THEATRE REVIEWS

4. Corinne (1876)

Corinne
by Robert Buchanan
London: Lyceum Theatre. 26 June to 8 July, 1876.

Published: London: 1876. 78 p.; 19 cm. [“Corinne. A romantic play, by Robert Buchanan, in four acts. Entirely original. Privately printed, not for publication.”] Available at the Internet Archive.

Glasgow Herald (15 April, 1876)

     “What is a first-rate theatre?” This, the question which is being eagerly debated between Mr Robert Buchanan, poet and playwriter, and Mrs Fairfax, an ambitious actress for whom the former had written a drama. The play, when finished, so pleased the actress that she wrote her acknowledgments to the author, and added, in spontaneity of female enthusiasm, that it should only appear at a first-rate theatre, for there alone would the audience properly appreciate its beauties; and, moreover, it was due to those beauties that they should be displayed to the best advantage. The author naturally was pleased, and after considerable delay he received notice from Mrs Fairfax that she had concluded an arrangement with the manager of the Standard Theatre for the production there of Mr Robert Buchanan’s drama. Now the Standard Theatre happens to be situated in Shoreditch, not an aristocratic neighbourhood; but nevertheless its performances have always been held in high repute, and Macready, Kean, Phelps, and a host of other celebrities have in various times acted there. Mr Buchanan, however, will have nothing to do with East-End applause, and insists upon a first-rate theatre to be one situated in the West End. Here the matter rests for the present. Mrs Fairfax is much to be pitied, for she is not responsible for Mr Buchanan’s estimate of what is first-rate, and she might with reason think that she is quite prepared to act in his drama wherever it is produced, and that if Mr Buchanan is so eager for West-End applause he cannot better secure it than by inducing a manager of one of the theatres of that part of London to put the play on the stage.

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Glasgow Herald (27 June, 1876)

MR ROBERT BUCHANAN’S “CORINNE.”
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(FROM OUR OWN CORRESPONDENT.)
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                                                                                                                                London, Monday.
MR ROBT. BUCHANAN’S much-talked-of tragedy, which was written specially for Mrs Fairfax, was produced this evening at the Lyceum, and received with just that amount of official applause as to insure its early withdrawal from the bills. Whatever Mr Robert Buchanan’s talents may be, they certainly do not lie in the way of dramatic composition. The story, which opens with the marriage of the hero and the heroine, cannot escape the inevitable end of the death of one or both, and the machinery by which this dénoument is to be brought out is patent from the very first scene. The story is one which, under one phase or another, is common to those who have chosen the stirring times of the French Revolution for their theme. Corinne, a successful and beautiful actress, has been secretely married to Victor de Beauvois, a poor gentleman, who has been supported by his wife’s earnings, though how she has kept this fact as well as her marriage a secret from her brother does not appear from the story. Corinne’s brother, Raoul Recamier, an artist, is an Advanced Radical, and under the leadership of Marat develops later on into a distinguished citizen of the French republic. He has met at the club his sister’s husband or as he supposes him to be her lover, and although he considers him to be but a weak-kneed democrat he bears with him, content to have under his hand one whom at any moment he can abuse as an Aristocrat. Corinne has however attracted the admiration of the Abbé Lakore an epicure and a libertine, who persecutes her with his attentions, and when he finds her married to Victor de Beauvois, determines to lose no opportunity of breaking off the marriage. The first act closes with the announcement that Victor de Beauvois has succeeded to the family title and estates, and his proclaiming Corinne as his bride. In the next act we are introduced to Victor and his family, who, urged on by the Abbé, are ready to do anything to prevent the misalliance, and then comes the scene (n questionable taste) in the church where the marriage, on the point of being celebrated, is interrupted by the Archbishop of Paris. Victor de Beauvois, before the menace of the anger of the Church and society, plays a sorry figure, and the curtain falls on the fainting of Corinne, the arrest of her brother, and the collapse of the bridegroom. In the confusion which follows Corinne disappears, as subsequently is shown, with the village priest who had risked the Archbishop’s wrath by offering to marry the couple; and the third act gives us a fête at the Abbé’s house, near Paris, whether Victor comes to seek his long-lost wife and to force a quarrel with the Abbé, but with whom he quietly sits down to supper and enjoys himself with the other guests. Meanwhile, Corinne also arrives in search of her husband and is discovered by the Abbé, who attempts to poison her mind against her husband. In the midst of a struggle which ensues the guests, including Victor, arrive, and instead of the explanation which seems so obvious between the couple taking place, mutual recriminations are thrown by the one at the other, and no one would guess how the matter would end, were it not that the revolutionary citizens of Paris arming, with Raoul at their head, receive the fainting Corinne, and allow the other guests to go their own ways. The last act is in the Abbaye Prison, where Raoul is the officer in charge, and where Victor also appears as a prisoner. Corinne quietly follows, learning that her husband is in danger, and pleads for his life, on the plea that, whereas he has condemned her to life-long misery and sorrow, death is too good for him. After a vast display of words, which are hardly to be regarded as complimentary to marriage and the married state, “the victim” is handed over to the wife, who, in her turn, to show apparently that she bears no malice, dies to the sound of soft music as soon as her husband’s formal release is signed. The play apparently is written in prose, but occasionally it degenerates into blank verse, which adds neither fire nor dignity to the action. The characters are feebly conceived and as feebly represented, unless exception be made in favour of Mrs Fairfax, who made the best of a most ungrateful part. Mr Buchanan’s dramatic farce seems to be about on a level with his historic knowledge, otherwise he would not have called an act which represents the outbreak of the revolution “The Red Flag,” which did not become the national standard for many years after the fell of the Bastile.

