New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1868-06-17


The dramatic merit of these productions is
hardly worth discussion. The same can scarce
ly be said of Mr.. Tom Taylors Still Waters"
which is a good comedy in outline, and well
deserved the seven representations which,
during the season, it received The gods having
refused to vouchsafe to us Shakespeare, for
reasons perfectly satisfactory to their godshps. |
we must manage to get along with Thomas
Taylor, who in " Still Waters" at least does not |
bore us and send us yawning to our beds. In |
its infancy we attended upon this play for six |
consecutive nights, and we must frankly own
that more agreeable piece of jOinery never
came under our observation. TO be sure as
we saw it lin Boston, it was charmingly cast
with Hawksley" played by a most vivaciOus
and accomplished actor (Field). who, alas
has g0ne and with " John Midway" in the
mouth of an artist who little deserved the sub
sequent misfortunes which overlook him, and
awakened the sympathy of all who had in
other days been delighted by his "RObert
"Macaire," and Sergeant Austerlitz." 1t
would be absurd to speak of "Still Waters as
a work of extraordinary genius, but it has the
merit, now a little uncertain, of frOwning upon
rather feeble attempt at adultery, and
"Hawksley," so far as it goes, is genuine
dramatic conception, and has distinct refer
ence to the actual foibles and vices of the age,
without any effort to amuse feyerlsh SYM
pathy for rascality. Taken as whole, the
play is fresh, sweet and wholesome; and we
thus dwell upon it, for the sake Of enforcing
an opinion which we have long entertained.
We believe, if the same ability could be en-
listed in behalf of the drama which is lavlshed
to such good purpose Upon nOvel-writing and
metrical composition, that speedily the public
taste would be elevated and we might have
once more upon the stage a tOlcrable dellnea-
ton of living manners. 1t would be as great
an error to object to plays which revive the
manners and customs of the past as to cen
sure the historical novel. The drama OF the
past has its peculiar value, but why may we
not have, side by side with it, if for no other
purpose but that of critical comparison, the
drama of the presents The stage has two
normal purpOses-the delineatiOn of manners,
which are constantly shifting, but IN which we
have an inherited interest, and the display OF
passions which were yesterday as they are to-
day. If we join what is essential and immuta-
bic with the temporary forms through which it
differently manifests ITSELF in different eras
adhering mainly for our own purposes to what
may be called contemporary costume, we can
have them other things being equal, as perfect
a drama as the world ever saw. But the shadow
of tradition darkens the whole stage, and we
can never get fairly free of the heroes OF
Alexander but go cropping about, wondering
why there is no Illuminating power III our own
heroes and heroines, and never for moment
discerning that it is simply because we Will
have them in masquerade of hoops, cooked
hats knee brooches, and wigs, which we firmly
believe has not been changed since the days of
Betterton. 1t is well enough, now and then, to
have a fOp of the eighteenth century exhibited
to the nineteenth-a delicate donkey who cries
out "Stap my vitalsm or "'Fore Cad y but the
true want is the creation of somebody who VIII
swear according TO the fashion of A. ID. 1868.
We like to know what fine lady was in Con-
greve's time no curiosity is more natural; but
why not let us occasionally see what fine
lady is in New-YOrk in the present year of
grace9 Why can't we have Mrs. POtphar on
the STAGE Why can't we have the man who
perspires in Wall-st., and who bulls and bears
himself hOarse every day of his hfe deity
drawn by some modern AristOphanesY Has
human nature taken leave of all its old time alb
surdities! Have we all been stretched upon
one Procrlstean bed, or shortened there to
uniformity of stature We all know better. We
all know somebody who would cut a fine
figure upon the boards-some devOuring usurer,
some philosophical fool, some foxy politician,
some meddler with more babbe than brains,
some ass above whose cOat-collar the Midas
ears are visbly shooting All about us is pre-
tense, affcctation, hypocrisy, and the hundred
shapes of human wickedness and weakness, but
somehow, do the best we can, we can never
get them into a comedy. All about us is sor-
row. misfortune; woes that break the heart
and destnes that sterny rule its pulsations,
but somehow, do the best we can, we can never
get them into n tragedy. We are under
spell. Is there nobody left with natural, vital
energy enough to break it