‘Richard the Third.—Duke of Glo’ster 2_l._; Earl of Richmond, 1_l_;
Duke of Buckingham, 15_s._; Catesby, 12_s._; Tressel, 10_s._ 6_d._;
Lord Stanley, 5_s._; Lord Mayor of London, 2_s._ 6_d._’
Such are the written placards wafered up in the gentlemen’s
dressing-room, or the green-room (where there is any), at a private
theatre; and such are the sums extracted from the shop-till, or
overcharged in the office expenditure, by the donkeys who are prevailed
upon to pay for permission to exhibit their lamentable ignorance and
boobyism on the stage of a private theatre. This they do, in proportion
to the scope afforded by the character for the display of their
imbecility. For instance, the Duke of Glo’ster is well worth two
pounds, because he has it all to himself; he must wear a real sword,
and what is better still, he must draw it, several times in the course
of the piece. The soliloquies alone are well worth fifteen shillings;
then there is the stabbing King Henry—decidedly cheap at
three-and-sixpence, that’s eighteen-and-sixpence; bullying the
coffin-bearers—say eighteen-pence, though it’s worth much more—that’s a
pound. Then the love scene with Lady Ann, and the bustle of the fourth
act can’t be dear at ten shillings more—that’s only one pound ten,
including the ‘off with his head!’—which is sure to bring down the
applause, and it is very easy to do—‘Orf with his ed’ (very quick and
loud;—then slow and sneeringly)—‘So much for Bu-u-u-uckingham!’ Lay the
emphasis on the ’uck;’ get yourself gradually into a corner, and work
with your right hand, while you’re saying it, as if you were feeling
your way, and it’s sure to do. The tent scene is confessedly worth
half-a-sovereign, and so you have the fight in, gratis, and everybody
knows what an effect may be produced by a good combat.
One—two—three—four—over; then, one—two—three—four—under; then thrust;
then dodge and slide about; then fall down on one knee; then fight upon
it, and then get up again and stagger. You may keep on doing this, as
long as it seems to take—say ten minutes—and then fall down (backwards,
if you can manage it without hurting yourself), and die game: nothing
like it for producing an effect. They always do it at Astley’s and
Sadler’s Wells, and if they don’t know how to do this sort of thing,
who in the world does? A small child, or a female in white, increases
the interest of a combat materially—indeed, we are not aware that a
regular legitimate terrific broadsword combat could be done without;
but it would be rather difficult, and somewhat unusual, to introduce
this effect in the last scene of Richard the Third, so the only thing
to be done, is, just to make the best of a bad bargain, and be as long
as possible fighting it out.
The principal patrons of private theatres are dirty boys, low
copying-clerks, in attorneys’ offices, capacious-headed youths from
city counting-houses, Jews whose business, as lenders of fancy dresses,
is a sure passport to the amateur stage, shop-boys who now and then
mistake their masters’ money for their own; and a choice miscellany of
idle vagabonds. The proprietor of a private theatre may be an
ex-scene-painter, a low coffee-house-keeper, a disappointed eighth-rate
actor, a retired smuggler, or uncertificated bankrupt. The theatre
itself may be in Catherine-street, Strand, the purlieus of the city,
the neighbourhood of Gray’s-inn-lane, or the vicinity of Sadler’s
Wells; or it may, perhaps, form the chief nuisance of some shabby
street, on the Surrey side of Waterloo-bridge.
The lady performers pay nothing for their characters, and it is
needless to add, are usually selected from one class of society; the
audiences are necessarily of much the same character as the performers,
who receive, in return for their contributions to the management,
tickets to the amount of the money they pay.
All the minor theatres in London, especially the lowest, constitute the
centre of a little stage-struck neighbourhood. Each of them has an
audience exclusively its own; and at any you will see dropping into the
pit at half-price, or swaggering into the back of a box, if the price
of admission be a reduced one, divers boys of from fifteen to
twenty-one years of age, who throw back their coat and turn up their
wristbands, after the portraits of Count D’Orsay, hum tunes and whistle
when the curtain is down, by way of persuading the people near them,
that they are not at all anxious to have it up again, and speak
familiarly of the inferior performers as Bill Such-a-one, and Ned
So-and-so, or tell each other how a new piece called _The Unknown
Bandit of the Invisible Cavern_, is in rehearsal; how Mister Palmer is
to play _The Unknown Bandit_; how Charley Scarton is to take the part
of an English sailor, and fight a broadsword combat with six unknown
bandits, at one and the same time (one theatrical sailor is always
equal to half a dozen men at least); how Mister Palmer and Charley
Scarton are to go through a double hornpipe in fetters in the second
act; how the interior of the invisible cavern is to occupy the whole
extent of the stage; and other town-surprising theatrical
announcements. These gentlemen are the amateurs—the _Richards_,
_Shylocks_, _Beverleys_, and _Othellos_—the _Young Dorntons_, _Rovers_,
_Captain Absolutes_, and _Charles Surfaces_—a private theatre.
