A THEATRE OF SHAKESPEARE'S DAY.
If some of the old Greek dramatists could shake together their ashes
and assume life, they would open their ancient eyes to look upon the
beauty, comfort, and charming symmetry of the first-class theatre of
the present day. The ancients were at first obliged to put up with
representations given upon rude carts; afterwards stone theatres were
constructed, with the performers placed in a pit in the middle space,
but no such effort at decoration, or to provide for the convenience
of spectators, was to be seen as is to be found everywhere now. The
plays, too, while they may have been delightful to our Hellenic
predecessors, would hardly draw a corporal's guard at the present time,
when spectacular melodrama is all the rage, and the only chorus the
average theatre-goer cares to see is the aggregation of pretty girls in
entrancing tights, and with the utmost scantiness of clothes to hide
their personal charms, who sing the concerted music in comic opera.
This is the kind of chorus that sends a thrill of ecstacy through the
heart, and around the resplendent dome of thought of the much-maligned
modern bald-head. The strophe and anti-strophe of the ancient drama
would set the nineteenth century citizen crazy as a wild man of
Borneo. The ancient drama was gradually replaced by the ecclesiastical
drama,--the mystery or miracle play,--an example of which remains
to us in the celebrated "Passion Play," performed at Obarammergan at
stated intervals, and over the projected production of which, in this
country, there was so much trouble that the play was never produced.
In this style of drama, events in the life of the Savior, or the great
mysteries of the church, were the topics dealt with by the saintly
playwright, and the actors personated characters ranging from the Devil
up through the various grades of saintliness and angelic beatification
to God Almighty himself. The miracle play flourished during the
middle ages, and survived down almost to the Elizabethan period, when
Shakespeare appeared upon the scene; and with his advent there came a
revolution, the outgrowth of which is the present perfect and beautiful
theatre. The change in the style of plays brought a change in the style
of places for their representations, and while the Bard of Avon was
making his reputation in the dramatic line, the Globe and Blackfriars
were leading the way to advancement in the matter of theatrical
structures. They had performances on Sunday in those olden times, and
while good Christians were worshipping God in their sanctuaries, the
undevout Britons of the "golden age" were worshipping Thespis in his.
Let us drop back into a theatre of the Shakespearian epoch, some Sunday
afternoon when the weather is fine, and you will not be compelled to
stand bare-headed in the pit. Let us go to the Globe. It was situated
on the Bankside. It was a wooden building, of hexagonal shape, open to
the sky, and partly thatched. To a little tower-like projection from
the roof was fastened a staff of no inconsiderable height, from which
always fluttered the flag of England. Windows were sparsely distributed
here and there, on each side of the building, while over the door was
displayed the figure of Hercules bearing the globe upon his brawny
shoulders. Whether the mythological giant came with his terrestrial
burden to dedicate, _in propria persona_, this temple to the mightiest
of the muses, or whether the whole thing was only a cunning contrivance
of some skilful artisan, embodying the conception of a clever play
writer, history does not record.
Whenever a play was to be enacted, the entrance to the Globe was always
jammed with footboys, eager for a chance to hold a gentleman's horse,
or lounging gallants, who collected to show themselves and to ogle the
ladies as they entered. It was a lively spectacle, as stiff dames and
ruffled noblemen, poor artisans and sleek gallants, wits and critics,
footmen and laborers and ragged urchins stepped forward to pay the
admittance fee of a shilling or a sixpence, or to make a respectful
offer of their credit, which was usually most disrespectfully condemned
as unlawful tender. It was a lively sight as gouty old gentlemen
flourished huge _batons_ over the scraggy heads of malicious boys
who jostled them purposely; as titled old dames in immense flaring
petticoats endeavored to smooth their noble wrinkles, and look mincing
and modest under the impertinent gaze of the bedizened fops, and
as the fops themselves twisted and bent and bowed and shook their
powdered wigs, twirled their glove-fingers, or turned out their toes
fastidiously, at the imminent risk of dislocating their tarsals.
