traits than any other; and for these it is my business chiefly to search. If I were required to state under what circumstances the cold and selfish, as well as the tasteless and semi-barbarous, character of the generality of the English people, is exhibited on the largest scale, and may be studied in its most striking point of view, I should reply-at their public theatres. Let me describe to you the character and behaviour of an English audience, from the time it reaches the theatre till it quits it; at least if your patience can bear with it so long, which mine very seldom can, I assure you. The doors of the English theatres are opened for the admission of the audience, only half an hour before the performance begins. We will suppose the occasion to be one on which there is a more than ordinary degree of attraction. In this case a large crowd will be collected at the several outer doors, long before they are opened:-I say the several doors, for you are to understand that there are separate entrances and staircases for the company going to every different part of the theatre;-not as with us, where one entrance and one staircase serves for all, because all are quiet and well-behaved. Knowing, as you do, the nature of the crowd collected before the doors of a French theatre, and that each individual takes his place in the line, or queue, according to the time he arrives at the spot, and never thinks of quitting that place by forcing himself into a better to which he is not en-· titled, you will not be able to form the remotest conception of how the process is managed here; where, in cases of this kind, might is regarded as the criterion of right, and where, when a point of self-interest is in question, the relative claims which arise from sex are either entirely unknown, or entirely disregarded-which still is worse. Fancy, then, not a queue but a solid mass of persons of both sexes, to the number of five hundred or a thousand, collected before a single door five or six feet wide-fancy that door opened at a given signal, but without a moment's warning, and every individual of that number pressing with all his force to that one narrow point of entrance :-fancy this, and then conceive, if you can, the scene which ensues. But you cannot. It is a scene at once more characteristic and more disgraceful than any thing of the kind I have ever witnessed: the barbarous howlings and shoutings of the men, and the frightful screamings and faintings of the women, render it absolutely terrific, and such as could be looked for only in a nation of savages, and would certainly not be tolerated for any length of time even there. But here, from the halfreasoning, half-savage propensities of the great mass of the people, it is not only tolerated, but defended, as the most eligible mode of effecting the desired purpose. If you speak to an Englishman on this subject, he asks you how you would propose to manage the matter better; and when, in reply, you refer him to the mode adopted at our theatres (the success of which depends on the observance of a point of justice and good-manners,) he says, Oh, that would never do for us!" And he is quite right-it never would! 66 You are to understand that there is no one appointed to regulate or direct any thing that is going forward during this scene of riot and outrage; for though persons belonging to the police are usually on the spot, they seem to be placed there only for the purpose of in creasing the danger and confusion, by telling you, from time to time, to "take care of your pockets!" This is, to be sure, an agreeable way of mending the matter. When you are jammed into close contact with a thief, and cannot possibly either escape or protect yourself from him, you are desired to be careful that he does not rob you! In fact, these police agents know and recognise every one of those in the crowd (and there are generally several on these occasions) who come there expressly, and as far as regards the police agents, avowedly for the purpose of robbing; yet these officers of justice never think of removing them, or of interfering with their objects, except by informing you, when it is too late, that such persons are present-for they never do even this till the crowd becomes so dense that all but those at the outward extremities of it cannot escape from it if they would. I have never heard an Englishman even attempt to account for or defend this strange mode of furthering the ends of justice on the part of his rulers; so I shall do so for them, by saying that I suppose it is to be regarded as one of the results of a Briton's boasted liberty. The argument probably is this: that a professed pickpocket possesses as unquestionable a right to go to the theatre for his amusement as a man of any other profession; and that to stop him on his way thither would be to infringe on his birthright as a free-born Englishman. If, indeed, in the course of your joint progress thither, you are lucky enough to detect him in exercising his profession to your cost, you may, if you can, hand him over to the police agent who is in attendance, and who will in that case readily take charge of the culprit, and he will inevitably be punished. But otherwise, I suppose you are bound, though you know him to be a robber, to follow the police agent's example, and treat him as a gentleman :-for so the said agent evidently does, and this at the expense, in two different ways, of all the honest people present. For though he warns you of the necessity of guarding your property against somebody, and though he knows to a certainty who that somebody is, yet he never gives you the