THEATRE REVIEWS

4. Marmion (1891) to Dick Sheridan (1894)

Marmion from The Scotsman (9 April, 1891 - p. 5)

PRODUCTION OF “MARMION” AT THE THEATRE ROYAL, GLASGOW.

     IN the public compliments paid to Mr J. B. Howard as an actor-manager during the past few weeks special reference has been fittingly made to the attempts he has made to foster what may be called “the Scottish drama.” At the theatres with which he and his partner, Mr Wyndham, are connected the public are familiar with the revivals given from time to time of dramatised versions of the “Great Wizard’s” novels and poems, which with their beautiful Highland setting, and their more or less successful attempts to recall on the stage a bygone period of Scottish history, have been to the Scotsman, and more particularly in the summer time to the stranger within the gate, a source of much instruction and interest. In this connection it is almost needless to mention the operatic setting of “Guy Mannering,” the picturesque drama of “Rob Roy,” and the romantic play, so recently seen in Edinburgh, of “The Lady of the Lake.” Now we owe to Messrs Howard & Wyndham a stage version of that stirring tale of Flodden Field, “Marmion,” which was produced last night at the Theatre Royal, Glasgow, for the first time on any stage. The claim of “Marmion” to be a “national” drama may be questioned. Lord Marmion is an English knight, and it is with his fortunes that the drama, as the poem, mainly concerns itself. But in the production of the play Scottish hands and Scottish feeling have been predominant. The adaptation of the poem to fit it for stage representation has been made by Mr Robert Buchanan; Professor Mackenzie has written a Marmion overture and the incidental music; Mr Glover has painted the scenery; and Mr Howard, under whose direction the whole drama has taken shape, has lived so long in Scotland that in respect of his art, at least, he may be claimed as a son of the soil. We can all recall the pleasure which this well-told tale of chivalry has excited. We have sorrowed over the wrongs of the misguided and betrayed Constance Beverley; sighed over the persecution of Clare, and rejoiced in her victory; praised De Wilton for his constancy as a lover; and, despite the dark blot on Marmion’s escutcheon, admired the courage and gallant bearing of the Falcon Knight. Scott’s tale is, in fact, full of dramatic incident, but being from beginning to end a narration by the Northern Minstrel, without almost a shred of dialogue in it, the task of the adapter to fitting it for stage representation was not an easy one. In the drama, the thread of the story running through the poem is well preserved. Marmion first appears at Norham Castle, journeys under the guidance of De Wilton by Gifford to Edinburgh to have his interview with King James, and returns to his own country by Tantallon Castle. But for the sake of effect, incidents are introduced or amplified in a way which the playwright is quite justified in doing. Constance, for instance, accompanies Lord Marmion to Norham Castle in her page’s attire, and in the first and second acts is no inconsiderable figure. As she disappears from the scene in the gloomy dungeons of the Benedictine Convent, Clare appears, and thereby the continuity of the feminine element in the play is preserved. In the scene at Tantallon Castle, Marmion in the play is made to carry off Clare by force from under the roof of the Douglas; and a street scene in Edinburgh is represented in which groups of citizens discuss the prospects of the war. Mr Buchanan has cast the drama in the same metre as the poem, and where he has been able to do so he has of course used Scott’s lines. Where he has invented, he has very happily caught the spirit and rhythm of the poet’s versification, so that at many points, unless by those who know Marmion well, it is difficult to say where Scott ends and Buchanan begins.
     A crowded house last night put their emphatic seal upon the drama as a great success. It could hardly have been otherwise. Considered as a spectacle, the drama is one of the finest things that has been seen on the Scottish stage. Had it been at the Lyceum Theatre, London, it could not in that respect have been more magnificent or complete. The action is developed through a series of strong and beautiful pictures of the age of chivalry, on which the dark shadow of the Church ever and again falls with weird effect. The drama might almost be described as a spectacular procession of the first order, were it not that we have also action of a very dramatic character in progress, part of which at least took as great hold on the imagination of the audience as did the artistic tout ensemble of the stage pictures presented. A few of these may be specially noted. The opening scene, representing the ramparts of Norham Castle, was an excellent piece of work, a fair Tweed landscape stretching far beyond being finely painted, under a summer evening sky. Very impressive, too, was the banqueting hall of the castle, with its Norman roof and circular arch, and a gay scene it presented when filled with the men-at-arms and followers of Marmion and Lord Heron. Here occurs a striking interview between Marmion and De Wilton, disguised as a palmer, the ruffled tempers of all being quieted by an old English dance. In the second act Mr Glover has painted a landscape of great solemnity for the scene of the Pictish camp, where the picture of the overthrow of Marmion is seen; but this is subsequently overshadowed in interest by the scene in the Gifford Hostel, where Constance relates a fearful dream she has had, and where the sage is seized by the emissaries of the Church, who paralyse the swords of Marmion and his companions by threatening to launch on them the curse of Rome. There are two striking ecclesiastical scenes, superbly mounted, and in connection with the voyage of the Abbess from Whitby there is a series of well executed views of the coast of the North of England. In marked contrast to these scenes of brightness was the simplicity and sombre character of the convent scene, one of the most dramatic in the play, where Constance, brought before her stern judges, received her doom with defiant words. The picture of Holyrood, with its Court, was one of great splendour, but it was the only scene that appeared in the least incongruous in the play. No expense has been spared in the mounting of the drama, and to a large extent dresses, armour, weapons, and all other accessories were studied from those of the period to which the story belongs. Dr A. C. Mackenzie’s music was exceedingly harmonious and appropriate. It included settings to the ballad sung by Fitz Eustace in the hostel, “Where shall the lovers rest,” and to “Young Lochinvar,” the latter of which very spiritedly renders the feeling of the poem. The company also did the drama every justice. All the leading parts were well filled. In the role of Marmion Mr Howard gave a dignified and agreeable rendering to the part of the Falcon Knight, and was especially effective in those passages where Marmion is stirred to speak defiant words and do warlike deeds. The audience frequently signified their approval of his acting by repeated applause. In the Holyrood scene especially his appearance was very striking. Mr Wyndham played King James with great distinction; and the role of the Abbess was appropriately filled by Mrs Howard. A splendidly-acted part was that of Constance, which was entrusted to Miss Maggie Hunt. In her page’s dress she was a picturesque figure, and in the dream scene and amid the gloom of the convent dungeon her acting rose to a pitch of tragic intensity which had a thrilling effect. When the curtain fell on the latter scene Miss Hunt received a most enthusiastic “call,” and was loudly cheered. Miss F. Kingsley made a charming Lady Clare, speaking the lines with a gentle cadence which had their own effect. Mr Edward O’Neill’s De Wilton was a powerful piece of acting; and among other members of the company who filled their parts well, and who can only be named, were Mr A. Alexander, who doubled the parts of Lord Heron and the Lyon King-at-Arms; Mr Wellesley Smith as Fitz Eustace; and Mr Dalton Robertson as the innkeeper. Miss C. Hamilton as Lady Heron gave a very agreeable rendering to the Lochinvar ballad.
     During the evening the following telegrams were received by Mr Howard:—
     “Every success to-night, my dear Howard, with Marmion. You will beat your record even with Rob Roy and the Lady of the Lake. My heartiest remembrance to Glasgow friends.—HENRY IRVING.”
     “Wishing you big success for Marmion. Just home from Australia. Kindest regards to all Glasgow friends. Shall be ready to play Rob Roy next season on a kangaroo.—TOOLE.”
     At the close of the performance, Mr HOWARD came forward in answer to calls for a speech, and said he could not help responding to their generous enthusiasm, and the enthusiasm which they had displayed the whole evening. That night was a memorable one for everybody behind the curtain, and he hoped everybody in front. (Applause.) The anxious labours of many months, and the doubly anxious labours of the past few days, had culminated that night in what he would fain believe was a genuine success. (Applause.) He was sure that the spirit of Walter Scott had been hovering over them—(renewed applause)—and could be but have revisited the pale glimpses of the moon for the few hours they had spent in that theatre that evening, he was sure he would have been pleased to hear the soul stirring lines, and to see the magnificent pictures which they had been able to present, the like of which had not been equalled before, he ventured to say—and he hoped it was not a vain boast—upon the Scottish stage. (Applause.) He could not help feeling strongly that night. It was a success of which he was justly proud. (Loud applause.) He was sorry that the author of the drama, Mr Buchanan, was not present to witness and to share in the triumph, and he was also sorry that Dr Mackenzie was not present—(applause)—but as early as possible he should convey to both these gentlemen an intimation of the success that had been achieved. (Applause.) He was glad, however, that there was one representative Scotsman amongst them whom they had seen more than once that night—he meant William Glover. (Loud applause.) The production had been to Mr Glover and to himself, and to all concerned, he was sure, a labour of love, and they should look back upon that night with the most gratifying recollections. (Loud applause.)

