EXTRACTS FROM
A LECTURE BY THE LATE REV. J. B. BENNETT, M.D.
DURING the winter of 1846-47 a series of Lectures on a variety of literary, moral, and religious subjects was delivered by ministers before the Young Men’s Christian Association in London. The following extracts are taken from one of these Lectures, the subject being “Theatrical Amusements.” We are not otherwise acquainted with the sentiments of Dr. Bennett, but the present Lecture contains very sound and impressive remarks and appeals:—
I avow that I do not come forward as an undecided man on the subject of theatrical amusements. I do not come forward for the nice balancing of argument against argument, leaving to you to determine, without attempting to bias you. I come before you as one whose mind has been made up, to advance, as far as God may enable me, the truth on this question. I have long known what the theatre is; and if there be those here who are in the habit of attending it, I would say to them—perhaps there is not one more devoted than he who addresses you was for some years of his life; there was a period when I passed three or four nights every week in the theatre, and when performers were my intimate friends; I would retrench my meat, drink, and clothing to indulge in them. When I was led to see what I believe to be their evil tendency, there was scarcely anything that ever cost me such a sacrifice to give up, and had I not been deeply convinced that it was incompatible with religion, I should not have been led to do it. I come before you then as a decided and determined man upon the subject; as one who has been engaged in this controversy; as one who has suffered in this cause. My dear friends, should you think but little of my authority, perhaps you may think a great deal of Sir Walter Scott’s, who, although a defender of the stage, has recorded this, “that Christianity from its first origin was inimical to the stage.”
Now the question manifestly is, “Are the entertainments of the stage such as can be employed to the glory of God?” Are the amusements of the stage such as we could reflect upon with composure when we come to lay the head on a sick-bed or a dying pillow? Are they such as we believe that Christ, if He were now living on this earth, and who lived as our great example, that we might tread in His footsteps, would Himself tread in? Perhaps this may seem revolting! there may be many who would shrink from the idea of Christ being present at a performance going forward in one of the theatres of this metropolis. Let this notion have a still deeper practical operation on your minds. Do you shrink from that? Should you, as a follower of Christ, go there? We have sometimes put this question, and very earnestly, What feelings do you connect with dying in a theatre? I would ask those who hear me, who are frequenters of theatres, to call to remembrance the scenes, the associations, the company with which they were mingled, and I would ask them, If sudden death should come on them, how would they be prepared to meet their God? I hold in my hand some notes which I have written; I shall take the liberty of reading them, as they contain some appeals to the consciences of those who are undecided.
Amongst other appeals to the consciences of those who are undecided on the question at issue, I would strongly urge the inquiry, whether they could contemplate with complacency, or without dismay, the possibility of being suddenly summoned from the theatre to stand at the bar of God. An able advocate of the stage, aware no doubt that this single consideration would be sufficient to induce in any reflective and conscientious persons a prompt acquiescence in the conclusion to which I wish to lead them, attempts thus to neutralize its influence: “When we are asked if we contemplate with complacency the possibility of dying during the performance of a play, we answer readily, No. We are shocked at such a supposition, but there are many other situations in which death would be equally undesirable: no one would wish to be summoned to his last account when sitting at table in familiar exercise of hospitality, when walking in the streets, or even in the unconscious hour of slumber. We wish to call our scattered spirits home, and to have time for awful preparation; and for this reason we supplicate for deliverance from sudden death.” Especial attention is due to the concession made in this passage, which, coming from such a source, is striking and impressive. “We answer readily to the question, ‘Would you be willing to die during the performance of a play?’ ‘No, we are shocked at such a supposition.'” The question then is, “Are those other circumstances under which it is urged death may unexpectedly come, so analogous with those connected with the stage, that to die in the theatre is not less unsafe, or more terrible than to die sitting at a table, walking in the street, engaged in business, or during sleep?” To this question I reply by a strong and unhesitating negation. I maintain that there is a wide and manifest difference between the situations referred to. It should indeed be deeply felt that death, under any circumstances, is an awful event, and beyond doubt, when it suddenly occurs, its awfulness is greatly augmented. Nothing can be more lamentable than the indifference with which some regard or affect to regard the closing scene; nothing more revolting than the flippant levity with which they speak of it; and I cannot refrain from recording my solemn conviction that the stage is one of the most powerful means of producing and fostering this unhappy state of mind. Many of the most esteemed, and in other respects least objectionable plays, have a direct tendency to lead their admirers to something like apathy, if not recklessness, both as regards their own lives and the lives of others. Thus, as Mrs. Hannah More expresses it, “constituting in their full measure and proportion towards supplying a sort of regular aliment to the appetite (now dreadfully increased) for duelling and even suicide.” There is great weight, too, in the observations of Dr. Plimpton, who, notwithstanding his strong attachment to the stage, says, “Murder and suicide are indeed two of the greatest engines of the drama, and it is to be feared tend very much to diminish the horror and impiety of them in the human mind.” One instance, at least, is upon record of suicide attributed to the example of the stage; to these may be added the frequent exhibitions of deaths in which the person departing out of this life into another is represented with views very different from those in which a Christian should consider himself, looking back like a sinner, penitent for his past sins, and humbly trusting in the merits of a Saviour for his pardon, but in many cases without any reference to past sins or future hopes; or in others, presuming on fancied virtue, and going, as it were, to claim his reward from a Deity of infinite justice and goodness. But however the disciples of the stage may think or speak upon this subject, every man who has the volume of revealed truth as his guide, must feel the momentous importance of the stroke of death. To be severed for ever from all earthly ties and connexions, to enter the mysterious world of spirits, to stand at the bar of an omniscient and inflexibly just Judge, to receive the sentence that shall fix the condition of the soul for weal or woe beyond the possibility of revisal; these are among the thoughts that operate with thrilling energy on every reflective mind in relation to the prospect of removal from earth. Even they who are “delivered from the bondage of the fear of death,” and can rejoice in the experience of the apostle Paul, “To me to live is Christ, and to die is gain,” are nevertheless very far from contemplating the event with familiarity or indifference; but however strong in faith and joyful through hope, they are bowed down in the deepest solemnity at the prospect, and would, generally speaking, pray to be delivered from sudden death. Entertaining such feelings, I shall, I trust, be acquitted of any disposition to lower down the proper standard of that “awful preparation” necessary to a safe and happy departure from this life; although I declare my belief that a man may be suddenly summoned from the midst of such scenes as the writer alluded to has enumerated, and yet leave to his bereaved friends the most precious balm for the stricken spirits—the undoubted assurance that he has died safely and entered into the rest that remaineth for the people of God; whilst no such an amount of certainty could be possessed with regard to one who died in the midst of scenes so strongly opposed to true Christian feelings, as many of those in the theatre are. A lady once put this striking question to the Rev. John Wesley, “If you were sure that you must die to-morrow night at ten o’clock, how would you spend your time?” His prompt and characteristic reply was, “How, madam? I would preach to-morrow morning at Gloucester at five o’clock; I would preach at Tewkesbury at twelve; return and preach at Gloucester at six; spend a cheerful and profitable hour with my friends after the labours of the day, and then I would retire—
‘My body with my charge lay down,
And cease at once to work and live.'”
