THEATRE REVIEWS

12. A Sailor and His Lass (1883)

A Sailor and His Lass
by Robert Buchanan and Augustus Harris.
London: Drury Lane Theatre. 15 October to 8 December, 1883.
Provincial tours still being advertised in 1898.

There was a brief exchange of letters on the subject of dramatic criticism in The Era.
Novelisation: Stormy Waters by Robert Buchanan (London: John and Robert Maxwell, 1885.)
(Harriett Jay played the role of Mary Morton.)

[Advert for a revival of A Sailor and his Lass  from The Stage (22 May, 1885 - p.12)]

The Times (16 October, 1883 - p.3)

DRURY-LANE THEATRE.

     The prime merit of the grand new melodrama produced last night at Drury-lane is that it is set forth in five acts, in no fewer than 17 tableaux. A minor virtue is that it enables Mr. Augustus Harris to continue, in the character of a jack tar, that career of reckless but triumphant heroism in which he has already done so much to shed lustre upon the naval and military services of the country. For the rest, A Sailor and his Lass does not differ greatly from the accepted type of melodrama which a certain section of the public seem to delight in seeing again and again, and which, on analysis, will be found to resolve itself into the persecution of a chivalrous hero by a well-dressed but unscrupulous villain, whose ulterior object is to supplant his victim in the affections of a lady. Assuming that this familiar theme is worthy of being illustrated once again upon the stage, it may be conceded that Mr. Robert Buchanan and Mr. Augustus Harris have displayed great fertility of invention and mechanical resource in their manner of setting it forth. They have laid both land and sea under contribution for thrilling episodes, and not content with introducing a malicious shipwreck and an exciting rescue, and with transporting the centre of interest from the high seas to the bar of the Old Bailey, and even to the condemned cell in Newgate, they shatter the nerves of the house with a dynamite explosion.
     It is, indeed, mainly upon the introduction of dynamite as a factor in melodrama that the claims of this play to novelty must rest. The dynamite explosion is not, perhaps, strictly speaking, new, since a similar incident was introduced by Mr. Pettitt a year or two ago into his Adelphi drama Taken from Life. But here for the first time we are brought face to face with the members of a secret dynamite society in the guise of dramatis personæ and are shown a lurid interior, suggestive of a blacksmith’s forge where the villainous compound is made. Unfortunately this striving after the realistic is not accompanied by a sufficient degree of invention on the part of the authors to justify it from the strictly dramatic point of view. The explosion, which occurs in a scene representing a metropolitan police station, has nothing whatever to do with the story; and even the society to whose agency it is attributable has no raison d’être beyond helping to wreck the ship in which the hero sails. In other and more legitimate ways, however, an abundance of spectacle and incident is provided. Peaceful farm-yard scenes, in one of which a live cow is seen in process of milking, alternate with picturesque views of the docks and the interior of a sailor’s dancing saloon in Ratcliff Highway and the sinking of a huge ship in full view of the house, to say nothing of the more familiar spectacle of a criminal court of justice and a prison interior. In view of so much scenic magnificence, the acting of Mr. Augustus Harris, Mr. Fernandez, Miss Harriet Jay, Miss Sophie Eyre, Mr. Henry George, and the numerous other members of the cast necessarily possessed little importance. The fact remains, however, that a remarkable Drury-lane success has been achieved.

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The Daily News (16 October, 1883 - Issue 11702)

DRURY LANE.
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     It was just ten minutes past twelve last night when Messrs. Buchanan and Harris came forward to bow their acknowledgments of the applause which had greeted the production of their new romantic melodrama, The Sailor and His Lass, at Drury Lane. They had had a good story to tell, and had told it by no means ill; moreover they and their colleagues had illustrated it with all the full and varied effects now thought not only appropriate but actually necessary on such occasions. The elaborate machinery of the stage had worked without an apparent hitch, and the waits between the acts had not been excessively long. And yet it was felt—by the authors probably not less than by the audience—that these four hours and a half, these five acts, and these seventeen tableaux, had proved far too much of a good thing. The fault is one which should not be difficult to remedy, and it should be remedied forthwith, for as it stands the piece has worn out the interest of its spectators exactly when its most exciting moment should be reached. The fault is not one merely of superfluous dialogue; it affects whole scenes which are not in the least wanted for the development of the main plot, and can hardly be required for mechanical reasons now that the management here has adopted the system of dropping the curtain in the middle of the act when one set-scene has to be exchanged for another.
     The title, A Sailor and his Lass, has for most English playgoers a pleasant, hearty ring about it, suggestive of a simple love-story, though possibly of complicated misadventures, of troth plighted, of vows kept under difficulties, of struggles with land-rats and water-rates, and finally of the happy ending, which comes to all melodrama be it never so late in the evening. Such promise is more than fulfilled at Drury Lane. It is indeed probable that there has seldom been a jolly tar to whose lot it has fallen to meet with stranger accidents than befall Mr. Augustus Harris in the person of Harry Hastings, before the schemes of a scoundrel can be defeated and the hand of a fair bride can be won. Partly, it must be confessed, these troubles are of his own seeking. He has a sort of instinct for squabbles and fights and dangers. If a Land League agitator is making himself obnoxious it is the gallant young sailor who must step forward to bandy rough arguments with him. If manufacturers of dynamite have to be disturbed at their hellish work Harry Hastings is to the fore. It is her who rescues the virtuous rustic maiden while she is being plagued by the amorous squire; it is he who hands the last life-belt to the stowaway when the ship is sinking; it is her who, clinging to the mast, saves the life of his would-be murderer until that life is again forfeited by the monstrous ingratitude of his protégé. He is a fine fellow, this dashing mate of the Albatross, and eh seems to us to deserve a better fate than to be tried for murder, to be condemned to death, and to march pinioned to the gallows before the reprieve arrives to save him from this last injustice. It is all a matter of taste of course, and these scenes in the condemned cell were evidently relished last night by many of their spectators. But to us this Newgate realism, which is really not needed to bring about an impressive and satisfactory finale, is morbid and wholly disagreeable. The form of entertainment derived from a life-like representation of the Dynamite Explosion in Downing-street is not particularly elevated; but it is certainly less unhealthy than this prolonged study of the preliminaries and accessories of death at the hands of the hangman. The explosion which occurs in the second act is skilfully arranged, and the dramatists have taken the liberty of tracing it to two of their characters—one of whom, an old farmer named Morton, is the tool of the other, a certain Number 13. This latter is a most uncompromising ruffian, having ruined one of Morton’s daughters, and incited her frenzied father to avenge the seduction by the murder of an innocent man. For reasons which must be taken for granted, this arch villain has a hand in the wrecking of the hero’s ship—and it is this wreck as illustrated at Drury Lane that will probably make the fortune of the piece. An unintentionally droll effect is, it is true, produced by the simultaneous exhibition of the exterior and interior of the vessel as she rolls and pitches on the waves, and the only wonder from this point of view is that she does not founder much earlier in the scene. But in spite of this defect—inevitable in the circumstances—the whole episode, with the subsequent perils and rescue of the crew, is most picturesquely dealt with, and Mr. Emden well deserved the credit which he here obtained for his skill.
     The dialogue of the play, which gives few reminiscences of Mr. Buchanan’s literary art, was spoken with all due emphasis by Mr. Harris as the hero, by Miss Harriett Jay as the heroine, and particularly by Miss Eyre as the heroine’s deeply-wronged sister. The misguided old farmer has one powerful scene, which came too late in the drama to allow Mr. Fernandez’ ability in ti to be fully recognised. Messrs. Harry Jackson and Nicholls gave the necessary comic relief in their subordinate rôles of cabman and timid conspirator; and Miss Clara Jecks made a clever sketch of the stowaway. Altogether, there is so much good material of one kind and another in The Sailor and his Lass, that, when it is duly digested and condensed, it can scarcely miss its mark. But the condensation must be prompt and unsparing.

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The Pall Mall Gazette (17 October, 1883 - Issue 5809)

“A SAILOR AND HIS LASS.”

