Year: 1872

At dinner recently given to the proprietor
of one of the Boston theaters, Mr. George 5.
Hillard, who was in the chair, said: Large
/" theaters are for tragedy, and | confess |
should not much care if | could never see
tragedy again. Mr.. IIillard's preference, he
said, was "for light comedy and farce-the
things that make me laugh. We can con-
ceve of laughter in heaven, but not in the
other place. Satan doesn't laugh; he only
grins" OF course, the gentleman was not
speaking of tragedies bad enough to be drOll,
or badly acted enough to be diverting
Tragedy we know, is the elder sister, and
of her deepest solemnities comedy sis
only parody; but ancient and natural
tragedy belonged to an age of grim and
practical earnest, when matters which moved
pity and terror in a thcater were derived from
legends still popular and current, or when the
stage reproduced events within the memory of
the living. Ii is n popularity of the present
time, that our saddest and sternest experiences,
costly as we find them in social life, are still
too cheap for the theater as well as too mean
for paintng or the marble. What happens
now is not merely spoiled by the gloss of nov
city, but it seems hopelessly to lack dignity
enough for broad and lofty dramatic treat
ment. Most of our men of letters have, at
some period of their lives, thought of writing
an acting tragedy; but upon casting about
them for a subject, have been obliged to con-
fess that our history and the times did not
afford it. The truth is, the old tragedy went
out with the old gods. Subtract the super
natural element, and we have lett only good
deal of squabbling and homicide, which it re-
quires all the unique genius of Shakespeare to
dignity. English literature is tOlerably rich in
tragedies, but, saving Shakespeare's, they are
hardly ever played, and are totally deficient
in a present and human interest. We have
good third-rate work of the kind, but hardly
anything greater. Nothing written within the
last hundred years actually cheats us Of our
tears, if we except that shabby play of "The
"StraIger,n at which we weep copiously, with
an impression still that laughing would be
more proper.


But if we turn to comedy, farce, burlesque,
and pantomime, we begin at once to breathe
more natural atmosphere and to be hon
estly entertained. 1t is a relief, in the first
place, to put our dignity into our pockets it
is like dining on a sweltering dog's-day in
ones shirt-sleeves AN exceedingly ill-bred
thing to do, but so comfortablel Ihat winch
produces laughter is of no time or age-peo-
pie grin in New-York at the same things,
making allowance for o few differences of
manners, at which they snickered or roared
in Athens. Droll and perplexing situations,
the dilemmas and bothers and establishments,
are the same now as then. The ordinary
and homely action of human life has
not changed, and never will. If the great
night scene in the tavern, in Don QuixOte,
could be put upon the stage--if woman and
a man could be found to play Maritornes and
the carrier, what a splitting of sides there
would be in the pitt This is because real
mirth never grows stale. and no genuine and
unsophisticated embodiment of it obsolete.
There is no fussy and uxorious old man OF
our day who wears the breeches and laced
coat, or who swears the oaths of Sir Peter
Teaz)e-in fact there were hardly Any such