It is by the territorial division of labour that a country arrives
most successfully at wealth and civilisation. Our hops are grown in
Kent and Essex; Glasgow annually sends forth the engines of our steam
fleets; Sunderland is the focus of our shipbuilding; Edinburgh, with
her legion of professors, and her busy presses, is one vast academy.
In short, each district does something peculiar to itself, while all
avoid sending coal to Newcastle.
A large number of manufactures, particularly those of luxury, are
peculiar to the metropolis, and one of the most prominent of this
class is public amusement. Every season has its novelty, whether the
opera of a great foreign composer, or the lectures of a literary lion;
besides endless panoramas, dioramas, cosmoramas, and cycloramas, which
bring home to John Bull the wonders of the habitable globe, and
annihilate time and space for his delectation. We see the Paris of the
Huguenots to the sound of Meyerbeer's blood-stirring trumpets; or gain
companionship with Hogarth, Fielding, or Smollett as we listen to
Thackeray; or, after paying our shilling in the Chinese Junk, are, to
all intents and purposes, afloat in the Hoang Ho.
London is the place at which these amusements are manufactured and
first presented, and at which the stamp is sought which enables a
portion of them to pass current in the provinces, and make large
returns to the more fortunate speculators. In the metropolis, the vast
capital afloat in such schemes is first cast on the waters, and a
large amount annually sunk and engulfed for ever in the great vortex.
The continued series of splendid fortunes which have been sacrificed
in such schemes, would excite our astonishment that the fate of
previous adventurers had not acted as a warning, if the moral of the
gambling-table and the Stock Exchange were not always ready, by
collateral illustration, to explain a riddle which would otherwise be
insoluble.
Indisputably foremost of all the establishments which offer amusement
to the London public, is the Royal Italian Opera, Covent Garden; and
we say this without attempting to enter into the question of whether
it has rightly or wrongly achieved a preponderance of vocal talent
over the rival theatre. While noting, however, the combination of
talent it presents, and the continued flow of capital it sends forth
in the production of the highest class of works, we must at the same
time express our admiration of the spirited efforts of Mr Lumley to
sustain himself against such odds; and our hope that nothing will
induce this gentleman to give up a rivalry which has been a stimulus
to the exertions of the other house, and which has rendered London the
musical capital of the world. Thus much premised, we sit down to give
an account of a day spent at Covent Garden, devoted to a thorough
examination of this vast establishment, from its extensive catacombs
to the leads which overlook the panorama of London; persuaded as we
are that the public has but an obscure idea of the capital, labour,
and ingenuity expended in the production of what is visible to the eye
of the audience. Access to the stage during rehearsal is strictly
confined to the performers, although that is the least part of the
exhibition; but by special favour, we were taken in charge by the
chief mechanist, an individual provided with the necessary technical
knowledge, as well as with a material bunch of keys to unlock all the
mysteries of the place.
Our _début_ was made upon the stage, which we examined in its various
parts and appendages while the ballet practice was proceeding. The
curtain was up: the audience part of the house, from the pit to the
ceiling, was covered with linen, in order to preserve the satin
draperies from dust. Comparative darkness pervaded the vast space; but
the front of the stage was illumined by a pipe of gas, pierced for
jets, running over the orchestra from wing to wing; while a beam of
sunlight, penetrating through the cords and pulleys of the upper
regions, cast a strange lustre on the boards, as if it had come
through green glass. Half a dozen chairs were placed in front of the
stage, on one of which sat the ballet-master--a stout, bald-headed
man, who beat time with his stick. A violinist played at his elbow the
skeleton airs of the ballet music, while the male and female dancers
executed their assigned parts; the stout bald-headed gentleman
occasionally interrupting the rehearsal to suggest improvements, or to
issue a peremptory reprimand to one of those pale, pretty things who
were bounding across the stage in short muslin petticoats and faded
white satin rehearsal chaussure. 'Elle est folle!' 'Allez aux petites
maisons!' sounded rather ungallant, if we did not know that an
effective drill for so refractory a corps is not to be got through by
the aid of the academy of compliments. The master himself, suiting the
action to the word, occasionally started up, and making some _pas_, as
an illustrative example, with his heels flying in the air, was
certainly in a state of signal incongruity with his aspect, which,
when seated, was that of a steady-looking banker's clerk from Lombard
Street.
The width of the stage between the so-called fly-rails is 50 feet;
while the depth from the footlights to the wall at the back, is 80
feet. But on extraordinary occasions, it is possible to obtain even a
longer vista; for the wall opposite the centre of the stage is
pierced by a large archway, behind which, to the outer wall, is a
space of 36 feet; so that by introducing a scene of a triumphal arch,
or some other device, a depth of 100 feet can be obtained, leaving
still a clear space of 16 feet behind the furthest scene, round the
back of which processions can double. It would otherwise be difficult
to comprehend how it is possible, as in the opera of _La Juive_, to
manoeuvre here a procession of 394 persons, including a car drawn by
eight horses.