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Marmion from The Times (29 June, 1891 - p.7)

     A dramatised version of Scott’s “Marmion,” by Mr. Robert Buchanan, with special music by Dr. A. C. Mackenzie, was produced in the Royal Lyceum Theatre, Edinburgh, for the first time on Saturday night. All the most striking scenes and passages in the poem are reproduced in the drama. The performance was very successful, and was received with enthusiasm by a brilliant house.

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The Gifted Lady from The Scotsman (3 June, 1891 - p.7)

     This evening yet another burlesque on Ibsen was presented, for though the piece is aimed generally at “emancipated” men and women, incidentally it caricatures features not only of “The Doll’s House,” but of “Hedda Gabler” and of “Rosmersholm.” The title of the piece is “The Gifted Lady.” It is from the pen of Mr Robert Buchanan, and has seen the light for the first time at the Avenue. It is hardly possible to predict for it a long career. It has many smart, rememberable lines, but there is too much sameness in the satire for the purposes of three acts. Mr Buchanan tells a consecutive story, but it is so preposterous in itself that one cannot readily tolerate it for the two hours and a-half or thereabouts to which it ran to-night. Mr W. H. Vernon here plays the husband of an emancipated female (Miss Fanny Brough), who fancies she is in love with a draper turned poet—Mr Algernon Wormwood (Mr Harry Paulton.) Her husband, by way of turning the tables upon her, pretends to be also swayed by the theory she professes. In illustration of this, he makes violent love to his wife’s friend, and to her maid-servant. At length, exasperated beyond endurance by her husband’s irresponsible conduct, the wife repents of her old behaviour, gives up the “unconventional,” and falls back contentedly, and even happily, upon the commonplace. This, of course, is a mere skeleton of the plot, which is filled out with some ingenious characterisation and many bright incisive sayings aimed at the gospel of Ibsen and other foreign masters. The piece was to have been called “Heredity,” and that would have described it better than “The Gifted Lady,” which is too vague. It essays to do for the “individualistic” craze intensified by the Ibsenite propaganda what “The Colonel” did for the æsthetic craze; but the comparison is hardly favourable to Mr Buchanan, whose work lacks variety and vivacity.

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The Gifted Lady from The Times (4 June, 1891 - p.13)

AVENUE THEATRE.

     The best of jokes may be spoilt by over-elaboration, and this is a little the case with Mr. Robert Buchanan’s three-act burlesque of Ibsen which was given at the Avenue Theatre on Tuesday night under the title of The Gifted Lady. A terribly elaborate joke is that which takes two hours and a half in the telling. Obviously such a result can only be due to a considerable wandering away from the point at issue on the part of the narrator, and it is the fact that Mr. Buchanan frequently drifts from Ibsenism into ridicule of the æsthetic craze of a few years ago, reminding the spectator of The Colonel, and even of the French piece upon which The Colonel was founded, Le Mari à la Campagne. Heredity is the subject of some agreeable banter, but the string which Mr. Buchanan chiefly harps upon is the predilection of Ibsen’s female characters for individualism, for living their own lives in their own way, regardless of the interests of home or husband. The gifted lady who illustrates this thesis is in some degree a compound of Hedda Gabler and Nora Helmer, but her affinities are mainly with the wife who was satirized some forty years ago in the French piece above quoted. The society she affects is that of a dramatist, a poet, and a critic “of the future,” who are all précieux ridicules of as grotesque a stamp in their several ways as Mr. Burnand’s devotees of the sunflower. It is Miss Fanny Brough who takes the part of the “emancipated woman,” and she has often been seen to better advantage. Messrs. Paulton, Ivan Watson, and Lestocq are the male guys of the piece. Of them equally it may be said that in the long run they are quite as tiresome as they are satirical. We have also an emancipated housemaid in Miss Lydia Cowell, who wears a “divided skirt,” and another female monstrosity—this time of the Ibsen pattern—in Miss Cicely Richards, who makes up after the manner of Miss Marion Lea as Thea. The husband of the gifted lady—Mr. W. H. Vernon—it may be added, cures her of her folly by the time-honoured method of similia similibus curantur. He affects individualism too, and in the end his wife, who has meanwhile been disappointed in her æsthetic poet, finds it possible to live with a “funny man.” For the purposes of this last-mentioned joke, Mr. Buchanan, we hasten to say, is at pains to describe his hero as a writer of comedies and farces. The piece, it will be seen, is altogether too diffuse and too long-drawn-out. Compressed into one act its humour might be effective. But three acts of Mr. Robert Buchanan are not, on the whole, greatly preferable to three acts of Ibsen himself as an entertainment.

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     Somewhat late in the day Miss Norreys has essayed the part of Nora in A Doll’s House at the Criterion. She acted, of course, with intelligence, though accentuating, perhaps unduly, the frivolous and irresponsible side of the character, but there was nothing in the performance to correct the pretty general feeling that for the present we have had enough of Ibsen’s heroines.

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The Trumpet Call from The Times (3 August, 1891 - p.6)

ADELPHI THEATRE.

