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A Book of the Play by Dutton Cook

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Edwin seems, indeed, to have been an actor of some genius,
notwithstanding his "extravasations of whim," and an habitual
intemperance, which probably hastened the close of his professional
career--for the man was a shameless sot. "I have often seen him,"
writes Boaden, "brought to the stage-door, senseless and motionless,
lying at the bottom of a coach." Yet, if he could but be made to
assume his stage-clothes, and pushed towards the lamps, he would rub
his eyes for a moment, and then consciousness and extraordinary humour
returned to him together, and his acting suffered in no way from the
excesses which had overwhelmed him. Eccentricity was his forte, and it
was usually found necessary to have characters expressly written for
him; but there can be no doubt that he was very highly esteemed by the
playgoers of his time, who viewed his loss to the stage as quite
irreparable.

But of the comedians it may be said, that they not only "gag"
themselves, but they are the cause of "gagging" in others. Their
interpolations are regarded as heirlooms in the Thespian family. It is
the comic actor's constant plea, when charged with adding to some
famous part, that he has only been true to the traditions of previous
performers. One of the most notable instances of established gag is
the burlesque sermon introduced by Mawworm, in the last scene of "The
Hypocrite." This was originated by Mathews, who first undertook the
part at the Lyceum in 1809, and who designed a caricature of an
extravagant preacher of the Whitfield school, known as Daddy Berridge,
whose strange discourses at the Tabernacle in the Tottenham Court Road
had grievously afflicted the actor in his youth. Mawworm's sermon met
with extraordinary success; on some occasions it was even encored, and
the comedy has never since been presented without this supreme effort
of gag. Liston borrowed the address from Mathews, and gained for it so
great an amount of fame, that the real contriver of the interpolation
had reason to complain of being deprived of such credit as was due to
him in the matter. The sermon is certainly irresistibly comical, and a
fair outgrowth of the character of Mawworm; at the same time it must
be observed that Mawworm is himself an excrescence upon the comedy,
having no existence in Cibber's "Non-Juror," upon which "The
Hypocrite" is founded, or in "Tartuffe," from whence Cibber derived
the subject of his play.

In the same way the additions made by the actors to certain of
Sheridan's comedies--such as Moses's redundant iterations of "I'll
take my oath of that!" in "The School for Scandal," and Acres's
misquotation of Sir Lucius's handwriting: "To prevent the trouble that
might arise from our both undressing the same lady," in "The Rivals,"
are gags of such long standing, that they may date almost from the
first production of those works. Sheridan himself supervised the
rehearsals, and took great pains to perfect the representation; but,
with other dramatists, he probably found himself much at the mercy of
the players. He even withheld publication of "The School for Scandal,"
in order to prevent inadequate performance of the comedy; but this
precaution was attended with the worst results. The stage long
suffered from the variety of defective copies of the work that
obtained circulation. The late Mr. John Bernard, the actor, in his
amusing "Retrospections of the Stage," has confessed that, tempted by
an addition of ten shillings a-week to his salary, he undertook to
compile, in a week, an edition of "The School for Scandal" for the
Exeter Theatre, upon the express understanding that the manuscript
should be destroyed at the end of the season. Bernard had three parts
in his possession, for upon various occasions he had appeared as Sir
Peter, as Charles, and as Sir Benjamin. Two members of the Exeter
company were acquainted with the speeches of Old Rowley, Lady Teazle,
and Mrs. Candour, while actors at a distance, upon his request, sent
him by post the parts of Joseph and Sir Oliver. With these materials,
assisted by his general knowledge of the play, obtained from his
having appeared many times in authentic versions of it, the compiler
prepared a fictitious and piratical edition of "The School for
Scandal," which fully served the purpose of the manager, and drew good
houses for the remainder of the season.