But let us enter with the crowd and observe the internal economy of
the theatre, and the character of the performance. Though externally
hexagonal, the building within is circular in form. There is no roof,
as before intimated, and the exhibitions occurring only in the summer
and in pleasant weather, the air is always serene and pure, and the
audience requires no protection from storms or wind. In the centre
of the enclosure is the pit, as in modern play-houses. Here, "the
understanding gentlemen of the ground," as Ben Jonson has it, revelled
in the delights of the drama at sixpence a head; the bosom of the earth
their sole footstool, and the blue canopy of heaven their only shelter.
The "great unwashed did congregate" upon this spot, sometimes in
immense numbers, to luxuriate at once in Shakespeare and tobacco; for
be it known, the ancient theatres of London were to the working classes
very much what its modern porter and beer shops are. They were places
of resort where tradesmen and tradesmen's wives assembled to gossip and
smoke and steep.
Surrounding the pit upon all sides except where the stage completed
the circle, were the boxes or rooms, as they were called. In these
were assembled those who could lay claim to rank or wealth. They were
furnished with wooden benches--a luxury of which the pit could never
boast, and which was purchased for a shilling. It will be observed,
from what has been said, that the internal arrangements of the ancient
theatres were upon precisely the same plan as those of the modern. The
cause of this identity of structure may be easily traced. As late as
the reign of Henry VIII., it was customary to enact plays and pageants
in the courts of inns. These were usually quadrangular in form, with
balconies or piazzas projecting into the court, and corresponding
with the stories of the building. The stage was erected near the
entrance-gate, and occupied one entire side of the quadrangle. The
inn-yard thus formed the pit or parquette, for the accommodation of
the "understanding gentlemen," while the balconies or rooms (rising
above each other in tiers varying with the number of stories)
corresponded to the boxes. It was from this crude, original conception
that the architects of Queen Elizabeth's reign fashioned the Globe and
Blackfriars, and from thence has it come down to the present day.
Directly in front of the pit was the stage, protected by a woollen
curtain. Unlike modern "drops," it was divided in the middle, and
suspended by rings from an iron rod. When the performance was about to
commence it was drawn aside--opening from the middle; the rolling up
process is an achievement of some later mind.
Hark! Do you hear the gentle grating, the jingling, the rustling of
woollen? Without the slightest premonitory symptoms there has been a
rupture of the curtain, and the mysteries it so securely hid are most
unexpectedly revealed. Seated upon wooden stools or reclining upon the
rushes with which the stage is strewn, are a number of individuals
composedly smoking long pipes, whom the unsophisticated might take for
actors. Far from it; they are the perpetual bane of actors--wits and
gallants, who delight in nothing so much as in exhibiting themselves
for the public to admire, or confusing the actors by their pleasantries
and disturbing the progress of the play.
Protruding from the further wall of the stage is a balcony, supported
on wooden pillars, and flanked by a pair of boxes in which those who
rejoiced in being singular or who could not afford the full price of
admission were accommodated. The balcony was used by the actors. It
served as the rostrum when a large company was to be addressed; it was
the throne of kings and princes, the grand judgment-seat of mighty
umpires, and in cases of necessity was convenient as the first-story
window of an imaginary dwelling-house. For this latter purpose it was
particularly useful in the garden scene between Romeo and Juliet. But
while we have been delaying in description, the rushes upon the boards
have rustled, the actors have made their appearance, and the business
of the play has commenced.
For the purpose of illustrating the manner in which performances were
conducted, we select the "As You Like It," of Shakespeare, as being
most familiar to the general reader, and also peculiarly adapted to
our purpose. Orlando and Adam make their appearance, and a signboard
nailed to one of the side entrance communicates the altogether
unsuspected fact that we are gazing upon an orchard. We see nothing
which in any way favors the agreeable illusion: there are the rushes,
the smoking fops, the balcony and a maze of pine boards, but nothing
that looks like trees. Still, let not these things move you to that
degree of uncharitableness or presumption that you doubt whether there
be an orchard; does not the infallible board with its painted letters
positively affirm, "This be an orchard?" Other _dramatis personæ_
soon enter, and the hypothetical orchard becomes the scene of a most
animated and interesting colloquy--the assembled company receiving no
intimation that the fruit trees are no more, until the curtain falls,
or rather is drawn, upon the first act.