See them at the neighbouring public-house or the theatrical
coffee-shop! They are the kings of the place, supposing no real
performers to be present; and roll about, hats on one side, and arms
a-kimbo, as if they had actually come into possession of eighteen
shillings a-week, and a share of a ticket night. If one of them does
but know an Astley’s supernumerary he is a happy fellow. The mingled
air of envy and admiration with which his companions will regard him,
as he converses familiarly with some mouldy-looking man in a fancy
neckerchief, whose partially corked eyebrows, and half-rouged face,
testify to the fact of his having just left the stage or the circle,
sufficiently shows in what high admiration these public characters are
held.
With the double view of guarding against the discovery of friends or
employers, and enhancing the interest of an assumed character, by
attaching a high-sounding name to its representative, these geniuses
assume fictitious names, which are not the least amusing part of the
play-bill of a private theatre. Belville, Melville, Treville, Berkeley,
Randolph, Byron, St. Clair, and so forth, are among the humblest; and
the less imposing titles of Jenkins, Walker, Thomson, Barker, Solomons,
&c., are completely laid aside. There is something imposing in this,
and it is an excellent apology for shabbiness into the bargain. A
shrunken, faded coat, a decayed hat, a patched and soiled pair of
trousers—nay, even a very dirty shirt (and none of these appearances
are very uncommon among the members of the _corps dramatique_), may be
worn for the purpose of disguise, and to prevent the remotest chance of
recognition. Then it prevents any troublesome inquiries or explanations
about employment and pursuits; everybody is a gentleman at large, for
the occasion, and there are none of those unpleasant and unnecessary
distinctions to which even genius must occasionally succumb elsewhere.
As to the ladies (God bless them), they are quite above any formal
absurdities; the mere circumstance of your being behind the scenes is a
sufficient introduction to their society—for of course they know that
none but strictly respectable persons would be admitted into that close
fellowship with them, which acting engenders. They place implicit
reliance on the manager, no doubt; and as to the manager, he is all
affability when he knows you well,—or, in other words, when he has
pocketed your money once, and entertains confident hopes of doing so
again.
A quarter before eight—there will be a full house to-night—six parties
in the boxes, already; four little boys and a woman in the pit; and two
fiddles and a flute in the orchestra, who have got through five
overtures since seven o’clock (the hour fixed for the commencement of
the performances), and have just begun the sixth. There will be plenty
of it, though, when it does begin, for there is enough in the bill to
last six hours at least.
That gentleman in the white hat and checked shirt, brown coat and brass
buttons, lounging behind the stage-box on the O. P. side, is Mr.
Horatio St. Julien, alias Jem Larkins. His line is genteel comedy—his
father’s, coal and potato. He _does_ Alfred Highflier in the last
piece, and very well he’ll do it—at the price. The party of gentlemen
in the opposite box, to whom he has just nodded, are friends and
supporters of Mr. Beverley (otherwise Loggins), the _Macbeth_ of the
night. You observe their attempts to appear easy and gentlemanly, each
member of the party, with his feet cocked upon the cushion in front of
the box! They let them do these things here, upon the same humane
principle which permits poor people’s children to knock double knocks
at the door of an empty house—because they can’t do it anywhere else.
The two stout men in the centre box, with an opera-glass ostentatiously
placed before them, are friends of the proprietor—opulent country
managers, as he confidentially informs every individual among the crew
behind the curtain—opulent country managers looking out for recruits; a
representation which Mr. Nathan, the dresser, who is in the manager’s
interest, and has just arrived with the costumes, offers to confirm
upon oath if required—corroborative evidence, however, is quite
unnecessary, for the gulls believe it at once.
