered the plot, dispensing, among
other things, with the slaughter at the close of The Traytor; and,
in adapting the play a little more closely to the tragic ideals of his
own day, indulged less freely than was his wont in extravagance of
incident or language. Hazlitt took Evadne for the text of the last
of his lectures on the dramatic literature of the age of Elizabeth ;
and Leigh Hunt found the 'truly feminine and noble character of
Evadne 'a delightful relief from the selfish and extravagantly
virtuous wives who have been palmed upon us of late for women. '
The Huguenot, written in 1819, but not produced till two or three
years later, shows a return to the aim at violence of effect, and an
appeal through strangeness of scene and incident to emotions which
the nature and sufferings of the characters could not arouse by
themselves. And that its failure on the stage was ascribed by the
author and others to the absence of Eliza O'Neill from the cast shows
how dependent the drama had become upon the popularity of this
or that player.
After the failure of The Huguenot, Sheil gave up
play-writing ; but previous to its production he had written Montoni
(produced in 1820), a poetical drama founded on the French, and
remarkable for some of Sheil's wildest extravagance in incident
and for some of his best verse ; had adapted Massinger and Field's
The Fatall Dowry; and had revised Damon and Pythias, a tragedy
by John Banim, which turned out a better piece of work than any
play written by Sheil alone.
Hazlitt's last lecture on the dramatic literature of the
age
Elizabeth is largely concerned with German influence on the tragedy
and romantic drama of his day. That influence can be clearly
discerned in the plays of Charles Robert Maturin, an Irish clergyman,
whose three tragedies—Bertram ; or, The Castle of St Aldobrond ;
Manuel; and Fredolfo—were produced in London in the years 1816
and 1817. Bertram was a famous and successful play in its time.
It was brought to the notice of Edmund Kean by Walter Scott and
Byron; it was the object of an attack by Coleridge in The Courier,
of
17-2


## p. 260 (#276) ############################################

260
Nineteenth-Century Drama [CH.
which, in its turn, roused a notorious attack by Hazlitt on Coleridge.
The ridicule of The Anti-Jacobin had not opened the eyes of the
public to the shortcomings of the drama of Kotzebue ; and
Coleridge's translation of Wallenstein appears to have had no
corrective influence on taste. Maturin's Bertram, with its gloomy
'Byronic' hero-villain, its strained sentiment, its setting in castle
and monastery and its attempt at the portrayal of frantic passions,
has all the vices of a vicious order of tragedy. Nothing, to the
modern reader, seems real, nothing inevitable. In Hazlitt's words :
“There is no action : there is neither cause nor effect. . . . The passion
described does not arise naturally out of the previous circumstances,
nor lead necessarily to the consequences that follow. This is true,
also, of Manuel; and Fredolfo, “a piece of romanticism run mad,'
shocked the first and last audience that ever saw it with a display
of villainy which even that age could not stomach. Maturin, in
later years, admitted that his acquaintance with life was so limited
as to make him dependent on his imagination alone (and he might
have added the imagination of other dramatists) for his characters,
situations and language. He was, however, a better poet than
Sheil. For all his excess in physical horror, his verse shows
sensibility and has some beauty.
The plays of Henry Hart Milman, afterwards dean of St Paul's,
reveal a taste somewhat surer; although, in Fazio, a tragedy
published in 1815 and produced in London in 1818, there is plenty
of false fire. Milman took inspiration rather from Fletcher or
Massinger than from Kotzebue or ‘Monk’ Lewis ; and Fazio, at
least, is a very lively drama, if not a good tragedy. It is a tale,
placed in Italy, of robbery and supposed murder, of splendid har-
lotry and devoted conjugal affection ; and its acting qualities kept
it on the stage nearly all through the nineteenth century. It has
another title to remembrance : from it, Hazlitt drew a speech which
he hurled at the head of Coleridge in the attack referred to above.
Milman's other plays show less of false taste and less of theatrical
merit, being, for the most part, dramatic poems rather than stage-
plays. The Fall of Jerusalem (1820) and The Martyr of Antioch
(1822) are both founded upon a legitimately conceived struggle
between two passions or ideas. Belshazzar (1822) contains some
good lyrics. Anne Boleyn (1826), Milman's last dramatic com-
position, was, also, his poorest. He cannot, perbaps, be accused
of misrepresenting facts and characters so grossly as some later
historical dramatists ; but his anxiety to state a good case for
protestantism against Roman catholicism mars the dramatic quality