IF elaborate scenery and realistic stage effects constitute a good melodrama then “A Sailor and his Lass” must be numbered among Mr. Harris’s Drury Lane triumphs. There are numberless thrilling scenes, moving incidents, and dramatic situations. The audience is delighted to have the scent of the hay wafted to it, and welcomes the agricultural details, the real cow and the apple-blossom, with undoubted warmth. If a four-wheeled cab, drawn by a real grey mare, raises enthusiasm, what can be expected from a dynamite factory, an explosion, a storm, a workable ship, a wreck, and a hanging? Surely these are enough to make the fortune of any sensation drama. But he would indeed be a phenomenal genius who could give compactness and continuity to a play which was divided into five acts and seventeen tableaux. So with all its realism and scenic pictures—which Mr. Harris knows so well how to produce—the story itself plays quite a subordinate part, and the action is delayed over and over again for the stage carpenter. The story is simplicity itself. Harry Hastings is the sailor hero, and Mary Morton is his sweetheart. Richard Kingston is the villain, whose hands gradually come to be imbued with every crime under the sun. He has betrayed Esther Morton, and having cast her off he falls in love with her sister Mary. Farmer Morton, the father of the two girls, is led to think that the squire of the village is the man who has wronged his daughter. The squire and the farmer meet, angry words pass, Morton draws his knife and runs his landlord through the body. Kingston, the diabolical, finds him redhanded, consents to keep his secret, and accuses the unfortunate Hastings, (who is some distance away at the time) of the murder, attributing jealousy as the cause. By the murder Kingston succeeds to the property of the squire, who is his cousin. Meanwhile Esther and her child have been turned adrift on the world’s mercy, and Hastings has promised to take her far away across the ocean, where she can hide her shame. The scene then shifts to a disreputable London street, with a mews on one side and a dynamite factory on the other, the interiors of which are both disclosed. A comic cabman (his morality is so unexceptionable that Mr. Harris really ought to put every London cabby on his free list) drives up with his four-wheeler and grey mare, bearing with him Esther and her child, whom he consigns to the temporary shelter of his own roof-tree. In the middle of an admirably managed thunderstorm, a number of conspirators arrive, and are admitted to the dynamite factory. Then Hastings appears, and quickly gets into mischief. He enters the factory, and is at once surrounded by the dynamitards, among whom, oddly enough, is the now wealthy Kingston. He is allowed to depart scot-free, but fearing that his secret alliance will be betrayed Kingston resolves that he must die. He manages to pass off his gang as sailors upon the captain of Hastings’s ship, the Albatross, and strict orders are issued to despatch him at the earliest opportunity. Here the scene is introduced in which a terrible dynamite explosion occurs, though apparently without any motive. The ship sails, and presently we find her in what we must suppose is mid-ocean. The ship itself, though no doubt the result of much thought and ingenuity, does not seem to be built on any approved model, and it would puzzle a jury of sailors to determine her rig. When we see her she is supposed to be driving away before a good “slant” of wind, but the sails flap about, and have a most unnautical appearance. Another contrivance, though necessary, does not heighten the illusion. The sides of the ship are drawn up like window blinds, and we have the interior disclosed to us. This wonderful craft knocks up against a reef and breaks to pieces, some of the crew escaping in a boat. They are lucky enough to reach a lighthouse which happens to be handy, and are rescued by the benevolent keeper and his old wife. The curtain again rises on the tableau of the play. We see a wide expanse of ocean, with the rigging of the foundered ship sticking up in its midst. To this frail support Hastings, Esther and her child, and the chief dynamitard are clinging. The dynamitard and Hastings have a deadly struggle, in which the latter flings his opponent headlong into the water. Then, opportunely enough, the lighthouse-keeper and his wife come to the rescue of these much-suffering people and carry them off. Hastings returns home, is accused of the murder of the squire, and is sentenced to death. Then  matters look serious indeed, and for a moment it really appeared as if a grave departure was to be made from all the established rules of melodrama. We see him pinioned in his cell in Newgate, the chapel bell tolls mournfully, he is led out, preceded by a procession of warders, and taken to the scaffold—a sight of which we, fortunately, are spared. The black flag is got ready to hoist, when some one comes rushing in with a reprieve, and Hastings is saved, evidently not a moment too soon. Of the taste of all this we say nothing. The advocates of realism can wish for nothing more.
     Mr. Harris as Harry Hastings, the brave British tar, entered thoroughly into the spirit of his part, making patriotic speeches, uttering glowing sentiments, moralizing here, preaching there, righting the wronged, and generally setting the world straight. In a word, he plays with his usual zeal and performs some Herculean labours. Mr. henry George, as Richard Kingston, made a most redoubtable villain, and Mr. Fernandez played with much quiet force and good judgment as the much-wronged farmer. Miss Harriet Jay, to whom was assigned the part of the sailor’s lass, Mary Morton, was satisfactory, though a little too unemotional. Miss Sophie Eyre gave an admirable impersonation of Esther. The philanthropic cabman was done to the life by Mr. Harry Jackson. Mr. Harry Nicholls was amusing as the voluble Land League agent, the trembling conspirator, and the sea-sick “mariner.” Both cabman and conspirator gave a pleasant relief to the monotony of the story itself. In the earlier part of the evening the piece was received with much enthusiasm, and was evidently much to the taste of the audience; but it dragged visibly towards the end, which came about a quarter-past twelve. If Mr. Harris will strike out a few of the superfluous scenes and a slice of the tiresome dialogue, there is no reason why, with all its absurdities, “A Sailor and his Lass” should not secure some measure of the success which has attended his former efforts.

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The Stage (19 October, 1883 - p.14)

DRURY LANE.

     On Monday, October 15, 1883, was produced here a new drama, in 5 acts, by Robert Buchanan and Augustus Harris, entitled

A Sailor and his Lass.

Harry Hastings          ...     ...     Mr. Augustus Harris
Walter Carruthers     ...     ...     Mr. William Morgan
Richard Kingston      ...     ...     Mr. Henry George
Michael Morton        ...     ...     Mr. James Fernandez
Bob Downey            ...     ...     Mr. Harry Jackson
Green                       ...     ...     Mr. Harry Nichols
Ben Armstrong         ...     ...     Mr. John Ridley
Captain of the “Albatross”        Mr. A. C. Lilly
Bradley                    ...     ...     Mr. Charles Sennett
Hurt and Coffee-stall keeper    Mr. Arthur Chudleigh
Connell                    ...     ...     Mr. Bruton
Larry O’Brien          ...     ...     Mr. P. Fairleigh
Master of Ceremonies      ...     Mr. Frank Parker
Waiter                     ...     ...     Mr. O’Kill
Lighthouse Keeper   ...     ...     Mr. G. Gillett
Judge                       ...     ...     Mr. C. Douglas
Clerk                       ...     ...     Mr. Nicholson
Foreman                  ...     ...     Mr. Phipps
Governor of Newgate      ...     Mr. Villiers
Smith                       ...     ...     Mr. B. H. Bentley
Chaplain                  ...     ...     Mr. C. Johnson
Sheriff                      ...     ...     Mr. Lewis
Mary Morton           ...     ...     Miss Harriet Jay
Esther                      ...     ...     Miss Sophie Eyre
Barby                      ...     ...     Miss Lottie Young
Polly                        ...     ...     Mrs. Lennox
Susan                      ...     ...     Miss Cissy St. George
First Masher            ...     ...     Miss Addie Grey
Mary Brown            ...     ...     Miss Emily Clare