     The Trumpet Call! Such is the stirring title of the new play which has been written for the Adelphi by Messrs. George R. Sims and Robert Buchanan, and the story it prefaces, we may say at once, is fully equal to it, being, in fact, one of the best to which these cunning masters of melodrama have set their sign and seal. Superfine criticism of this piece, as of its many predecessors of the same stamp, would, no doubt, be easy, but it would also be futile. An Adelphi play must be judged by its own standard. It has its canons and conventions, from which the author departs at his peril. Although Messrs. Sims and Buchanan will not find their names emblazoned on the same scroll of fame as Bunyan they, too, nevertheless, are accustomed to give us, under varying forms, a sort of “Pilgrim’s Progress,” in which a faithful band of wayfarers contrive to reach their land of Beulah, after passing through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and overcoming giants and other adversaries in their path. For, as custom fixes a starting point, so it also fixes a destination for the typical travellers of Adelphi drama; it is enough for the purposes of novelty if on each successive journey the authors change the route. Fortunately, in their latest production, which was received with tumultuous applause on Saturday night, Messrs. Sims and Buchanan are able to offer an itinerary of more than usual variety and interest. Some day it may be well perhaps to change the system or the formula of Adelphi drama altogether—to give us a hero who is not all nobility of soul, a heroine who has sinned, a villain who has other aims than the lady and the property, an ending which is not the triumph of virtue at the expense of vice. But that time is not yet; nor is it ever to be desired, so long as the old story is told well, with such capital variations and with such a freshness of effect as in The Trumpet Call.
     That men are not all cast into half a dozen unvarying moulds we know, but for the time being, at least, the Adelphi public in their collective capacity will have it so; for them there is only the grand distinction of the sheep and the goats, no hybrid specimens of humanity being acknowledged. And such dexterous craftsmen as the authors of The Trumpet Call are too wise in their generation, of course, to disturb unnecessarily the foundations of this simple faith. So, in this new play, we have once more undeniably a well-known, not to say familiar, set of dramatis personæ. But, while thus adhering to the scheme of melodrama, which for the past ten years has been so much in vogue, and of which the two most prominent examples are The Lights o’ London and The Silver King—that, namely, in which a pair of highly sympathetic and deserving lovers are torn from each other’s embraces, but reunited, happily, after a period of trial and tribulation—Messrs. Sims and Buchanan are sufficiently clever and adroit to avoid anything like commonplace. The details of their plot are worked out with an ingenuity and fertility of resource little short of remarkable, when we consider how often, and by how many expert hands, the same material has been treated before. They have achieved happier strokes of invention, doubtless, than to separate their lovers, who when the curtain rises are already husband and wife, by the device of a supposed antecedent marriage on the hero’s part, and the return of a soi-disant first wife whom he has believed to be dead; but, this incident being accepted, the authors must be credited with turning it to excellent account, inasmuch as the hero enlists, and with the least possible delay (as represented by a lapse of six years between the acts) brings us into touch with the glorious bustle and movement attendant upon the close of a successful campaign.
     As its title implies, the play is distinctively military in spirit, and it excites consequently that patriotic thrill which never fails to stir the Adelphi public to enthusiasm. The military element, one observes, is carefully brought up to date. When the hero joins the Royal Horse Artillery we hear nothing of the traditional, but now obsolete, Queen’s shilling, and the reward of his bravery is that from the ranks he is promoted to a commission, the announcement of his good fortune being made the occasion of a picturesque massing of troops on the stage, most of whom, we believe, are really drawn from the service. Admirably managed as it is, both scenically and dramatically, this stirring episode would alone make the success of the enterprise. Many other happy touches are to be found in the action, however, notably in the portrayal of those pathetic and humorous aspects of low life for which Mr. Sims seems to have a predilection, and here the services of Mr. Lionel Rignold and Mrs. H. Leigh are just as valuable in their way as are those of Mr. Leonard Boyne and Miss Elizabeth Robins in the motional passages. The “first wife” is a gipsy woman picturesquely embodied, though somewhat amateurishly acted, by Mrs. Patrick Campbell. Besides being responsible for the parting of the two characters who chiefly claim our sympathy, this sinister individual fulfils the important function of introducing us to the interior of an East-end “doss-house,” or low lodging, and this, with its realistic squalor and its strangely mixed company, is another striking feature of the play. It is, perhaps, needless to explain that the supposed first marriage proves to be no marriage at all, the picturesque gipsy having had herself a previous partner. But this important revelation is withheld till the final scene—the interior of the Chapel Royal, Savoy—when  the heroine, despairing of ever seeing her true love, who is reported dead, is reluctantly about to give her hand to the cousin who has persecuted her with his attentions (as only the villains of melodrama do) for so many long years. Thus, a crowning incident of no less sensational a character than those that have gone before is found for the story, which, in the reunion of the much-enduring hero and heroine, ends as happily as could be desired. At one previous point in the story—namely, the momentous military scene—the lovers do indeed meet, but he is serving in the ranks under an assumed name, and when, in an agony of doubt, she, being there as a spectator, half-recognizes him, he denies his identity. Here, perhaps, occurs just a little straining of the probabilities of the case, but it is only such a straining as an Adelphi audience are always very willing to condone for the sake of the dramatic issues hanging upon it.
     From the Adelphi company the new play receives, on the whole, the worthiest treatment. There could not tread the boards a more gallant soldier than Mr. Leonard Boyne, and in Miss Robins he has a partner of his own emotional capacity. Perhaps there is still clinging to Miss Robins something of the Hedda Gabler keenness and intellectuality; but these qualities, if unusual in melodrama, are not unwelcome. Mr. Dalton plays the scheming cousin with a robust manliness which is hardly typical of the villain; but the villainy of the character is not, after all, very pronounced—in fact, he approaches the hybrid who is so much more common in real life than on the stage. A fuller measure of wickedness is dealt out to the gipsy woman, who is the mainspring of the action, and who is becomingly invested by Mrs. Patrick Campbell with an uncanny, necromantic aspect. Among the minor characters of the piece Mr. Beveridge is conspicuous as a stalwart and manly sergeant-major of artillery, and Mr. R. H. Douglass amusing as a precocious bugler-boy, the latter supplementing, with the aid of Miss Clara Jecks, the broad cockney humours of Mr. Lionel Rignold.

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     Bank Holiday sees comparatively little change of bill at the theatres, the Adelphi production above noticed being the only novelty. Miss Grace Hawthorne appears at the Olympic in Theodora; The Late Lamented is transferred from the Court Theatre to the Strand, where Miss Fanny Brough succeeds Mrs. John Wood, and Mr. Edouin Mr. Cecil; and the Shaftesbury re-opens, under the management of Mr. George Edwardes, with the lively summer bill of three one-act pieces lately seen at Terry’s.

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The Trumpet Call from The Guardian (4 December, 1894 - p.7)

ST. JAMES’S THEATRE.

THE TRUMPET CALL.

     The literary flavour which one expects in a drama by Mr. Robert Buchanan and Mr. G. R. Sims is not very noticeable in the present case. But literary flavour is not an indispensable element in an Adelphi drama. In all ordinary essentials the piece is complete enough, and last night proved a great success with a large audience. The hero becomes a soldier, and the scenes at Woolwich barracks are perhaps the most popular in the piece. Seldom on the stage have we seen better drilled soldiers. The hero (Mr. Charles East) and his sergeant (Mr. J. K. Walton) are models in this respect. An important part in the drama is taken by Mr. Joe Bracewell, an old Manchester comedian of good repute. But Professor Ginnifer, though a humorous character, does not quite suit Mr. Bracewell’s vein.

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The Trumpet Call from The Guardian (19 November, 1895 - p.7)

QUEEN’S THEATRE.

THE TRUMPET CALL.

     We forget how many times “The Trumpet Call” has been seen in Manchester. One would suppose that every playgoer was familiar with it by this time, and yet last night—thanks, no doubt, largely to good acting—it held the attention of a large assemblage as if it were being performed for the first time. In this play Mr. George R. Sims and Mr. Robert Buchanan tell a painful story, and have endeavoured to lighten the gloom by a little incidental fooling. In some respects there is a wonderful family likeness between “The Trumpet Call” and “In the Ranks,” a good deal of the interest in both being due to the military scenes. The play was well performed. Mr. Cory Thomas infused the necessary robustness into the character of the hero, who, under the stress of circumstances, enlists as a private soldier and wins fame and promotion on the battlefield; Mr. Arthur C. Percy was a capital specimen of an Irish sergeant major; while Mr. Joe Bracewell—who must feel peculiarly at home on the stage of the Queen’s Theatre—was more than usually amusing as Professor Ginnifer. Miss Daisy England deserves credit for her impersonation of the ungrateful part of Astrea, and Miss Eugenie Magnus won the sympathy of the audience by her acting as the long-suffering wife Constance.

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Reviews of Squire Kate are available on the Buchanan’s Theatrical Ventures In America page.

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The White Rose from The Scotsman (25 April, 1892 - p.7)

     The whirligig of time has brought with it another romantic drama at the Adelphi. For the moment present-day melodrama is put aside, and an older class prevails in its stead. The change is pleasant, even though the new work be not of any very remarkable merit either from the dramatic or from the literary point of view. One welcomes “The White Rose” of Messrs G. R. Sims and Robert Buchanan as a pleasant revival of an old and favourite style. There we are once more in an atmosphere of love-locks and round heads, of plumed hats and high boots, of lace ruffles and buff jerkins, of “king” and “Parliament,” of “go tos” and “verilys”—an atmosphere which we breathed not so long ago, when “The Royal Oak” was produced at Drury Lane. Messrs Sims and Buchanan have gone, they say, to Scott’s “Woodstock” for their inspiration, but they have not taken from it so much as might be supposed. The Cromwellian Colonel Markham Everard (Mr Boyne) is in love with and beloved by the Royalist Alice Lee (Miss Millard), who has just rejected the suit of Colonel Yarborough, another Cromwellian officer (Mr Cockburn.) Alice’s brother Albert takes refuge in Woodstock Lodge, bringing with him the young King (Mr Fuller Mellish), whom old Sir Harry Lee (Mr Beveridge) is only too proud to succour. The King makes love to Alice, but, in despite of this, Everard helps him to escape through the Roundhead lines. Cromwell’s daughter Elizabeth (Mrs Patrick Campbell), who is the apple of her father’s eye, is enamoured of Everard, who only admires her and says so. Cromwell, therefore, has no scruple in punishing Everard for his share in the King’s escape, and would have the Colonel shot but for the intervention of Elizabeth, who hands her lover over to the distracted Alice. It will be seen that in giving such prominence to “Old Noll” and his daughter, Messrs Sims and Buchanan diverge considerably from “Woodstock.” They have, indeed, rather overdone this divergence, giving us something too much of the Protector and his child. The general result, however, is good. When the last act of “The White Rose” has been freely “cut” the play will go well and attract powerfully. The story is interesting and full of sympathetic action. The humorous episodes are few, but as compensation there are a couple of tableaux, representing visions which Cromwell (Mr Cartwright) is supposed to see in a dream, and which were received to-night with abundant favour. They show the execution of Charles and the deathbed of Elizabeth Cromwell. Mr Collette, Mr Reginald, and Miss Jecks are the comedians, and make much fun out of characters which are necessarily subordinate. The principal role is that of Cromwell, which Mr Cartwright enacts with a good deal of rugged force, but with too great sameness in intonation. Next in importance comes the Markham Everard of Mr Boyne, which has all the necessary earnestness and vigour. Mr Cockburn shows some power as Everard’s rival and traducer, Mr Beveridge is a dignified Sir Harry Lee, Mr Brodie a gallant Albert Lee, and Mr Mellish a Charles Stuart more notable for humour than for kingliness. Alice finds in Miss Millard a pretty and spirited representative, while Mrs Campbell is graceful and touching as the ill-fated Elizabeth. The success of the piece is unquestionable. Mr Cartwright was twice “called” after his dream scene, and had, as Mr Boyne also had, a special “call” at the end. The authors were also summoned and duly appeared. “The White Rose” will not become a classic, but it is calculated to give much pleasure to many playgoers before it is finally put upon the shelf.