## p. 261 (#277) ############################################

VIII]
Sheridan Knowles
261
of the play. In this connection, the plays of Henry Montague
Grover are worth mention. Grover, in 1826, published a play on
the same subject, Anne Boleyn, in the preface to which he hints
that Milman had made unacknowledged use of his manuscript.
Such a complaint is not uncommon among dramatic authors.
Meanwhile, there had arisen a tragedian who endeavoured to
purge tragedy of the extravagance with which the influence of
German romanticism had affected it. James Sheridan Knowles,
said Hazlitt,
has hardly read a poem or a play or seen anything of the world, but he hears
the anxious beatings of his own heart, and makes others feel them by the
force of sympathy.
Save that Sheridan Knowles had read Shakespeare to such good
purpose that contemporary critics accused him of borrowing every-
thing from Shakespeare, Hazlitt's remark is just. Knowles `kept
his eye on the object,' and abstained from seeking effect from wild
and whirling words that had little or no connection with the subject
and the characters. His situations arise out of the characters and
the circumstances. A sympathetic imagination and an instinctive,
rather than acquired, reverence for the principles of dramatic
composition make his work, in the main, just, sensible and moving ;
and he delineates natural feeling with much simple understanding.
To this simplicity, he owes the few things in his work which come
near to genius-speeches, like Virginius's remark to his daughter :
I never saw you look so like your mother
In all my life ! 1
which might well seem almost 'low' to an audience accustomed to
Sheil and to Maturin, but which impress the reader with their truth.
Such moments are rare; for, though Knowles's language brings
relief from the towering nonsense of his immediate predecessors,
it varies between triviality and excessive, sometimes ridiculous,
decoration ; and his verse is pedestrian. When the plot was given
him by history, he could handle it clearly and effectively. In his
comedies, of which an account will be given later, he proved himself
unable to spin a comprehensible tale ; but his chief tragedies and
plays-Virginius (1820); Caius Gracchus (produced in 1823,
though written before Virginius); William Tell (1825); and The
Wife (1833)—are clearly constructed and full of situations at once
effective and inevitable. Supported by the acting of Macready and
Helen Faucit, Sheridan Knowles succeeded, for a time, in restoring
tragedy at once to its proper dignity and to a good measure of
i Virginius, iv, 1.


## p. 262 (#278) ############################################

262 Nineteenth-Century Drama [ch.
a
popularity in the theatre ; but the taste for it, poisoned by the
excesses of the romantics, was all but dead. The fine plays of
Richard Henry (or Hengist) Horne were never produced on the
stage. Cosmo de Medici, a tragedy in five acts, published in 1837,
is a well-built, well-written piece of poetical drama, in which two
brothers fall with perfect naturalness into a fatal quarrel ; the
murderer's attempt to conceal the half-involuntary deed is acutely
imagined, and the only questionable episode is the somewhat
theatrical death of the father after he has executed the offender
with his own hand. The Death of Marlowe, a short play published
in the same year, has a curious and beautiful intensity in the
execution of the theme; and Horne's other plays, Gregory VII
(1840) and Judas Iscariot (1848), are works of power and some
grandeur, born out of due time.
The age, becoming more and more critical, scientific and
unemotional, fell, more and more, out of touch with tragedy. It
was almost certainly the desire to bring tragedy back to the
business and bosoms of men that induced John Westland Marston
to attempt a verse-tragedy of contemporary life. The Patrician's
Daughter (1842) tells the story of an able politician of humble
birth, who is 'taken up' by an aristocratic family for political
ends, and then treated with contumely when asking for the hand of
the daughter of the house. He takes his revenge by rejecting the
lady (something in the manner of Claudio in Much Ado about
Nothing) when her family has found it necessary to offer him her
hand in exchange for his support; and the insult kills the girl,
who had loved him all the time. The plot, in one place, runs
thin; the humiliation of the hero is accomplished by means of a
commonplace of stage-craft, one of those misunderstandings or
misrepresentations which a moment's calm enquiry would have
cleared up. But Marston was a poet and a scholar; his mind was
richer, his social knowledge greater and his poetical faculty more
highly trained than those of the other tragedians mentioned in this
chapter. He wrote sense, and he understood character. And he
showed considerable courage in writing what was so near to a political
play as The Patrician's Daughter. “The play,' as he said later,
‘ represents a period when the fierce class animosities excited by
the first Reform bill had by no means subsided. It is a manifesto
for neither aristocracy nor democracy: indeed, it exposes the
particular danger on each side, on the side of the patricians,
pride; on the side of the plebeian, the tendency to “indulge
a passion in the belief that he was vindicating a principle. '
a