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The Times (30 June, 1876 - p.8)

THE LYCEUM THEATRE.

     Mr. Robert Buchanan’s Corinne, an “original romantic” play in four acts, was produced on Monday night at this house, which has temporarily passed from the supervision of Mrs. Bateman to that of Mrs. Fairfax. This play is, according to a notice inserted in the play bills, a study of the same nature as a tale from the same pen now appearing in the Gentleman’s Magazine, and entitled the “Shadow of the Sword.” It is founded, as we are further informed, on one of many similar cases recorded in the French archives, and is intended to present a picture of society as it existed before the Revolution. But the author’s intention has unfortunately been so feebly seconded by the majority of the company which the present management has collected together, and is, moreover, of itself so inadequately executed, that, unless some very radical changes are wrought both in play and players, it is not, we fear, improbable that Corinne may before long become as extinct as the condition of society it is supposed to represent. From a share of the responsibility of so untoward a fate Mr. Buchanan cannot be absolved. It is true that the actors have not done much for him, but with no inconsiderable show of truth might they urge that he has done not much more for them. That a play written by a gentleman who has acquired what fame he enjoys by his poetry should, as a dramatic composition, show many faults will surprise none who know and can appreciate the almost measureless distinction between writing for the study and for the stage. It is not given to every one, no matter how distinguished in literature he may be, to attain dramatic distinction at a bound, and Mr. Buchanan’s previous efforts in this direction have hardly been numerous enough, or held possession of the stage long enough, to supply him with the necessary experience. That he should, therefore, have proved himself to be lacking in the science of stage-craft is, though unfortunate, not perhaps surprising, and can convey no imputation on him, either as a poet or as a man of letters. But there are worse faults than this in Corinne—faults of style, which should not be found in the work of a man of any degree of literary distinction. The language which Mr. Buchanan puts into the mouths of his characters, and there is a good deal of it, is now poor and weak, now turgid and declamatory, but rarely true either to nature or to art, and disfigured moreover by such grammatical blunders as no “fourth-form” boy would ever venture to commit twice. With regard to this latter fault it is, of course, difficult, without reference to the manuscript of the play, to define the amount of blame to be placed on the shoulders of M. Buchanan. He may have been cruelly treated by the actors, or he may have cruelly treated actors too conscientious to deviate one hair’s breadth from the exact words of their “study;” but an author may hardly complain if he is held answerable for all the literary demerits of a composition bearing his name, and, with whomsoever this particular fault may lie, it is at least due from him to the public, and would be well also for his own interests, that the fault be remedied as speedily as possible.
     It is rather a particular than a general picture of French society that Mr. Buchanan has endeavoured to present. His heroine is an actress, and his intention has been, we presume, to exhibit the peculiar condition of the stage at that time, not from a dramatic, but from a social point of view. He tells us in his little preface, that members of that profession were then not merely denied the rites of burial, but too often the rites of marriage. It is on such an incident that the action of his play hinges, and the general features of the state of things which produced the French Revolution are introduced merely as accessories to this particular idea. But they are too slightly drawn, and too inadequately represented by the actors to add much to the general effect. It is true that there are presented on the stage such real personages as Prince d’Artois, and that “strangest horseleech” of his, Jean Paul Marat, bur the playbill has about as much to say for them as they have to say for themselves, while the other characters are purely ideal characters, meant, indeed, to be typical of the times but possessing but little individuality of their own, nor able to impart much to the play. The principal personage is Corinne, the actress, and on her the author has evidently bestowed care, for which we could hope he will be better repaid. She excites, indeed, at first some compassion for her wrongs, but there is an insufficiency of motive about her subsequent actions, as well as an irrational and ill-directed passion for revenge, not in harmony with her general character, which tends to destroy our original sympathy. She is represented when the play opens, about the year 1780, as secretly married to a young Frenchman, Victor de Beauvoir, of good birth, yet at heart half a Democrat, and so tolerated by Raoul Recamier, her brother, whom an unfortunate passion for a pretty and well-born coquette, the Comtesse de la Vallee, has transformed from an industrious and well-mannered artist into the most bitter and uncompromising of Republicans. When Victor de Beauvoir blossoms into the Comte de Calvador, which he does at an early period of the story, he determines to make public his marriage with Corinne. Her introduction to his relatives, among whom is Raoul’s early love, is met with ominous ridicule, and we are tolerably well prepared for the refusal of the Church