This work he had engaged to do next day, and he felt no need to make the slightest deviation from it. And well would it be for us all, my Christian friends, if we could take up the same language as John Wesley used if the same question were put to us; and sure am I that there is not one who hears me, who, if the question were put, “If you were sure to die to-morrow?” would answer, “I would go to the theatre to-night,” and deem that, in so doing, you were making a fit preparation for eternity. You know the fact, my Christian friends, and it is an appalling fact, that individuals among the auditory have frequently died in theatres; and more, there are not a few cases even of actors dying upon the stage itself, cases which actors themselves admit to have taken place. Now, if this mode of life is such as will not bear the scrutiny of an awakened and enlightened conscience, no doubt the entrance of sudden death is not only undesirable but terrible in the extreme; and believing, as I deliberately and conscientiously do, that the profession of the stage is one that will not come unhurt from the ordeal, I can easily understand why a theatrical writer should be shocked at such a supposition as the possibility of dying during the performance of the Stranger, or the superintendence of the rehearsal of Giovanni in London; but I will add, from the brief records of my own experience, that many, while they felt the deep solemnity of death, had no painful apprehension as to when or how they should be called away, and who from day to day entered upon their lawful avocations under the conviction that to be diligent in business is a duty of imperative obligation, in no degree incompatible with being “fervent in spirit, serving the Lord,” and that they were best prepared for their removal from earth when they were found faithfully discharging the duties of the hour, whatever the duties of that hour might be.
Indeed, even the friends of the stage sometimes admit, though unintentionally, yet as fully as could be desired, that its amusements are incompatible with serious thoughts. An example of this kind occurred some time since at Dublin. We all remember, for who can forget the awful desolating storm of January, 1839. It so happened that the performance at the Theatre Royal on the following evening was for the benefit of the African Roscius, but even the thoughtless were startled by the tragic effects of the hurricane: the theatre on that night was comparatively empty, and the receipts considerably below the expenses. I will here introduce an anecdote of the late Rev. James Hervey, the well-known author of the Meditations, etc. He was on a certain occasion travelling in a coach in company with a lady who dwelt with enthusiasm on the delight she experienced in attending the theatre. Amongst other things she observed, “I enjoy a threefold pleasure in the amusement; there is the pleasure of anticipating the performance, then the pleasure of witnessing it, and then there is the pleasure of thinking and speaking of it afterwards.” Mr. Hervey observed, “There is a fourth pleasure to which you do not advert.” “What can that be?” she eagerly asked. “The pleasure, madam,” replied Mr. Hervey with solemnity, “which it will give you on your deathbed, to reflect on the time and money which you have thus expended.” The lady was surprised, and said no more at the time; but it is added that she felt and owned subsequently the convincing force of the remark. Oh, if persons could only be brought to view the subject now as they will view it when they come to die, little argument upon it would be needed. There is another point to which reference must be made here; it is one of great interest and moment. If it is shocking to think of one of the audience dying during the performance, should we not shudder to think of a player being summoned suddenly from the stage to the awful tribunal of God? This is an event of which various instances are upon record: In October, 1758, Mr. Joseph Peterson, while performing the Duke in Measure for Measure, had just uttered the words—
“Reason thus with life:
If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing
That none but fools would keep: a breath thou art,”—
when he fell into the arms of Mr. Moody, and never spoke more. A gentleman of the name of Bond, while performing Insignau in Zara, fainted away in the scene where he discovers his daughter; the audience rapturously applauded what they thought to be fine acting, but in a few minutes it was found that his eyes were closed for ever. Mrs. Jefferson, an actress of great personal beauty, while looking on a dancer, who was practising at the Plymouth Theatre, was seized in the midst of a hearty laugh with a sudden pain, and almost instantly expired. In August, 1798, a similar circumstance took place in the Liverpool Theatre: Mr. John Palmer, while performing the part of the Stranger in the famous or infamous play of that name, fell, heaved a convulsive sigh, and breathed no more. The Dublin Theatre has also been the scene of such an occurrence at a period so recent that the circumstances connected with it must still be vividly remembered by many. Mr. Fuller, a popular comedian, during the performance of the farce of Brother and Sister, had just sung a foolish song, incidental to his part, when he staggered to the side-scene, and fell dead. The sight of a dead body under any circumstances will bring a feeling of solemnity to the well-regulated mind; but there are probably some persons still living who have not yet forgotten the depth of the impression made on them by a spectacle so awful, incongruous, and hideously revolting as a dying or dead body with painted cheeks, attired in the tinsel and splendour of a rich stage-dress. There occurs to my mind just at this moment an address spoken not long ago by a leading actress at Edinburgh—it bears directly on this point. It was on the occasion of her own benefit, when she came forward in propria persona, and, amid many other allusions to her professional efforts, she tells the audience that
“While most women only die to tease you,
I act most kindly, dying still to please you;
One night the dagger rids me of my woes,
The next some potent poison quite o’erthrows
My spirit; and a third night sees me slain
By a vile bullet piercing through my brain:
No saint, in short, leads such a life as I,
For half is spent in learning how to die.”
