(_FROM THE EDINBURGH REVIEW, NO. 98._)
_ORIGIN OF ADMISSION MONEY._
There were at Athens various funds, applicable to public purposes; one
of which, and among the most considerable, was appropriated for the
expensed of sacrifices, processions, festivals, spectacles, and of
the theatres. The citizens were admitted to the theatres for some time
gratis; but in consequence of the disturbances caused by multitudes
crowding to get seats, to introduce order, and as the phrase is,
to keep out improper persons, a small sum of money was afterwards
demanded for admission. That the poorer classes, however, might not
be deprived of their favourite gratification, they received from the
treasury, out of this fund, the price of a seat--and thus peace and
regularity were secured, and the fund still applied to its original
purpose. The money that was taken at the doors, having served as a
ticket, was expended, together with that which had not been used in
this manner, to maintain the edifice itself, and to pay the manifold
charges of the representation.
"_DRAMATIC REPRESENTATIONS NATURAL TO MAN._"
Travellers inform us, that savages, even in a very rude state, are
found to divert themselves by imitating some common event in life: but
it is not necessary to leave our own quiet homes to satisfy ourselves,
that dramatic representations are natural to man. All children
delight in mimicking action; many of their amusements consist in such
performances, and are in every sense _plays_. It is curious, indeed,
to observe at how early an age the young of the most imitative animal,
man, begin to copy the actions of others; how soon the infant displays
its intimate conviction of the great truth, that "all the world's a
Stage." The baby does not imitate those acts only, that are useful
and necessary to be learned; but it instinctively mocks useless and
unimportant actions and unmeaning sounds, for its amusement, and for
the mere pleasure of imitation, and is evidently much delighted
when it is successful. The diversions of children are very commonly
dramatic. When they are not occupied with their hoops, tops, and
balls, or engaged in some artificial game, they amuse themselves in
playing at soldiers, in being at school, or at church, in going to
market, in receiving company; and they imitate the various employments
of life with so much fidelity, that the theatrical critic, who
delights in chaste acting, will often find less to censure in his own
little servants in the nursery, than in his majesty's servants in a
theatre-royal. When they are somewhat older they dramatize the stories
they read; most boys have represented Robin Hood, or one of his
merry-men, and every one has enacted the part of Robinson Crusoe,
and his man Friday. We have heard of many extraordinary tastes and
antipathies; but we never knew an instance of a young person, who
was not delighted the first time he visited a theatre. The true
enjoyment of life consists in action; and happiness, according to
the peripatetic definition, is to be found in energy; it accords,
therefore, with the nature and etymology of the drama, which is,
in truth, not less natural than agreeable. Its grand divisions
correspond, moreover, with those of time; the contemplation of the
present is Comedy--mirth for the most part being connected with the
present only--and the past and the future are the dominions of the
Tragic muse.
_GRECIAN THEATRES._
The climate of Athens being one of the finest and most agreeable in
the world, the Athenians passed the greatest part of their time in the
open air; and their theatres, like those in the rest of Greece and
in ancient Rome, had no other covering than the sky. Their structure
accordingly differed greatly from that of a modern playhouse, and the
representation in many respects was executed in a different manner.
But we will mention those peculiarities only which are necessary to
render our observations intelligible.
The ancient theatres, in the first place, were on a much larger scale
than any that have been constructed in later days. It would have
been impossible, by reason of the magnitude of the edifice, and
consequently of the stage, to have changed the scenes in the same
manner as in our smaller buildings. The scene, as it was called, was
a permanent structure, and resembled the front of Somerset House, of
the Horse Guards, or the Tuileries, and was in the same style of
architecture as the rest of the spacious edifice. There were three
large gateways, through each of which a view of streets, or of woods,
or of whatever was suitable to the action represented, was displayed;
this painting was fixed upon a triangular frame, that turned on an
axis, like a swivel seal, or ring, so that any one of the three
sides might be presented to the spectators, and perhaps the two that
were turned away might be covered with other subjects, if it were
necessary. If parts of Regent Street, or of Whitehall, or the Mansion
House, and the Bank of England, were shown through the openings in
the fixed scene, it would be plain that the fable was intended to be
referred to London; and it would be removed to Edinburgh, or Paris,
if the more striking portions of those cities were thus exhibited. The
front of the scene was broken by columns, by bays and promontories in
the line of the building, which gave beauty and variety to the façade,
and aided the deception produced by the paintings that were seen
through the three openings. In the Roman Theatres there were commonly
two considerable projections, like large bow-windows, or bastions,
in the spaces between the apertures; this very uneven line afforded
assistance to the plot, in enabling different parties to be on the
stage at the same time, without seeing one another. The whole front of
the stage was called the scene, or covered building, to distinguish it
from the rest of the theatre, which was open to the air, except that
a covered portico frequently ran round the semicircular part of the
edifice at the back of the highest row of seats, which answered to
our galleries, and was occupied, like them, by the gods, who stood in
crowds upon the level floor of their celestial abodes.
