REALISM BEHIND THE FOOTLIGHTS.

"TRAGEDY is no more!" sighs the old playgoer. “Oh, for the palmy days of the divine Sarah Siddons and the inimitable John Kemble. Then there were Titans in the land, giants of thew and sinew!"

May it not be that the divine Siddons mouthed and strutted, that the inimitable John was prosy and stilted; that instead of holding up a mirror to nature, the celebrated pair made use of a conventional and artificial series of passions invented by their predecessors? We know that the audiences of the past were not hung on such delicate wires as are those of the present. They could crush and fight at a pit door for seven hours, then stand through a five-act tragedy with unruffled serenity and content. Persons of eminence sat on the stage impeding the performance, while beaux and belles gabbled to such an extent, "making a nauseous appearance in a side-box," as Cibber put it, that actors were sometimes compelled to shout in order to be heard above the din. been but little genuine illusion about that stage. ran up and down the conventional gamut of her rounded elbow, and bounced to and fro in her great hoop, and beaux paused in their cackle to cry, "Stap my vitals, but the slut is fine!" returning presently to the more natural and engrossing business of gallantry. The accomplished Foote said to Henderson, who sought an engagement at the little Haymarket, "Stick to the sock, young gentleman. Tragedy is theatrical bombast, the very fungus of the theatre."

There could have Madame Pritchard false passions with

It seems to me fair to conclude that the "Palmy Days" are those in which we live. The stage was never so highly considered as now, never had so much done for it, or could reckon in its ranks so many ladies and gentlemen of birth, refinement and education. A few years since, the celebrated company of the Comedie Française gave us a taste of their quality, and we fell on our knees and poured forth unselfish worship. But though our admiration was exaggerated, our instincts were leading us aright. The Comedie Française could then boast of a first-class company; it has fallen to pieces since. The Saxe Meiningen company, which recently visited us, was a first-rate troupe. We recognised the fact like wise people, and learned what we could from the strangers, and to-day may dare assert that British dramatic art is fit to hold its own. Neither French nor Germans can point to "stars" of the first mag

nitude to genius such as that which burned in the soul of Rachel or Edmund Kean. No more can we, but our standard of excellence has been raised conspicuously.

Last month Salvini-probably the completest tragedian living - delighted full houses at Covent Garden by measuring his strength with the loftiest creations of Shakspeare. He appeared, among other characters, as Othello and Lear; and those who were privileged to look on him were cowed and thrilled. The being of the spectator was stirred, his blood was made to rush more swiftly,-and yet, as he returned to foggy earth and the muddy stones of workaday London, he could not but feel that his satisfaction was mingled with alloy; that his pleasure had not been so compact as that which he was wont to enjoy at the Lyceum, or Haymarket, or St. James's. Why was this? Was Mr. Irving's voice as silvery as Salvini's, or Mr. Bancroft's, or Mr. Kendal's, or Mr. Hare's? No. But plays are not improved by being reduced to the condition of monologues. Shakspeare is fuller of character and colour than any other. British dramatist; his works demand a variety of artists of superior excellence. Salvini stood forth alone. Cordelia gurgled, Iago looked like a burglar, Desdemona was so angular and imbecile that everyone was glad when she was smothered. Their appearance too was against them. Cordelia was attired in a green fillet, a blue gown of an unfortunate shade, some pink drapery, and white shoes. What young lady could be fascinating in so tasteless a garb? Goneril and Regan, one could not help thinking, were revenging themselves very properly upon an unkind parent, who was in the habit of dressing himself in sumptuous raiment, and the rest of his family as scarecrows.