## p. 263 (#279) ############################################

VIII)
John Westland Marston
263
But, considering the strictness of the censorship and the heated
state of public feeling, Marston went as near as anyone dared to
writing a poetical play about the actual life of his time; and the
favour with which the play was received ought, it would be
imagined, to have inspired others to follow his example and win
for tragedy a new vigour. Nothing came of it; and this opposition
between the haughty, heartless world of high life and the meri-
torious poor became a favourite subject of other kinds of drama
than tragedy. Marston's other tragedies in verse, Strathmore (1849)
and Marie de Méranie (1850), were the last of their kind that
deserve consideration from the student of literature. The drama
was soon to develop along lines more suited to the
age.
With
the retirement of Macready and Helen Faucit, the succession
of great actors who had inspired dramatists with the desire to
write poetical drama came to an end, and was not to be renewed.
Thus, Marston's exciting and romantic Life for Life (1869), his
equally romantic and slightly Byronic A Life's Ransom (1857)
and others, had no successors worthy of comparison with them in
the ordinary traffic of the stage.
The first half of the nineteenth century was a period of very
brisk dramatic activity. The pressure of the public demand for
theatrical entertainment caused prolific production. The com-
paratively low state of public taste and the insecurity of tenure
of unlicensed theatres caused that production to be of little
value. The kinds of drama were many—comedy, farce, extrava-
ganza, burlesque, opera and melodrama; and authors, many of
whom were attached to certain theatres and paid fixed salaries to
produce whatever kind of play might be wanted, wrote in haste
dramatic pieces of all sorts. Under these conditions, originality in
plot could scarcely be expected. Stories were snatched from all
sources? ; especially from French and German drama and from
French and English novels. The works of Scott, of Dumas and
of Dickens were especially favourite hunting-grounds for plots ;
and the law of copyright then offered no protection to the
novelist against the playwright. The period exhibits a confusing
jumble of trivial aims and poor accomplishment; from which may
be extricated two principal characteristics—the degradation of
comedy into farce, and the growth of what is now known as
melodrama. The name, melodrama, was taken from the French
mélodrame, which, as in English, meant a play of sensational
1 John Oxenford, more distinguished as dramatic critic than as playwright, made
a play out of Pope's The Rape of the Lock.


## p. 264 (#280) ############################################

264 Nineteenth-Century Drama [CH.
a
incident and broad humour, interspersed with songs and dances.
In England, the musical adjuncts were introduced not only to please
public taste but, largely, in order to evade the law by presenting
a stage-play in the guise of a musical entertainment. In character
and content, melodrama was very various. It included the operas
of Isaac Pocock and Henry Bishop; the adaptations of Fitzball;
the wild imaginings of Shirley Brooks; the nautical drama made
popular by T. P. Cooke, the actor; the equestrian drama of
Astley's; the domestic drama of Tom Taylor; and the Irish drama
of Dion Boucicault. In Taylor and Boucicault, it had practitioners
of skill and sense; at the opposite extreme were authors of
blood-curdling pieces performed at the outlying theatres. To
the composition of this heterogeneous mixture, many strains con-
tributed. So far as it had any descent from English tradition, it
may be traced back to the fairy plays and spectacles of John Rich.
These were melodramas, inasmuch as they were opera without
operatic singers ; but the musical element was destined to give
way to the dramatic. By the time of The Miller and his Men
(1813), the author, or, rather, the adapter, Pocock, is as important
as the composer, Bishop; and, before long, the music disappeared
altogether, as it had disappeared from the French mélodrame,
leaving the sensational incidents and the broad humour unrelieved.
The romantic movement, which had produced The Mysteries of
Udolpho and the works of ‘Monk’Lewis, contributed not a little of
the sensational element; and the new theatrical public brought
with it the taste for horrors which continued to be stimulated and
fed by ballads and broadsheets. The French drama of incident
and sensation, which had come into being after the revolution-
the drama of Pixérécourt, of Caigniez and of Cuvelier de Trye
-lent something; shows and spectacles, performing animals
and acrobatic exhibitions, with which licensed houses recouped
themselves for their losses over 'legitimate' drama, flowed, at the
Surrey theatre, at Sadler’s wells, or at Astley's, into the stream;
and, by the middle of the century, melodrama had taken a form
which has scarcely been altered since. Melodrama divides human
nature into the entirely good and the entirely bad, the two being
bridged by an uncertain structure based on the possibility of
reform (in minor personages only) by sudden conversion at a critical
moment of the action. That is to say, incident and situation, not
character, are its aims. It allies itself boldly with the democrat
against the aristocrat. To be rich and well-born is, almost inevit-
ably, to be wicked; to be poor and humble is all but a guarantee