Immediately in front of the stage, as with us, was the orchestra;
but it was of much larger dimensions, not only positively, but
in proportion to the theatre. In our playhouses it is exclusively
inhabited by fiddles and their fiddlers; the ancients appropriated it
to more dignified purposes; for there stood the high altar of Bacchus,
richly ornamented and elevated, and around it moved the sacred Chorus
to solemn measures, in stately array and in magnificent vestments,
with crowns and incense, chanting at intervals their songs, and
occupied in their various rites, as we have before mentioned. It is
one of the many instances of uninterrupted traditions, that this part
of our theatres is still devoted to receive musicians, although,
in comparison with their predecessors, they are of an ignoble and
degenerate race.
The use of masks was another remarkable peculiarity of the ancient
acting. It has been conjectured, that the tragic mask was invented
to conceal the face of the actor, which, in a small city like Athens,
must have been known to the greater part of the audience, as vulgar
in expression, and it sometimes would have brought to mind most
unseasonably the remembrance of a life and of habits, that would have
repelled all sympathy with the character which he was to personate. It
would not have been endured, that a player should perform the part of
a monarch in his ordinary dress, nor that of a hero with his own mean
physiognomy. It is probable, also, that the likeness of every hero of
tragedy was handed down in statues, medals, and paintings, or even in
a series of masks; and that the countenance of Theseus, or of Ajax,
was as well known to the spectators as the face of any of their
contemporaries. Whenever a living character was introduced by name, as
Cleon or Socrates, in the old comedy, we may suppose that the mask was
a striking, although not a flattering portrait. We cannot doubt, that
these masks were made with great care, and were skilfully painted,
and finished with the nicest accuracy; for every art was brought to
a focus in the Greek theatres. We must not imagine, like schoolboys,
that the tragedies of Sophocles were performed at Athens in such
rude masks as are exhibited in our music shops. We have some
representations of them in antique sculptures and paintings, with
features somewhat distorted, but of exquisite and inimitable beauty.
_THE ROMAN STAGE._
The Drama of ancient Rome possesses little of originality or interest.
The word _Histrio_ is said to be of Etruscan origin; the Tuscans,
therefore, had their theatres; but little information can now be
gleaned respecting them. It was long before theatres were firmly and
permanently established in Rome; but the love of these diversions
gradually became too powerful for the censors, and the Romans grew,
at last, nearly as fond of them as the Greeks. The latter, as St.
Augustine informs us, did not consider the profession of a player as
dishonourable: "Ipsos scenicos non turpes judicaverunt, sed dignos
etiam præclaris honoribus habuerunt."--_De Civ. Dei_. The more prudish
Romans, however, were less tolerant; and we find in the Code various
constitutions levelled against actors, and one law especially, which
would not suit our senate, forbidding senators to marry actresses; but
this was afterwards relaxed by Justinian, who had broken it himself.
He permitted such marriages to take place on obtaining the consent
of the emperor, and afterwards without, so that the lady quitted the
stage, and changed her manner of life. The Romans, however, had at
least enough of kindly feeling towards a Comedian to pray for the
safety, or refection, of his soul after death; this is proved by a
pleasant epitaph on a player, which is published in the collection
of Gori:--
Pro jocis, quibus cunctos
oblectabat,
Si quid oblectamenti apud
vos est
Manes, insontem reficite
Animulam."
_COSTUME._
It is probable that the imagination of the spectator could without
difficulty dispense with scenes, particularly if the surrounding
objects were somewhat removed from the ordinary aspect of every-day
things; if the performance were to take place, for example, in the
hall of a college, or in a church.
The costume that prevails at present almost universally, is so
barbarous and mean, and it changes in so many minute particulars so
frequently, that it is impossible to conceive the hero of a tragedy
actually wearing such attire. A more picturesque dress seems therefore
to be indispensable; but the essentials of the costume of any time,
from which dramatic subjects could be taken, are by no means costly.
All that is absolutely necessary in vestments to content the fancy,
might be procured at a trifling expense, and the hero or heroine
might be supplied with the ordinary apparel of Greece, or Rome, or of
any other country, at a small price. We must carefully distinguish,
however, between the necessaries and the luxuries of deception; the
form, and sometimes the colour, demand a scrupulous accuracy; the
texture is always unimportant. We may comprehend, therefore, how the
old English theatre, notwithstanding the small outlay on decorations,
by a strict attention to essentials, possessed considerable
attractions; we may readily believe, that there were many companies
who were maintained by their trade; "that all those companies got
money and lived in reputation, especially those of the Blackfriars,
who were men of grave and sober behaviour."
_THE OLD DRAMA._
Our literature is remarkably rich in old dramas; but they are of
little use to the present age. Fastidiousness and hypocrisy have grown
for many years, slowly but surely, and have at last arrived at such
a pitch, that there is hardly a line in the works of our old comic
writers, which is not reprobated as immoral, or at least vulgar.
The excessive squeamishness of taste of the present day is very
unfavourable to the genius of comedy, which demands a certain liberty
and a freedom from restraints. This morbid delicacy is a great
evil, for it renders the time of limitation in all comic writings
exceedingly short. The ephemeral duration of the fashion, which is
all the production of a man of wit can now enjoy, discourages authors.