This was received with rapturous applause. I could not help saying, when I read this, Poor thoughtless girl, flower-crowned victim at the shrine of pleasure, frightful would be the contrast to your feelings, as well as your circumstances, should—which God forbid!—the stroke of death come on you, without a preparation widely different from that which you advert to. But what shall we say of the audience calling themselves Christians, who greeted such language with loud applause? Let me but echo the words of an excellent writer: “Glance upon those who claim a name for philanthropy. If they still insist on upholding the theatre, the pious and the kind entreat them to withhold their treacherous patronage, as they value God’s law, as they have compassion on immortal souls, as they would not have voices in torment breathing curses on their destroyers.”
Perhaps I may here take the opportunity of drawing your attention to the important fact that a great majority of Christian writers have always been opposed to the stage. If we were to select the most eminent of the present day from the different denominations; if we were to select those names that would occur to us as belonging to men of devoted piety, high moral attainments, and eminent practical usefulness, we should find them without exception bringing their testimony to bear on the same point as I have been endeavouring to bear upon to-night. I stand up as a sturdy and uncompromising advocate of private judgment; I do not mean to withhold that right in its fullest and most expansive degree on the present occasion; yet, my dear friends, there is something to be said here. Although I hold the right of private judgment, and although I concede that right in its most extended exercise to every individual, there is danger on the other hand of paying too little attention to the authority of the wise and the good; and if there be among those friends to whom I am addressing these observations any, and I hope, if any, but few, who do not concur in what I have said, I will say to you, If I can bring before you to a certainty, that the greatest men of the present and past day have professed themselves in the most earnest manner against the stage, it is not then, my dear Christian friends, asking too much of the young to suspect the conclusion that he or she feels inclined to come to against this array of testimony? Is it too much to ask you to suspend your judgment until you have examined more thoroughly into the case?
I will read two or three testimonies of individuals whose names are known to many of you—individuals who have strongly and unequivocally expressed their opinions with regard to this matter. (I would here just observe to you, that although I read from a printed pamphlet, it is my own, it was printed some years ago, so of course I can make free with my own child.) I will first call your attention to the opinion of a high, noble, and honourable name; I hope that there is not one who does not honour the name of Wilberforce. May I ask my young Christian friends to listen to that universally-esteemed philanthropist, William Wilberforce’s testimony with regard to the stage. “There has been,” said this esteemed man, “much argument concerning the lawfulness of theatrical amusement. Let it be sufficient to remark, that the controversy will be short indeed if the question were to be tried by the criterion of love to the Supreme Being. If there were anything of that sensibility for the honour of God, and of that zeal in His service which we show on behalf of our earthly friends, or of our political connexions, should we seek our pleasure in that place where the debauchee, inflamed with wine, or bent on the gratification of other licentious appetites, finds most congenial to his state and temper of mind; in that place, from the neighbourhood of which (now unjustly termed a school of morals) decorum and modesty and regularity retire, while riot and lewdness are invited to the spot, and invariably select it for their chosen residence; where the sacred name of God is often profaned; where sentiments are often heard with delight, and motions and gestures often applauded, which would not be tolerated in private company, and which far exceed the license allowed in the social circle, without at all trespassing on the large bounds of theatrical decorum; where, when moral principles are inculcated, they are not such as a Christian ought to cherish in his bosom, but such as it must be his daily endeavour to extirpate—not those which Scripture warrants, but those which it condemns as false and spurious, being founded in pride and ambition and over-valuation of human favour.”
(To be continued.)