I have heard the old playgoer argue that if the ear and brain are satisfied, the eye may be left neglected. In Shakspeare's day, people are fond of telling us, his company acted in the courtyard of the Bull at Bishopsgate, and chalked up "This is a wood " upon the wall. So much the worse, then, for audience and performers. They felt no sense of incompleteness, very possibly, simply because they knew no better. Would Thespis have acted in a gipsy caravan if he could have possessed a house like Drury Lane? Science, mechanics, artistic culture are constantly on the advance. It is evident that when we are accustomed to have every nerve strained, every new-fangled invention applied, for the attainment (as near as our perpetually progressive knowledge will allow) of realistic perfection for the conjuring up before us, that is, of things as they really are we resent the absence of effort, and are conscious of a feeling of chill in an empty and unreal world.

The "old playgoer," conscious in his heart of hearts that the ensemble in which Mrs. Siddons strutted as central figure was in an absurd condition of embryo, is wont roundly to state that the feasting

of the eye is a delusion. Surely, when we stand with Rosalind in the Forest of Arden, we realize the situation better if we are shaded by real trees than if Orlando is scratching her name upon a "profile" which ostentatiously declares itself to be paint and canvas? If he is at work upon a real tree his action is complete and natural, and calls for no special effort of the mind to enable us to take our place in the forest by his side. But supposing you are aggressively reminded that his tree trunk is flat instead of round and that the garish paint has been rubbed off by the fingers of the sceneshifter, where is your sense then of the reality of the situation? Does it not immediately occur to you that Rosalind's maid is standing with a cloak at the wing to save her mistress from the draught, and that the fair one is rattling through her speeches because she is going to an oyster supper? Far be it from me to argue that Stage-Realism may not be overdone. Once it was underdone through ignorance. At present furniture is frequently pushed into undue prominence, partly, perhaps, to conceal the weakness of a play by gratifying the passion for bric-a-brac. This of course is as grave a fault as the other, in the opposite extreme. But we must not forget that playgoers of different calibre demand separate classes of amusement, which need not clash. If we are invited to view a spectacle let it be clearly understood beforehand that the proposed entertainment is not directed to the intellect. One of the elaborate ballets in numberless acts, of which the Italians are so fond, is addressed chiefly to the eye since the action is done in pantomime, and in its way it is amusing enough; but because such a class of entertainment is considered suitable to a fatigued condition of the mind, there is no reason for entering a protest against its lowness by exposing the more intellectual drama to the view in rags and nudity. I think we may look upon the slight tendency to overdress plays nowadays as due in some measure to the continued flow of the reaction against the era, happily gone by, of underdress.

I may be permitted to attempt a brief sketch of the rise and progress of Realism upon the London stage. The late Mr. Planché, Somerset Herald, seems to have been the first to set the wheel rolling steadily. In conjunction with Madame Vestris he attired his personages in something akin to the period in which they were supposed to move. Mr. Phelps, in his modest suburban playhouse at Sadler's Wells, did much in aid of the movement. A highly educated and cultivated man, he spared no pains or trouble or expense in order to place his beloved Shakspeare before the public in a manner which he deemed befitting. He it was who started the fashion of employing professional artists to design dresses and plan accessories. Previous to this time scenery had been painted by accomplished men-Loutherbourg, David Roberts, Clarkson Stan

field--but these excellent painters had always treated their scenery as individual pictures. They presented flat oblong surfaces which stood by themselves as works of art, irrespective of the general ensemble or the groups in front of the canvas. Phelps moved a step forward. He produced the Tempest with a real storm-ship, men, waves, and scudding clouds. This was followed by many other revivals, each as perfect as he could make it. Charles Kean at the Princess's followed on the same track, but he went too far and choked his productions with heraldic archeology; everybody was talking of the astonishing change of seasons in the Tempest, of the second Richard's lists at Coventry. The actors were nowhere; the composition awry. It leaked out that in his instance "Shakspeare spelt Ruin" and the movement received a check.