slightest hint by which you can fix your suspicions on any particular person; so that every individual in the crowd, except the pickpocket himself, is obliged, in his own defence, to suspect every other with whom he may come in contact. The truth is, that the police agents here are paid, not to prevent crime, but only to detect it when committed; and if you were to apply to them for an explanation of their conduct on these occasions, they would, I dare say, be candid enough to give you this, as the only true and intelligible one. Let us now accompany the audience to the interior of the theatre, previously mentioning that the price of admission to the whole of the boxes is the same-about nine francs; that to the pit about half; and that to the two galleries about fifty sous, and twenty-five. In the pit (that part which answers to our parterre) we shall find a tolerably welldressed and reputable looking company, of both sexes; forming what usually appears to me to be the most respectable, as well as the most enlightened and attentive, part of an English audience. It consists of persons from the middle classes of society, who really pay their money to see the performance; which can rarely be said of the persons frequenting any other part of the house. In fact, this is the only portion of the audience which can in any degree be compared to the audience of a French theatre, either in regard to their object in attending, or the decency and decorum of their behaviour while there. The females in the pit are always dressed in a walking costume. In that part which is called the dress boxes, which consists of a circle of boxes immediately above the pit, are usually seated a motley group of persons whose appearance it would be as difficult to describe as it would be to ascertain to what particular classes of society they severally belong. But it may be safely stated, that they usually comprise a mixture of all classes, except the very highest and the very lowest; for, unless the places in a box have been previously retained by any particular party, no one can be refused admittance into them who has, by whatever means, gained admittance into the box part of the theatre at all: and I believe it may be considered, that on ordinary nights at least one-third of the persons in the boxes have gained admission gratuitously, by means of what are called free orders, which are not, as with us, chiefly confined to particular persons, but are allowed to be given to their friends by the performers and others connected with the theatre, in order that this part of the house may not have that wretched appearance of emptiness; which, from its enormous size, it inevitably would, nine nights out of ten but for this plan. From this preposterous arrangement, as to the right of admission to the boxes generally, it results, that a lady may, and in fact actually does, sometimes find herself seated in the same box side by side with the person who fitted on her shoes in the morning, or dressed her hair an hour ago. There can be no doubt that it is this ridiculously defective arrangement as to the right of admission to particular places which has induced persons of family and fashion almost entirely to withdraw their patronage from the national theatres. In fact, they scarcely ever attend them now, except on very particular occasions; and even then, if they do not possess a private box (of which there are very few,) they always contrive to go in a party sufficient to fill a box of themselves: for, if they did not adopt this plan, at the end of the first act of the play any one outside the box might demand the vacant places. But on ordinary nights the company in the dress boxes may certainly be regarded as the least respectable part of the audience, with the exception of the mere canaille who occupy what are called the galleries, the price of admission to all the boxes being alike, and there being no exclusion on account of dress, except that the females must be without bonnets. Proceeding upwards, we reach the three other tiers of boxes, which are occupied by a class of persons, nearly similar in appearance to those in the pit, but generally speaking not so respectable in station. Immediately above and in contact with these are the galleries; which are frequented by almost the lowest classes of the people. We have now the whole of the audience before us. Let us take a slight glance at the behaviour of each several portion of it, and then leave them to themselves; for I have never yet formed a part of one of them, and cannot do so now even in imagination, without being heartily sick and tired of my company, as I dare say you are already with the description of them. Each of the two national theatres in London is much larger than any theatre in Paris; and from some defect in the construction of them, it is impossible to hear a word that passes on the stage at any greater distance from it than about the sixth or seventh row of the pit, unless there is an absolute silence and attention preserved in every part of the house. Now, as this silence and attention are never preserved in any part of the house, it necessarily follows, that every thing which takes place on the stage is absolutely unintelligible to almost every person present, except the few who are situated in the front of the pit. I declare to you, that this is an unexaggerated statement of my own experience on the subject. I have repeatedly been to every part of the house, and found that, except when I was in the front of the pit, I could as little judge of the performance, and be as little amused and interested by it, as if I had been anywhere else. I have said that the persons in the pit actually come to see and hear the performance; and consequently they pay a tolerable degree of attention to it: but nothing like the same degree that is paid by the same class of persons in a French theatre. As to the other parts of the audience, the performance is on ordinary occasions quite a secondary matter with them: they go to the theatre to shew themselves, or to meet with their friends, or to escape from their enemy-ennui, or because they have nothing else to do, or because if they do not go they cannot have to say tomorrow that they were at the theatre last night; (and if they had not this to say, what could they say?)