to confirm the marriage. Though the ceremony has already been commenced by a more tolerant member of the priesthood, this refusal is pronounced by the Archbishop himself, at the instigation of a certain Abbé de Larose, a conventional type of the elegant and dissolute clergy of the period. This Larose has himself, through the medium of diamonds, professed love for Corinne, but love and diamonds have alike been scorned. The interdiction of the marriage does not, however, benefit Larose, for when De Calvador, awed by the thunders of the Church, relinquishes his bride at the very altar, the unfortunate woman disappears from the world altogether. Some years elapse, about 12, before she appears again, which she does, clad in the blood-red garb of the Republic, in the gardens of the Chateau de Larose. It is the very eve of the Revolution; nevertheless the Abbé is entertaining a distinguished company in the most costly and extravagant manner, careless of the fact that while he is spending thousands of francs on a single feast the people are starving in the very streets of Paris. Among his guests is De Calvador, who still entertains, as is to be gathered from his funereal costume, some kindly feeling for the woman he has deserted. He unfortunately enters upon the scene to find this woman struggling in the embrace of the Abbé, who has but an instant before professed to him total ignorance even of her very existence. Then ensues a stormy scene of mutual recrimination and abuse, prolonged to a tedious extent, and founded on very insufficient grounds, for it has been made evident that the old love still survives in either heart, and neither the situation in which he finds her nor his behaviour at the time to her is a sufficient motive for the violence of their subsequent language. On these two scolding and on the rest of the revellers listening in attitudes of respectful attention bursts the mob of Paris, somewhat feebly represented, and headed by Raoul, and the curtain drops on  what, with more careful management, might have been made an effective and picturesque scene. The fourth and last act is laid in the Abbaye Prison, during those hundred hours “which are to be reckoned with the hours of the Bartholomew butchery, of the Armagnac massacres, Sicilian Vespers, or whatsoever is savagest in the annals of the world.” At the “Strange Court of Wild Justice” here held, Marat is represented as presiding, though, we fancy that, according to Mr. Carlyle, Stanislas Maillard, the hero of the Bastille, filled that office. Among the prisoners brought before them is De Calvador, who, as an aristocrat and the betrayer of their favourite Corinne, is doomed by the Sans Culottes to instant death. One the appeal, however, of Corinne, who promises for him, as her husband, a vengeance more terrible than any pike or sabre can inflict, he is spared. Whether this not too ingenious device eventually succeeds we know not, for before Corinne can free the man she still loves she dies in his arms of a broken heart, and the somewhat premature fall of the curtain, for which the stage is cleared in a rather clumsy manner, cuts short all speculations as to the future of De Calvador. There is, however, an effective scene in this act, when the Abbé is brought before the Tribunal. He is dragged on in a state of abject terror; but on being assured by Marat that he is merely to be removed to La Force—the formula at the Abbaye for death, as the removal to the Abbaye was the formula at La Force—recovers his self-possession to a certain extent, and with a ghastly affectation of his old grace and politeness walks out to his doom. This scene, though again somewhat marred by a clumsy bit of management, is certainly a powerful, though a horrible, one, and is well handled by Mr. Forbes-Robertson, whose picture of the Abbé is, in other respects, somewhat of a colourless one. Here, however, he acts with good effect, and if his emotions of physical terror are occasionally a trifle grotesque, the contrast between the immediate fear of death and the newly risen hope of life is justly conceived and cleverly carried out. It will be seen that though this play has many serious faults, it is not altogether destitute of sparks of dramatic fire. Unfortunately, these sparks are never fanned into a flame, and their occasional presence serves but to render the surrounding barrenness more cold and cheerless. Certain situations, it is true, there are which, as we have tried to show, should be, and might be, made effective, but they are but clumsily introduced, and marred moreover by a terrible prolixity of empty dialogue, and the action throughout the piece, which is intended to be brisk and stirring, is for ever obstructed by a stream of words not only in the circumstances altogether out of place but in themselves of but little value.
     Nor does the acting, with the exception already made, differ much from the dialogue. The unreal and extravagant nature of much of the sentiments and the language, and, to use an expressive phrase, the generally “transpontine” flavour of what he has to do and say, seem strangely to have affected Mr. Forrester, and there is a corresponding air of unreality and extravagance about his acting, for which his later performances had certainly not prepared us. Neither the garb nor the grace of the Court of Louis XVI. is easy to Mr. Warner, who is the Comte de Calvador; and the representatives of the other members of that society to whom we are introduced labour under the same disadvantage. Mrs. Fairfax herself undertakes the part of Corinne, but neither her experience nor, we fear, her powers are at all equal to the task.

