Part 3 (2/2)
But this may be a reference to the colour of a cardinal's robes. There is probably no playbill extant of an earlier date than 1663. About this time, in the case of a new play, it was usual to state in the bill that it had been ”never acted before.”
In the earliest days of the stage, before the invention of printing, the announcement that theatrical performances were about to be exhibited was made by sound of trumpet, much after the manner of modern strollers and showmen at fairs and street-corners. Indeed, long after playbills had become common, this musical advertis.e.m.e.nt was still requisite for the due information of the unlettered patrons of the stage. In certain towns the musicians were long looked upon as the indispensable heralds of the actors. Tate Wilkinson, writing in 1790, records that a custom obtained at Norwich, ”and if abolished it has not been many years,” of proclaiming in every street with drum and trumpet the performances to be presented at the theatre in the evening. A like practice also prevailed at Grantham. To the Lincolns.h.i.+re company of players, however, this musical preface to their efforts seemed objectionable and derogatory, and they determined, on one of their visits to the town, to dispense with the old-established sounds. But the reform resulted in empty benches.
Thereupon the ”revered, well-remembered, and beloved Marquis of Granby” sent for the manager of the troop and thus addressed him: ”Mr.
Manager, I like a play; I like a player; and I shall be glad to serve you. But, my good friend, why are you all so offended at and averse to the n.o.ble sound of a drum? I like it, and all the inhabitants like it. Put my name on your playbill, provided you drum, but not otherwise. Try the effect on to-morrow night; if then you are as thinly attended as you have lately been, shut up your playhouse at once; but if it succeeds, drum away!” The players withdrew their opposition and followed the counsel of the marquis. The musical prelude was again heard in the streets of Grantham, and crowded houses were obtained. The company enjoyed a prosperous season, and left the town in great credit. ”And I am told,” adds Wilkinson, ”the custom is continued at Grantham to this day.”
An early instance of the explanatory address, signed by the dramatist or manager, which so frequently accompanies the modern playbill, is to be found in the fly-sheet issued by Dryden in 1665. The poet thought it expedient in this way to inform the audience that his tragedy of ”The Indian Emperor” was to be regarded as a sequel to a former work, ”The Indian Queen,” which he had written in conjunction with his brother-in-law, Sir Robert Howard. The handbill excited some amus.e.m.e.nt, by reason of its novelty, for in itself it was but a simple and useful intimation. In ridicule of this proceeding, Bayes, the hero of the Duke of Buckingham's burlesque, ”The Rehearsal,” is made to say: ”I have printed above a hundred sheets of paper to insinuate the plot into the boxes.”
Chetwood, who had been twenty years prompter at Drury Lane, and in 1749 published a ”History of the Stage,” describes a difficulty that had arisen in regard to printing the playbills. Of old the list of characters had been set forth according to the books of the plays, without regard to the merits of the performers. ”As, for example, in 'Macbeth,' Duncan, King of Scotland, appeared first in the bill, though acted by an insignificant person, and so every other actor appeared according to his dramatic dignity, all of the same-sized letter. But latterly, I can a.s.sure my readers, I have found it a difficult task to please some ladies as well as gentlemen, because I could not find letters large enough to please them; and some were so fond of elbow room that they would have shoved everybody out but themselves, as if one person was to do all and have the merit of all, like generals of an army.” Garrick seems to have been the first actor honoured by capital letters of extra size in the playbills. ”The Connoisseur,” in 1754, says: ”The writer of the playbills deals out his capitals in so just a proportion that you may tell the salary of each actor by the size of the letter in which his name is printed.
When the present manager of Drury Lane first came on the stage, a new set of types, two inches long, were cast on purpose to do honour to his extraordinary merit.” These distinctions in the matter of printing occasioned endless jealousies among the actors. Macklin made it an express charge against his manager, Sheridan, the actor, that he was accustomed to print his own name in larger type than was permitted the other performers. Kean threatened to throw up his engagement at Drury Lane on account of his name having been printed in capitals of a smaller size than usual. His engagement of 1818 contained a condition, ”and also that his name shall be continued in the bills of performance in the same manner as it is at present,” viz., large letters. On the other hand, Dowton, the comedian, greatly objected to having his name thus particularised, and expostulated with Elliston, his manager, on the subject. ”I am sorry you have done this,” he wrote. ”You know well what I mean. This cursed quackery. These big letters. There is a want of respectability about it, or rather a notoriety, which gives one the feeling of an absconded felon, against whom a hue-and-cry is made public. Or if there be really any advantage in it, why should I, or any single individual, take it over the rest of our brethren? But it has a nasty disreputable look, and I have fancied the whole day the finger of the town pointed at me, as much as to say, 'That is he! Now for the reward!' Leave this expedient to the police officers, or to those who have a taste for it. I have none.”