-or they go for any reason you choose to imagine, except to see and attend to what is going forward on the stage. To expect an Englishman to go out of and forget himself, in order to attend to what "does not concern him," as he would say, would be a most unreasonable and unphilosophical expectation indeed, and one which he would consider as a mere impertinence. Do you suppose he has nothing better to do than listen to Romeo making love? or watch Macbeth scaling the dangerous heights of ambition? or be tossed hither and thither with Othello on the tumbling ocean of passion? or accompany Hamlet, as he pierces the depths of our mortal life?I can assure you that he is able to find much more attractive and edifying subjects of cogitation. He is thinking of the money he made yesterday by the turn of stocks, and that which he shall make tomorrow by a projected speculation; or of the new house he is building on Clapham Common, and how he shall furnish this or that room in it; or of the new horse he bought to-day, and means to sport in the Park tomorrow; or of fifty other things equally instructive and interesting, all of which he can think of at the theatre as well as any where else, otherwise he would not go there. From all this it results that the audience part of an English theatre presents a scene which in a Paris theatre would be considered as one of actual disturbance and confusion; and during the continuance of which, or of a tenth part of it, the performance would not be permitted to proceed for a moment. During the first act of the play (which is frequently the most interesting, and always that which is most necessary to be attended to in order to the proper understanding and appreciating of what follows) you are amused with the perpetual opening and shutting of box doors and the audible calls of " Mrs. so and so's places;" for if you have taken a place, it is quite mauvais ton to arrive at it before the performance begins. This, added to the perpetual whispering, and frequently the audible talking, which surrounds you in all the boxes; and the mingled sounds of singing, shouting, laughing, whistling, cat-calling, quarrelling and fighting, that proceed at intervals from the two galleries, the frequenters of which wisely and naturally enough take the best means they can of amusing themselves, since their distance from the stage precludes them from hearing, and almost from seeing, any thing that passes there;-this, I say, altogether presents a scene little to be expected in the national theatre of a polished people; but still little to be wondered at when the size of the house is considered, and when it is remembered, too, that the English are a people who cannot for any length of time go out of their individual selves, even in search of amusement; or, rather, who cannot find amusement in anything which takes them out of themselves. When I have noticed that with their want of regard to what is due to the sex, the men frequently wear their hats and great-coats in the boxes; sit in front while there are females sitting behind; rise between the acts and sit on the front of the boxes, with their backs to the audience; get up to go away in the middle of an interesting scene, and thus force the whole company in a box to rise and let them pass; and commit various other breaches of good-manners and decorum of the same kind; I have told you enough to let you know that an English theatre with all the splendour of its embellishments, the beauty of its scenery, and the grandeur of its effect as a coup-d'œil-is sadly inferior to French theatre as a place of elegant and refined amusement for a polished and intellectual people. I now willingly turn to the English actors, lamenting that they do not meet with audiences more worthy of them, or (which perhaps amounts to the same thing) that they have not moderate-sized theatres, where they could create for themselves such audiences; for, to be able to see and hear some of the best English actors, and not to yield them attention and admiration, seems to demand a degree of uncivilized insensibility which can scarcely be supposed to belong to a nation that could produce such actors. And, in fact, the general admiration and even enthusiasm which the actors I am speaking of excite, and the brilliant and just reputation they enjoy (by reflection, I suppose, from the few who really do see, hear, and appreciate them, to the many who do not,) prove that a very great share of the fault belongs to the enormous size of the theatres, and the consequent necessity, or at least the temptation, that a great portion of the audience are under (since they go there for amusement and pay so dearly for going) to do what they can to amuse themselves. D. S. F. EPIGRAM, FROM THE ITALIAN OF PANANTI. "Pentiti a un dissoluto moribondo." "Repent, my son," a friar said To the sick patient on his bed. "I saw the demon on the watch At the stairs' foot, thy soul to catch." G. M. |