The stage itself is covered all over with trap-doors and sliding
panels, although it feels sufficiently firm to the tread; the depth
from the boards to the ground below the stage is twenty-two feet,
divided into two floors, the lower deck--if I may so call it--being
also furnished with abundant hatchways down to the hold. On the left
of the stage, facing the audience, is a room of good size, close to
the flies; this is the property-room of the night, in which are
accumulated, previous to the performance, all the articles required
for that night, whether it be the toilette-table of a princess, or the
pallet and water-jug of a dungeon prisoner. This apartment, the reader
may easily understand, is quite distinct from the property store-room,
which contains everything required for every opera, from the crown of
the _Prophet of Munster_ to the magpie's cage in _La Gazza Ladra_.
There is one property, however, which is of too great dimensions to be
transportable. The large and fine-toned organ, used in the _Prophète_,
_Huguenots_, and _Robert le Diable_, is to the right of the stage,
opposite the property-room; and the organist, from his position, being
unable to see the baton of Mr Costa, takes the time from a lime-tree
baton fixed to the organ, which is made to vibrate by machinery under
the control of Mr Costa, from his place in the orchestra. It would
take up too much space to enter more at large into the machinery used
in theatrical entertainments; and at anyrate, the parallel slides, the
pierced cylinder--by which a ripple is produced on water--and many
other devices, however curious and interesting, could not be made
intelligible without woodcuts.
Our conductor now provided himself with a lantern, in order to lead us
to the regions under the stage; for, in consequence of the mass of
inflammable material connected with a theatre, there are as strict
regulations against going about with open lights as in a coal-pit
addicted to carbonic acid gas. Descending a trap, we reached the
so-called mazarine-floor, a corruption of the Italian _mezzanine_,
from which the musicians have access to the orchestra. It is not much
higher than the human stature; and hither descends that _Ateista
Fulminato_, Don Juan, or any other wight unlucky enough to be
consigned to the infernal regions until the curtain drops. In this
floor is a large apartment for the orchestra, in which are deposited
the musical instruments in their cases; and beside it is the so-called
pass-room, in which note is taken of the punctual arrival of
performers.
Below this is the ground-floor, and below that, again, a vast extent
of catacombs. One of these is the rubbish-vault, and this is of
considerable size; for although dresses and properties are often made
of the coarsest materials, and will not stand a close inspection--the
problem to be solved being the combination of stage effect with
economy--yet, on the other hand, their want of durability, and the
constant production of new pieces, necessarily creates a large amount
of waste; and for this accommodation must of course be provided.
Leaving the rubbish-vault, we examined the gasometer, and the remains
of gas-works; for Covent Garden made its own gas, until an explosion
took place, which suffocated several men. My conductor pointed out to
me the spot where they attempted to escape, having gone through a long
corridor until they were stopped by a dead wall, now pierced by a
door. Near the gasometer is the hydraulic machine for supplying with
water the tank on the top of the house; all the other services on this
line of pipe are screwed off, and thus the water is forced to the top
of the building. In the Queen's Theatre, Haymarket, a supply for the
tank on the roof is obtained from a well which was sunk by Mr Lumley
under the building, in consequence of the river company having raised
his water-rate from L.60 to L.90. From the well, the water is forced
up by a machine.
We next ascended a stair, flight after flight; then wound our way
through a region of flies and pulleys; and then scrambled up ladders
until we arrived at the tank itself, which is large enough to hold
sufficient water to supply six engines for half an hour. It has long
hose attached to it, ready, at the shortest notice, to have the water
directed either over the scenery or the audience part. We now
proceeded over the roof of the audience part, to what appeared to be a
large well, fenced by a parapet; and looking down ten or twelve feet,
saw below us the centre chandelier, the aperture, which would
otherwise be unsightly, being closed by an open framework in
Arabesque. Through this the chandelier is lighted by a long rod,
having at the end a wire, to which is attached a piece of ignited
sponge soaked in spirits of wine: the chandelier is raised and lowered
at pleasure by a three-ton windlass.
Not less than eighty-five apartments, great and small, surround the
stage or adjoin it, and are used as dressing-rooms, workshops,
store-rooms, and offices. We first visited the dressing-room of Madame
Grisi, nearest the stage, and it had the air of an elegant boudoir,
hung and furnished in green and crimson; while another close beside
it, fitted up in precisely the same style, was somewhat prematurely
called the dressing-room of Mademoiselle Wagner. The dresses of the
various performers, we may mention, are supplied by the management;
but some of them, with large salaries, and priding themselves on
appearing before the public in costly and well-fitting garments,
choose to incur this expense themselves.