The stout Jewess who has just entered, is the mother of the pale, bony
little girl, with the necklace of blue glass beads, sitting by her; she
is being brought up to ‘the profession.’ Pantomime is to be her line,
and she is coming out to-night, in a hornpipe after the tragedy. The
short thin man beside Mr. St. Julien, whose white face is so deeply
seared with the small-pox, and whose dirty shirt-front is inlaid with
open-work, and embossed with coral studs like ladybirds, is the low
comedian and comic singer of the establishment. The remainder of the
audience—a tolerably numerous one by this time—are a motley group of
dupes and blackguards.
The foot-lights have just made their appearance: the wicks of the six
little oil lamps round the only tier of boxes, are being turned up, and
the additional light thus afforded serves to show the presence of dirt,
and absence of paint, which forms a prominent feature in the audience
part of the house. As these preparations, however, announce the speedy
commencement of the play, let us take a peep ‘behind,’ previous to the
ringing-up.
The little narrow passages beneath the stage are neither especially
clean nor too brilliantly lighted; and the absence of any flooring,
together with the damp mildewy smell which pervades the place, does not
conduce in any great degree to their comfortable appearance. Don’t fall
over this plate basket—it’s one of the ‘properties’—the caldron for the
witches’ cave; and the three uncouth-looking figures, with broken
clothes-props in their hands, who are drinking gin-and-water out of a
pint pot, are the weird sisters. This miserable room, lighted by
candles in sconces placed at lengthened intervals round the wall, is
the dressing-room, common to the gentlemen performers, and the square
hole in the ceiling is _the_ trap-door of the stage above. You will
observe that the ceiling is ornamented with the beams that support the
boards, and tastefully hung with cobwebs.
The characters in the tragedy are all dressed, and their own clothes
are scattered in hurried confusion over the wooden dresser which
surrounds the room. That snuff-shop-looking figure, in front of the
glass, is _Banquo_: and the young lady with the liberal display of
legs, who is kindly painting his face with a hare’s foot, is dressed
for _Fleance_. The large woman, who is consulting the stage directions
in Cumberland’s edition of _Macbeth_, is the _Lady Macbeth_ of the
night; she is always selected to play the part, because she is tall and
stout, and _looks_ a little like Mrs. Siddons—at a considerable
distance. That stupid-looking milksop, with light hair and bow legs—a
kind of man whom you can warrant town-made—is fresh caught; he plays
_Malcolm_ to-night, just to accustom himself to an audience. He will
get on better by degrees; he will play _Othello_ in a month, and in a
month more, will very probably be apprehended on a charge of
embezzlement. The black-eyed female with whom he is talking so
earnestly, is dressed for the ‘gentlewoman.’ It is _her_ first
appearance, too—in that character. The boy of fourteen who is having
his eyebrows smeared with soap and whitening, is _Duncan_, King of
Scotland; and the two dirty men with the corked countenances, in very
old green tunics, and dirty drab boots, are the ‘army.’
‘Look sharp below there, gents,’ exclaims the dresser, a red-headed and
red-whiskered Jew, calling through the trap, ‘they’re a-going to ring
up. The flute says he’ll be blowed if he plays any more, and they’re
getting precious noisy in front.’ A general rush immediately takes
place to the half-dozen little steep steps leading to the stage, and
the heterogeneous group are soon assembled at the side scenes, in
breathless anxiety and motley confusion.
‘Now,’ cries the manager, consulting the written list which hangs
behind the first P. S, wing, ‘Scene 1, open country—lamps down—thunder
and lightning—all ready, White?’ [This is addressed to one of the
army.] ‘All ready.’—‘Very well. Scene 2, front chamber. Is the front
chamber down?’—‘Yes.’—‘Very well.’—‘Jones’ [to the other army who is up
in the flies]. ‘Hallo!’—‘Wind up the open country when we ring
up.’—‘I’ll take care.’—‘Scene 3, back perspective with practical
bridge. Bridge ready, White? Got the tressels there?’—‘All right.’
‘Very well. Clear the stage,’ cries the manager, hastily packing every
member of the company into the little space there is between the wings
and the wall, and one wing and another. ‘Places, places. Now then,
Witches—Duncan—Malcolm—bleeding officer—where’s the bleeding
officer?’—‘Here!’ replies the officer, who has been rose-pinking for
the character. ‘Get ready, then; now, White, ring the second
music-bell.’ The actors who are to be discovered, are hastily arranged,
and the actors who are not to be discovered place themselves, in their
anxiety to peep at the house, just where the audience can see them. The
bell rings, and the orchestra, in acknowledgment of the call, play
three distinct chords. The bell rings—the tragedy (!) opens—and our
description closes.