The Choice Humorous Works, Ludicrous Adventures 46

The Choice Humorous Works, Ludicrous Adventures 46

The confusion caused the great Gamboogee to cease; when a servant

entered and whispered his Lordship. What the communication was we

were unable to learn, as an adjournment was immediately moved and

carried. The fact is--dinner was ready.

 

 

MORAL THEATRICALS.[49]

 

We have once or twice alluded to a scheme (forwarded to us by the

Author) for rendering theatrical entertainments strictly moral;

and, it appears to us, that no season can be better suited to its

development than the present.

 

The gentleman, to whose exertions in the behalf of virtue and

decency, the public are even now greatly indebted, and whose plan, if

carried into effect, will entitle him to the gratitude of the nation

at large, is the Rev. Mr. Plumptree, who has published a volume of

dramatic pieces illustrative of his purpose, which blend with deep

interest a purity of thought and propriety of language rarely to be

met with in the theatrical works of the day.

 

The first of the dramas is called "Royal Beneficence, or the Emperor

Alexander," and is founded on an event which occurred to his Russian

Majesty, on the banks of the Wilna, where he restored a drowning

young man by the means prescribed by the Humane Society, which means

of restoration are published with the play--evidently with the best

intentions. Mr. Plumptree offered this piece to Covent Garden and

to Drury Lane, but it was by both rejected; then Mr. Hindes, the

manager of the Norwich playhouse, had the refusal of it; but he, like

the London proprietors, objected to its appearance because a living

character was introduced.

 

Mr. Plumptree reasons very fairly upon the futility of this excuse,

and prints the detail of the Emperor's indefatigable exertions, upon

which his play is founded, together with many other interesting

documents concerning the valuable charity to which the piece is

dedicated.

 

The drama is full of interest and good feeling; and although, in the

present state of the stage, there is, perhaps, a want of bustle,

still the affecting incident at the end of the first act, where the

dead body of the hero is dragged out of the water, and stripped upon

the stage, under the immediate inspection of the Emperor, who says,--

 

"Lose no time in fruitless ceremony: this is our duty now; strip

off his clothes; wipe him dry, and rub about his heart, his

temples, wrists, and everywhere,"--

 

appears to us likely to have produced a great sensation in a British

audience.

 

We must say, that the rejection of such a piece by the London

managers reflects equally upon their taste and delicacy.

 

The next drama is called "Winter," and is founded upon the story

of Elizabeth Woodcock, who was buried in the snow for upwards of a

week, and is extremely pretty. "The Force of Conscience," a tragedy,

follows, which ends with the execution of Mr. Morris, a blacksmith,

on the new drop, during which awful ceremony he is assisted in prayer

by the Rev. Mr. Jones; the spectators make comments, and the culprit

his last dying speech, when the drop, or rather the curtain, falls,

which ends "the strange eventful history."

 

The next play is called "Mrs. Jordan and the Methodist," and is

founded upon a benevolent action (one of many) performed by that

incomparable actress. We have too much affection for her memory

to make a single comment upon Mr. Plumptree's delicate attempt to

commemorate her good qualities.

 

The next is a comedy, called "The Salutary Reproof, or the Butcher!"

from which we intend to make a few extracts, in order to give a fair

specimen of Mr. Plumptree's dramatic talent and virtuous intentions;

and we certainly do hope that one of the London theatres will afford

the town an opportunity of judging for themselves the benefits

likely to arise to their morals by such representations, without any

curtailment of their amusement.

 

The play opens with a view of a country village; a public-house--sign

the Salutation, on one side; on the other side, a baker's house and

shop, and next door a butcher's house and shop; trees and a seat

before it.

 

Enter the Rev. Mr. Shepherd--goes to the inn, and is shut out--he

tries the baker, who will not give him a lodging--whereupon he

proceeds to the butcher's. As he advances, he hears a hymn sung by

the butcher's family, accompanied on the oboe. He is shortly after

received by the butcher, and the scene changes to the inside of the

butcher's house, where, as it is described, there is "everything

remarkably neat, and even elegant in a plain way."

 

Enter Mrs. Goodman, George, and Ruth--then Goodman and the Rev. Mr.

Shepherd.

 

The following conversation occurs:--

 

GOODMAN. Mary, here is a gentleman will lodge here to-night.

Muggins is in one of his surly fits, and has denied him. Put

clean sheets on the bed, and you shall sleep with Ruth, and I

with--George!