     This is an effective, but not, on the whole, a skilful specimen of the play panoramic or ultra-sensational that is constructed altogether on faulty principles. A drama to be worth anything should be so designed as to allow its scenery and sensation to spring naturally and effectively out of the given story. Mr. Augustus Harris thinks otherwise, and is evidently firmly convinced that for Drury Lane all that is wanted is a story written up to given scenes and sensational effects. We are aware that this plan has succeeded before, in the teeth of critical opinion; but the faultiness of the system is clearly shown when Mr. Harris comes to work with a gentleman who may be a very good novelist, but has never yet shown any capability as a dramatic writer. Mr. Paul Meritt and Mr. Augustus Pettitt were both trained under Mr. George Conquest, and know how to carpenter a play for the stage—they have studied dramatic construction as an art. Mr. Robert Buchanan knows little, or next to nothing, about the stage, and can only be guided on such matters by Mr. Harris, who is himself comparatively young and inexperienced. A Sailor and His Lass looks to the critical spectator as if the two authors had hunted out every possible dramatic device, situation and sensation, and had determined to weld the fragments together with a curious amalgam. No matter how discordant were the component parts, the dramatists made up their minds to hammer them together. The result is not satisfactory. Dynamite explosions, drinking dens in Ratcliffe Highway, scuttling of ships, shipwrecks, stories of stowaways, rescues from watery graves, trials at the Old Bailey, condemned cells, and realistic executions do not go well together. They do not harmonise or commingle, and the audience leaves the theatre in anything but a peaceful or satisfied frame of mind. Time was when one sensation scene, as it was called, was sufficient for any play. The Colleen Bawn and Arrah-na-Pogue were beautiful works that did not wholly depend on the Water Cave scene or the Ivy Tower. They were good plays independent of sensation. So to a great degree is The Silver King. Sensation assists it but, does not make it. In this instance, Mr. Harris has, in his endeavour to catch the vulgar applause, too directly jeopardised his chance of success. He has out-Heroded Herod, and run the risk of offending some of his staunchest patrons. The political and social dialogues are certainly not in the best taste, for, granted that we do not agree with political agitators of the Joseph Arch type, who set the agricultural labourers by the ears, they are vastly different from manufacturers of dynamite and black-hearted assassins. It is to be regretted also that public taste is so degraded as to relish for its amusement scenes so painful and revolting as are supposed to take place between the condemnation and execution of a criminal at Newgate. This is morbid stuff at the best, but as here presented it is earnestly to be reprehended.
     The hero of the play is one Harry Hastings, who, by his unassisted actions, burlesques melodrama. His deeds are too preposterous even for this exaggerated picture of life’s romance. The lass of the sailor in question is Mary Morton, the daughter of a discontented old farmer, whose second daughter has been ruined by an unknown scoundrel. The scoundrel in question is Richard Kingston, who is the head of a league of dynamiters at war with society in general but very much satisfied with themselves. The sailor and the dynamite chief both love Mary Morton, but this fact is known alone to the girl. Suddenly the repentant Esther Morton comes down to the farm, but is spurned by her father because she will not reveal the name of her seducer. The gallant Harry therefore interferes, and bears her away to London, in order to ship her off to a new country. When his back is turned, Kingston poisons old Morton’s mind and makes him believe that the seducer of both his children is the young squire who is pestering him for rent. In a fit of drunkenness the old farmer stabs the young squire, and Kingston undertakes to say that Harry Hastings has committed the crime if only Mary Morton is given to him. This, as will be seen, is an improbable and ill-considered situation. There is no reason on earth why Harry should be accused of such a crime, and no probability that Mary will ever believe it if the accusation is made.
     The scene changes to London and we naturally suppose that some steps will be taken to bring Harry to justice. Nothing of the sort. The second act is occupied in getting Harry off to sea with his future sister-in-law, and with complicated arrangements for inducing a gang of dynamiters to ship as sailors in order to mutiny on Harry’s vessel. When the ship has sailed with harry, his adopted sister, her illegitimate baby, and the dynamite crew, for some extraordinary and unexplained reason, a street in London is blown down by old Morton, the farmer, at the instigation of Kingston. No one can tell why or wherefore the explosion takes place, or can understand why Mary Morton is supposed to have perished in the explosion. A more mysterious and unnecessary sensation scene was never placed on the stage. In the third act the dynamiters turn to their work, mutiny, and would have scuttled the ship had it not been for a stowaway, whose life Harry had saved. As it is, the brig becomes a total wreck, and Harry, his sister and the baby are only saved by a miracle from a watery grave. The whole act is one of excitement and not of interest. The ship is a hideous property, that excites ridicule rather than astonishment. The lighthouse is an old effect, and so is the imminent death on the wrecked spars. Change it into a raft, and it has been better done very recently. When the shipwrecked Harry returns to win his beloved Mary, he finds to his astonishment that he is arrested on the charge of murder, committed before he sailed, and concerning which he could prove the most complete alibi ever heard in a court of law. But he is tried at the Old Bailey, condemned to death on perjured evidence, and given over to the hangman. We have the usual distressing details, the condemned cell, the intimation from the governor that the last moments have arrived, the parting interview, with its shrieks and sobs, the arrival of the sheriffs, the procession to the scaffold with chaplain and pinioned man, the hoisting of the black flag, when, of course, at the last moment, a reprieve arrives, owing to the tardy confession of old Morton that he, and not Harry, was the actual murderer. The evident plagiarism from Black-Eyed Susan is no improvement on the original, and it is needless to add that artistes of greater strength and expression than Mr. Harris and Miss Harriett Jay are required to make these Newgate scenes effective. They break down when they should be strongest, and had it not been for the acting of Mr. Fernandez, when old Morton confesses, it would have gone hard with the play. Mr. Augustus Harris works hard, and with gallant determination, but he overtaxes his strength, and overrates his experience as an actor in such characters as Harry Hastings. He has neither the voice nor the physique for such characters, and he would do well to limit his many managerial privileges. Why should it be imperative on a manager to act the leading character in every play, when he could do so much better in a subordinate one? Let Mr. Bancroft and Mr. Harris answer. Mr. Harris, on reflection, will see that such strong melodramatic parts require something more than personal energy and effusiveness. The scene in the condemned cell was altogether out of the reach of the plucky young manager, who may be advised to look before he leaps. In this cast Mr. Fernandez should have played the part. He had tiresome and uphill work until he came to the confession of the old dotard, when he aroused the audience to enthusiasm. This was the only bit of powerful acting that the evening’s amusement afforded. Without it the drama would have been dramatically dull. But another actor helped to save the play with Mr. Fernandez. This was Mr. Harry Jackson, who played a quaint old cabman with true humour and evident relish. The audience at once took to Mr. Jackson’s cabman, and he was the life and soul of the evening. He was the most popular character in the cast. Mr. Henry George played exceedingly well as the villain, with nice judgment and occasional power, and Mr. Harry Nicholls took another comic character—a member of a secret society against his will—in his well-known quaint style. He made a good contrast to the more racy humour of Mr. Jackson. Miss Sophie Eyre bore off the prize amongst the female characters by a picturesque and impressive performance of the repentant daughter, and Miss Harriet Jay, when she has had more experience, will do well with such characters as Mary Morton. At present her grief and joy are too demonstrative. Miss Clara Jecks was quite admirable as the little stowaway and in minor characters. Mr. William Morgan, Mr. John Ridley, Mr. George Gillett, and Mr. Barrett were of great service. Messrs. Grieve, Emden and Perkins are chiefly concerned in the scenic department, but neither practically nor materially does the scenery come up to much that has been seen recently at Drury-lane and at other theatres. The drama will, no doubt, be cut and compressed and reduced to working proportions, but on the whole it could be desired that the play were better acted and less morbid. The authors were called at 12.15 on the first night, and there were all the conventional signs of success, but of recent times calls have ceased to be a compliment, and first night cheers have not always a sincere ring in them.

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The Era (20 October, 1883 - Issue 2352)

DRURY-LANE.
On Monday, October 15th, the New Drama,
written by Robert Buchanan and Augustus Harris, entitled
“A SAILOR AND HIS LASS.”