After awhile a new prophet arose whose original talent wrought a lasting change on the face of affairs. Hitherto Realism had taken the form of reproductions from Froissart and Monstrelet; of a more or less timid approach to the picturesque realisation of the garb and habits of classicism and the Moyen age. Mr. Robertson founded a school of dramatic entertainment which at first sight threatened disaster to the stage. The "old Playgoer" moaned, and his Jeremiads appeared to be justified. At the little Prince of Wales's Miss Marie Wilton produced a comedy called Society. There was an earthquake in dramatic circles. What was the meaning of this bathos? Ordinary gentlemen and ladies strolled within Grosvenor Square railings, and talked platitudes. Bohemianism stole from its upper floor in Maiden Lane and flaunted before the astonished Upper Ten-long pipes, dirty tablecloth, sanded floor, and all. This was the realism of to-day in all its minute and trivial detail. “We don't go to the theatre to see what is to be seen in any drawing-room" sneered the old Playgoer.

To many the "Teacup and Saucer Drama," as it was in derision styled, seemed the acme of puerility. The old playgoer was as wrong as the victims of prejudice usually are. Some years previously, Mr. Ruskin had, in his own artistic world, introduced a somewhat similar change, which worked with an equally good result. Among the painters the school of pre-Raphaelites came into being, which numbered among its ranks such names as John Everett Millais and Holman Hunt. The pre-Raphaelites were to walk (so preached Ruskin) before they could run. They were earnestly and religiously to portray the leaf before aiming at immortalising the entire oak. The admirable result of the stern apprenticeship is continually being brought before us now in the ripe and technically wonderful productions of Millais' indefatigable brush. Mr. Robertson did for the modern stage what Mr. Ruskin did for pictorial art. His plays were so slight and small (I except

Caste, which is in its way a masterpiece), of such gossamer-tissue, that a breath of unreality would have blown the fabric to the winds. Without the tricks of fashion, the cigarette-cases, the display of the latest costumes, his plays would have fallen to pieces out of sheer feebleness and want of stamina. They were subjects for the Consumption Hospital that were to be kept from flitting into space by doses of quinine and broth. Without the perfection of ensemble, without an elaboration of tiniest detail and a "balance of relative values," if I may for once employ a painter's jargon-without the hand of each actor being always on the other's pulse-the entire edifice was calculated to dissolve into thin vapour. Necessity taught Miss Wilton, Mr. Bancroft, Mr. Hare, and other members of the then company, that the performers in a play of modern life should behave exactly as well-bred ladies and gentlemen ordinarily behave, and that their surroundings must be exactly those of the boudoir or smoking-room.

I have traced Realism through its uncertain noviciate under guidance of dead Monstrelet and Froissart down to its appearance in trousers and polished boots. Love cannot claim the monopoly of a crooked course. Realism, like many another hopeful bantling, went astray. There arose a species of drama, equally pernicious to actor and to public, but for awhile not to the treasury; for by a law of nature, which causes us now and then almost to doubt the supremacy of good, that which is intrinsically bad often pays the best. Mr. Boucicault produced a play-though play, indeed, it can scarcely be called-in which a real cab and a real fire-engine performed the two principal parts. Nothing could be more mean than the whole affair, but it paid. Everyone ran to see the real hansom driven by a real licensed driver, drawn by a real cab-horse with real broken knees. That which might any day be seen in the street became a marvel, because it moved behind the floats. Time passed. The genuine lover of the stage shook hands with the "old playgoer," and young tears and senile drops mingled in a troubled stream. The drama was really moribund; no broth or quinine could keep it above ground much longer. Time passed. Mr. Boucicault stared at the monster of his hands much as Frankenstein may have stared at his. Nemesis was near his elbow. When people do really bad work which pays, they are certain to be punished by the birth of an army of pupils who caricature all that is bad in their master. Mr. Boucicault's Streets of London was an ignoble production, as he was himself prepared frankly to admit; but there arose a series of mushroom dramaturges who out-Boucicaulted Boucicault. They inaugurated the "Drama of the Dials." A silly succession of irrelevant scenes were strung together that were supposed to be illustrative of London life. It was "Tom and Jerry Redivivus," without the fun