 

MRS. G. What will the gentleman be pleased to have? Pray, be

seated, sir--take this great chair. Shall I do you a mutton chop,

sir?

 

GOODMAN. Bring the ease-and-comfort, George.

 

In a long note Mr. Plumptree elaborately describes this machine, and

benevolently observes, that no house should be without at least one

of them.

 

MR. SHEPHERD. I thank you--if it will not be giving you too much

trouble, I should prefer tea before everything--nothing refreshes

me after fatigue like tea.

 

MRS. G. By all means, sir; the fire is not out in the back-house.

Ruth, put on the kettle; it is hot; and get the tea-things.

 

GEORGE. (_Bringing the ease-and-comfort._) Here, father.

 

GOODMAN. Will you rest your legs on this, sir? we call it ease

and comfort.

 

MR. SHEPHERD. 'Tis ease and comfort, indeed. I know it by the

name of rest-and-be-thankful. I will beg, if you please, when I

go to bed, the patriarchal hospitality of water for my feet, and

that warm.

 

This conversation, which is quite refreshing from its naturalness,

continues till it takes a turn in this manner:--

 

It will be observed that Goodman is a butcher.

 

GOODMAN. It is said that our laws do not allow a butcher to serve

upon a jury in a case of life and death--supposing, from his

business, that he must have less humanity than others.

 

MR. SHEPHERD. But that, I believe, is not the case; and within my

own confined experience I have known several truly respectable

and humane butchers. Our laws themselves are sanguinary; and

they do not make the same exception to the military or naval

characters, both which professions have too much to do with the

effusion of blood.

 

* * * * *

 

GOODMAN. What do you think, sir, of the post-boy who cuts and

over-drives his horses?

 

MR. SHEPHERD. What do I think of the gentleman who sits behind

him, and permits it--nay, encourages him, and pays him extra for

distressing them, merely to bring him a few minutes sooner to the

end of his stage?

 

GOODMAN. Sir, I had rather be what I am.

 

MR. SHEPHERD. And so had I--it is a consolation to me often, in

my journeys on foot, that no beast suffers for my accommodation.

 

The vein of morality which runs through the dialogue is exquisitely

touching, and in the hands of Terry or Macready we think Goodman

might be made highly effective--Young would be excellent in the

"Rev." Mr. Shepherd, and in the latter part of the act, where

Goodman discovers in the clergyman a friend who "put up at the Wheat

Sheaf, at Blessbury, twenty-five years before," would make a decided

hit--when pushing away his ease and comfort, the Reverend Gentleman

returns thanks for having made the butcher what he finds him.

 

The conclusion of the first act is happily imagined, and highly

theatrical:--

 

MR. SHEPHERD. If you please, I will retire to rest--I heard your

evening hymn, and interrupted your prayer in the hope of joining

in it. Of whose devotions do you make use?

 

GOODMAN. Bishop Wilson's, sir--but you will be so good as to lead

for us.

 

MR. SHEPHERD. If you please--but in general I know not that you

can do better than make use of the pious bishop.

 

GOODMAN. George, bring the book.

 

MR. SHEPHERD. I will have it in my hand, if you please, but our

own peculiar circumstances require our own peculiar thanks and

petitions.

 

[_George brings the book, and gives it to Mr. S., and whilst they

are looking at him, as if waiting for his kneeling first, the

curtain drops._]

 

It is impossible not to feel such a scene deeply--its dramatic

quality and the powerful effect that such a style of representation

could not fail to have upon a thinking audience.

 

In the second act Goodman dispatches a leg of mutton to Lord

Orwell's, and puts up a prayer--Mrs. Goodman inquires if the

gentleman's shoes are cleaned, and mentions that she must go and look

at the rolls in the camp oven: subsequently to which we are presented

with a scene at his Lordship's, who desires the butcher to sit down,

and enters into conversation about "Fiorin grass," which Goodman says

will produce six ton per acre. His Lordship then recommends a work

called "The Experienced Butcher," published by Darton and Harvey,

Gracechurch Street, price 6s.--in return for which Goodman mentions

the arrival of Mr. Shepherd, and recommends him for the curacy of

Gladford, the new rector having refused to countenance him. Whereupon

Lord Orwell says to the butcher (taking his hand), "Mr. Goodman,

this, like every part of your conduct, raises you in my esteem;

depend upon my services wherever they can be useful."