Altogether, while few writers have done so much for the stage as
Sheridan, few have met with less reverent treatment at the hands of
the actors. "The Critic" has long been known in the theatre as a
"gag-piece;" that is, a play which the performers consider themselves
entitled to treat with the most merciless licence. In this respect
"The Critic" has followed the fate of an earlier work to which it owes
much of its origin--"The Rehearsal," by the Duke of Buckingham. It is
curious how completely Sheridan's own satire has escaped its due
application. "This is always the way at the theatre," says Puff; "give
these fellows a good thing and they never know when to have done with
it." "The Critic" is not very often played nowadays; but every
occasion of its revival is disfigured by the freedoms and buffoonery
of its representatives. Modern costume is usually worn by Mr. Puff and
his friends; and the anachronism has its excuse, perhaps, in the fact
that the satire of the dramatist is as sound and relevant now as it
was in the last century. And some modification of the original text
might be reasonably permitted. For instance, the reference by name to
the long-since departed actors, King, Dodd, and Palmer, and the once
famous scene-painter, Mr. De Loutherbourg, must necessarily now escape
the comprehension of a general audience. But the idiotic
interpolations, and the gross tomfoolery the actors occasionally
permit themselves in the later scenes of the play, should not be
tolerated by the audience upon any plea or pretext whatever.

One kind of gag is attributable to failure of memory or deficiency of
study on the part of the player. "I haven't got my words; I must gag
it," is a confession not unfrequently to be overheard in the theatre.
Incledon, the singer, who had been in early life a sailor before the
mast, in the royal navy, was notorious for his frequent loss of memory
upon the stage. In his time the word "vamp" seems to have prevailed as
the synonym of gag. A contemporary critic writes of him: "He could
never vamp, to use a theatrical technical which implies the
substitution of your own words and ideas when the author's are
forgotten. Vamping requires some tact, if not talent; and Incledon's
former occupation had imparted to his manners that genuine salt-water
simplicity to which the artifices of acting were insurmountable
difficulties." Incledon had, however, a never-failing resource when
difficulty of this kind occurred to him, and loss of memory, and
therefore of speech, interrupted his performances. He forthwith
commenced a verse of one of his most popular ballads! The amazement of
his fellow-actors at this proceeding was, on its first adoption, very
great indeed. "The truth is, I forgot my part, sir," Incledon frankly
explained to the perplexed manager, "and I could not catch the cue. I
assure you, sir, that my agitation was so great, that I was compelled
to introduce a verse of 'Black-eyed Susan,' in order to gain time and
recover myself." Long afterwards, when the occupants of the green-room
could hear Incledon's exquisite voice upon the stage, they were wont
to ask each other, laughingly: "Is he singing his music, or is he
merely recollecting his words?"

That excellent comedian, the late Drinkwater Meadows, used to relate a
curious gagging experience of his early life as a strolling player. It
was at Warwick, during the race week. He was to play Henry Moreland,
in "The Heir-at-Law," a part he had never previously performed, and of
which, indeed, he knew little or nothing. There was no rehearsal, the
company was "on pleasure bound," and desired to attend the races with
the rest of Warwickshire. No book of the play was obtainable. A study
of the prompt-book had been promised; but the prompter was not to be
found; he was probably at the races, and his book with him. The
representative of Henry Moreland could only consult with the actor who
was to play Steadfast--for upon Steadfast's co-operation Moreland's
scenes chiefly depend. "Don't bother about it," said Steadfast. "Never
mind the book. I'll come down early to the house, and as we're not
wanted till the third act we can easily go over our scenes quietly
together before we go on. We shall be all right, never fear. It's a
race-night; the house will be full and noisy. Little of the play will
be heard, and we need not be over and above particular as to the syls"
(syllables).

But Steadfast came down to the theatre very late, instead of early,
and troubled with a thickness of speech and an unsteadiness of gait
that closely resembled the symptoms of intoxication. "Sober!" he said,
in reply to some insinuation of his comrade, "I'm sober as a judge.
I've been running to get here in time, and that's agitated me. I
shall be all right when I'm on. Take care of yourself, and don't fret
about me."

The curtain was up, and they had to face the foot-lights. Moreland
waited for Steadfast to begin. Steadfast was gazing vacantly about
him, silent save for irrepressible hiccups. The audience grew
impatient, hisses became audible, and an apple or two was hurled upon
the stage. Moreland, who had gathered something of the subject of the
scene, found it absolutely necessary to say something, and began to
gag:

"Well, Steadfast" (_aside to him_, "Stand still, can't you?"), "here
we are in England, nay, more, in London, its metropolis, where
industry flourishes and idleness is punished." (A pause for thought
and reply; with little result.) "Proud London, what wealth!" (Another
pause, and a hiccup from Steadfast.) "What constant bustle, what
activity in thy streets!" (No remark could be extracted from
Steadfast. It was necessary to proceed.) "And now, Steadfast, my
inestimable friend, that I may find my father and my Caroline well and
happy, is the dearest, the sole aspiration of my heart!" Steadfast
stared and staggered, then suddenly exclaiming gutturally, "Amen!"
reeled from the stage, quickly followed by Henry Moreland, amid the
derision and hisses of the spectators. "Treat you cruelly!" said
Steadfast, incoherently in the wings. "Nothing of the sort. You quite
confounded me with your correctness. You told me you didn't know your
words, and I'll be hanged if you were not 'letter perfect.' It went
off capitally, my dear boy, so now let's go over our next scene." But
the manager deemed it advisable to omit from the play all further
reference to Moreland and Steadfast.

To performers who gag either wantonly, or by reason of imperfect
recollection of their parts, few things are more distressing than a
knowledge that someone among the audience is in possession of a book
of the play to be represented. Even the conscientious and
thoroughly-prepared actor is apt to be disconcerted when he hears the
flutter of leaves being turned over in the theatre, and discovers that
his speeches are being followed, line for line and word for word, by
critics armed with the author's text. On such occasions his memory is
much inclined to play him false, and a sudden nervousness will often
mar his best efforts. But, to the gagging player, a sense that his
sins and failings are in this way liable to strict note and discovery,
is grievously depressing. Some years ago a strolling company visited
Andover, and courageously undertook to represent an admired comedy,
with which they could boast but the very faintest acquaintance.
Scarcely an actor, indeed, knew a syllable of his part. It was agreed
that gag must be the order of the night, and that the performance must
be "got through" anyhow. But the manager, eyeing and counting his
house through the usual peephole in the curtain, perceived a gentleman
in the boxes holding in his hands a printed copy of the play. The
alarm of the company became extreme. A panic afflicted them, and their
powers of gag were paralysed. They refused to confront the
foot-lights. The audience grew impatient; the fiddlers were weary of
repeating their tunes. Still the curtain did not rise. At length the
manager presented himself with a doleful apologetic face. "Owing to an
unfortunate accident," he said, "the company had left behind them the
prompt-book of the play. The performance they had announced could not,
therefore, be presented; unless," and here the speech was especially
pointed to the gentleman in the boxes, "anyone among the audience, by
a happy chance, happened to have brought to the theatre a copy of the
comedy." The gentleman rose and said his book was much at the service
of the manager, and it was accordingly handed to him. The players
forthwith recovered their spirits; exposure of their deficiencies was
no longer possible; and the performance passed off to the satisfaction
of all concerned.

It has been suggested that gag is leniently, and even favourably
considered by audiences; and it should be added that dramatists often
connive at the interpolations of the theatre. For popular actors
characters are prepared in outline, as it were, with full room for the
embellishments to be added in representation. "Only tell me the
situations; never mind about the 'cackle,'" an established comedian
will observe to his author: "I'll 'fill it out,'" or "I shall be able
to 'jerk it in,' and make something of the part." It is to be feared,
indeed, that gag has secured a hold upon the stage, such as neither
time nor teaching can loosen. More than a century ago, in the
epilogue as supplied to Murphy's comedy, Garrick wrote:

Ye actors who act what our writers have writ,
Pray stick to your parts and spare your own wit;
For when with your own you unbridle your tongue,
I'll hold ten to one you are "all in the wrong!"

But this, with other cautioning of like effect, has availed but
little. The really popular actor gains a height above the reach of
censure. He has secured a verdict that is scarcely to be impeached or
influenced by exceptional criticism. Still it may be worth while to
urge upon him the importance of moderation, not so much for his own
art's sake--on that head over-indulgence may have made him
obdurate--but in regard to his playfellows of inferior standing. He is
their exemplar; his sins are their excuses; and the licence of one
thus vitiates the general system of representation.

The French stage is far more hedged round with restrictions than is
our own, and cultivates histrionic art with more scrupulous care. In
its better works gag is not tolerated, although free range is accorded
it in productions of the opera bouffe and vaudeville class. Here the
wildest liberty prevails, and the gagging actor is recognised as
exercising his privileges and his wit within lawful bounds. The
Parisian theatres may, indeed, be divided into the establishments
wherein gag is applauded, and those wherein it is abominated. By way
of a concluding note upon the subject, let an authentic story of
successful French gag be briefly narrated.

