John McDonnell has graciously shared with readers of the Victorian Web his website with the electronic text, including scanned images, of the anonymous London Characters and the Humourous Side of London Life. With Upwards of 70 Illustrations apparently by a "Mr. Jones," which the London firm Stanley Rivers & Co. published in 1871. Brackets indicate explanatory material, such as interpretations of contemporary slang, by Mr. McDonnell. — George P. Landow.]
mong the multifarious duties which fall to the lot of the Thumbnail Sketcher (who may be said to have sold himself for life to a printer's devil [apprentice in a printing office]) that of visiting theatres on first nights for the purpose of supplying disinterested notices of new pieces for a certain critical journal, is, perhaps, the least remunerative. He does not confine the practice of speaking his mind, such as it is, to the readers of these Thumbnail Sketches: he is always in the habit of indulging in that luxury whenever he is called upon to express a printed opinion on matters of public interest.
But the consequences of recording an
unbiassed opinion on any theatrical question are of a
peculiarly unpleasant description, if that unbiassed
opinion happens to be of an unfavourable nature, for they
subject the audacious critic to the undisguised sneers of
ponderdous tragedians, dismal comic men, and self-satisfied
managers---in addition to the necessity of paying for his
stall whenever he has occasion to visit a theatre for
critical purposes. The sneers amuse him, but he is free to
confess that he is annoyed at having to pay for his admission;
and the consequence is that whenever he takes
his place in a theatre he does go under a sense of injury
which might possibly have the effect of unintentionally
warping his critical faculties, such as they are, were it
not that to speak the bare truth of a theatrical performance,
is to avenge one's six shillings to the uttermost
farthing. But although the Thumbnail Sketcher feels
that he meets a manager on even terms, he can with
difficulty compose himself to regard an audience with
feelings of anything like equanimity. Their behaviour
during the progress of the representation of a new piece,
on its first night, irritates him beyond endurance. In
the first place, there is almost always a party who hiss,
without any reference to the merits or demerits of the
piece. It is a somewhat curious fact that in England
hisses are seldom heard save on "first nights;" and
of the fifty or sixty new pieces that have been recently
produced at West-end London theatres, hardly a dozen
have altogether escaped hissing on the occasion of
their first performance. "Caste" was not hissed, neither
was the "Doge of Venice," nor the Haymarket "Romeo
and Juliet," nor "A Wife Well Won;" but these pieces
form the principal exceptions to the rule. But it is not
so much of indiscriminate hissing, as of indiscriminate
applause, that the Thumbnail Sketcher complains. A
clap-trap sentiment, a burlesque "break-down," a
music-hall parody, a comic man coming down a chimney, an
indelicate joke, a black eye, a red nose, a pair of trousers
with a patch behind, a live baby, a real cab, a smash of
crockery, a pun in a "comedy," an allusion, however
clumsy, to any topic of the day, a piece of costermonger's
slang, or any strongly-marked tailoring eccentricity, is
quite sure of a raturous reception whenever it is presented
to an audience. Then I take objection to people
who crack nuts---to people who go out between all the
acts, without reference to the inconvenience they
occasion to their neighbours. I take objection to
people who know the plot, and tell it, aloud, to their
friends---to people who don't know the plot but guess at the denouement---to people who borrow playbills
and opera-glasses---to donkeys who talk of actresses by
their Christian names---and, above all, to those unmitigated
nuisances who explain all the jokes to friends of
slow understanding. The Thumbnail Sketcher, being
about to treat of people he meets in theatres, thinks it is
only fair to admit this prepossession against them, in
order that it may be distinctly understood that as he
cannot pledge himself to look at them in an unprejudiced
light, everything that he may have to say of them may
be taken cum grano [with a grain (of salt)].
There was a time when to go to a theatre was, in the Thumbnail Sketcher's mind, the very highest enjoyment to which a mortal could legitimately aspire in this world. There was nothing in any way comparable to it, and all other forms of amusement resolved themselves into mere vexatious vanities when placed in juxtaposition with the exquisite embodiment of human happiness. At that period he was accustomed to regard the signs of weariness exhibited during the last farce, by relations who had him in charge, as a piece of affection of the most transparent description, assumed for the purpose of demonstrating that their matured tastes could have nothing in common with those of a little boy of six or seven years of age, and further to overwhelm him with a sense of the martyrdom which they were undergoing on his account. But a long course of enforced theatre-going has modified his views on this point; and it is some years since he awoke to the fact that the last farce is often a trying thing to sit out---to say nothing of the five-act legitimate comedy, or the three-act domestic drama that frequently precedes it. He has learned that human happiness is finite, and that even farces pall after the fifteenth time of seeing them.