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The Graphic (1 July, 1876 - Issue 344)

     THE most important dramatic production of the past week is Mr. Robert Buchanan’s Corinne, played for the first time on Monday at the LYCEUM, which house has passed for the summer season into the hands of Mrs. Fairfax. Mr. Buchanan has already written one piece for the stage, The Madcap Prince, produced at the Haymarket a year or two ago, but neither in that play, nor in his later and more ambitious production, has he exhibited either the vigour of language or the creative power displayed in some of his dramatic poems. The Madcap Prince introduced us only to Prince Charles, afterwards Charles the Second, as he has been represented on the stage in numerous dramas and comediettas, and furnished, on the whole, rather a shallow portrait, presenting little more than the surface attributes by which reckless gaiety and thoughtless gallantry in the great are wont to be indicated. In like manner the personages in Corinne are mere stage figures with which we have all become familiar, and, it may be added, a little weary.Corinne is a story of French society from the eve of thegreat French Revolution down to the massacre in the Abbaye in 1793. Its only historical personage is Marat, who is the Marat of the dreams of the orthodox historian—presenting no doubt very accurately the cold-hearted atrocity of the man, but also failing to endow him with any of those human traits which are rarely wanting to a character when depicted by the hand of a master dramatist. Similar objections may be urged against Mr. Buchanan’s samples of the old French nobility, who are not only very heartless, profligate, and sensual, but a1so very rude and disagreeable people, delighting in asserting their own rank, and in needlessly wounding the feelings of those beneath them in the social scale; while his typical French abbé not only takes snuff out of a gold snuff-box in a very artful and insinuating way, but makes dtshonourable advances to actresses in writing, and otherwise conducts himself with profligacy of a singular, open, and unabashed kind.Employing elements like these, Mr. Buchanan has devised a story which hc ca1ls “a study,” but which dees not differ much from other plays in which the wickedness of the old régime and the uprising of an oppressed nation are set forth in showy colours. From this point of view his play somewhat resembles the late Mr. Watts Phillips’ melodrama The Dead Heart—a far more stirring and vigorous production, however. Mr. Buchanan’s hero is a young noble who marries a distinguished actress, but deserts her because the Archbishop of Paris forbids the completion of the religious ceremony. He is a weak creature who allows himself to be thus led into an act of cruelty, although he is well aware that the thunders of the Church have simply been brought down by the wicked machinations of a profligate abbé, who has in vain endeavoured to corrupt the object of the young nobleman’s affection. No sooner, however, has he abandoned Corinne than he repents; but even then his conauct in associating with the persecutors of Corinne is so equivocal that the latter is still persuaded of his baseness. The play ends with the generous forgiveness of Corinne, who by her own intercession and the influence of her brother, a revolutionary leader, prevails on the tyrant Marat to spare the young nobleman’s life, whereupon Corinne, who, notwithstanding a hint of heart disease, appeared but a moment before to be in the enjoyment of robust health, falls to the ground and dies. There are stirring situations in this play of a melodramatic kind—notably that in which the Archbishop denounces the intended nuptials from the altar; and that in which Corinne sees her lover carousing with Marat and his associates through the window of the abbé’s chateau; but the acting is weak and ineffective, with the exception of the performance of Marat by Mr. Atkins, and Mr. Forbes Robertson’s impersonation of the Abbé, which, in the scene wherein he is represented as stricken down with terror in the presence of the assassins in the Abbaye, was singularly impressive. Mrs. Fairfax’s performance of the part of Corinne was, on the other hand, only successful in the opening scenes, where she is seen as the successful actress at home. For the more stirring situations of the latter part of the play she has little or no qualification. Her strength seems to be insufficient for great exertion; and she is altogether without the practical knowledge which might enable her to render melodramatic situations picturesque.

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The Era (2 July, 1876 - Issue 1971)

THE LYCEUM.