There is no motive to bestow much care on such compositions, and they
fall below the ambition of men of real talents--for the best part of
the reward of literary labour consists in the lasting admiration of
posterity; and as some new fastidiousness will consign to oblivion, in
a short time, every comic production, it is plain that such a reward
cannot be reasonably anticipated. We are more completely, than any
other nation, the victims of fashion. Everything here must either be
in the last and newest fashion, or it must cease to be. The despotism
of fashion in dress, in furniture, and in the pattern of the edges of
plate, is perhaps inconvenient--it is, however, not very important;
but it is a cruel grievance that it should interfere with and
annihilate an entire department of our literature.
_HOURS OF REPRESENTATION._
Dramatic representations were formerly given, not only in Greece and
Rome, but in England also, in the daytime, and in the open air. "The
Globe, Fortune, and Bull, were large houses, and partly open to the
weather, and there they always acted by daylight;" and plays were
first acted in Spain in the open courts of great houses, which were
sometimes covered, in whole or in part, with an awning to keep off the
sun. The word _sale_, which is used as a stage direction, meaning not
_exit_, but he enters, i.e. he comes out of the house into the open
air, is an evidence of the old practice. We are inclined to think
that the morning is more favourable to dramatic excellence than the
evening. The daylight accords with the truth and sobriety of nature,
and it is the season of cool judgment: the gilded, the painted, the
tawdry, the meretricious--spangles and tinsel, and tarnished and
glittering trumpery--demand the glare of candle-light and the shades
of night. It is certain, that the best pieces were written for the
day; and it is probable, that the best actors were those who performed
whilst the sun was above the horizon. The childish trash which now
occupies so large a portion of the public attention could not, it is
evident, keep possession of the stage, if it were to be presented, not
at ten o'clock at night, but twelve hours earlier. Much would need to
be changed in the dresses, scenery, and decorations, and in many other
respects, in the pieces, the solid merits of which would be able to
undergo the severe ordeal; and if we consider _what_ changes would be
required to adapt them to the altered hours, we shall find that they
will be all in favour of good taste, and on the side of nature and
simplicity. The day is a holy thing; Homer aptly calls it [Greek:
ieron aemar], and it still retains something of the sacred simplicity
of ancient times. It is, at all events, less sophisticated and
polluted than the modern night, a period which is not devoted to
wholesome sleep, but to various constraints and sufferings, called,
in bitter mockery, Pleasure. The late evening, being a modern
invention, is therefore devoted to fashion; to recur to the simple and
pure in theatricals, it would probably be necessary to effect an
escape from a period of time, which has never been employed in the
full integrity of tasteful elegance; and thus to break the spell, by
which the whole realm of fancy has long been bewitched. An absurd and
inconvenient practice, which is almost peculiar to this country, of
attending public places in that uncomfortable condition, which is
technically called being dressed, but which is in truth, especially in
females, being more or less naked and undressed, might more easily be
dispensed with by day, and on that account, and for many other reasons,
it would be less difficult to return home.
_DECLINE OF THE DRAMA._
It is not unlikely that the drama would be more successful if it were
conducted more plainly, and in a less costly style. The perfection
of the machinery and scenery of the modern theatres, seems to be
unfavourable to the goodness of composition and acting; since the
accessaries are so excellent, the opinion is encouraged, that the
principals are less important, and may be neglected with impunity.
The effect of good scenery at the first glance is, no doubt, very
striking, but it soon passes away. If we saw a Garrick acting
Shakspeare in a large hall, without any scenes, we should cease in a
few minutes to be sensible of the want of them. We are almost disposed
to believe, that exactly in proportion as scenery has been improved,
good acting has declined.
The present age is too much inclined to make human life, in every
department, resemble a great lottery, in which there are a very few
enormous prizes, and all the rest of the tickets are blanks. The
stage has not escaped the evil we complain of; on the contrary, it is
a striking instance of the mischief of this unequal partition. The
public are of opinion, that it is impossible to reward a small number
of actors too highly, and to pay the remainder at too low a rate;
to neglect the latter enough, or to be sufficiently attentive to the
former. On our stage, therefore, the inferior parts, and indeed all
but one or two, and especially in tragedies, where the inequality
is more intolerable, and more inexcusable, are sustained in a
very inadequate manner. In foreign theatres, on the contrary, and
especially in France, the whole performance is more equal, and
consequently more agreeable. There is perhaps less difference than is
commonly supposed between the best performers and those in the next
class. Whatever the difference be, it is an inconvenience and an
imperfection that ought to be palliated; but we aggravate it. The
first-rate actor always does his best, because the audience expect it,
and reward him with their applause; but no one cares for, or observes,
the performer of second-rate talents: whether he be perfect in his
part, and exert himself to the utmost, or be slovenly and negligent
throughout, he is unpraised and unblamed. The general effect,
therefore, of our tragedies, is very unsatisfactory; for that is far
greater, where all the characters are tolerably well supported, than
where there is one good actor, and all the other parts are inhumanly
murdered. This latter is too often the case on our stage for with
us art does little, nothing being taught systematically. The French
players, on the contrary, are thoroughly drilled, and well instructed,
in every requisite.
* * * * *