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The White Rose from The Times (25 April, 1892 - p.10)

THE THEATRES.

ADELPHI.

     There are fashions in drama as in dress. Whence they come and what conditions determine the length of their stay are mysteries akin to the perplexing phenomena observed in the world of millinery, where one “creation,” for no apparent reason, supplants another, only to be itself in turn supplanted. If one man in his time plays many parts, it is equally true that he sees a good many varieties of play in vogue, from grave to gay, from lively to severe. There are veteran actors within whose experience the taste of the public has ranged over as wide a dramatic field as that sketched out by Polonius. Less than 40 years elapsed between the reign of Sheridan Knowles and that of T. W. Robertson—authors who may almost be said to represent the opposite poles of dramatic writing; and, while the claims of a literary drama are now being vigorously pushed in so many quarters, it is only a few years ago that all classes of the community were content to be regaled at two out of every three West-end theatres with comic opera or burlesque. Such are the broader aspects of this question. Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis would be an excellent, if somewhat hackneyed, motto for the playwrights of all countries and periods. That melodrama, although, generally speaking, one of the stablest of dramatic forms, has not gone scatheless amid the fluctuations of public taste is of course a foregone conclusion. If it has not passed through as many phases as burlesque, it has nevertheless been obliged in some degree to accommodate itself to its surroundings; whence it comes that the methods of Boucicault and Watts Phillips have given place to those of Sims, Pettitt, and Buchanan. The existing formula of melodrama may be said to have come in with The Lights o’ London; and, ten years being an exceptionally long run of popularity for a theatrical fashion, however good, the question has naturally arisen whether the time has not come for a change in this class of entertainment. To feel the pulse of the playgoing public in such matters is, however, an operation of considerable delicacy. Audiences can indicate plainly enough that they are tiring of the fare set before them, but they are not equally explicit as to what they would like to have in its place; in truth, they do not know. They are in the position of the gourmet who trusts to his chef to discover and minister to the requirements of a jaded palate; and this responsibility the management of the Adelphi, together with their purveyors in chief, Messrs. Sims and Buchanan, have frankly recognized to the extent that they do not even wait for their hydra-headed patron to express his dissatisfaction with the current menu, but strive to anticipate his appetites. At the Adelphi on Saturday night the Eastertide change of bill partook accordingly of the nature of a new departure, the familiar realism of The Trumpet Call giving place to the romance of a drama of the Cavalier and Roundhead period. Whether or not the bold experiment has been happily timed the events of the next few weeks or months will show. As regards the first-night audience there could certainly be no doubt of the entire success of the new play, which was applauded as warmly as the best of its predecessors in the heyday of their fortunes.
     The White Rose is a dramatic version of Sir Walter Scott’s “Woodstock,” but the transition here effected by the authors from one dramatic plane to another is not quite as sharp or as violent as this circumstance might imply. They have borrowed the historical characters of the novel and assigned them to their appropriate place and period. But, availing themselves of the licence which Scott himself claimed and of which Shakespeare is the most signal example, Messrs. Sims and Buchanan have handled their material in their own way. Thus the well-known lines of the Sims-Buchanan melodrama, blurred a little though they be, in the new play, are still distinguishable. Mr. Leonard Boyne, as Markham Everard, the sober Cromwellian officer, remains what he has ever been at the Adelphi, the hero of one unfaltering love, proof alike against misfortune and temptation; and to this monumental passion Miss Millard, as Alice Lee, the Royalist beauty, responds as devotedly, through good and evil report, as if she were the modern village maiden betrothed to the young squire. Moreover, Everard finds in one Desborough, Cromwell’s High Commissioner, a rejected rival and secret enemy, corresponding in everything save his garb to the polished and relentless villain of the modern play, who entertains nefarious designs with respect to the lady and “the property”; while Mr. Lionel Rignold and Miss Clara Jecks, as dependents in a Cavalier household, carry on their comic courtship in the old familiar way—a courtship disturbed as usual by the advances of a rival swain, who in this instance is a hypocritical Roundhead, impersonated in a lively fashion by Mr. Charles Collette with the catchphrase—an echo of so many plays of the period—”Yea, verily,” with the accent on the “y.” In all such details of their story Messrs. Sims and Buchanan have kept pretty closely to their beaten track. We recognize the old melodrama without much difficulty in its new guise. The hands are the hands of Esau, but the voice is the voice of Jacob. Where the authors do acquit themselves fully and satisfactorily of their new responsibilities, where they break wholly fresh ground and invest their story with an interest such as the typical Adelphi play of the past ten years has never known, is in the building up of the massive central figure of Oliver Cromwell, in the representation of which they have the assistance of Mr. Charles Cartwright, an actor wonderfully well-adapted to the part in voice and bearing. This figure is the pivot of the entire action, and dwarfs curiously the rest of the dramatis personæ. Not that it is history, or even the Cromwell of Scott’s romance. The authors have given us a Cromwell of their own, a rugged, honest, God-fearing soldier—a character conforming, it will be seen, much more closely to the historical portrait than the late Mr. Wills’s curiously perverted sketch in Charles I., but still departing from all precedent in this respect, that the Man of Iron is dominated throughout less by his sense of duty than by his overweening love for his daughter Elizabeth, whose gentle counsels, at every juncture of affairs, dispose him to mercy and forbearance. It is the pleading of Elizabeth which allows Sir Harry Lee and his daughter Alice to retain possession of Woodstock; it is the same sweet influence again which saves Markham Everard from a traitor’s doom for having assisted the escape of the young King Charles. Cromwell’s is the hand, but Elizabeth’s the spirit which rules; and whatever may be said for or against this conception on historical grounds, there can be no question of its commanding merit from the dramatic point of view. The new Cromwell is a most impressive and sympathetic character, admirably embodied by Mr. Cartwright.
     Designed as they are to bring out the new side of the Protector’s character, the relations of Markham Everard and Cromwell in the play are not exactly those of the novel. Everard is indeed engaged to Alice Lee, but he is beloved by Elizabeth Cromwell, whose heart has gone out to the young soldier, it appears, with out any encouragement, and Cromwell has marked him out as a son-in-law. When, therefore, Everard openly prefers Alice to Elizabeth, Cromwell pursues him, for his Royalist leanings, with something like vindictiveness, subordinating the interests of the State to his interests as a father. This is a startling element of weakness to introduce into the Protector’s character, but it is so very human! Indeed, it would be difficult to praise too highly this portion of the authors’ scheme, which not only humanizes Cromwell in a remarkable degree, but gives an opportunity for the display of a touching generosity and true womanliness on the part of Elizabeth—a character in which Mrs. Patrick Campbell reveals an unsuspected command of the tender note. From first to last, Cromwell’s relations with his favourite daughter are a beautiful and elevating feature of the play. The part of Alice Lee is prettily sympathetic in its way likewise, and in the hands of Miss Millard loses nothing of its native sweetness. Mr. Leonard Boyne invests the young Roundhead officer with the fine cavalierly qualities indispensable to a character of heroic mould. Circumstances have driven the authors to bestow upon Everard this dual aspect, but there is not doubt that in so doing they weaken the part dramatically. It is difficult to sympathize with a soldier whose conscience is with the King while he lends his sword to the Parliament, and Mr. Boyne’s fine speeches are only a partial veneer to Everard’s inconsistencies. Various incidental characters traverse the action picturesquely. Such are the Sir Harry Lee, the fine, old, stanch cavalier of Mr. Beveridge, the devil-may-care Roger Wildrake of Mr. Dalton, and the feeble, self-indulgent Charles of Mr. Fuller Mellish, all derived from the novel. A fine play, in short, is this of The White Rose, interesting above all for its characterization, and therefore in the best sense literary. It would be a thousand pities if its many beauties were not appreciated as they deserve, but happily there is so far every sign that the confidence of the management and the authors in the judgment of the Adelphi public has not been misplaced.