Harry Hastings          ...     ...     Mr AUGUSTUS HARRIS
Walter Carruthers     ...     ...     Mr WILLIAM MORGAN
Richard Kingston      ...     ...     Mr HENRY GEORGE
Michael Morton        ...     ...     Mr JAMES FERNANDEZ
Mary Morton            ...     ...     Miss HARRIET JAY
Esther                       ...     ...     Miss SOPHIE EYRE
Barby                       ...     ...     Miss LILLIE YOUNG
Bob Downsey           ...     ...     Mr HARRY JACKSON
Green                        ...     ...     Mr HARRY NICHOLLS
Ben Armstrong          ...     ...     Mr JOHN RIDLEY
Captain of the Albatross     ...     Mr A. C. LILLY
Mrs Downsey            ...     ...     Miss M. A. VICTOR
Carrots                      ...     ...     Miss CLARA JECKS
Bradley                      ...     ...     Mr. CHARLES SENNETT
Connell                       ...     ...     Mr BRUTON
Larry O’Brien             ...     ...     Mr PAGET FAIRLEIGH
Master of Ceremonies         ...     Mr FRANK PARKER
Black Waiter               ...     ...     Mr G. OKILL
Polly                            ...     ...     Mrs LENNOX
Susan                          ...     ...     Miss CISSY ST. GEORGE
Policeman                    ...     ...     Mr MAYSTON
Jew Slopseller              ...     ...     Mr SLOMAN
Landlord                       ...     ...     Mr C. JOHNSON
Boy                              ...     ...     Master SMITH
Lighthouse Keeper        ...     ...     Mr GEORGE GILLETT
Polly                             ...     ...     Mrs BARRETT
Judge                            ...     ...     Mr C. DOUGLAS
Clerk of the Arraigns     ...     ...     Mr NICHOLSON
Foreman of Jury            ...     ...     Mr PHIPPS
Police Inspector            ...     ...     Mr STEVENS
Governor of Newgate   ...     ...     Mr VILLIERS
Smith                            ...     ...     Mr B. H. BENTLEY
Chaplain                       ...     ...     Mr C. JOHNSON
Sheriff                          ...     ...     Mr LEWIS
Hurt and Coffee-Stall Keeper       Mr ARTHUR CHUDLEIGH
First Masher                 ...     ...     Miss ADDIE GREY
Mary Brown                 ...     ...     Miss EMILY CLARE

     It took from a quarter to eight until a quarter past twelve o’clock on Monday evening to tell the story of this most wonderful production, and at the latter hour the majority of those who had made up the crowded audience found that, if they wanted to discuss at once the merits and demerits of the piece, they would have to do it in opposition to a howling wind and a pitiless rain. From this bare statement of fact it will be gathered that The Sailor and His Lass is a drama of extraordinary length. Here was a mistake to begin with, and one that might easily have been avoided. Prolixity is a blunder, and the “too much,” of which we have often complained, is a source of weakness rather than of strength. And it is so evident too that the authors have erred in this respect quite wilfully. They probably had—we think most likely they had—a good, if a very conventional, story to tell, but they seem to have ransacked the literature of the minor theatres of the past fifty years, and to have dragged forth incidents and scenes, comic and otherwise, wherewith to spin it out and so to spoil it. They and their story more than once part company altogether. probably they imagine that the taste of the public is so degraded that a big sensation will be greatly preferred to dramatic interest, and so, putting their hero and heroine, their virtuous ones and their villains, almost altogether out of sight and out of mind too, they take their patrons round by Parliament-street to give a startling illustration of the attempt to blow down the Government offices by dynamite. This is only one—it is the conspicuous one—of the instances in which Messrs Buchanan and Harris have sacrificed their story for sensation, and have given us noise where they should have given us interest. Both in the matter of incident, then, and in the matter of talk, there should at once be a vigorous cutting down, and we would suggest that there might with advantage at once be sacrificed the business illustrative of a low dancing den, which in its realism is disgusting, and should never have been tolerated by the Licenser of Plays, and the exhibition, toward the end, of the details of a private execution at Newgate, which, to say the least, is brutal. Also, of course, should go that scene of the explosion above referred to. It is a drag upon the story, and it is sure to keep away the nervous, who when they visit the theatre are not most pleased—as some managers seem to think—when they are most frightened. To say that there is very much that is improbable in A Sailor and his Lass would be idle, for nobody would dream of expecting too much probability in a work of this class at Drury-lane, but we think we have a right to quarrel with the authors here for bringing the hero so near to a vile end for a crime with which there is not the shadow of a shade of evidence to connect him. The scene of the opening is a farm and orchard in Middlesex, about fifteen miles from London, and a very pretty scene it is, by Emden, with its pretty rose-climbed cottage, its fruit trees, its real cow, and the new-made hay throwing the “scent over the footlights.” (The cow and the hay, it may be remarked, are not by Emden.) In spite of their pleasant surroundings, it soon becomes evident that Farmer Morton and the rustics are anything but contented, for they are willing to listen to, and to applaud, the outpourings of the frothy agitator Green, a member of a secret society, ready to use dynamite to further their ends. What those ends are is not made very clear. The Farmer certainly has a grievance, for he is threatened with eviction by young Squire Carruthers, who is ready to come to terms only on condition that the Farmer’s daughter Mary will receive his odious attentions. Morton has already driven one daughter, Esther, from his door because she will not reveal the name of her seducer, who we quickly learn is Richard Kingston, the Squire’s cousin, and heir to his property. Mary’s sweetheart is a gallant young sailor named Harry Hastings, who offers to take Esther across the seas, this offer being for some remarkable reason accepted. Kingston has no difficulty in persuading the Farmer that his daughter Esther’s seducer was the young Squire, and the old fellow in his anger, plunges a knife into his landlord’s heart. Kingston, quite prepared for this, comes upon the scene, bids the farmer fly, and then, raising an alarm, denounces the now departed Harry Hastings as the murderer, thinking thereby to secure Mary Morton for himself. Now we hurry on to the second act and find the hero quite ready for all sorts of deeds of daring. He begins by boldly entering the workshop of the dynamite gang with Kingston at their head, and too readily accepts their assurance that they are engaged only in preparations for a little smuggling. Having interviewed a comical, good-hearted cabman who has taken care of Esther, he proceeds on his way to the docks, stopping only to assist Carrots, a street waif, and to bully a policeman. He is surprised and enters a protest, but an ineffectual one, when he discovers that the dynamiters have been engaged to man his vessel, they having resolved to follow him and to “settle” him at a distance from England. It is after this comes the Westminster explosion, so it is evident some of the gang are left behind in London. In the next act we get a view of the ship at sea. The plot to murder Harry is discovered by Carrots—on board as a stowaway— and, as forewarned is forearmed, Harry is prepared for the attack, and has anything but a pleasant surprise in store for those who seek to take his life. The ship, however, goes down, and our hero is presently seen in the rigging of the foundered ship with Esther and her boy. Here occurs the most exciting incident of the play. The most bloodthirsty of the gang clings to the rigging; Harry, in the goodness of his heart, assists him to mount to his resting-place; the villain, with black gratitude, again attempts his life, and then, amid the approving applause of the excited spectators, he is hurled back to the waters from which he has but just before escaped. Of course, rescue comes for the hero, and in the fourth act we find him back again at the old farm, only just in time to save his sweetheart from Kingston’s outrage and to denounce him. In return Kingston orders his arrest as the murderer of Squire Carruthers, and, amidst all the paraphernalia of the Central Criminal Court, we hear the jury pronounce him guilty, poor Esther, who has not yet found heart to denounce her seducer and the father of her child, whose word is accepted as proof of Harry’s guilt, falling in a swoon on the floor of the court. The last act is occupied with the arrest of Kingston; with the confession of the Farmer, who learns too late how cruelly he has been deceived; with the painfully realistic business of the condemned cell and the preparations for the execution, and with, as will readily be guessed, the arrival in the “nick of time” of the reprieve, and the joyful reunion of the sailor and his lass.
     Mr Augustus Harris has never worked harder than in giving life to the part of the gallant young sailor Harry Hastings, and we doubt very much whether he has ever acted better. He was overflowing with enthusiasm, and if from the critical he did not secure the appreciation which doubtless he looked for, he had himself somewhat to blame for having, as joint author, arranged for himself certain risky scenes and situations where sympathy was impossible. He had, however, full compensation in the never-failing admiration of pit and gallery. Harry Hastings hugging his sweetheart as a jolly young sailor would hug; threatening the scoundrel who molested his sweetheart; bearding the dynamitist lion in his den; “taking it out of” a burly policeman; giving assistance to a street waif; fighting against “fearful odds” on board ship; posing picturesquely while he cheered his female companion on the mast; throttling a villain and hurling him into the black and boiling deep, was cheered and cheered again with an amount of enthusiasm that made the rafters ring. For ourselves we shall say that, greatly as we object to the Newgate scene, Mr Harris showed a command of feeling that certainly we had never supposed him to possess, tears being actually put into his voice where Harry Hastings turns upon the chaplain, who advises him to pray for forgiveness for his crime, and, with his consciousness of innocence, resents the advice as an insult. The finest bit of acting in the whole representation came from Mr James Fernandez, whose great chance came with the last act, where Farmer Morton learns how he has been led into crime, and, meeting Richard Kingston, his tempter and the seducer of his child, face to face, expends his old man’s strength in denouncing him. This was really a splendid effort, full of that tragic power which Mr Fernandez keeps in store. As Farmer Morton, with his crime confessed and his tempter denounced, fell dead upon the stage, the flagging interest of the house was aroused, and there went up a roar of applause, which was only a deserved compliment to one of the very best actors our stage can boast. Mr Henry George was quite in earnest as the villain Kingston, as was Mr William Morgan in the little he had to do as the Squire. Miss Harriet Jay showed considerable pathetic power as Mary Morton; and Miss Sophie Eyre merits praise for her portraiture of Esther, her denunciation of Kingston in the last act being very powerful. Mr Harry Jackson, we are sure, was very nearly first favourite of the evening. As the genial old cabman, Downsey, he has been fortunate enough to secure a large share of the authors’ best lines, and it was very seldom he spoke without provoking an outburst of sympathetic merriment. Mr Harry Nicholls as Green, the agitator, was droll, and he too caused much mirth; but Green belonged to farce and not to serious work. He was amusingly extravagant and relieved the weariness of many a scene, but—well, we can only repeat that he belonged to farce. Miss Clara Jecks stood out well as the waif, and put both pathos and power into that waif’s appeal to the policeman to be allowed to satisfy his hunger with the stray biscuit that had come in his way. Mr Paget Fairleigh as an Irish sentry also merits mention for an excellent bit of character, and the others engaged all seemed to work with a will. We must give further praise to Mr Emden for his fine sea-view in the third act. At the end there was a call for the authors who appeared, and who may yet make a success of A Sailor and His Lass if they will get the “sailor” to throw overboard all the lumbersome, cumbersome cargo he has allowed to get into his Drury-lane ship, which set sail with good wishes on Monday evening.