     Under the direction of Mrs Fairfax, a summer season was inaugurated here on Monday last, with Mr Robert Buchanan’s “original romantic play,” in four acts, and entitled Corinne, as the leading attraction. The work, according to the “special notice” issued by the Management, “is founded on one of many similar cases to be found recorded in the French archives, and is intended to present a picture of society as it existed before the Revolution. Members of the artistic professions were not merely denied the rites of burial, but were again and again refused the rites of marriage.” And then we are treated to the following quotation from Mr Buckle’s History of Civilisation in Europe:—“Who can wonder that the greatest and noblest minds in France were filled with loathing at the Government by which such things were done? Instead of being astonished that there was a revolution, by which all the machinery of State was swept away, we should rather be amazed at the unexampled patience by which the Revolution was so long deferred.” Mr Buchanan in his play introduces to our notice a member of an artistic profession who is persecuted by the Church, and refused the rites of marriage. We also hear of another who has been denied the rites of burial, but we look in vain for any representatives of “the greatest and noblest minds in France,” unless, indeed, our old acquaintance Marat and his butchers are to be included in the category. This same Marat is described through the mouth of his representative as something between a genius and a wild beast—and we are inclined to think that the larger half in the composition is beast and not genius. Another of the “greatest and noblest minds” is Raoul Recamier, the brother to the heroine, and an enthusiastic Republican, whose watchword appears to be “death to the aristocracy and bread for the poor.” It is this same brother who violently opposes the connection between his sister Corinne, the actress, and the gallant and aristocratic Victor de Beauvoir, who, before the story has proceeded far, becomes still more hateful to Raoul by inheriting the title of Comte de Calvador. The Comte, however, swears fidelity, and until we find him at the altar, with the woman whose heart he has won we imagine him to be the very soul of honour. His fear of the Church, however, is stronger than his love, and to the stern command thundered forth from the sacred steps by the Archbishop of Paris, and couched in words which tell him that although she may be his paramour she may not be his wife, he yields obedience. For poor Corinne has incurred the displeasure of the profligate Abbe de Larose by rejecting with scorn his shameful proposals, and against those high in authority even the honest Priest upon whose lips the blessing he would pronounce upon her union is arrested is powerless to protect her. It is not long, however, ere the Comte repents and blames himself for being frightened by the threats of an ecclesiastic, and for listening to the jeers and taunts and sneers of his proud and haughty connections. But when next the lovers meet the circumstances are very unpropitious. Corinne, wandering in the gardens of the Chateau de Larose—the very spot we imagine she would have avoided—sees through the window her husband—for her husband Victor is, notwithstanding that their union has been denied the sanction of the Church, revelling with Marat, who, strange to say, is accepted as a boon companion in an aristocratic circle. Her fears are awakened when her friend the Priest tells her that Victor is a doomed man; her jealousy is aroused when she sees him coquetting with a pretty Countess, and apparently forgetful of his past vows, and when Victor himself comes forth the misunderstanding is still further increased. For Corinne has again to listen to the infamous avowals of the Abbe de Larose, and Victor, altogether unmindful of his shabby treatment of the lady at the altar of Notre Dame, suspects her of infidelity and heaps upon her unoffending head the severest of reproaches. What wonder that, in the bitterness of despair, and with the memory of her wrongs fresh upon her, she heads the infuriate mob, and, seizing the “Flag