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The Lights of Home from The Times (1 August, 1892 - p.6)

THE THEATRES.

ADELPHI.

     The era of historical drama at the Adelphi has been shorter than some would have desired to see. In The Lights of Home, which, like the recent Cromwellian play, is the work of Messrs. Sims and Buchanan, an undisguised return is made to the kind of play with which these authors are principally associated, and, considering the frantic applause bestowed upon their efforts on Saturday night, and chiefly upon a great mechanical sensation in the shape of a shipwreck, Adelphi melodrama of the familiar type may be said to have taken a new lease of life. To be sure, The Lights of Home is an excellent sample of this class of entertainment. The story of the distressed lovers, which it seems so hard to break away from, is here told anew with considerable freshness of incident and with scenic effects which no one will deny to be startling and, in their way, impressive. Like an ever-popular dish, the story is served sometimes with one sauce, sometimes with another. Messrs. Sims and Buchanan have elected in the present instance to give it a nautical flavouring, choosing as the hero an officer in the merchant service, whence an opportunity for representing one of the most formidable catastrophes with which the stage can deal, to say nothing of a lifeboat rescue and such incidental attractions as views of the sea in calm and storm, of towering cliffs, and flashing lighthouses, together with a picturesque personnel of fisher-folk and coastguardsmen. Although the nautical drama is less seen now than in the days of T. P. Cooke, there is no evidence that it has lost its hold upon the popular imagination. The stage sailor no longer dances a hornpipe or “shivers his timbers,” but he is still good for a song with a stirring chorus, and for unsurpassed feats of gallantry in love and war. As a hero of melodrama accordingly he comes only to conquer. This was the lesson of Harbour Lights, probably the most successful nautical play produced since Black-Eye’d Susan, and, judging by it reception on Saturday evening, The Lights of Home will, in the course of the next few months, tell a similar tale. After all, who shall say that novelty of plot is more indispensable to melodrama than it is to pantomime? Having a favourite set of characters, what more natural than that the public should have their favourite set of sentiments and situations?
     Yet the refashioning of the old story which each successive play demands is, perhaps, like the breaking of the egg by Columbus, less easy than it looks. The authors of The Lights of Home have handled their material with a deftness and a skill which it is easier to criticize than to imitate. In the present instance, they appear to have borrowed a hint or two from no less venerable a source than Romeo and Juliet. Otherwise, whence comes their family feud between the Garfields and the Carringtons, the feud about to be healed by the attachment which has sprung up between a son and a daughter of the rival houses? The lady, moreover, has a hot-headed brother, Edgar, who corresponds as closely to Tybalt as her cousin Arthur Tredgold does to the County Paris. There is also an elopement and a marriage of the lovers, not in the Friar’s cell, but in distant Baltimore, whither the devoted Philip has carried off the trusting Sybil in his vessel. Romeo, it is true, was not “falsely accused,” but this being the inevitable fate of the modern hero, Messrs. Sims and Buchanan have wisely given their romance the necessary twist in this direction. In carrying off his sweetheart to his lugger in the offing, Philip has a smart encounter with his rival which leads to nothing; but the latter is almost immediately seized by the avenging father of a village maiden whom this villain has betrayed, and is thrown over the cliffs to his death; so that the hero sails for America with a suspicion of murder attaching to his fair name. That he comes back manfully to face the charge need not be said; this and his happy restoration to the arms of his bride, from whom he has meanwhile been parted, are the necessary features of the fifth act.
     It is on his passage back to England, and, by a happy coincidence, on the very part of the coast adjoining his ancestral home and his bride’s, that the wreck of the vessel takes place—an event which is, indeed, a triumph of sensationalism. The steamer lies athwart the stage, and, being supposed to strike upon a rock during a terrific storm, sinks into the raging billows under the eyes of an awe-struck and breathless house, while the hero, unaccountably left behind by the rescuing party of coastguardsmen, swims for his life, holding in his arms meanwhile the betrayed village maiden who has vainly come to his assistance in her father’s boat. If this is not the dernier mot of the stage carpenter, then marvels are, indeed, in store for us. Mr. Kyrle Bellew succeeds Mr. Leonard Boyne as the leader of the Adelphi company, and in this exacting part of Philip Carrington exerts himself to no small purpose. As a mere physical achievement his performance is remarkable. His faithful bride is Miss Millard, a young actress of some power, but a little too prone to over-elaboration of gesture and accent. The pathetic part of the betrayed maiden falls to Mrs. Patrick Campbell, who contrives to touch the true note, and her avenging father finds a striking representative in M. W. A. Elliott. The reception of the play, we have only to add, was boisterously enthusiastic.

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The Black Domino from The Times (3 April, 1893 - p.2)

ADELPHI THEATRE.

