Our Shakspearian Society.—In the course of a discussion, Mrs. —— observed, that she was positive that Shakspeare was a butcher by trade, because an old uncle of hers had bought lambs' tails from Shakspeare.
Wife. "I'm going into town now, dear. Shall I book places for Caste or Much ado about Nothing?" Husband. "Oh, please yourself, my dear; but I should say we've enough 'Ado about Nothing' at home!"
Brown (rehearsing his part as the "Vicomte de Cherisac"). "Yas, Marie! I've fondly loved ye. (Sobs dramatically.) 'Tis well—but no mat-tar-r!" Housemaid (to cook, outside the door). "Lauks, 'Liz'beth, ain't master a givin' it to missis!"
First Player ("Juvenile Lead"). Play Scene—Hamlet. (Deferentially). "What do you think of it?" Second Player ("First Heavy"). "How precious well them 'supers' are painted, ain't they?"
Stern Hostess (who is giving private theatricals). "You are very late, Mr. Fitz Smythe. They've begun long ago!" Languid Person of Importance (who abominates that particular form of entertainment). "What! You don't mean to say they're at it still!"
Lady (to big drum). "Pray, my good man, don't make that horrid noise! I can't hear myself speak!"
Leading Lady (to Stage Manager). Who's that man in the ulster coat talking to the call-boy?
Stage Manager. Don't know, I'm sure. Perhaps a gas-fitter. Now, as I was saying, Miss Frisette, I think that all your alterations in the dialogue are quite up to date, but we must give Splitter a chance for his cackle. Ah! here he is.
Splitter. Well, old boy, I've worked in that scene to rights, but the boss thinks that some allusions to Turkey served up with German sausage would fetch 'em. So you might chuck it in for me.
Stage Man. Of course I will. Capital idea. (Marks prompt-book.) I wonder who that chap is in the wing?
Splitter. Haven't the faintest idea. Looks like an undertaker. Hallo, Wobbler, brought your new song?
Wobbler. Yes, it ought to go. And I've a gross or so of capital wheezes.
Splitter. No poaching, old chap.
Wobbler. Of course not. I'll not let them off when you're on. Morning, Miss Skid. Perfect, I suppose?
Miss Skid (brightly). I'm always "perfect." But—(seriously)—I had to cut all the idiotic stuff in my part, and get Peter Quip of "The Kangaroo" to put in something up to date. Here's the boss!
Stage Man. Places, ladies and gentlemen.
Mr. Footlyte. Before we begin the rehearsal, I would point out that I have completely rewritten the second act, and——
The Stranger in the Ulster. But, sir, I beg of you to remember——
Mr. F. Who is that man?
Everybody. We don't know!
Mr. F. (advancing). Who are you, sir, who dare to trespass on my premises?
The S. in the U. Don't you remember me, Mr. Footlyte?
Mr. F. No, sir, I do not. What's your business?
The S. in the U. (nervously). I am the author of the piece.
Everybody. Ha! ha! ha!
Mr. F. Then you're not wanted here. (To stage manager.) Jenkins, clear the stage.
Meant as a Compliment.—Shakspeare Smith (to Miss Lagushe, after production of his new comedy). And what did you think of my little piece the other night?
Miss Lagushe. I didn't pay the least attention to the play. All I thought was, what a cruel ordeal the performance must be for you!
Mrs. Grundy, good woman, scarce knew what to think
About the relation 'twixt drama and drink.
Well, give hall—and theatre—good wholesome diet,
And all who attend will be sober and quiet!
Younger Son of Ducal House. "Mother, allow me to introduce to you—my wife."
His Wife (late of the Frivolity Theatre). "How do, Duchess? I'm the latest thing in mésalliances!"
Of the Essence of Drama.—It is not strictly necessary that you should know much about this, but as a rough indication it may be stated that whenever two or more persons stand (or sit) upon a platform and talk, and other persons, whether from motives of ennui, or charity, or malice, or for copyright purposes only, go and listen to them, the law says it is a stage-play. It does not follow that anybody else will.