of Liberty,” calls down upon him and his high-born associates the curse of the Revolution! But we have yet to see how true is woman’s love, and how her anger fades when danger threatens the object of her affection. The Abbe de Larose is sent to speedy execution by the rough-and-ready tribunal over which Marat presides. A like fate seems in store for Victor. Corinne is called as a witness against him. She does not shrink from the ordeal. She fiercely denounces him, and demands justice. But Corinne is acting a part to save her husband’s life. When sentence is pronounced she protests that death is too good for a man so bad. “Give him to me, “ she cries; “I’ll break his heart as my heart was broken. I was his victim; he shall be my slave.” Here we make a very near approach to the ridiculous, for the thought inevitably arises that poor Victor for the remainder of his days will be henpecked, and that Corinne will become a very powerful representative of the Woman’s Rights question. Marat and his companions, however, make no objection, and when husband and wife are left alone to express mutual forgiveness, poor Corinne is suddenly seized with illness, and dies with happiness just within her grasp. From this sketch of the story it will be seen that in the drama there is much to interest, and it is only fair to say that the work boasts some dialogue of high literary excellence (mixed, however, with some that is very artificial); and that several of the scenes are thoroughly dramatic. Mr Henry Forrester gave us a very forcible rendering of the enthusiastic and slightly hot-headed Raoul Recamier, his speeches marked by fiery indignation against the aristocrats, and the corruption prevailing among them being delivered with an amount of earnest eloquence which stirred even those who had little sympathy with the doctrines propounded. Mr Charles Warner looked remarkably well as Victor, and we may compliment him on a very even and highly intelligent exposition of the part. After the scene of the third act, in which Victor encounters the Abbé de Larose, demands to know the whereabouts of Corinne, and fiercely rebukes her persecutor, Mr Warner was honoured by a storm of applause. Mr T. Mead was the Archbishop. He had but one chance, viz., the scene at the altar in the second act, but of this he made the most. Unfortunately, however, the scene, with its travesty of religious observances, with its brawling around a holy spot, and the mitred priest presented as the advocate of vice rather than of virtue, jarred upon the sensibilities of the audience, and Mr Mead must have been conscious of the fact that he had a most unthankful task to fulfil. Mr Forbes Robertson did not do all that was possible with such a part as that of the Abbe de Larose, but in justice we must state that he accomplished more than we expected, and that he showed a marked improvement upon all his former efforts. His exhibition of terror in the closing act erred only on the side of exaggeration. Mr E. Atkins made prominent the revolting traits in the character of the detestable Marat, and Mr H. Moxon played remarkably well as the good priest of the story, Father Doré. Mr C. H. Fenton had but little opportunity to show his ability as the Vicomte de Laverne; and Mrs Fairfax, although exhibiting great intelligence as the heroine, lacked physical power to do full justice to the part. Her best scenes came early in the play, and she contrived with considerable skill to arouse the sympathies of the audience for the despised Corinne. Very effective, too, was the lady in the scene of the third act, where, having listened to the undeserved reproaches of the Comte, she turns upon him, with scorn flashing from her eyes and bitterness upon her lips, in the words “Thou prate to me of honour!” Mrs Fairfax was repeatedly applauded. Mrs E. Fitzwilliam evinced her wonted skill as the Vicomtesse de Laverne, the lady who doats on the curious among humanity—“actors, authors, actresses, and that sort of people.” Minor parts were supported by Messrs Collett, Sargent, Harwood, Miss Amy Lionel and Miss Clare. The play has been nightly preceded by the farce entitled A Pretty Piece of Business.