Potier, the famous comedian, was playing the leading part in a certain
vaudeville, and was required, in the course of the performance, to sit
at the table of a cheap cafe and consume a bottle of beer. The beer
was brought him by a _figurant_, or mute performer, in the character
of a waiter, charged with the simple duty of drawing the cork from the
bottle and filling the glass of the customer. Potier was struck with
the man's neat performance of his task, and especially with a curious
comical gravity which distinguished his manner, and often bestowed
upon the humble actor an encouraging smile or a nod of approval. The
man at length urged a request that he might, as he poured out the
beer, be permitted to say a few words. Potier sanctioned the gag. It
moved the laughter of the audience. Potier gagged in reply: and there
was more laughter. During later representations the waiter was allowed
further speeches, relieved by the additional gag of Potier, until at
the end of a week it was found that an entirely new scene had been
added to the vaudeville, and eventually the conversation between
Potier and the _garcon_--not a line of which had been invented or
contemplated by the dramatist--became the chief attraction of the
piece. It was the triumph of gag. The _figurant_, from this modest and
accidental beginning of his career as an actor, speedily rose to be
famous. He was afterwards known to the world as ARNAL, one of the most
admirable of Parisian _farceurs_.




CHAPTER XXXII.

BALLETS AND BALLET-DANCERS.


Dr. Barten Holyday, in the notes to his translation of "Juvenal,"
published at Oxford in 1673, describes the Roman plays as being
followed by an exodium "of the nature of a _jig_ after a play, the
more cheerfully to dismiss the spectators"--the word "jig" signifying
in the doctor's time something almost of a _ballet divertissement_,
with an infusion of rhyming songs or speeches delivered by the clown
of the theatre to the accompaniment of pipe and tabor. Jigs of this
kind commonly terminated the performances upon the Elizabethan stage,
which otherwise consisted of one dramatic piece only. Mr. Payne
Collier holds that these supplemental exhibitions probably originated
with, and certainly depended mainly upon, the actors who supported the
characters of fools and clowns in the regular dramatic representations.
He points out that Tarleton, one of Queen Elizabeth's players,
much famed for his comicality, obtained great success by his
efforts in jigs, and that, upon the showing of the tract entitled
Tarleton's "News from Purgatory," jigs usually lasted for an hour. The
precise nature of these entertainments cannot now be ascertained; for
although each jig had what may be called its _libretto_, which was
duly printed and published when the popularity of the work so
required, yet no specimen of any such performance is now extant. The
Stationers' registers, however, contain entries in 1595 of two jigs
described respectively as Phillips's "Jig of the Slippers," and
Kempe's "Jig of the Kitchen-stuff Woman." Other jigs referred to by
contemporary writers are "The Jig of the Ship" and "The Jig of
Garlick." It may be assumed, therefore, that each jig possessed
special characteristics in the nature of distinct plot and characters;
but in what respects "The Jig of the Kitchen-stuff Woman," let us say,
differed from "The Jig of Garlick," or what was the precise story
either was supposed to narrate, we must now be content to leave to the
conjecture of the curious.

Probably dancing, as a dramatic entertainment, first came upon our
stage in the form of these jigs. Of course, as a means of recreation
among all ranks of people, it had thriven since a very remote period.
Into the question of the state of dancing prior to the invention of
any method of denoting by signs or characters the length or duration
of sounds, we need scarcely enter. Doubtless music was felt and
appreciated by a sort of instinct long before it was understood
scientifically, or duly measured out and written down upon a
recognised system. If dancing is to be viewed as dependent upon its
correspondence with mensurable music, it must date simply from the
invention of the Cantus Mensurabilis, attributed by some writers to
Franco, the scholastic of Liege, who flourished in the eleventh
century; and by others to Johannes de Muris, doctor of Sorbonne and a
native of England, at the beginning of the fourteenth century.