Of the Divers Sorts of Dramatic Writing.—Owing to the competition nowadays of the variety entertainment you will do well to treat these as practically amalgamated. For example, start Act I. with an entirely farcical and impossible marriage, consequent upon a mistake similar to that of "Mr. Pickwick" about the exact locality of his room; drop into poetry and pathos in Act II. (waltz-music "off" throughout will show that it is poetry and pathos); introduce for the first time in Act III. a melodramatic villain, who endeavours to elope with the heroine (already married, as above, and preternaturally conscious of it), and wind-up Act IV. with a skirt dance and a general display of high spirits, with which the audience, seeing that the conclusion is at hand, will probably sympathise. Another mixture, very popular with serious people, may be manufactured by raising the curtain to a hymn tune upon a number of obviously early Christians, and, after thus edifying your audience, cheering them up again with glimpses of attractive young ladies dressed (to a moderate extent) as pagans, and continually in fits of laughter. The performance of this kind of composition is usually accompanied by earthquakes, thunder and lightning; but the stage carpenter will attend to these.
Of Humour.—Much may be accomplished in this line by giving your characters names that are easily punned upon. Do not forget, however, that even higher flights of wit than you can attain by this means will be surpassed by the simple expedient of withdrawing a chair from behind a gentleman about to sit down upon it. And this only requires a stage-direction.
Of Dialogue.—Speeches of more than half a page, though useful for clearing up obscurities, are generally deficient in the qualities of repartee. After exclaiming, "Oh, I am slain!" or words to that effect, no character should be given a soliloquy taking more than five minutes in recitation.
Of the Censorship.—This need not be feared unless you are unduly serious. Lady Godiva, for instance, will be all right for a ball where the dress is left to the fancy, but you must not envelop her in problems.
Gushing Young Woman (to famous actor). "Oh, do you know, Mr. Starleigh, I'm simply mad to go on the stage!" Famous Actor. "Yes, I should think you would be, my dear young lady!"
Mundungus deems the drama is declining,
Yet fain would swell the crowded playwright ranks.
The secret of his pessimist opining,
Is—all his dramas are declined—with thanks!
'Tis the voice of the prompter,
I hear him quite plain;
He has prompted me twice,
Let him prompt me again.
A suggestion to the refreshment departments of our theatres, much simpler than the old method of struggling by, and would prevent the men going out between the acts.
First night of musical comedy. The authors called before the curtain.
Jones (arriving in the middle of the overture to "Tristan und Isolde"—quite audibly). "Well, thank goodness we're in plenty of time!"
Quid pro Quo.—Actor-Manager (to Dramatic Author). What I want is a one-part piece.
Dramatic Author. That's very easily arranged. You be number one, and "part" to me.
Araminta. Why, dearest, do you call those witticisms, which the comedians deliver with such ready humour, "gags"?
Corydon (the playwright). Because they always stifle the author.
Sangazur, Senior. "Look here, what's all this nonsense I hear about your wanting to marry an actress?"
Sangazur, Junior. "It's quite true, sir. But—er—you can have no conception how very poorly she acts!"
Box-Office Keeper at the Imperial Music-Hall (to Farmer Murphy, who is in town for the Islington Horse Show). "Box or two stalls, sir?" Murphy. "What the dev'l d'ye mane? D'ye take me an' the missus for a pair o' proize 'osses? Oi'll have two sates in the dhress circle, and let 'em be as dhressy as possible, moind!"
"Nervous? oh dear no! I only acted once in private theatricals, Mr. Jones, and, although it was an important part, I had nothing to say!" "Really? What was the part?" "Can't you guess?"
Jennings and Bellamy, the famous dramatists, planning one of those thrilling plays of plot and passion, in which (as everybody knows) Jennings provides the inimitable broad humour, and Bellamy the love-scenes and the tragic deaths. (Bellamy is the shorter of the two.)