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The Graphic (20 October, 1883 - Issue 725)

     IT will be remembered that Mr. Augustus Harris has recently made public confession that his last new romantic play did not prove remunerative, because, though audiences were numerous, they were not numerous enough to reimburse the outlay upon the costly scenery and mechanical contrivances. The reason given for this disappointment was no doubt strictly accurate, but, on the other hand, Mr. Harris as an experienced manager must have been well aware from the first of the conditions of success; and it is therefore impossible to escape the conclusion that, however numerous his audiences were, they fell considerably short of what he hoped and expected them to be. This is, in fact, to say that Freedom was an acknowledged failure.Nor were the causes difficult to detect. The truth is that Mr. Harris’s principle of management is a little behind the times. It is based on the old-fashioned maxim that the appetite of the play-going public may be fed inani picturá, or in other words, that in a romantic drama the first thing is to have a succession of picturesque scenes and startling effects; the second thing to have a story with which these scenes and effects are to be associated—whether directly or indirectly, whether skilfully or clumsily matters little. Plays,it is true, have again and again been constructed on this basis, and have succeeded; but it is no less true that romantic dramas which depend only on tableaux and scenes of excitement, are now passing rapidly out of fashion. Scenic effects no doubt still attract, and always will attract, the multitude; but they must, as a rule, form part and parcel of a drama which interests by virtue of a coherent and interesting story. If the reason of this change of fashion—or rather, this advance in the public taste—be asked, the answer is that playgoers have of late had the advantage of comparing good romantic plays with bad ones, and have learnt to know the difference. It is Mr. Sims and Messrs. Jones and Herman who have been most instrumental in bringing this change about. Those who have seen The Lights o’ London and The Silver King—pieces with plenty of “sensation” in them, but sensation subordinated to the purposes of a story that excites curiosity and maintains interest—are naturally ill-content with pieces constructed on the old-fashioned plan of trusting chiefly to the combined efforts of the scenic artist, the stage carpenter, the machinist, the property man, the costumier, the custodian of the gas-bags, and the director of the lime light.
     These lessons the management of DRURY LANE seem slow to learn. Its latest venture, the joint work of Mr. Robert Buchanan and Mr. Augustus Harris, brought out under the title of A Sailor and His Lass, on Monday evening, can hardly be said to unfold a story, though it presents an inexhaustible series of incidents, amidst which Mr. Harris, in the character of one Harry Hastings, a gallant British tar, performs prodigies of valour, and exhibits unbounded generosity in the way of relieving the distressed and protecting the oppressed, though he is not able himself to escape from much trial and persecution at the hands of an uncompromising villain of the true suburban melodramatic type. Somehow or other his good and evil fortunes excite but little interest, even the harrowing details of a scene in which he is brought to the very brink of the gallows, on an absurdly false but successful charge of murder, failing to arouse any very deep sympathy. The fact is that the authors have failed to give an air of reality to his actions and sufferings, or generally to endow the proceedings of the crowd of personages of the play with the touch of truth which is needed. In brief, the lack of sincerity in the play is too obvious, as is the overweening confidence of the management in the “seventeen tableaux,” including the “great ship scene” and the “dynamite explosion,” of which so much has been heard in preliminary announcements. The explosion at the police station, the wreck, the sinking of the vessel, the rescue of the survivors, and other scenes are doubtless striking in their way, though hardly equal to the best scenes in Freedom, but it is to be feared that the authors have only prepared for themselves another reminder of the truth that audiences nowadays want something more than this. Possibly something may yet be done, by lopping off unnecessary details, towards justifying the favour with which the new play was received by a very friendly first-night audience. The acting was certainly good enough to deserve a better fate than that of being obscured and overpowered by “tableaux” and sensation incidents. Mr. Harris, we are willing to allow, is a very spirited and energetic representative of heroes of melodrama; while in Miss Sophie Eyre, Miss Harriett Jay, and Miss Clara Jecks the authors have the advantage of the services of actresses not wanting in power or charm. Plenty of that genial humour which by the settled canons of the romantic dramatist’s art is necessary to give relief to the serious scenes is moreover contributed by Mr. Harry Jackson in the character of a typical London cabman, rough, ready-witted, good-natured, and active in befriending injured innocence. Nor need we add that Mr. Fernandez, as the misguided old farmer, who makes confession of his crime towards the close of his story, is forcible and impressive.But a strong company is of little avail without a strong play. Mr. Harris’s faith is evidently in dynamite explosions rather than in acting, and hence the elaborate ingenuity expended on A Sailor and His Lass is, we regret to say, in great measure wasted.

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The Penny Illustrated Paper (20 October, 1883 - p.250)

THE enterprising Actor-Lessee of Drury Lane would have been wise in his generation had he resolutely compressed the extraordinary new melodrama of “A Sailor and His Lass” into actable dimensions. Had he taken this common-sense step, the merits of the play produced on Monday night as the joint work of Mr. Augustus Harris and Mr. Robert Buchanan would inevitably have been dwelt on at greater length by the jaded critics of the daily papers, who, worn out by the inordinately long performance of the first night, were left by the printers barely time to record their first impressions of the tedious concluding scenes.