     This is the period of new departures on the stage, and the cherished formulas of Adelphi drama enjoy no immunity from the sacrilegious hand of the innovator. Most of the new departures resolve themselves into so many fausses sorties, the dramatist or the manager attempting an innovation, but rejecting it on finding that it fails to enlist the support of the public. Such was the recent diversion made at the Adelphi in the direction of the historic drama. In The Black Domino, which was produced on Saturday night, Messrs. Sims and Buchanan revert to the dramatic methods of the Buckstone period, and, judging from the frenzied applause bestowed upon their efforts by the public, to whom they more especially appeal, their boldness has met with its reward. The immaculate hero, who is the soul of honour, the champion of the bon motif, and who remains true to his matrimonial ideal through good and evil report, has not had a remarkably long career on the boards. Having Mr. Sims and Mr. Henry Pettitt as his sponsors he dates back ten or 12 years at the most. But, during his reign, the supremacy of this somewhat oppressive type of goodness has been undisputed. At each successive appearance he has been, if possible, more immaculate than before. His personality has been idealized in the same ratio as the villainy of his detractors and enemies in the play has been made more pronounced. But there are dangers besetting the career of this more than human character as grave as those encountered by Aristides the Just, and it is doubtless to a perception of these by Messrs. Sims and Buchanan that we owe the radical change of treatment adopted in The Black Domino, where the hero’s weaknesses of character are brought down almost to the level of criminality. After all the truest dramatic effects are evolved not from the greatness, but from the littleness of human nature. Old Adelphi playgoers remember with something like affection Buckstone’s Green Bushes, which was one of the great successes of Madame Celeste. Connor O’Kennedy was by no means the ideal hero of these later times. But his sins and the suffering they entailed served only to endear him to the public, whose eyes were wet with tears for the sorrows of his devoted and betrayed wife and her unwitting rival Miami. Exiled from home, the Irish patriot contracted new bonds in the far off valley of the Mississippi, and his expiation came when the two women he had wronged met face to face. Connor O’Kennedy’s fault lay in his allowing himself to drift. In The Black Domino, Lord Dashwood does more than this. He not only neglects to be off with the old love before he is on with the new; he weakly continues with both, forges his father’s name in order to comply with the demands of his mistress for money, and would in the end hopelessly fall between his two stools if by a somewhat daring coup de théâtre the authors did not suddenly cause the siren to reform and die the death of the conventional adventuress by means of a dose of poison on no less familiar a spot than the terrace of the Star and Garter at Richmond. But the saving clause in Lord Dashwood’s character is that at bottom he has no vicious intent; his heart is always in the right place, and when at last the cloud is lifted from his life and from that of his bride, the innocent victim of her husband’s irresolution, and of the wiles of his best friend, the demands of poetic justice are satisfied.
     In the working out of this theme Messrs. Sims and Buchanan have not availed themselves as Buckstone did of the half light and glamour of romance. They have placed their subject, so to speak, in the full glare of noonday by bringing their story so much down to date as not only to introduce their characters to the terrace of the Star and Garter at Richmond, but to the giddy whirl of one of Sir Augustus Harris’s fancy dress balls at Covent Garden. Doubtless this is wise since the rage seems to be for actuality real or apparent, though it has the effect of throwing the hero’s weaknesses into sharp relief and giving them a somewhat disagreeably sordid character. There are two favourite routes by which the authors of Adelphi melodrama attain a happy ending. If the hero and heroine are betrothed to begin with they are parted for a time by the machinations of their enemies, and the curtain falls to the sound of wedding bells. The alternative course is that they should be married to begin with, and that after the inevitable period of separation and tribulation they should be happily reunited. In The Black Domino a charming via media has been found. The first act is devoted to the wedding, which takes place in a moss-grown country church, attended by a gay party of red-coated huntsmen and by a throng of picturesque rustics. This is one of the most pleasing scenes in a play which is remarkable for the excellence of its spectacle. The wedding, too, is ingeniously utilized as a point of departure for the various lines of dramatic interest. To the ceremony comes Belle Hamilton, the revengeful mistress, bent upon insulting the bride; and here, also, is to be seen her aged father, a French musician, Pierre Berton, who, learning her true character for the first time, formally disowns her in order to lean upon the love of his younger daughter, Rose, who, with himself, has been the grateful recipient of the bride’s bounties. Thanks to her father’s interposition, Belle is restrained from strong measures, but her revenge only takes the subtler form of drawing away the bridegroom from his allegiance, in which task she is assisted by Lord Dashwood’s best friend, Captain Greville—the sinister “Captain” of convention. In the second act, which opens in Lord Dashwood’s house in town, the evil influences foreshadowed are in full swing. The young wife is being neglected, and Lord Dashwood is pretty deeply involved with Belle Hamilton, much against the dictates of his better nature. For purposes of his own, Captain Greville whispers the truth to Lady Dashwood, and informs her that that night her husband has an appointment with his mistress at the fancy dress ball at Covent Garden. As it happens, Lord Dashwood has only made this appointment with a view to breaking with his mistress for good, and the oddity of his plan to this end is to be explained, of course, by the dramatist’s necessities. By an easy transition the spectator is next conducted to the interior of Covent Garden Theatre, where a realistic representation of a fancy dress ball is given. In order to learn the truth, Lady Dashwood comes to the ball in the disguise which gives the play its title. The sight of her husband along with her worthless rival is too much for her nerves; she faints and is promptly carried off to his chambers by Captain Greville, whose object is to compromise her hopelessly. After the ball the roysterers make their way through Covent Garden Market, which, with its bustling personnel, forms the next stage in the story. Here, again, dramatic as well as spectacular ends are subserved, inasmuch as we make acquaintance with the honest Rose Berton, as a flower girl, who tells her disreputable sister, Belle Hamilton, of the benefits conferred upon their family by Lady Dashwood, and thus paves the way for the siren’s reformation, which takes effect in a subsequent scene. Belle Hamilton, having learnt that Lady Dashwood has been carried in an unconscious state to Captain Greville’s rooms, resolves to rescue her from this villain’s clutches, such benevolent impulses being keenly relished as a rule by pit and gallery, who appear to have the profoundest faith in the goodness of human nature. By this time Lord Dashwood, too, knows of his wife’s presence in Captain Greville’s rooms, but Belle Hamilton gets there before him, and, by a trick of substitution, which Mr. Sims originally employed with much effect in The Lights of London, the one woman takes the place of the other, Lady Dashwood escaping in her rival’s domino at the moment when her husband furiously invades the premises in search of her. Lord Dashwood does find a woman in his friend’s rooms, but to his surprise, no less than to the Captain’s, when her disguise is removed, it proves to be Belle Hamilton.
     The dénouement of the play is now in sight. In the fourth and fifth acts Lord Dashwood’s monetary and conjugal difficulties are smoothed over. Something like a cordial modus vivendi is even established between Lady Dashwood and the repentant courtesan, and the latter completes her self-sacrifice, or, as M. Alexandre Dumas would say, her redemption, by swallowing a dose of poison, as already stated, at one of her fast dinner parties. The acting is, for the most part, intrusted to a company well versed in the rendering of this class of play. Mr. Charles Glenney sustains with his customary vigour the part of Lord Dashwood, whom he saves from being as despicable as he might, in other hands, appear to be, while the villany of Captain Greville loses nothing in the practised hands of Mr. W. L. Abingdon. As in the more recent of Messrs. Sims and Buchanan’s plays, the leading female characters devolve upon Miss Evelyn Millard and Mrs. Patrick Campbell, the latter of whom contrives to establish some points of resemblance between Belle Hamilton and the consumptive heroine of La Dame aux Camélias. As the virtuous flower-girl Miss Bessie Hatton makes the most of her few opportunities. In all, nearly 30 characters figure in the cast. Considering the generally sombre characters of the play there is happily a somewhat larger allowance than usual of comic relief. Miss Clara Jecks, as a music-hall artist, carries on in her usual high-spirited manner with an amiable young aristocrat in the person of Mr. Welton Dale, while Mr. Arthur Williams makes fun as a comic solicitor, who attends the Covent Garden ball in the character of Cupid. Villagers, huntsmen, flower-girls, costers, and masqueraders fill the stage at intervals and give body to a play which we rank as one of the most ornate and picturesque of the Sims-Buchanan series.

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[W. L. Abingdon as Captain Greville, Arthur Williams as Joshua Honeybun and Charles Glenney as Lord Dashwood from The Black Domino - The Arthur Williams Collection, Templeman Library, University of Kent. The collection also contains two more photos of Arthur Williams in the role of Honeybun.]

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The Piper of Hamelin from The Times (21 December, 1893 - p.8)

COMEDY THEATRE.

     The season’s Christmas entertainment, began yesterday afternoon with the production of a version of The Pied Piper of Hamelin, by Mr. Robert Buchanan, especially intended for children, to be given every afternoon except Saturday, while Sowing the Wind keeps its place in the evening bill. Children both old and young will welcome the pretty realization of the familiar legend, which, however, occupies only the first act of the piece; for at its close we have seen not only the rats, but the children, lured away, and there can be no doubt that the impression made would be far stronger, though of course sadder, than it is if the single act were all. But a “happy ending” must be brought about somehow, and accordingly a new bargain is agreed to between the Mayor and the Piper, that the children are to be exchanged for the Mayor’s pretty daughter, who is to be torn from her lover’s arms and wedded to the Piper. To make all quite comfortable, this mysterious personage appears finally to be a benevolent character set upon doing well by the young lovers, and willing to restore the children for nothing; for he gives back the money ransom that is ultimately forthcoming, as the maiden’s dowry, so that his performance with the rats goes completely unrewarded. Mr. Buchanan has furnished the story with jingling rhymes and some bright dialogue. The music to which the lyrics, &c., are set is from the pen of Mr. F. W. Allwood, and is curiously deficient in “go.” As it is neither original nor very melodious, the success of the piece will rest entirely on the mounting and general effect of the spectacle. Here there is nothing that does not call for praise. In Mr. Frank Wyatt exactly the right exponent of the Piper’s whimsical figure is found, and when he has mastered the words of the part his performance will leave little to desire. Mr. E. M. Robson is a delightfully pompous little Mayor, and Miss Lena Ashwell a very winsome representative of his daughter, though the nervousness of a first appearance made it impossible for her to do justice to such merit as the music of the part possesses. There is in the present version no particular reason for the figure of the little lame boy, who tells, in Browning’s poem, of the effect of the music on the children themselves. The picturesque character is, however, retained, and most cleverly played by Miss Gladys Dorée, who is made up in exact reproduction of the figure in Pinwell’s picture. The dresses and scenery are most artistic, and the entertainment has the crowning merit of being entirely clear from the taint of burlesque, as at present understood. The swarming of the rats is cleverly devised, and the whole wonderfully effective.
     By way of harlequinade after this pretty “opening,” a fairly amusing piece of fooling by Mr. Burnand, with taking music by Mr. E. Solomon, is given. Day’s once famous didactic fiction is probably no longer in use with the rising generation, and it gives little beside its name to the operetta of Sandford and Merton. The boys, Mr. Barlow, and Sambo, the black servant, go through some familiar comic business, and deliver themselves of a number of exceedingly bad puns. The three fall in love with a French governess and her two pupils, and the most prominent number in the piece is a duet in schoolroom French. Mr. Lionel Brough as the tutor, Messrs. E. M. Robson and Clarence Hunt as the boys, and Mme Ada Dorée as the governess keep the fun going just long enough.
     Both pieces were successful, and the authors and composers were called before the curtain. The first work was conducted by Mr. A. J. Caldicott, the second by its composer, Mr. Solomon, whose allusions to familiar English tunes are among the happiest bits to his score.
     The book of words of The Piper of Hamelin is provided with some charming illustrations by Mr. Hugh Thomson.