## p. 265 (#281) ############################################

VIN]
Melodrama
265
of virtue. These characteristics did not become crystallised all at
once; they grew by degrees through works of a large number of
playwrights, some among whom may be particularised.
Isaac Pocock, the author of The Miller and his Men, took the
subject of his melodramas, which, in his own day, were called
librettos, but are practically plays, almost entirely from French
or German drama and English novels. His earliest melodrama
was Twenty Years Ago, produced in 1810. The Magpie or the
Maid? (1816) was taken from the French, The Robber's Wife from
the German. Defoe contributed the source of Robinson Crusoe
(1817); and from Scott he took the subjects of Rob Roy
Macgregor ; or, Auld Lang Syne (1818) and Montrose ; or, The
Children of the Mist (1822), besides dramatising, it is recorded,
Woodstock, Peveril of the Peak, The Antiquary and Old Mortality.
Edward Ball, afterwards Fitzball, one of the most prolific among
the prolific authors of his day, compiled a great number of dramas
and librettos for operas, nearly all of which were founded upon
borrowed plots. William Thomas Moncrieff, at one time, was
manager of Astley's circus, to which he furnished at least one very
successful equestrian drama, The Dandy Family; and he won fame
by supplying Drury lane with a romantic melodrama called The
Cataract of the Ganges; or, The Rajah's Daughter, which gave
the national theatre an opportunity of displaying upon its stage
not only real horses but, apparently for the first time, a real
waterfall. Moncrieff is best known by his Tom and Jerry, an
adaptation for the stage of Pierce Egan's! Life in London; but
he drew, also, upon the novels of Dickens for the plots of several
plays. With the dramas of Douglas William Jerrold we come
to work far more reasonable and not wholly unreadable. His
comedies will be considered later; among his dramas, the most
famous is the still enjoyable Blackey'd Susan; or, ‘All in the
Downs,' founded upon Gay's ballad. Helped by the acting of
T. P. Cooke, this admirable piece of popular drama was received
with great favour at the Surrey theatre, and has been the subject
of several adaptations, burlesques and pantomimes. The dramas
of John Baldwin Buckstone, most of them written for the Adelphi
theatre, are the origin of the familiar term, 'Adelphi melodrama. '
They are extravagantly sentimental, and they are written in the
turgid ‘literary' language with which the taste of the day demanded
that the memories and tongues of the players should wrestle. But
they are well constructed, frequently with borrowed plots; and are
1 See, post, vol. xiv.
>


## p. 266 (#282) ############################################

266 Nineteenth-Century Drama [CH.
not so violent in incident as to be ridiculous. The Bear-hunters; or,
The Fatal Ravine (1829) has a quite exciting story; and both The
Green Bushes; or, A Hundred Years Ago (1845) and The Flower
of the Forest (1849) kept the stage till the end of the century. In
the American-born William Bayle Bernard, a mind of very different
calibre turned to the trade of dramatic composition. Bernard
was a scholar and a sound critic, although those of his 114 plays
which survive in print would scarcely lead the reader to believe it.
But he relied largely upon his own invention, and had a purer
standard of prose than his contemporaries, a neat wit and some
notion of characterisation. His domestic drama, Marie Ducange
(1837) and his ‘fireside story,' The Round of Wrong (1846), are
among the best of his pieces. He composed also a romantic
drama, The Doge of Venice (1867), and made an adaptation of
the story of Rip van Winkle (1832). The Passing Cloud (1850), a
drama in verse and in something that is neither verse nor prose,
at least shows some independence of aim. Joseph Stirling Coyne,
an industrious adapter from the French (of which he was reputed
to know less than he knew about the tastes of the London audiences)
and Charles William Shirley Brooks, who, in date, belongs to the
last half of the century, but, in spirit to the first half, also deserve
mention among the authors of popular dramas.
The writer who gave to melodrama its distinctive formula, and
set it upon a path of development which, in time, was to draw it
far apart from drama of serious interest, was Dionysius Lardner
Bourcicault, better known as Dion Boucicault. This prolific
author of plays was a master of dramatic construction. His plots
were seldom of his own invention; the incidents never. He
borrowed from near and far, and his special skill lay in weaving
multifarious incidents together into a swiftly-moving and exciting
plot, and in writing dialogue that is nearly always fresh and racy.
His characters are never human beings, but always representatives
of some one quality. That, however, does not prevent him from
filling his dramas with sentiment, not grossly exaggerated, which
may appeal to a mixed audience as recognisably human. Before him,
there had been no dramatic author so cunning in the discernment
of what elements are desired in a popular play, and in the mixing
of the ingredients. Before the works of Sardou were introduced to
English audiences, the influence of Boucicault's very different compo-
sitions had become almost as tyrannous as the dramatic construction
of Sardou was to prove itself; and, to Boucicault's influence, largely,
must be attributed a conception of the necessities of dramatic form