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     Curtailed with skill (as I have no doubt the drama has been ere this), “A Sailor and His Lass” should interest large Drury Lane audiences for many nights to come. What a magnificent sight this grand playhouse presented on Monday night! Packed from pit to the topmost bench of the gallery, the teeming theatre was a sight to inspire any actor or playwright. And it was certainly a most liberal dramatic feast that Mr. Harris had prepared for his friends—too liberal, indeed, as it turned out. The public were played into exceeding good humour by the lively sea-song music discoursed by Mr. Oscar Barrett’s remarkably strong band. A roar of applause, mingled with appreciative laughter, greeted the rollicking, hearty appearance of Mr. ’Gus Harris in the guise of a jolly Jack Tar, Harry Hastings. With what gusto does Harry kiss and hug his fair sweetheart, Mary Morton, in the blossoming orchard of Farmer Morton! The piece, indeed, opens strongly in this first act. Interest is aroused by the sweethearting of Harry and Mary; by the return of her betrayed step-sister, Esther, babe in arms, and by the Farmer’s curse of the repentant girl; swiftly followed as these episodes are by the crafty manœuvres wherewith the soft-spoken scoundrel, Richard Kingston, shifts the suspicion of being Esther’s seducer from himself to his cousin, Squire Carruthers, whom the father is led to stab to the heart when he comes philandering after Mary. This partiality of the young Squire for flirting with Mary had already brought about a conflict between Harry and Carruthers. Seizing upon this fact, the designing Iago who caused the farmer to strike the fatal blow accuses the innocent sailor (well on his road back to London) of being the murderer—whispering to the horror-stricken Mary that he will only keep the fact secret on condition that she gives him her love. The curtain thus falls on a powerful situation. But the chief thread of the story is, for the two succeeding acts, all but dropped. They are devoted to the stirring adventures, ashore and afloat, of Harry. The gallant sailor, who has promised to safeguard Esther to America, leaves her in the temporary custody of a kind-hearted cabby, Bob Downsey, who conducts her to his humble home, and gives her shelter, and the solace of his kind-hearted wife, Matilda. The front of his house is obligingly removed to allow us to see the comfort his mare Martha enjoys in his stable on the ground floor, and to witness the cordial hospitality lavished by the poor couple upon Esther on the first floor. On the opposite side of the mews stands a Dynamite Factory, which is also revealed by the simple process of removing the front wall. Catching the watchword, “Thirteen to the dozen,” Harry Hastings gains entrance to this haunt of conspirators, and finds the scoundrelly Richard Kingston (whom he believes to be a true craft) among them. He is got rid of by a subterfuge—the assurance that it was only a secret meeting of smugglers. But his appearance in their midst calls forth a sentence of death directly he has gone. As vividly as Mr. George Augustus Sala many years ago described Wapping life in an article in Household Words entitled “Jacks’ Alive,” is the lively scene of a Sailors’ Dancing Saloon in Ratcliff Highway pictured on the stage. A page in contemporary history, the Dynamite Explosion in Westminster, is also illustrated with startling vraisemblance; but why poor Farmer Morton should be dragged in to act as chief Dynamite agent is inexplicable. The ship scene, in which the little stowaway warns Harry of the plot of the Dynamitards to chloroform him, would have told better had the action taken place on deck instead of in the cabins, which are shown by bodily dropping one side of the vessel. Very striking, however, are the rescue by the lighthouse-keepers, and the final struggle for life on the wreck between the Dynamitard Bradley and Harry prior to the saving of himself and poor Esther and the child. This rescue once effected, the three long acts that followed, narrating the conviction of Harry for the murder he never committed, the repentance and death of Farmer Morton, the unmasking of the villain, and the pardon of the long-suffering hero on the steps of the scaffold, came as an anti-climax; for an audience well accustomed to the ways of transpontine playwrights knew well enough that Harry would in the end triumph over villany, and that “A Sailor and His Lass” would be united—as they were.

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     Mr. Harris, it is only just to say, acted very creditably as Harry Hastings. Mr. James Fernandez’s Farmer Morton was a strong impersonation most skilfully and admirably worked out with the conscientious care of a thorough artist. Miss Sophie Eyre as Esther and Miss Harriet Jay as Mary Morton were also excellent; and Miss Clara Jecks’s “Jo”-like stowaway was worthy this clever young actress. Mr. Harry George as Richard Kingston, Mr. William Morgan as Squire Carruthers, Mr. Harry Jackson as the gossiping cabman with Tory views, Mr. A. C. Lily as the Captain of the Albatross, Miss M. A. Victor as the cabby’s “old woman,” Mr. Charles Sennett as Bradley, and Mr. Harry Nicholls as the inimitably droll and unconsciously humorous Dynamitard Green, all did their best likewise for “A Sailor and His Lass,” the scenery of which, by Mr. Henry Emden, Mr. T. W. grieve, Mr. William Perkins and Mr. Ryan, has been prepared regardless of expense. Mr. Harris and Mr. Buchanan bowed their acknowledgments of a hearty call at the end of the drama, which is bound to be much more effective by the time these lines are read.

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The New York Times (29 October, 1883)

STAGE EVENTS IN LONDON

PIECES FOR SHOW AND THE NEWEST SUCCESSFUL ONE.

BUCHANAN AND HARRIS AND THEIR “SAILOR AND HIS LASS”—
THE ADVANTAGES OF JOINT AUTHORSHIP.