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The Graphic (15 July, 1876 - Issue 346)

—The career of Mr. Robert Buchanan’s drama, entitled Corinne, has been cut short, Mrs. Fairfax having relinquished the management of the LYCEUM, which has since remained closed. A great success, however, is nevertheless claimed; the cessation of the performance being attributed in public advertisements solely to “the lateness of the season,” though it is obvious to remark that the “season” is after all only ten nights older than when the new management entered on its labours.

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The Brisbane Courier (9 September, 1876 - p.3)

Piccadilly Points of View.
[BY OUR LADY CORRESPONDENT IN LONDON.]

..... The close of the season, so far as the present Lyceum company are concerned, introduces another novelty on its boards. Mr. Robert Buchanan, the poet, novelist, critic, and pamphleteer, who has had rather a stormy time of it lately, owing to some imprudent deliverances of his which the critics have come down upon severely, has written a play called “Corinne.” I am given to understand that Madame de Stael’s heroine is not implicated in the transaction in any way, but that the drama refers to the pre-Revolutionary period in France, and is founded upon some class wrongs and social sufferings of that never sufficiently-to-be- castigated epoch. The chief rôle is to be acted by a lady who has adopted “Mrs. Fairfax” as a stage name, and as she is an amateur, wise folk foretell a collapse for the actress and the play. We shall see. Mr. Robert Buchanan, being a poet, will by no means call his play a play—though Tennyson’s “Queen Mary” went down in the bills as a drama—so there appears an advertisement to the awed public that they are to prepare to behold “A study of the same nature as the author’s ‘Shadow of a Sword,’ now appearing in The Gentleman’s Magazine. It is founded on a romantic case to be found recorded in the French archives, and pictures a condition of society now happily extinct.”

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The Times (13 January, 1877 - p.10)

[from] THE THEATRES IN 1876.

... The year has closed as it began, with the performance of Macbeth; but during the temporary absence of Mrs. Bateman a play written by Mr. Buchanan was given, Corinne, though dealing with a dramatic, albeit well-worn subject, the French Revolution, was in itself so weak, both in construction and in writing, and, with one single exception, so worse than indifferently acted, that its life was brief indeed, nor is there much probability of its ever being revived from the limbo to which it was hastily consigned.

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