Macready, under date of 28th September, 1840, enters in his journal: ”Spoke to Webster on the subject of next year's engagement. He said that he understood I had said that while I was comfortable at the Haymarket I would stay. _I mentioned the position of my name on the playbills; that it should not, on any occasion be put under any other person's, as it had been_; that I should have the right to a private box when they were not let,” &c.
O'Keeffe relates that once when an itinerant showman brought over to Dublin a trained monkey of great acquirements, Mossop engaged the animal at a large salary to appear for a limited number of nights at his theatre. Mossop's name in the playbill was always in a type nearly two inches long, the rest of the performers' names being in very small letters. But to the monkey were devoted capitals of equal size to Mossop's; so that, greatly to the amus.e.m.e.nt of the public, on the playbills pasted about the town, nothing could be distinguished but the words, MOSSOP, MONKEY. Under John Kemble's management, ”for his greater ease and the quiet of the theatre,” letters of unreasonable size were abandoned, and the playbills were printed after an amended and more modest pattern.
With the rise and growth of the press came the expediency of advertising the performances of the theatres in the columns of the newspapers. To the modern manager advertis.e.m.e.nts are a very formidable expense. The methods he is compelled to resort to in order to bring his plays and players well under the notice of the public, involve a serious charge upon his receipts. But of old the case was precisely the reverse. The theatres were strong, the newspapers were weak. So far from the manager paying money for the insertion of his advertis.e.m.e.nts in the journals, he absolutely received profits on this account. The press then suffered under severe restrictions, and was most jealously regarded by the governing powers; leading articles were as yet unknown; the printing of parliamentary debates was strictly prohibited; foreign intelligence was scarcely obtainable; of home news there was little stirring that could with safety be promulgated. So that the proceedings of the theatres became of real importance to the newspaper proprietor, and it was worth his while to pay considerable sums for early information in this respect. Moreover, in those days, not merely by reason of its own merits, but because of the absence of competing attractions and other sources of entertainment, the stage was much more than at present an object of general regard. In Andrew's ”History of British Journalism” it is recorded on the authority of the ledger of Henry Woodfall, the publisher of the _Public Advertiser_: ”The theatres are a great expense to the papers. Amongst the items of payment are: Playhouses, 100. Drury Lane advertis.e.m.e.nts, 64 8s. 6d.; Covent Garden ditto, 66 11s. The papers paid 200 a-year to each theatre for the accounts of new plays, and would reward the messenger with a s.h.i.+lling or half-a-crown who brought them the first copy of a playbill.” In 1721, the following announcement appeared in the _Daily Post_: ”The managers of Drury Lane think it proper to give notice that advertis.e.m.e.nts of their plays, by their authority, are published only in this paper and the _Daily Courant_, and that the publishers of all other papers who insert advertis.e.m.e.nts of the same plays, can do it only by some surrept.i.tious intelligence or hearsay, which frequently leads them to commit gross errors, as, mentioning one play for another, falsely representing the parts, &c., to the misinformation of the town, and the great detriment of the said theatre.” And the _Public Advertiser_ of January 1st, 1765, contains a notice: ”To prevent any mistake in future in advertising the plays and entertainments of Drury Lane Theatre, the managers think it proper to declare that the playbills are inserted by their direction in this paper only.” It is clear that the science of advertising was but dimly understood at this date. Even the shopkeepers then paid for the privilege of exhibiting bills in their windows, whereas now they require to be rewarded for all exertions of this kind, by, at any rate, free admissions to the entertainments advertised, if not by a specific payment of money. The exact date when the managers began to pay instead of receive on the score of their advertis.e.m.e.nts, is hardly to be ascertained. Genest, in his laborious ”History of the Stage,”
says obscurely of the year 1745: ”At this time the plays were advertised at three s.h.i.+llings and sixpence each night or advertis.e.m.e.nt in the _General Advertiser_.” It may be that the adverse systems went on together for some time. The managers may have paid certain journals for the regular insertion of advertis.e.m.e.nts, and received payment from less favoured or less influential newspapers for theatrical news or information.