## p. 267 (#283) ############################################

viii]
Dion Boucicault
267
which was destined to hamper the efforts of later dramatists and to
cause, for a while, a split between two schools of drama and dramatic
criticism. At the same time, there is more nature' in Boucicault's
drama than in that of his predecessors. This is due, in great measure,
to the humour and suggestiveness of his dialogue, which often
bears a close resemblance to natural speech; and this especially
in his famous Irish dramas, such as The Colleen Bawn, Arrah-na-
Pogue and The Shaughraun. Boucicault thus occupies a position
at the turning-point between the purely theatrical drama of the
first half of the century and the more naturalistic drama which
was to put forth a bud while he was at the height of his career as
dramatist. In some of his adaptations, such as The Corsican
Brothers and Louis XI, he belongs entirely to the footlights;
through much of his work gleams the false dawn of a coming
day. It cannot be said that there was any improvement, later in
the century, on the melodrama of Boucicault. The type remained
fixed, and subsequent examples showed merely variation in detail,
though Pettitt and other authors contrived to treat the familiar
material with vigour. The new impulse was to reach the drama
through another channel. Meanwhile, a small amount of superior
work was being produced outside the region of comedy, though in
sporadic fashion. Both Sheridan Knowles and Westland Marston
wrote dramatic pieces of merit besides their tragedies and comedies.
The next playwright to show something of their calibre was
Tom Taylor. Like his contemporaries, Taylor seldom trusted to
his own invention for his plots. He collaborated with Charles
Reade and others, and he took his stories from French drama,
from the works of Dickens and from other English novelists; but,
in Plot and Passion (1853), Still Waters Run Deep (1855), The
Ticket-of-Leave Man (1863) and other plays, he proved himself
both a capable playwright, from the theatrical point of view, and
a fairly keen observer of human passions. His construction is
solid and careful; and he wrote, for the most part, without
affectation or extravagance; so, though much of his dialogue
seems stilted to the modern reader, it is not without some
resemblance to nature; while his Arkwright's Wife (1873) is a
domestic drama almost naturalistic' in language, achievement and
spirit, though sensational in incident. Taylor's best work lies in
his series of historical dramas: The Fool's Revenge (1869), which
was founded upon Hugo's Le Roi s'amuse; 'Twist Axe and
Crown (1870), founded upon a German play; Jeanne Darc
(1871); Lady Clancarty (1874); and Anne Boleyn (1875). His
!