The sempstresses-room looks exactly like a large milliner's shop, and
here we found a forewoman with eighteen assistants at work. Books of
costumes are always at hand, so that a degree of historical accuracy
is now attained in Opera costume, which materially assists the
illusion; and no such anachronism is visible in Covent Garden as in a
certain theatre across the Thames, where, instead of the Saracenic
minarets of Cairo, this gorgeous Arab city is represented by pyramids,
obelisks, and sphynxes. The painting-room of Covent Garden is a light
and lofty apartment at the top of the house, and the name of Mr Grieve
is a sufficient guarantee both for historical accuracy and artistic
character. Scene-painting, as practised at Covent Garden, is a most
systematic process: a coloured miniature of each scene is made on
Bristol-board, and consigned to an album; then a larger miniature is
made, and placed in a model of the Opera stage, on a large table, and
from this the scenes themselves are executed. Near the painting-room
is the working property-room, filled with carpenters, mechanists,
smiths, painters, and other artificers--everything either before or
behind the curtain being kept up, repaired, and altered by the people
of the establishment.
We now proceeded to hear the rehearsal of the opera of _Lucia di
Lammermoor_, and entering the stalls, found the orchestra full and
nearly ready to commence, Mr Costa discussing a glass of port-wine and
a sandwich, while the stage-manager was marshalling the people for the
first tableau, the principal singers being seated on chairs at the
side. What would most have struck those accustomed only to English
theatricals, was the respectable appearance of the chorus, so
different from the ragamuffin troop that fill up the back-ground of an
English scene. The Covent Garden chorus includes, at rehearsal, a
considerable number of well-dressed men in shining hats and new
paletots, many of whom are good music-teachers, not the less qualified
for that business by the opportunities they have in this establishment
of becoming familiar with the way in which the best works of the best
masters are executed by the best artists.
The rehearsal over, we turned our attention to the audience part of
the house, more particularly the Queen's box, of the privacy and
splendour of which even old _habitués_ have no idea. In the first
place, Her Majesty has a separate court-yard for entrance, in which
she may alight, which is a check not only upon obtrusive curiosity on
the part of the public, but upon the evil disposed; for although one
might naturally suppose, that if there is any individual who ought to
enjoy immunity from danger or disrespect, it would be a lady who is
exemplary in her public duties as a constitutional sovereign, as well
as in those of a consort and mother--experience has shewn the
fallaciousness of the idea.
The staircase is very noble, such as few mansions in London possess.
Passing through the vestibule, we enter the grand drawing-room, in the
centre of which is one of those tables that formed an ornament of the
Exhibition last year. The drapery is of yellow satin damask. The
principal feature of this drawing-room is the conservatory, which is
separated from it by one vast sheet of plate-glass, the gas-light
being contrived in such a way as to be unseen by those in the room,
although bringing out the colours of the flowers with the greatest
brilliancy.
Adjoining the drawing-room is the Queen's dressing-room; and between
the grand drawing-room and the royal box is the little drawing-room,
the walls of which are hung with blue satin damask, relieved by rich
gilt ornaments, mouldings, and bronzes, in the style of Louis Quinze.
The royal box itself is fitted up with crimson satin damask, a large
arm-chair at the extreme right of the front of the box being the one
Her Majesty usually occupies; but when she visits the theatre in
state, fourteen boxes in the centre of the house, overlooking the back
of the pit, are opened into one, involving a large amount of expense
and trouble, which, however, is no doubt amply compensated by the
extraordinary receipts of the night.
A private and separate entrance is not the exclusive privilege of
royalty. The Duke of Bedford, as ground-landlord, and Miss Burdett
Coutts, who has likewise a box in perpetual freehold, have separate
entrances, just under that of the Queen's box, with drawing-rooms
attached, which are small and low-roofed, but sumptuously fitted up.
Such were the principal objects appertaining to the audience part of
the house.
Returning behind the scenes, the two principal public rooms are the
manager's room and green-room, which both suggested recollections of
old Covent Garden in its British drama-days. Unlike the audience part
of the theatre, which has been entirely reconstructed, the stage part
has only been refurnished--and yet not entirely refurnished--for in
this very manager's room, where John Kemble used to play the potentate
off the stage with as much dignity as on it, stands a clock with the
following inscription: 'After the dreadful fire of Covent Garden
Theatre, on the morning of September the 21st 1808, this clock was dug
out of the ruins by John Saul, master-carpenter of the theatre, and
repaired and set to work.' When we reached the green-room itself, what
recollections crowded on me of the stars that glittered around the
Kemble dynasty! In Costa, seated at the pianoforte, I saw the face of
an honest man, who unites dogged British perseverance and energy with
the Italian sense of the beautiful in art. A feeling of regret,
however, came over me, to think that our British school of dramatic
representation and dramatic literature, which dawned brightly under
Elizabeth, and in the eighteenth century was associated with
everything distinguished in polite letters and polite society, should
have become all but extinct. But this feeling was momentary, when I
reflected that our sense of the beautiful, including the good and the
true, had not diminished, but had merely gone into new channels; and,
more especially, that Meyerbeer and Rossini, in order to hear their
own incomparable works executed in perfection, must come to the city
which the Exhibition of last year has indelibly stamped as the capital
of the civilised world.