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The Piper of Hamelin from The Guardian (21 December, 1893 - p.5)

     A charming afternoon entertainment for the children during the holidays has been devised by Mr. Comyns Carr at the Comedy Theatre, where it was given for the first time to-day with decided success. The programme consists of two pieces, both musical and both dealing with familiar subjects, the more important, which comes first, being a new version of “The Piper of Hamelin” from the pen of Mr. Robert Buchanan. This is described as a “fantastic opera in two acts.” It treats the old German legend with admirable spirit and humour, and the ending is, of course, a happy one, the children being duly restored to their relations, while Liza, the Mayor’s daughter, is ultimately betrothed to her faithful Conrad. Mr. F. Allwood’s music has little to recommend it beyond its appropriate simplicity; but the mounting is exquisitely artistic and picturesque, and Mr. Frank Wyatt makes an interesting and even weird figure of the Pied Piper. In the second piece, “Sandford and Merton” Mr. F. C. Burnand has furnished merely a brief sketch for the purpose of extracting fun out of the practical jokes played upon Mr. Barlow by his lively young pupils. But if short it is exceedingly merry, and Mr. Edward Solomon has added to the mirth of the various incidents by some “numbers” in his most tuneful and whimsical vein. Mr. Barlow’s mock solemnity is capitally realised by Mr. Lionel Brough, Messrs. E. M. Robson and Clarence Hunt being excellent as the boys. The dances and concerted pieces went splendidly, and Mr. Burnand’s smart puns evoked plenty of laughter. After each production the author and composer were “called.”

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[advert for The Piper of Hamelin from The Times (Tuesday, Dec 26 December, 1893 p.6)]

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The Charlatan from The Times (19 January, 1894 - p.3)

HAYMARKET THEATRE.

     In a few words which he was called upon to speak at the fall of the curtain last night, Mr. Tree adopted the unusual course of announcing with what play he proposed to follow up The Charlatan. Whether he had some foreboding that Mr. Robert Buchanan’s latest work, though applauded by the first-night house, might be a little too strange and unfamiliar to win the sympathies of the general public did not appear: but, if some such idea haunted his mind, it is not unlikely to prove well founded. The Charlatan is a strange play, and it is concerned chiefly with subjects for which the ordinary playgoer cares little—theosophy and hypnotism. Science and common sense have, indeed, their representatives, but  these do not cut a particularly agreeable figure and besides occupy quite a subordinate place in the action. Of love there is none at all—none, that is to say, which is likely to satisfy the romantic spectator who believes in happy endings and the like. It would be difficult to conceive a story less calculated to appeal to women, who are, after all, the mainstay of the drama. The Charlatan is nevertheless a clever piece of satire; it is finely acted and sumptuously placed upon the stage, all of which qualities may be counted upon to exercise their effect. The action passes at the castle of the Earl of Wanborough, who entertains surely the most mixed company ever devised by dramatist. There are a couple of theosophist impostors, Mme. Obnoskin and Philip Woodville, the latter fresh from India; a senile professor and bore who professes himself too old to have conclusions upon any subject; a young and wealthy Conservative, Lord Dewsbury; the local Dean, who excuses his presence at a theosophist séance because he meets with such strange people at his Bishop’s table; a decadent young man who believes in “individualism” and the “right to evolve,” who prefers art to nature, and who revels in the “aroma of social decay”; and, finally, a neuropathic young lady, Miss Arlington, who is addicted to somnambulism, and who is hoping to be placed in material or spiritual communication with her father, an adventurous traveller among the Mahatmas, but lost to the world for a couple of years and believed to be dead.
     How little such a set of dramatis personæ can have in common may readily be guessed, and in endeavouring to fashion a dramatic story out of their relationship Mr. Buchanan applies himself to the thankless task of weaving a rope out of sand. The two theosophists have each objects of their own in view. That of Mme. Obnoskin, who is depicted by Miss Gertrude Kingston as a langorous and seductive lady of a somewhat exotic stamp, is to captivate the aged earl, who has theosophistic leanings; Woodville’s aim is to secure the hand of Miss Arlington, whom he had once met in Calcutta, and over whom he hopes to exercise a hypnotic influence. Upon this latter scheme the story turns; for Mr. Tree in Woodville, a sinister gentleman of mixed English and Parsee parentage, an “adept” in theosophy in more senses than one, but of otherwise unknown antecedents—the sort of character to which an actor skilled in make-up is naturally attracted; while in the Miss Arlington of Mrs. Tree and her “subjection” to Woodville’s influence is centred all the female interest of which the play can boast. The imposture is practised at a theosophist séance which occupies the second act. From India Woodville has derived secret information that Miss Arlington’s father is alive and about to return to England, and at the séance the spirit of the absent man is made to appear and announce the glad tidings. Just in the nick of time is the trick accomplished, for there is already an unopened telegram in the Earl’s hands from Arlington himself. Amazed at the manifestation, though unable to explain it, the company break up for the night, and the next act passes in “the turret-room,” which has been assigned to Woodville because it has the reputation of being haunted by “the white lady.” Between Woodville and Lord Dewhurst distrust has grown to open war, each laying claim to Miss Arlington’s affections; and the result of a stormy scene between the two men is that Woodville resolves to exercise hypnotic arts upon the lady and attract her to his room at midnight, so that if she will not be his wife she shall at least be nobody else’s.
     Here it would seem that while exposing theosophy as an imposture Mr. Robert Buchanan is bent upon demonstrating the truth of hypnotism. It is unfortunate in these circumstances that he should not have been at pains to ascertain the principles of the science. At his casement Woodville stands and solemnly summons the patient to come to him from some distant part of the building. There has been no previous “suggestion” made to her of such a course; indeed the midnight summons is a sudden resolution on Woodville’s part and is addressed to a patient who is out of sight or hearing. Needless to say, no hypnotic influence at all could be exercised under such conditions. Mr. Buchanan is apparently under the primitive belief that there is on the hypnotist’s part some actual transmission or projection of will-power. This idea is still popularly entertained, no doubt, but scientifically it was exploded a hundred years ago, and finds no support more respectable than that of the telepathists to whose beliefs the theory of modern hypnotism as a purely material operation of the brain due to direct and tangible influences is, of course, wholly opposed. If old-fashioned sentiment is to be displaced on the stage by modern science, it is imperative at least that the science should be accurate. To Woodville’s unscientific appeal Miss Arlington responds; and from her appearance in the turret-room dates the revirement which in the fourth act brings the play to an end. The patient is so beautiful and so helpless in his hands, obedient to his will, that the man’s better nature is touched. He wakes her out of her somnambulistic condition and directs her to go back to her room, but not before he has made a clean breast of his villany. More than this, he next morning acquaints the Earl himself with the imposture, and prepares to leave the house in disgrace. Wounded by his avowals, Mme. Obnoskin divulges the fact that she has seen Miss Arlington visit Woodville’s room. The issue provided to this remarkable situation is that in parting as they do Miss Arlington professes herself touched by Woodville’s tardy qualms of conscience, and holds out hopes to him that they may meet again some day under happier conditions.
     What manner of man Woodville is, and why he should thus suddenly be converted from a rogue into an honest man, just as his schemes have ripened, not all Mr. Tree’s art can make clear. The character remains at the end what it is at the beginning—an enigma. Mr. Tree makes it picturesque, but he cannot make it human. On a smaller scale the same volte-face takes place in Mr. Fred Kerr’s part of the Hon. Mervyn Darrell who, from being a pronounced decadent, suddenly throws aside his pessimistic nonsense and proposes to a pretty girl, who has all along been chaffing him upon his predilection for the “modern spirit.” The attitude of Miss Arlington herself is only to be explained upon some occult principle of “nerves,” while Mme. Obnoskin remains to the last an impostor. One or two incidental types alone are unexceptionable, notably the Dean of Mr. Allan and the Earl of Mr. Nutcombe Gould. The great champion of common sense, Lord Dewsbury, is curiously aggressive and unsympathetic, although invested with a certain amount of virility by Mr. Frederick Terry. In a word, Ibsen himself, for whom Mr. Robert Buchanan is understood to cherish little regard, could hardly be charged with greater perversity of plot and characterization than distinguishes The Charlatan. If cleverness were all sufficient in the dramatist, the prospects of The Charlatan would be excellent. Clever it unquestionably is, if occasionally ill-informed, but it contains nothing to stir the generous emotions of the public, the self-sacrifice of the chief character appearing only in the light of an unaccountable bêtise The next Haymarket production, according to Mr. Tree’s announcement, is to be an adaptation of a German play entitled Der Talisman.