     LONDON, Oct. 16.—Last night the long-promised and often-postponed new “grand nautical sensation drama” of “A Sailor and His Lass,” by Robert Buchanan and Augustus Harris, was at length produced at Drury-Lane Theatre. The repeated postponement of the play was due to more than one cause. In the first place, it is got up with more than usually elaborate scenic effects, the stage “set” being extraordinarily numerous and complicated, especially in the case of a wonderfully realistic ship scene, the machinery of which fairly broke down in the course of rehearsal and had to be entirely reconstructed. Again, the Lord Chamberlain—that terrible authority who watches so carefully over the morals and politics of our stage—demurred to a proposed reproduction of the famous Fenian dynamite explosion in Charles-street, Westminster, which was to form one of the sensational features of the piece, and progress could not be made until the great affair had been so arranged as not to shock his lordship’s sense of propriety. So, Mr. Harris, after many announcements of his intention to produce the piece on a particular night, was compelled to promise the performance with the qualifying and pious reservation of “D. V.,” which irreverent persons have translated as meaning, “If the Lord Chamberlain and the machinist are willing.” However, the great censor of the stage is at last pacified and the Deus ex machinâ has at length allowed the ship to be launched, and so the new Drury-Lane venture has been started on what promises to be a fairly prosperous career.
     The joint composition of “A Sailor and his Lass” is the outcome of a practice long in vogue on the French stage but until lately not so common in England. Somehow or other our dramatic authors have failed to appreciate the advantages of collaboration. Each has preferred to work “on his own hook,” scorning all assistance, and the result has often been failure where success might have been assured. Nevertheless, in a few instances in the past collaboration, either avowed or concealed, has really had the happiest effects. The late Mr. Tom Taylor, for instance, probably never produced a more successful or charming play than “New Men and Old Acres,” which he wrote in conjunction with Mr. Augustus Dubourg, while Mr. James Albery’s happiest effort, “Two Roses,” is believed to have owed its great success mainly to the assistance he received from a judicious stage manager. It is indeed the opinion of our best critics that the dearth of really good acting plays from which we have so long been suffering has been due to the want of a solid experience of stage effect united to literary ability, and these are faculties not often combined in one and the same person. Even a clever novice working with a good practical stage manager may turn out a better play than a man of the greatest literary skill rejecting such help. Of this we have had several examples of late years. Mr. Brandon Thomas, a young and untried author, working with Mr. C. B. Stephenson, a sound old stager, produced a capital play in “Comrades,” and “The Silver King,” one of the greatest hits of our time, is, as every one knows, the joint production of Mr. H. A. Jones, a comparatively new man, and Mr. Henry Herman, an excellent practical stage manager. Nor are even the most distinguished of our literary dramatists now above calling in the help of men experienced in what I may term “stage carpentry.” Thus Mr. Charles Reade not long ago condescended to work with such a thoroughly practical man as Mr. Henry Pettitt, and the joint outcome of their labors was an excellent piece “Love and Money.” Mr. Pettitt, again, has lately been co-operating with Mr. George R. Sims, and the two between them have turned out “In the Ranks,” which is playing at the Adelphi to literally overflowing houses. In the course of a few weeks, too, we shall have at the Princess’s a new piece by Mr. W. G. Wills and Mr. Henry Herman, and meanwhile we find that Mr. Robert Buchanan, who has never, except perhaps in the case of his “Storm-Beaten” at the Adelphi, achieved any marked success on the stage, going into partnership with Mr. Augustus Harris, and composing a play which, with all its faults, at any rate is something that Mr. Buchanan never produced on his own account, a good acting drama.
     I had the privilege of being one of a small audience of some 20 or 30 persons invited to witness a “dress rehearsal” of the new play at Drury-Lane on Saturday night, and the performance under these conditions was equally instructive and amusing. It was instructive, inasmuch as such a trial should teach the captious critic how great are the difficulties with which the most painstaking of managers have to contend, difficulties which can only be appreciated by actually seeing the efforts made to overcome them. It was amusing, as the process of preparation, presenting the performances in their two-fold capacity as, so to speak, public and private characters, give rise to the oddest incongruities. Then Mr. Augustus Harris, the manager, upon whom the whole weight of the work of getting up and directing the performance devolves, plays in the piece the part of a gallant young sailor who is always rescuing people in distress, and who by the machinations of a band of villains is accused of murder, tried, and condemned to death. To give some idea how matters go at a dress rehearsal in these circumstances, let me describe some of the incidents as I witnessed them, premising that Mr. Augustus Harris, with that conscientiousness which always distinguishes him, “acts” as energetically at a rehearsal with only a couple of dozen spectators before him as he does on “the night” to a crowded house. The scene is a court of justice, the barristers assembled in their wigs and gowns and the public gathered to hear the trial. The prisoner guarded by wardens is placed in the dock. A subdued murmur passes through the court. “Louder, louder,” cries the prisoner, “make more noise! You are ready enough to make a row when it is not wanted and now no one can hear you. Now louder!” The buzzing in court being at last loud enough to satisfy the accused man, the jury enter, a shabby, feeble-looking lot certainly. “Now then,” exclaims this extraordinary prisoner, “don’t come sneaking in like that. Hold your heads up and let everybody see you. Then go back and come in again.” But this is nothing to the gross contempt of court of which the prisoner is guilty when the Judges themselves make their appearance. Fancy a man standing manacled in the dock with the weight of the most terrible of charges crushing him down, addressing the great and dignified functionaries who are about to try him for his life in this wise: “That won’t do! That won’t do! You haven’t to hide yourselves under those desks. You have got to sit behind them. Go back, go back! All over again!” And so the ermined Judges, at the bidding of this bold prisoner, sneak out of court and return in a manner with which he at last expresses himself satisfied. The scene changes. It is the condemned cell, and the prisoner sits alone, heartbroken, unjustly doomed to die. Presently the Governor of the jail enters. The condemned man rises respectfully. “I have come to tell you, Harry Hastings,” says the Governor, “that—that”— “You cannot hope for mercy,” whispers a voice in the distance. “Yes—that you cannot hope for mercy. Your time is short—let me abjure you—” “No, no,” breaks in the unhappy prisoner, “conjure you, man; conjure you.” “Yes—I beg pardon—conjure you to make your peace with Heaven.” Here the Governor, overcome by emotion or loss of memory, breaks down, the prisoner orders him to leave the cell, and a gentleman with a manuscript in his hand comes in and delivers the last touching words of the officer of the law. How the condemned man escapes from jail and actually appears in the street outside the walls of the prison in which he is to be hanged, and bullies the Sheriffs who have arrived to superintend his execution; how he goes into agonies of wrath because they will not toll the bell that announces his impending doom, and how, being apparently recaptured, he is pinioned and led toward the scaffold, yet interferes in the most audacious manner with every detail of the last dismal preparations for his own death, I need not describe. Seriously, Mr. Harris worked as hard as manager ever did to secure the success of his play, and he well deserved the enthusiastic applause of a crowded audience which last night rewarded his efforts.
     It is hardly necessary to say more about the plot of the piece than may be gathered from what I have said already, for, to tell the truth, the story, though exciting enough, is not particularly novel. It is little more than a peg whereon o hang a series of sensational scenes, and the literary skill of Mr. Robert Buchanan does not conspicuously shine in it. The scenic effects, however, are for the most part very striking, and in some instances original. Nothing, for example, went better than the real shower of rain in the second act, while the dynamite explosion behind the scenes, accompanied by a tremendous fall of broken glass from the windows of the houses on the stage, duly impressed the audience. The great ship scene, the working of which had given so much trouble, hardly repaid the pains bestowed upon it. The vessel, a two-masted bark, was very solidly built up, and by means of a movable side the cabins and banks, and what was going on in them, were exhibited, as well as the action on deck. But I am afraid that if its details had been criticised by an expert—say, Mr. Clark Russell, the “Seafarer” of the Daily Telegraph—it would not have been found above reproach. Sails do not flap idly against the mast when a ship is bowling along before a fresh breeze, nor is a vessel wholly stationary when a rough sea is rolling beneath her. The piece is played in that robust, energetic style which Mr. Harris seems to have imported from the south side of the Thames, and which has a multitude of admirers even on our more fastidious northern shores. Mr. Harris himself is the life and soul of the play, and acts with an earnestness as the gallant young sailor which is simply irresistible.

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The Theatre (1 November, 1883)

Our Play-Box.
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“A SAILOR AND HIS LASS.”

By ROBERT BUCHANAN and AUGUSTUS HARRIS. First produced at the Theatre Royal,
Drury Lane, Monday, October 15, 1883.