Because it is so much pleasanter to read one's work than to hear it on the stage.
Because publishers are far more amiable to deal with than actor-managers.
Because "behind the scenes" is such a disappointing place—except in novels.
Because why waste three weeks on writing a play, when it takes only three years to compose a novel?
Because critics who send articles to magazines inviting one to contribute to the stage, have no right to dictate to us.
Because a fairly successful novel means five hundred pounds, and a fairly successful play yields as many thousands—why be influenced by mercenary motives?
Because all novelists hire their pens in advance for years, and have no time left for outside labour.
And last, and (perhaps) not least, Why don't I send in a play? Because I have tried to write one, and find I can't quite manage it!
Mamma (who has taken Miss Effie, as a great treat, to a morning performance). "Hush, dear! You mustn't talk!"
Miss Effie (with clear sense of injustice, and pointing to the stage). "But, mummy,—they're talking!"
Q. When are the affairs of a theatre likely to assume a somewhat fishy aspect? A. When there's a sole lessee.
He. "Are we alone?" Voice from the Gallery. "No, guv'nor; but you will be to-morrow night."
Our Bandmaster (to purveyor of refreshments). "We must hev beef sangwitches, marm! Them ham ones make the men's lips that greasy, they can't blow!"
Wife (given to literature and the drama). "George, what is the meaning of the expression, 'Go to!' you meet with so often in Shakspeare and the old dramatists?"
Husband (not a reading man). "'Don't know, I'm sure, dear, unless—— Well,—p'raps he was going to say—— but thought it wouldn't sound proper!"
Wife of his Bosom (just home from the play). "And then that darling Walter Lisson, looking like a Greek god, drew his stiletto, and delivered, oh! such an exquisite soliloquy over her tomb—all in blank verse—like heavenly music on the organ!"
He. "Why, he's got a voice like a raven, and can no more deliver blank verse than he can fly."
She. "Ah, well—it was very beautiful, all the same—all about love and death, you know!"
He. "Who wrote the piece, then?"
She. "Who wrote the piece? Oh—er—well—his name's sure to be on the bill somewhere—at least I suppose it is!"
From our General Theatrical Fund.—Why would a good-natured dramatic critic be a valuable specimen in an anatomical museum? Because he takes to pieces easily.
To say "boo" to a goose requires some doing.
In theatres 'tis the goose who does the "booing,"
And though a man may do the best he can, sir,
Anser will hiss, though hissing may not answer!
"A Poor player,
Who struts and frets his hour on the stage,
And then—goes in society."
Rupert the Reckless (Tompkins, a distinguished amateur from town). "Now, I call it a beastly shame, Jenkins; you haven't ordered that brute of yours off my togs, and you know I can't go back to the inn like this."
First Actress. "Oh, my dear, I'm feeling so chippy! I think I shall send down a doctor's certificate to-night, to say I can't act." Second Ditto. "Surely a certificate isn't necessary, dear?"
Tenor (at amateur concert). "It's my turn next, and I'm so nervous I should like to run away. Would you mind accompanying me, Miss Brown?"
Mrs. Smith. "This is a very unpleasant piece, don't you think? There's certainly a great deal to be done yet in the way of elevating the stage." Mr. Jones (who hasn't been able to get a glimpse of the stage all the afternoon). "Well—er—it would come to much the same thing if you ladies were to lower your hats!"
The Countess. "Will this cruel war never end? Day after day I watch and wait, straining every nerve to catch the sound of the trumpet that will tell me of my warrior's return. But, hark! what is that I hear?"
[Stage direction.—"Trumpet faintly heard in distance." But we hadn't rehearsed that, and didn't explain the situation quite clearly to the local cornet-player who helped us on the night.
Master Jackey having seen a "professor" of posturing, has a private performance of his own in the nursery.
Billy Wapshot. "I say, look here, you know! They've cast me for the part of Sir Guy Earliswoodde, an awful ass that everyone keeps laughing at! How the dickens am I to act such a beastly part as that?—and how am I to dress for it, I should like to know?" Brown (stage manager). "My dear fellow, dress just as you are!—and as for acting, be as natural as you possibly can! It will be an immense success!"
