The Hubble-Shue

In Short

This book is a fragmentary dramatic work, or "histrionic essay," that defies conventional narrative classification. It follows a series of loosely connected, often surreal scenes featuring a cast of characters who drift in and out of a social setting, punctuated by sudden violence, odd songs, and inexplicable outbursts. Its survival rests on its sheer, singular strangeness. By refusing to offer a clear plot or moral lesson, it has become a literary artifact that fascinates those who prefer the sublime confusion of a puzzle over the tidy resolution of a traditional play.

The Story

The narrative—if one can call it that—begins with a call to witness a "crying of a play," immediately plunging the reader into a world of "singular, partially intelligible mystification." The central framework is a social gathering, or a series of them, where guests arrive to dine and converse. Characters like the "Fat Minister," various officers, and ladies of high society engage in disjointed banter that frequently pivots from sentimental recollections of war and romance to abrupt, jarring interruptions.

One of the most vivid threads involves a young child who recounts a harrowing tale of a crocodile devouring a missionary—a story that leaves the child traumatized and feverish. Her distress is met with the detached, almost farcical concern of an apothecary who prescribes "little senna" and "a puke" to cure her woes. This vignette serves as a microcosm for the entire book: tragedy and trauma are treated with a strange, clinical indifference, and the characters move through these experiences without ever truly connecting or reaching a state of understanding.

The social atmosphere, initially defined by polite dinners and singing, steadily devolves. The characters transition from a refined drawing room to a theater, a setting that serves as the crucible for the story's climax. Here, the play within the play is delayed, and the evening descends into chaos. An orange thrown from the gallery strikes an Irishman, triggering a violent escalation where he draws a dagger, assaults the performers, and causes a general "hubbub."

The resolution, if it can be called such, is a scene of frantic displacement. As the theater erupts into confusion, the characters spill out into the night amidst a "dreadful storm." The final images are of drunken coachmen, overturned carriages, and the literal spilling of people into the mud. The old Ensign, a figure of intermittent wisdom throughout the chaos, emerges to help "lug them out" of the wreckage. There is no grand revelation or moral awakening; instead, the story ends as it began—in a state of profound, disorienting upheaval. The characters are left shivering in the dark, their social pretenses stripped away by the literal and figurative storm, having survived an evening that defied all rational expectations of order or propriety.

How It Unfolds

The gathering begins The play opens with a series of cryptic, disjointed exchanges between speakers identified only as N. and M. They argue over the legitimacy of the dramatic piece itself, signaling the meta-fictional confusion that defines the rest of the text.

The dinner party A long table is set, and a variety of guests—soldiers, clergy, and widows—begin a conversation that drifts aimlessly between sentimental war stories and mundane requests for pepper. This section establishes the erratic, oscillating tone where moments of potential gravity are immediately undercut by triviality.

The child’s testimony A young girl describes the gruesome fate of a missionary, providing a moment of genuine, albeit bizarre, emotional intensity. The adults’ reaction is one of performative concern, focusing on the child’s physical symptoms rather than the horror of her story.

The move to the theater The company transitions to the playhouse, setting the stage for the final act of disorder. The atmosphere is tense, filled with apologies for delays and snippets of bizarre, nonsensical songs performed by characters like the girl dressed as Spring.

The final hubbub The tension snaps when an orange is thrown, leading to a violent brawl on the stage. The chaos spills out into the street, concluding in a storm-tossed, visceral image of social collapse as the characters are rescued from their overturned carriages.

The People

The characters in this work function less as psychological beings and more as emblems of a fractured society. The Fat Minister is the most persistent voice, constantly attempting to steer the conversation and orchestrate the entertainment, yet he is frequently derailed by the very people he tries to manage. His desire for order is a thin veneer over his own absurdity.

The Colonel and the Ensign represent the fading echoes of past military glory, clinging to memories of "enchanting voices" and "mild blue eyes." They are relics of a romanticized past, consistently out of step with the frantic, messy reality of the present. The Child is the most striking figure, acting as the bearer of horrific truth. Her unwanted account of the crocodile serves as a sharp contrast to the polite, empty chatter of the adults, who possess the power to silence her but never the wisdom to process what she says. Lady Gundie acts as a silent, spectral presence, flitting across the stage without a word, serving as a reminder of the mysteries the author refuses to solve. They all end as they begin: trapped in a cycle of social performance, unable to escape the "hubbub" of their own making.

In Its Own Voice

"Perhaps the most remarkable feature in it is that singular, partially intelligible mystification, which we in vain look for in other writers: thus, when Gustard enters with his sword drawn, is it possible to figure any thing more intelligible and natural than that the cat should run in beneath the bed?"

The editor reflects on the peculiar, dreamlike logic that governs the play's most sudden and inexplicable actions.

"There is a touching simplicity about it, with which the reader will doubtlessly be enraptured."

An introductory note frames the author’s poetry as a heartfelt contrast to the confusion of the drama.

"The little girl says, a great fish (a crocodile) came out of the water, (the Ganges,) and devoured her father."

The child provides a stark, haunting account that disrupts the polite dinner party and exposes the underlying unease of the setting.

What It's Really About

At its heart, this work is an exploration of the breakdown of communication and the fragility of social veneers. The author is not interested in building a coherent plot, but in exposing the "hubbub"—the noise and chaos—that lies just beneath the surface of polite discourse. By juxtaposing the horrific (the cannibalized missionary) with the mundane (an orange hitting an Irishman), the book questions the value of logic and the reliability of language. It asks why we cling to social performance when the world around us is so fundamentally unstable. It is an argument for the "sublime" power of obscurity, suggesting that meaning is often found not in clarity, but in the bewildering, uncontrollable gaps between human interactions.

Why Read It Today

You should read this if you appreciate the avant-garde, the purposefully surreal, or the historical oddity. It is a text that feels like a precursor to the Theatre of the Absurd, written centuries ahead of its time. Reading it is an experience of constant vertigo; the language is a mix of archaic Scots, formal eighteenth-century English, and nonsensical doggerel, which can be challenging to navigate. It does not provide the comforts of a standard narrative, and modern readers may find the period attitudes toward colonial violence or social hierarchy jarring.

However, there is a warmth in the editor’s protective, bewildered adoration of the work that is infectious. You stay with it because it is genuinely unpredictable. Whether it is the "Fat Minister" roaring like a bull or the sudden, inexplicable appearance of a sword-wielding man, the book forces you to stop looking for a "point" and start observing the sheer energy of its chaos. It remains a fascinating relic precisely because it refuses to be explained, leaving you with the strange, lingering feeling of having witnessed a scene from a play that only exists in the margins of history.