THE dramatic life and adventures of Mr. Augustus Harris are little short of miraculous. His appetite for adventure, his thirst for gore, his love of danger, difficulty, and dynamite are seemingly unquenchable; and living (dramatically) as he does in a seething whirlpool of criminal commotion and “effects,” there is good ground for fear that the result on the actor-manager may be of a disastrous nature. In fact, it is high time to check his boisterous career, for this last Drury Lane monstrosity is really too much for us. When Mr. Harris some years back assumed the management of what he is pleased to call the National Theatre, he felt the pulse of the public, and pretty accurately diagnosed the very low state of the public taste requiring sensation, outrage, and noisy nonsense. He accordingly produced “The World,” in which, with commendable accuracy, he played a villain. He then entered on a wild course of extravagance. He is a born stage-manager, and a master of mechanism. He has, moreover, a power of ludicrously audacious advertisement that tickled the public taste; and so he piled up horror upon horror in the series of bombastic pantomimes that he is pleased to call plays, and the public liked the horrors, and meekly, indeed cheerfully, swallowed them. Unfortunately, Mr. Harris was not content to be a king among melodramatic managers. He insisted on becoming both author and actor; and the result is that we have first protested, then laughed, then growled, and now are almost seriously sulky.
     Mr. Harris’s villain was a clever thing; but in an evil moment he took to heroes, and his heroes, with their flaunting valour and eternal generous manliness, are very irritating—their virtue is at times insufferable. Of recent days Mr. Harris has posed as the hearty, cheery, British sailor—fighting, roving, squabbling, rescuing damsels, bearding wicked folk of various types in their respective lairs, and being, at proper intervals, either shipwrecked or shot at—to his heart’s content. Of this type is the hero of “A Sailor and his Lass,” who bears a strong likeness to the Bold Boy Buccaneer” or “Young Pirate” of the juvenile penny novelette. Indeed, the whole play might be re-christened “The Daring Adventures of Harry Hastings, profusely illustrated, with full-page coloured Supplement. A piece of poetry by Shakespeare and other authors given away with each chapter. Complete in five parts.” And its chapter-scheme would run some way thus:—
     ACT I.  “How Harry woos and wins Mary Morton in an orchard—the murder—the criminal grandpapa—Harry smashes the villain, and flies to London in a four-wheel cab. Original couplet given away with this chapter.”—[Notes by reviewer. Flimsy sentiment and a real cow. Miss Sophie Eyre excellent as a “wronged sister” of the “Promise of May” type. Mr. Jackson’s conservative comic cabman very healthy.]
     ACT II.  “Harry’s daring deeds with the Dynamiters!—how he has tea with the cabman, takes compassion on Carrots and goes to sea. Terrible scene of midnight orgie in Ratcliff Highway (illustrated in colours). Given away with this chapter a box, containing an explosion that has nothing on earth to do with the adventures of Harry, and kills nobody, and may be safely used by the young of both sexes, also a passage from “Macbeth.” How the villain ships a criminal crew on board the good ship Albatross. Mary’s misery.—[Notes by reviewer. Mr. Nicholls amusing as a comic conspirator. Miss Clara Jecks’ Carrots a charming vignette. Mr. Ryan’s “The Docks” a capital cloth. Real rain, real horse, everything real save Harry. Quite evident that Mr. Buchanan has written a drama called “Macbeth” for himself, as the late William Shakspeare never wrote anything about “secret, black and midnight shapes”—why shapes? is it Buchanese for “hags?”]
     ACT III.  “Harry at sea on the magic ship with transparent water-tight bulkheads and bulwarks—the mutiny—the stowaway—the ‘registration’ of the name of ‘the strong heroic man’ Harry—the wreck—how grandmother Grace Darling, with half-drowned Carrots and the Ancient Mariner punts out in fathoms of stormy water—how Harry heeds the baby’s cry, drowns a dynamiter, and saves the wet ‘wronged sister’ Sophie from what are evidently salt waves—how the baby takes its caul. Given away with this chapter, “the Ballad of the Stowaway.”—[Notes by reviewer. The ship very foolish—the scene in the rigging short and excellent of its kind, the Buchanese ballad evidently not Clement Scott’s—great feeling of relief that the majority of the nasty people are drowned.]
     ACT IV.  “The villain triumphant—the wronged one begins to right herself—comic conspirator begins to look mildly malignant—the tag of the trial. Given away with this chapter a full-page heartrending picture of the sad scene in the Central Criminal Court, by Grieve of course.”—[Notes We rather like the wronged one, she is picturesque in her passion.]
     ACT V.  “Crime and coffee—the murderer’s remorse—Mary Morton “evidently on the batter" before Newgate—sentiment in a snowstorm—glorious complications—the hanging of Harry—the black hour—the black watch, and the black flag. Up with the rag. The trap-warder. ‘Are you ready? Pull!’ ‘No!’ ‘Yes!’ The reprieve. Hurra for Harry! The end.” Given away, “A London poem.”
     In all seriousness, this last act is very, very bad. The action shifts about uneasily, the tender adieu in the condemned cell is prolonged, mawkish, and, as far as “Harry” was concerned, was on the first night superbly inaudible. The act was saved by Mr. Fernandez’s one moment of earnest acting in his confession. It was not really a very great effort. I have seen him do far better in the memorable scene in Mr. Wills’s “Ninon,” but it stood out from the gloomy atmosphere of bathos and bosh that pervades the last act, and the actor deserved the recognition of his effort that was thundered down to him by a long-suffering house. Of the rest of the long caste that has been collected above from a somewhat complicated programme, I thought that Miss Jay played the heroine over-romantically, at moments dangerously so. Mr. George’s villain was consistent and sound; his voice is strong, and his bearing emphatic. Excellent in their respective forms of melodramatic clowning were Mr. Harry Jackson and Mr. Harry Nicholls—portions of this play are full of Harrys; and Mr. Sennett’s mysterious dynamiter, Miss Victor’s Mrs. Downsey, the motherly spouse of the comic cabman with severe notions of propriety, and Mr. Lilly’s Captain, were all clever studies. Mr. Oscar Barrett’s introduced music makes the play at moments operatic, and concerning Mr. Harris I will say no more. His pluck, enterprise, and managerial skill and ingenuity I admire; but it is my painful case that I never could, and never will, admire his heroes or his method of acting.
     Touching the question raised by the critics, and recently replied to by Mr. Buchanan, as regards the “revolting realism” of the last act, I would point out that in all the details of the last scene not a word is said, not a line introduced, until the girl rushes on with the reprieve, and that consequently the scene is, to use Mr. Buchanan’s own words, “a representation of revolting details, unillumined by imagination, and untempered by art.”
     With all due respect to Mr. Buchanan, “Art with a big A” revolts against these “effects” without a single streamlet of humanity running through them. Terence complained of the people who deserted his plays to see the rope-dancers, and we are forgetting dramatic art in our hurry to see hangings, and shipwrecks, and glory of gunpowder, and mechanical ships, and it’s high time all this should stop. Quo usque tandem? Shall we dramatise the Deluge or the Apocalypse?

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The Graphic  (3 November, 1883 - Issue 727)

     Apropos of some recent remarks on the “real shower of rain” in the new romantic drama at Drury Lane, we have received from Mr. Augustus Harris a note, in which he says:—“Is it worth while letting you know that the writer of the contradiction relating to ‘the objectionable realistic water effect’ in the new play was slightly in error, the ‘rice and spangles’ being only used for the splash  against ‘Miss Eyre’s petticoats’ in the mast scene—which, by the way, was the only ‘real water’ objected to. The rain is water.”
     Mr. Augustus Harris also asks us to state that a letter published by his collaborator, Mr. Robert Buchanan, complaining in rather violent language of “the rancour of the dramatic ring and the contumely of a critical coterie,” was, though dated from Drury Lane Theatre, written without his (Mr. Harris’s) knowledge or authority.

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The Stage (10 June, 1897 - p.12)

THE NOVELTY.

     Following out their newly-formed policy of presenting a series of Drury Lane dramas at their excellently-managed theatre, Mr. Walter Tyrrell and Miss V. St. Lawrence have staged for a fortnight, beginning on Whit-Monday, A Sailor and His Lass, by Robert Buchanan and Augustus Harris, which was originally produced October 15, 1883, the cast then including the lamented impresario, Messrs. James Fernandez, Henry George, Harry Jackson, Harry Nicholls, Misses Harriett Jay, Sophie Eyre, M. A. Victor, and Clara Jecks. A Sailor and His Lass has never been regarded as a good specimen of its class, but still it contains enough variety of incident and sensation to make it entertaining to popular audiences, and in this light it is certainly now being considered at the Novelty. For instance, the wreck of the “Albatross,” and the rescue by the lighthouse keeper, both very fairly carried out, have been watched with keen interest, while the later scenes in Newgate, recently beaten on their own ground by similar passages in Saved From the Sea, retain their power to impress the imagination. The performance given on Tuesday by the stock company was effective in the main. Miss St. Lawrence displayed her now familiar blend of searching earnestness and well-assumed vivacity as Mary Morton, the betrayed sister, Esther, being represented with care by Miss Isa Bellington. As the rebellious old farmer, Michael Morton, Mr. William Luff, though forcible, was too preachy and monotonous, while the rôle of the insidious Richard Kingston gave Mr. Bernard Copping no scope for passing out of the beaten path of  conventional stage villainy. Mr. Jack Haddon, generally inclined to be too strenuous and vociferous, by no means spared himself in his manly impersonation of the sailor-hero, Harry Hastings. Mr. Harry Jackson formerly made the kindly cab-driver, Bob Dounsey, almost the most popular character in the piece, and the same now applies to Mr. Newman Maurice, who evidently found the part a congenial one. Mr. Clifford Soames did capital work as the young squire, Walter Carruthers, who is murdered in act one, and afterwards, we fancy, he appeared, also with success, as the boldest member of the dynamite gang. Miss Maudie Hastings gave on Jo lines a pathetic embodiment of the little waif and stowaway, Carrots, originally played by Miss Clara Jecks, and Miss Lucy Murray was well in the picture as the cabman’s wife. Mr. Teesdale was efficient as the cowardly professional agitator, Green, and the other places in a long cast were suitably filled.

[Advert for provincial tour of A Sailor and His Lass from The Stage (30 June, 1898 - p.18)]

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