"What, Eleanor? You know Sir Lionel Wildrake, the handsomest, wittiest, most dangerous man in town! He of whom it is said that no woman has ever been known to resist him yet!" "The same, Lilian! But hush! He comes——"
[Enter Colonel Sir Lionel Wildrake."And pray, Duke, what possible objection can you have to my being a suitor for the hand of your daughter Gwendolen? I—a—think I may flatter myself that, as a leading gentleman at the Parthenon Theatre, my social position is at least on a par with your Grace's!"
"I admit that to be the case just at present—but the social position of an actor may suffer a reaction, and a day may come when even the leading gentleman at the Parthenon may sink to the level of a Bishop, let us say, and be no longer quite a suitable match for a daughter of the—a—House of Beaumanoir!"
Dramatic Author. "What the deuce do you mean by pitching into my piece in this brutal manner? It's shameful!" Dramatic Critic. "Pitching into it? No, no, no, dear old man—you'll see how pleased I was, if you'll only read between the lines!"
The curtain has just fallen on the first act of the "Pirates of the Pacific."
Author. "What is the audience shouting for?"
Manager. "They're calling for the author."
Author. "Then hadn't I better appear?"
Manager. "I guess not. They've got their revolvers in their hands!"
First Counter Tenor. "Scritchy, I think your wife's waiting for you at our entrance."
Second Counter Tenor. "Oh, then, let's go out at the bass door!"
First Quidnunc (in an ecstasy). "I've just been writing to the 'New Shakspeare Society.' 'Believe I've made a discovery—that Horatio was Hamlet's father!" Second Quidnunc (enchanted). "You don't say so!" First Quidnunc. "My dear sir, doesn't Hamlet, when he handles Yorick's skull, address Horatio, 'And smelt so, pa'? I think that's conclusive!!"
Very Unsophisticated Old Lady (from the extremely remote country). "Dear me! He's a very different-looking person from what I had always imagined!"
Pretty Jemima (who is always so considerate). "Tom, dear, don't you think you had better take off your hat, on account of the poor people behind, you know?"
Who gets, by hook or crook, from me
Admittance free, though well knows he
That myriads turned away will be?
The Deadhead.
Who, while he for his programme pays
The smallest silver coin, inveighs
Against such fraud with eyes ablaze?
The Deadhead.
Who to his neighbour spins harangues,
On how he views with grievous pangs
The dust that on our hangings hangs?
The Deadhead.
Who, in a voice which rings afar,
Declares, while standing at the bar,
Our drinks most deleterious are?
The Deadhead.
Who, aye withholds the claps and cheers
That others give? Who jeers and sneers
At all he sees and all he hears?
The Deadhead.
Who loudly, as the drama's plot
Unfolds, declares the tale a lot
Of balderdash and tommy-rot?
Who dubs the actors boorish hinds?
Who fault with all the scenery finds?
Who with disgust his molars grinds?
The Deadhead.
Who spreads dissatisfaction wide
'Mongst those who else with all they spied
Had been extremely satisfied?
The Deadhead.
Who runs us down for many a day,
And keeps no end of folks away
That else would for admittance pay?
The Deadhead.
Who keeps his reputation still,
For recompensing good with ill
With more than pandemonium's skill?
The Deadhead.
Who makes the bankrupt's doleful doom
In all its blackness o'er me loom?
Who'll bring my grey head to the tomb?
The Deadhead.
Mrs. Harris. "Yes, William, I've thought a deal about it, and I find I'm nothing but your doll and dickey-bird, and so I'm going!"
Seedy Provincial Actor. "Young man, I hear that you propose to essay the rôle of the melancholy Dane. What induced you to do it?" Prosperous London ditto. "Oh, I don't know. They egged me on to it." Seedy Provincial Actor. "H'm. They egged me OFF!"