## p. 268 (#284) ############################################

268
[ch.
Nineteenth-Century Drama
treatment of history is fairly respectful; his language, whether
in prose or verse, is more direct and forcible than that of some
of his successors in this field; and Taylor fills in his historical
outlines with warmth and movement. With Taylor, rather than
with Boucicault, still less with Webster, should be classed Watts
Phillips—and that in spite of such plays as Lost in London or
The Woman in Mauve. The best examples of his work, such as
Camilla's Husband (1862), though leaning to the sensational side
and ingeniously constructed according to the ideals of the contem-
porary theatre, have some flavour in them of human nature, which,
added to the comparative simplicity of their dialogue, entitle
Phillips to consideration. The Dead Heart (1859), which, possibly,
owed something to A Tale of Two Cities, is Phillips's most famous
play, because of its spectacular qualities; but, as dramatic art, it
is not fairly representative of his ability. In the field of historical
drama, Taylor's eminence was shared by William Gorman Wills.
For Wills, historical truth had no charms. His caricature of
Oliver Cromwell in Charles I (1872) must strike anyone who has
seen or read that play not only as ridiculous, but as a sacrifice of
dramatic for theatrical effect; and, to judge from contemporary
criticism, his treatment of John Knox in the unpublished Marie
Stuart (1874) was no better. As a deviser of theatrical scenes and
situations, Wills had power. His taste was thoroughly common-
place, his language trivial or extravagant.
But he could fit
eminent actors with telling parts, and was useful as librettist to
the scene-painter and stage-manager.
Thus, drama grew up to take the place of tragedy. For the
most part, it was melodrama : at first, violent and coarse; later,
somewhat refined, and crystallised into a definite form. The
stage grew more insistent in its demands, and less suitable either
to poetical or to naturalistic drama. Character was sacrificed
to situation, and art to artifice. With the exception of certain
respectable historical plays, and a moderate amount of domestic
drama contributed by Taylor (with or without Charles Reade),
Marston and Phillips, little survives in print that is likely to tempt
anyone to read it except for the purposes of historical study.
The comedy of the period, for the most part, is as remote from
dramatic art and from nature as is the drama. During the first
half of the century, comedy, as distinct from farce, is represented
only by Sheridan Knowles, Douglas Jerrold, Marston, Tom Taylor
and Boucicault. Practically, the only attempt to carry on the
tradition of English high comedy was a work of Boucicault's


## p. 269 (#285) ############################################

VIII]
Douglas Jerrold
269
youth, London Assurance (1841). On the modern stage, this play is
classed among old comedies’; and it has some affinity, as a whole,
with the work of the elder Colman, while portions are obviously
due to Goldsmith and Sheridan. But the coarsening of the types
and forcing of the situations show how far from his models Bouci-
cault's work fell. The comedy of Sheridan Knowles is more
original in type ; but his plots are more confusing than even
Congreve's. Indeed, the plot of The Hunchback (1832), a pom-
pous and heavy play, has never yet been satisfactorily explained.
The Beggar's Daughter of Bethnal Green (1828) looks back to
Elizabethan domestic comedy, with which Knowles was probably
not acquainted. Its story is simpler than those of his other
comedies, and it is written with freshness and skill in dramatic
expression. Douglas Jerrold relies much upon extravagance of
'humour. ' The characters in his comedies are less human beings
than personifications of this or that peculiarity-family pride,
valetudinarianism, or what not; and the misunderstandings and
complications which go to make up his plots are nearly always
flimsy. But he handles his materials with ease, and, now and
then, makes his 'humours' very amusing-Dr Petgoose, for
instance, the domineering doctor in The Catspaw (1850); Miss
Tucker, the spitefully humble companion to the heroine in Time
Works Wonders (1845); best of all, perhaps, the true-blue Briton,
Mr Pallmall, in a clever and amusing comedy, The Prisoner
of War (1842) Pallmall
quarrelled with some French dragoons, because he would insist, that the best
cocoa-nuts grew on Primrose-hill, and that birds of Paradise flew about
St James's.
In defence, he pleads that his motive was patriotism :
They abused the British climate, and I championed my native air. As
a sailor isn't it your duty to die for your country? . . . As a civilian, it is mine
to lie for her. Courage isn't confined to fighting. No, no—whenever a
Frenchman throws me down a lie-for the honour of England, I always
trump it.
Marston was not at his best in comedy. His most successful
attempt was The Favourite of Fortune (1866), which, doubtless,
was amusing when acted, but is pale in the reading. The character
of Mrs Lorrington, the rich and vulgar widow, demands expression
by a comic actress. It is little more than an outline, waiting to
be filled in. A match-making mamma, a young man of fortune,
who hides a Byronic heart and a noble nature under a disguise
of phlegm, are more clearly imagined and expressed; but the


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270
Nineteenth-Century Drama [CH.
play, as a whole, is lifeless. The comedy of the time was,
in fact, dependent upon the stage and the actor. In order to
compete with more popular forms of drama, it was obliged to
coarsen its lines, and to avoid all subtlety of character and
development. The political and social history of the period was
not such as to produce the atmosphere in which fine comedy
grows freely. The rich and leisured classes became the butts,
rather than the models, of a swiftly developing democracy; in the
drama of the time, serious and humorous alike, they are nearly
always exhibited in opposition to honest poverty. And the
predominance of the actor helped to make broad and simple
characterisation and theatrical effect more valued than truth
to life or fineness of understanding and expression.