When the woolen hangings are again separated, the imagination is no
longer painfully strained to support the illusion of the apples, but
the unerring board directs the wandering eye to the vast forests of
Arden. Here Jaques makes his sublime forest meditations in an area of
ten feet by twelve, enclosed in rough pine boards; his enthusiasm,
considerably damped by the provoking witticisms of critics and
gallants, and his utterances choked by the volumes of tobacco smoke
which roll in lazy, suffocating clouds toward the ceiling from a score
of pipes. The affectionate ditties of Orlando are nailed to visionary
trees, and he makes passionate love to the fair Rosalind amid fumes
which strangle tender phrases, and convert sighings into pulmonary
symptoms of a different character.
It should here be observed by way of explanation, that Rosalind, when
personated in Elizabeth's time, was fair only by courtesy; for female
parts were enacted during her reign, and indeed, during many subsequent
reigns, by boys or young men. There is an anecdote related of Charles
II., which is a matter of history, and illustrates this point very
well. It is said that on one occasion, visiting the theatre at the
bringing out of a new play, by some great author, he became impatient
at the unusual delay in drawing asunder the curtain. The royal wrath
soon became extreme, and it was essential to the prospects of the
"management" that it should be appeased. Accordingly, when the vials of
imperial indignation were about to be emptied promiscuously upon the
assembly, when the storm was just about to burst, a messenger from the
green-room informed his majesty that the fair heroine had not finished
shaving,--and the tempest immediately subsided. At each successive act
new boards with fresh inscriptions inform us of the situation of the
performers. The saloons of the duke's palace and the cottage of the
peasant--scenes in doors and scenes out of doors--are precisely the
same, with the exception of the invariable and ever-changing signboard.
But there is one novelty, one new feature in the representation as
the play progresses. It will be recollected that the balcony was
mentioned as furnishing a throne for princes, and a judgment-seat for
dispensers of justice. During the wrestling contest between Charles and
Orlando, this most serviceable commodity comes into requisition. Here
sits the "duke" as umpire of the combat and general of the troops and
retainers who stand on guard below. It is quite refreshing to hear his
stentorian voice issuing from so unusual a quarter--it furnishes quite
an agreeable relief to the tedious monotony of insipid dialogue going
on among the rushes below.
The play, however, proceeds rather sluggishly from the utter meagreness
and insufficiency of the "scenery, machinery and decorations," so
indispensable to the attractiveness of theatrical exhibitions. The
tradesmen in the pit turn their backs to the stage and their eyes
to the skies, as they clasp affectionately the almost exhausted
flagon, and pour into their thirsty throats the residue of half a
dozen potations. The crimpled dames in the boxes relax their majestic
stiffness, and relapse somnolent into the arms of the gouty old
gentlemen, their husbands. The wits and "clever" men upon the stage
grow more boisterous in their pleasantries, and fumigate more zealously
as they pelt the unfortunate actors with rushes, or trip them as
they "exeunt." To the vulgar crowd the only attractions which the
performance offers, are the brilliant dresses of the actors and the
vestige of a plot which the personation enables them to glean. As a
general thing, however, the stage now receives hardly any attention.
Pipes, tankards, and gossip are the order of the day, and everybody is
glad when Orlando succeeds in obtaining his hereditary rights, wins the
hand of the beautiful Rosalind, is dismissed in happiness, and the
woolen screen slips along its iron rod for the last time.
Such was the style of dramatic exhibitions in the Elizabethan era. The
stage was totally devoid of all scenic appendages calculated to produce
the illusion necessary to add interest and intelligence to the plot.
Rocks and trees, palaces and hamlets, places of festivity and scenes
of shipwreck, all existed merely in the imagination, with neither
properties nor scenery to aid in the deception.
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF A MODERN THEATRE.]