There were dances of the court and dances of the people. The Morris
dance, which seems to have been an invention of the Moors, had firmly
established itself in England in the sixteenth century. The country
dance was even of earlier date. The old Roundel or Roundelay has been
described by ancient authorities as an air appropriate to dancing, and
would indicate little more than a circular dance with the hands
joined. Among the nobler and statelier dances in vogue at the court of
the Tudors, were the Pavan (from _pavo_, a peacock), with the Galliard
(a lighter measure, which was probably to the Pavan what in later
years the Gavotte was to the Minuet), the Passamezzo, the Courant, and
the Saraband. Sir John Elyot, who published in 1531 his book called
"The Governor," wherein he avers that dancing by persons of both sexes
is a mystical representation of matrimony, mentions other dances, such
as Bargenettes and Turgyons, concerning which no explanation can be
offered, except perhaps that the former may be derived from Berger,
and be something of a shepherd's dance. There was also an esteemed
dance called the Braule, in which several persons joining hands danced
together in a ring, which was no doubt identical with the Branle or
Brantle mentioned by Mr. Pepys in his description of a grand ball at
Whitehall: "By-and-by comes the king and queen, the duke and duchess,
and all the great ones; and after seating themselves the king takes
out the Duchess of York, and the Duke the Duchess of Buckingham; the
Duke of Monmouth my Lady Castlemaine; and so other lords other ladies;
and they danced the Brantle. After that the king led a lady a single
Coranto; and then the rest of the lords, one after another, other
ladies. Very noble it was and great pleasure to see. Then to country
dances; the king leading the first, which he called for.... The manner
was, when the king dances, all the ladies in the room, and the queen
herself, stand up; and indeed he dances rarely and much better than
the Duke of York."

Dancing, however, had degenerated in King Charles's time. In his
"Table Talk," Selden writes of the matter in very quaint terms: "The
court of England is much altered. At a solemn dancing, first you had
the grave measures, then the Corantoes and the Galliards, and this
kept with ceremony; and at length to Trenchmore and the cushion-dance;
then all the company dances, lord and groom, lady and kitchen-maid, no
distinction. So in our court in Queen Elizabeth's time gravity and
state were kept up. In King James's time things were pretty well. But
in King Charles's time there has been nothing but Trenchmore and the
cushion-dance, _omnium gatherum_, tolly polly, hoite cum toite." The
Trenchmore was a lively dance, mention of which may be found in "The
Pilgrim" and "Island Princess" of Beaumont and Fletcher, and in "The
Rehearsal" of the Duke of Buckingham. The last editor of Selden, it
may be noted, by altering the word to "Frenchmore," has considerably
obscured the author's meaning.

In former times men of the gravest profession did not disdain to
dance. Even the judges, in compliance with ancient custom, long
continued to dance annually on Candlemas Day in the hall of Serjeants'
Inn, Chancery Lane. Lincoln's Inn, too, had its revels--four in each
year--with a master duly elected of the society to direct the
pastimes. Nor were these "exercises of dancing," as Dugdale calls
them, merely tolerated; they were held to be "very necessary, and much
conducing to the making of gentlemen more fit for their books at other
times." Indeed, it appears that, by an order made in James I.'s time,
the junior bar was severely dealt with for declining to dance: "the
under barristers were by decimation put out of commons for example's
sake, because the whole bar offended by not dancing on Candlemas Day
preceding, according to the ancient order of this society, when the
judges were present; with this, that if the like fault were committed
afterwards they should be fined or disbarred."

Gradually jigs disappeared from the stage. Even in 1632, when Shirley
wrote his comedy of "Changes, or Love in a Maze," jigs had been
discontinued at Salisbury Court Theatre, and probably at other private
playhouses. Shirley complains that, instead of a jig at the end, a
dance in the middle of the piece was now required by the spectators.
Possibly that dance of all the _dramatis personae_ with which so many
of the old comedies conclude is due to the earlier fashion of
terminating theatrical performances by a jig.

With Sir William Davenant as patentee and manager of the Duke's
Theatre, stage dancing and singing acquired a more distinguished
position among theatrical entertainments. It was Davenant's object, by
submitting attractions of this nature to the public, to check the
superiority enjoyed by Killigrew, the patentee of the Theatre Royal,
and the comedians privileged to call themselves "His Majesty's
Servants." Davenant, indeed, first brought upon the English stage what
were then called "dramatic operas," but what we should now rather
designate "spectacles," including Dryden's version of "The Tempest,"
the "Psyche" of Shadwell, and the "Circe" of Charles Davenant, "all
set off," as Cibber writes of them, "with the most expensive
decorations of scenes and habits, with the best voices and dancers."
Sir John Hawkins describes these productions as "musical dramas," or
"tragedies with interludes set to music."

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