Text: C. F. Briggs (?), Literary, Broadway Journal (New York), February 1, 1845, vol. 1, no. 5, p. ??

[page 73, column 2, continued:]

The Drama.

THE CHATHAM. — Chatham street has been a favorite location for theatres during the past twenty-five years. Since Barriere had his Pavilion and lemonade garden, where the Chatham street chapel afterwards stood, there have been some half a dozen different Thespian temples erected in the neighborhood. The first dramatic representation that we ever witnessed was under Barriere's management, and we remember hearing a good many discussions among the frequenters of that classic spot, about the relative merits of Mrs. Entwistle and Mrs. Waring. It was here that General Morris, then only a colonel, produced his first Opera of Briar Cliff, in which that immortal song was introduced, “William was holding in his hand, &c.” long before the days of Henry Russell and the “Tree,” and long before “long time ago,” even; here, too, Mr. Woodworth, the coadjutor of the Brigadier in the Mirror, produced the beautiful native Opera of the “Forest Rose,” and the celebrated Micah Hawkins brought out some of his classic dramas. These Were the palmy days of the drama, when the celebrated [page 74:] Colonel Stevenson, since a tobacco inspector, kept the refreshment room and served drinks to the ladies who frequented that charming spot. But these days are gone, never more to return, as some poet says. Mrs. Entwistle, we believe, has been gathered to her fathers, and Mrs. Waring became Mrs. Blake a long time since, and has doubtless grown old. The beautiful Mrs. Wallack first unveiled her charms to the public here, and the great Andrew Jackson Allen here made his most brilliant displays of costumery. A low comedian named Stevenson, used to give immense delight here by singing the favorite song “Such a beauty I did grow.” San-quirico and De Begnis were then eating macaroni in Italy, little dreaming that they would ever come to America and sing comic songs in the Tabernacle. How destiny shuffles men about, as though they were a pack of cards, excepting that in cards there are as many kings as knaves, while among men there are but few kings, and of knaves a good many.

The Chatham street people are essentially dramatic in their character: they are exceedingly fond of theatrical display, as may be seen by walking through that renowned thoroughfare any sun-shiny morning, or clear evening. Every thing here has an air of exaggeration and caricature. It was here that the big boot was first set up. You look in vain for repose or quiet. It appears, therefore, the most natural thing in the world that a theatre of some kind should always exist in Chatham street. The Park Theatre has been closed, to make room for the classic equestrians, but the Chatham is still devoted to the legitimate drama; what that is we do not very clearly comprehend, but we believe that tragedies and comedies in five divisions, which do not represent real life, are generally called the legitimate drama. The prices of admission to the Chatham theatre are by no means extravagant, a shilling being the price to the pit, and two shillings to the dress circles. A corner of the pit is partitioned off to form a saloon, at the entrance of which hangs-a transparency, informing the patrons of the drama that the best of liquors are sold within at three cents per glass, and that pigs’ feet and soused tripe may be obtained at the bar. This is all legitimate, of course; the city authorities confer the privilege of selling the best of liquors at three cents per glass to the youngsters who frequent this Thespian temple, as a special license; and take part of the profits of the same, to help support the rogues of one kind and another that are made by such means. We thus see how regularly and beautifully the cog-wheels of society are moved, apparently giving motion to each other, without revealing the power which sets the whole a-going. By way of antidote to the “best of liquors,” the theatrical decorator has made an imitation of the entrances of the House of Detention in the two ornamental doors at the sides of the proscenium, which seem to say to the youngsters in the pit, “take care!” This is a very happy idea, and the Egyptian style of architecture harmonises very well with the other parts of the house, particularly the view of West Point on the drop curtain, which contains some very remarkable examples of drawing in perspective.

We heard a very eloquent sermon a Sabbath or two since, on the destitution of the Turcomans in respect of good books. The preacher, who was a bishop, spewed himself perfectly familiar with the reading of the Sultan's subjects, and begged very hard for aid to send them something better. We wonder whether there be a licentiate, or a doctor of divinity in this great city, who has ever troubled himself to inquire into the nature of the mental food which is nightly administered to the young care-for-naughts, who fill the pit and galleries of this theatre? Yet it is surely of as much importance, in every respect, that the apprentices and newspaper boys of our city should be rightly instructed, as the learned barbarians of the east. These boys may possibly go to church once a week, but they go to the theatre every night. It is admitted that the stage is the most powerful method of enforcing a moral truth; and we do not see why some of those benevolent souls who bestow so much consideration upon the production of tracts to be circulated at home and abroad, should not give some attention to the amusements of the destitute youth of our city. It is one of the best and most commendable designs of “young England,” to elevate the amusements of the poor, and to furnish them with the means of rational enjoyment to entice them from the ale-house and the ring. There are sometimes highly objectional representations put upon the stage, which must have an injurious effect, beyond calculation, on the morals of the young who witness them. If some of the publications of the tract society were dramatised, we have no doubt that they would be highly popular. What people admire most is novelty; and a religious drama, divested of sectarian cant, would possess this charm in a high degree. The popular taste may easily be discovered by watching the causes of popular approbation; and we have always remarked, that among audiences like those of the Chatham, the best sentiments and the most virtuous actions receive the warmest applause.

Bulwer's Lady of Lyons was recently played here to a crowded house, and the virtuous sentiments contained in it produced rounds of applause. We could not but feel vexed that the author bad so spoilt an admirable moral, one so well adapted to benefit an audience of apprentices, in misrepresenting the true story upon which his drama was founded. La Perouse, or the Bellows-Mender, was the tale which he worked into a play; but by changing the course of action, by which the hero raised himself from poverty, he entirely destroyed the beauty of the moral, and rendered his drama much less effective than it would have been, if he had adhered to the integrity of the narrative. La Perouse, the original of Claude Melnotte, to prove himself worthy of the wife whom he had unworthily won, goes to Paris, and by industry and strict integrity in trade acquires a fortune, and returns to claim his bride, who has retired to a convent; but Bulwer has made him a soldier, who makes himself rich by robbing the Italians, and returns after two years of butchery and plunder, tricked out in epaulettes and plumes, and rescues his bride just as she is about to sell herself for money to his rival, after having sworn fidelity to her first husband. The whole teaching of his play is mischievous, and the sentiment of it exceedingly mawkish. As a work of art, the Lady of Lyons does not rise above the low standard of the conventionalities of the stage. People make long harangues at the elbows of others, who conveniently remain deaf and blind to all that passes, until the proper time comes for them to open their ears and eyes. Claude Meluotte returns from Italy after an absence of nearly two years, and is not recognised by his wife during a long conversation, because it would disturb the denouement of the plot if he were to do so. There are, in truth, as many gross inconsistencies in the drama now, as in the days of Nick Bottom. While, in all other departments of art improvements have been made to meet the exactions of a critical age, the stage has remained unchanged for the last two hundred years; we do not mean in the machinery of the stage, which is of no account, but in the construction of the drama, which is every thing. If Shakspeare could be laid on the shelf for half a century, an incubus would be removed from the drama, and it would rise to a level with the other arts.