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The Charlatan from The New York Times (19 January, 1894)

Buchanan’s New Play Produced.

     LONDON, Jan. 18.—”The Charlatan, a New Play of Modern Life,” by Robert Buchanan, had its first night at the Haymarket Theatre this evening. It is a satire on Theosophy. Beerbohm Tree as Philip Woodville played the title role, assisted by Miss Kingston as Mme. Obnoskin. In a seance at the Earl of Wanborough’s country seat Mme. Obnoskin summons the vision of the missing father of Wanborough’s niece, whom Woodville loves. The seance is followed by a thrilling scene in the turret chamber, where the Charlatan compels the niece to walk in her sleep and confess her love to him.
     The play is badly joined, but, despite its timeworn situations, is thoroughly interesting. It was received with cordial approval, and there were repeated curtain calls.

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The Charlatan from The New York Times (21 January, 1894)

     Robert Buchanan’s “Charlatan,” at the Haymarket, affords a vehicle for another of Beerbohm Tree’s very striking character studies, and curiosity to see this may keep the play on the boards for some weeks. Without this one part—and even that is the triumph of an actor in deadly despite of the author—the play is most unworthy rubbish.

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Dick Sheridan from The Times (5 February, 1894 - p.7)

COMEDY THEATRE.

     The fundamental incidents of Mr. Robert Buchanan’s new play are simple enough. In the polished and cynical society of Bath in the last century a young singer, familiarly known as “Betty,” wins all hearts. Among her more active admirers are Lord Dazzleton, a battered old beau; Captain Matthews, an army man of shady antecedents; and Dick, a penniless youth who dreams of winning fame and fortune by dramatic authorship. It is Dick whom the fair Betty prefers, and to escape the tyranny of a harsh father, who favours Lord Dazzleton’s suit, she elopes with her lover to France. By-and-by the runaways return husband and wife, but, pending the advent of the fame and fortune dreamt of, Dick settles down alone to work in his garret in London, leaving his young wife free to pursue her musical career. Eventually a play of Dick’s is accepted at Covent Garden. The great David Garrick reads the manuscript and thinks well of it; so does Lord Dazzleton; and both come to congratulate the unknown author in his attic. For the moment the old fop changes his mind on finding in the new dramatist who is said to combine the genius of Congreve and Farquhar a successful rival of his own, but he yields subsequently to Betty’s entreaty and becomes the young man’s most influential patron. Less generous is Captain Matthews, Dick’s other rival. He organizes a cabal against the new play without the knowledge of the author or his friends, who are eagerly counting upon a success. Thanks to these dark machinations the fond hopes of Dick and his beloved Betty, who visits him in secret, are temporarily dashed to the ground. Captain Matthews’s scheme proves only too successful. The news is brought that the play has failed on its first performance. In his dejection Dick renounces authorship altogether, and fights a duel in his garret with Matthews, who has come to taunt him with his misfortune, and who is disarmed and humiliated for his pains. The young man’s success with his rapier is only a preliminary to that gained by his pen. On the second night, we learn, the new comedy goes like wildfire, and the curtain falls upon the happy reunion of Dick and his bride. Considering how commonplace is this story as a story, how much inferior in dramatic grip to the avowed efforts of imagination of which Mr. Robert Buchanan has shown himself capable, it seems scarcely worth while to label its chief characters Miss Linley and Richard Brinsley Sheridan and to put it forward as an account of the first production of The Rivals. This, however, Mr. Robert Buchanan has done in Dick Sheridan. Not that he professes to be biographical! He expressly declares that his “new and original comedy” has “no pretensions to historical accuracy in matters of detail,” and, in truth, the production of the first work of any dramatist, say, of Mr. Buchanan himself, might be trusted to furnish incidents as moving as those here set forth. Nevertheless, biographical or not, he has tied himself down to a certain prosaic order of events which cannot be regarded as altogether effective from the stage point of view.
     In every well-made play there is a question of some kind placed before the house—an issue upon which the interest of the spectator hangs. What is the issue in the present case? The union of the oppressed lovers? Hardly so, for they are secretly married before the curtain rises on the second act. The event in which the spectator is expected to interest himself is mainly the fate of a piece called The Rivals, written by a young man named Sheridan. No doubt the issue of a story may be immaterial, provided the author gives a life-like representation of character, couched in more or less brilliant dialogue. But in this case Mr. Buchanan has the air of having sacrificed everything to his story, after the manner of the writer of melodrama. At faithful characterization certainly little or no attempt is made. With ordinary names substituted for those of Sheridan and Miss Linley, the play would proceed exactly as before; while in the matter of dialogue there is an almost studied avoidance of literary sparkle. Mr. Buchanan, in fact, has a strange fondness for juggling with names which have nothing behind them. Mr. H. B. Irving, who, it was announced some time ago, had given up the stage for law, but who would seem to have since changed his mind, is possessed of physical qualities which fairly well consort with one’s notions of Sheridan as a young man; but the title part, for which he has been cast, affords him no opportunity of depicting the character from the intellectual side. It is true Dick is discovered writing a scene of The School for Scandal, which he afterwards throws into the fire, whence it is rescued by a faithful Irish man-servant; true also that he is hailed by his intimates as the great wit of the age. But assuredly he furnishes in his own person no indication of surpassing genius. The author has not even created him in his own image, since wittier, if not wiser, things than are set down for this literary prodigy have constantly proceeded from Mr. Buchanan’s pen. Another example of Mr. Buchanan’s use of an illustrious name as a mere husk, so to speak, is the introduction of “David Garrick” in a scene where any ordinary walking gentleman would do sufficiently well, and where, indeed, an actor named Mr. Will Dennis acquits himself very creditably, the great man having only a few commonplaces to say, though, to do him justice, he looks greatness unutterable.
     To what extent this trafficking in names may help the author’s dramatic scheme it is difficult to judge. Some influence it may indeed exercise in his favour, since there will probably be little disposition on the part of the public to condemn the undramatic turn of a story which is understood to be trammelled by historical fact. The one obvious remark invited by the play is that, as an exposition of Sheridan the wit, the dramatist, the man of the world, it is valueless. It is really a love story of no particular merit, placed in a period which Mr. Buchanan’s literary instinct enables him to handle somewhat more deftly than the journeyman dramatist. The opening scene of the play, the Assembly-rooms at Bath, with its coming and going of fops and coquettes, is perhaps the happiest in a literary sense, as it is certainly the most picturesque. Here we make acquaintance, not only with Sheridan and Miss Linley, but with characteristic types of the period—a heartless, backbiting, slanderous, polished, overdressed set, of whom Mr. Cyril Maude as a grotesque old beau, Mr. Lewis Waller as the sinister captain, Mr. Sydney Brough as a man about town, Miss Vane and Miss Lena Ashwell as ladies of quality, are the more conspicuous members. The faithful Irish servant O’Leary, a “scholar and a jintleman,” is played with rare tact and feeling by Mr. Brandon Thomas. In Miss Winifred Emery Miss Linley finds a graceful and sympathetic representative. To Mr. H. B. Irving’s Sheridan reference has already been made. It is a performance which is pleasing at least to the eye, though necessarily marred by occasional crudities of style due to the actor’s inexperience. There only remains to add that the piece was rapturously—perhaps a little too rapturously—applauded by a large section of the house.

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An explanation of the origins of “Dick Sheridan” is available on the Buchanan’s Theatrical Ventures In America page.

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