The Mephistophelian gentleman on the next page is a
disappointed dramatist, and an appointed critic to a very
small, but very thundering local journal published somewhere
in the wilds of South London. He has a very poor
opinion of the modern drama, and is very severe indeed
upon every piece that is produced generally, for no better
reason than that the author is still alive. He has formed
certain canons of dramatic faith, derived from a careful
study of his own rejected dramas, and he is in the habit
of applying them to all new productions, and if they
stand the test (which they usually do not) they are
qualified to take their place as a portion of the dramatic
literature of the country. He has a withering contempt
for all adapters, and particularly for Mr. Tom Taylor,
who is, and has been for years, the butt of obscure and
illiterate critics. He is in the habit of alluding to himself
in the third person as "the Press;" and when you
hear him say that "the Press don't like this," or "the
Press won't stand that," and that you have only to wait
and see what "the Press" have to say about it to-morrow,
you are to understand that he is referring simply to
his own opinion, which, no doubt, from a characteristic
modesty and a laudable desire to avoid anything like an
appearance of egotism, he veils under that convenient
generality.
The lady who follows is intended as a representative of
that extensive element in most dress-circles [first galleries] which finds
its way into theatres by the means of free admissions.
It is a curious feature in theatrical management---and
a feature which doesn't seem to exist in any other
form of commercial enterprise---that if you can't
get people to pay for admission, you must admit them
for nothing. Nobody ever heard of a butcher scattering
steaks broadcast among the multitude because his
customers fall off, neither is there any instance on record of
a banker volunteering to oblige penniless strangers with
an agreeable balance. Railway companies do not send
free passes for general distribution to eel-pie shops, nor
does a baker place his friends on his free-list. But it is
a standing rule at most theatres that their managers
must get people to pay to come in, if possible, but at all
events they must get people to come in. A poorly-filled
house acts not only as a discouragement to the actors,
but it depresses the audience, and sends them away with
evil accounts of the unpopularity of the entertainment.
The people who find their way into a theatre under the
"admit two to dress-circle" system, hail, usually, from
the suburbs, but not infrequently from the lodging-letting
districts about Russell Square. They usually walk to the
theatres, and, consequently, represent an important source
of income to the stout shabby ladies who preside over the
bonnet and cloak departments. They may often be
recognized by the persistency with which they devour
acidulated drops [sour candies] during the performance.
This heavy gentleman with the tawny beard is one of
that numerous class of profitable playgoers who do not
venture to exercise any critical faculties of their own, but
go about endorsing popular opinions beacuse they are
popular, without any reference to their abstract title to
popularity. A gentleman of this class will yawn through
"King John," and come away delighted: he will sleep
through "Mazeppa," and come away enraptured. Nothing
pleases him more than a burlesque "break-down,"
except, perhaps, the "Hunchback," and if there is one
thing that he prefers to the "Iron Chest" it is a ballet.
He is delighted in a sleepy general way with everything
that is applauded. Applause is his test of excellence,
and if a piece doesn't go well, it is "Awful bosh!" He
is enraptured with the Parisian stage (although his
knowledge of the language is fractional), because in
Paris all pieces go well; and the sight of a compact mass
of enthusiasts in the centre of a Parisian pit is sufficient
to justify him in any amount of solemn eulogy. His
presence is much courted by managers, for if he never
applauds, he never hisses, and always pays.
The highly-respectable old gentleman on the right is an
unwavering patron of the old school of dramatic
literature. A five-act piece, even by a modern author, will
always attract him, and every Shakespearian revival is
sure of his countenance and support. He reads his
Shakespeare as he reads his Bible---with a solemn
reverential belief in its infallibility. He won't hear of "new
readings," and even looks upon any departure from the
traditional "business" as a dangerous innovation,
smacking of dramatic heresy and literary schism. The
"Honeymoon" commands him---so do the works of the
elder and younger Morton; so does "She Stoops to
Conquer." Sheridan is always sure of him, and Lord Lytton
may generally reckon on his support. His taste in
dramatic matters is irreproachable, as far as it goes, but
it is based upon tradition, and he pays little attention
to pieces that are not old enough to have become
traditional.
The young gentleman on the next page is one of those
intolerable nuisances, who, having a reputation for
waggery within a select circle of admirers, find, in the
production of every piece in which pathetic interest is an
important feature, an opportunity for displaying a
knowledge of the hollowness of the whole thing, and the
general absurdity of allowing oneself to be led away by
mere stage clap-trap. He will remind you, as Juliet is
weeping over her dead Romeo, that a petition for a
divorce, filed by the Romeo against the Juliet, and in
which the comfortable Friar is included as co-respondent,
is high up in the Judge Ordinary's list. He will sometimes
affect to be bathed in tears, when there is no excuse
for any demonstration of the kind, and he will interrupt
a scene of deep pathos with a "Ha! ha!" audible all
over the house. He is very angry at anything in the
shape of a vigorous denunciation, or a pathetic appeal of
any kind; and he indulges in a musing exclamational
commentary of "Oh! I say, you know!" "Come,
come." "So ho! gently there!" "St-st-st," and
"really, I say---by Jove!" which meets with much
admiration from his believing friends, and general
indignation from others in his immediate neighbourhood who
have not the advantage of his acquaintance.
Last modified 24 November 2012