One of Charles Lamb's most pleasant papers arose from ”the casual sight of an old playbill which I picked up the other day; I know not by what chance it was preserved so long.” It was but two-and-thirty years old, however, and presented the cast of parts in ”Twelfth Night”
at Old Drury Lane Theatre, destroyed by fire in 1809. Lamb's delight in the stage needs not to be again referred to. ”There is something very touching in these old remembrances,” he writes. ”They make us think how we once used to read a playbill, not as now, peradventure singling out a favourite performer and casting a negligent eye over the rest; but spelling out every name down to the very mutes and servants of the scene; when it was a matter of no small moment to us whether Whitfield or Packer took the part of Fabian; when Benson, and Burton, and Phillimore--names of small account--had an importance beyond what we can be content to attribute now to the time's best actors.” The fond industry with which a youthful devotee of the theatre studies the playbills could hardly be more happily indicated than in this extract.
Mention of Old Drury Lane and its burning bring us naturally to the admirable ”story of the flying playbill,” contained in the parody of Crabbe, perhaps the most perfect specimen in that unique collection of parodies, ”Rejected Addresses.” The verses by the pseudo-Crabbe include the following lines:
Perchance while pit and gallery cry ”Hats off!”
And awed consumption checks his chided cough, Some giggling daughter of the Queen of Love Drops, reft of pin, her playbill from above; Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap, Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed sc.r.a.p; But, wiser far than he, combustion fears; And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers; Till, sinking gradual, with repeated twirl, It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl, Who from his powdered pate the intruder strikes, And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spikes.
”The story of the flying playbill,” says the mock-preface, ”is calculated to expose a practice, much too common, of pinning playbills to the cus.h.i.+ons insecurely, and frequently, I fear, not pinning them at all. If these lines save one playbill only from the fate I have recorded, I shall not deem my labour ill employed.”
Modern playbills may be described as of two cla.s.ses, indoor and out-of-door. The latter are known also as ”posters,” and may thus manifest their connection with the early method of ”setting up playbills upon posts.” Shakespeare's audiences were not supplied with handbills as our present playgoers are; such of them as could read were probably content to derive all the information they needed from the notices affixed to the doors of the theatre, or otherwise publicly exhibited. Of late years the vendors of playbills, who were wont urgently to pursue every vehicle that seemed to them bound to the theatre, in the hope of disposing of their wares, have greatly diminished in numbers, if they have not wholly disappeared. Many managers have forbidden altogether the sale of bills outside the doors of their establishments. The indoor programmes are again divided into two kinds. To the lower-priced portions of the house an inferior bill is devoted; a folio sheet of thin paper, heavily laden and strongly odorous with printers' ink. Visitors to the more expensive seats are now supplied with a scented bill of octavo size, which is generally, in addition, the means of advertising the goods and inventions of an individual perfumer. Attempts to follow Parisian example, and to make the playbill at once a vehicle for general advertis.e.m.e.nts and a source of amusing information upon theatrical subjects, have been ventured here occasionally, but without decided success. From time to time papers started with this object under such t.i.tles as the ”Opera Gla.s.s,” the ”Curtain,” the ”Drop Scene,” &c., have appeared, but they have failed to secure a sufficiency of patronage. The playgoer's openness to receive impressions or information of any kind by way of employment during the intervals of representation, has not been unperceived by the advertisers, however, and now and then, as a result, a monstrosity called an ”advertising curtain” has disfigured the stage. Some new development of the playbill in this direction may be in store for us in the future. The difficulty lies, perhaps, in the gilding of the pill. Advertis.e.m.e.nts by themselves are not very attractive reading, and a mixed audience cannot safely be credited with a ruling appet.i.te merely for dramatic intelligence.
CHAPTER VI.
STROLLING PLAYERS.
It is rather the public than the player that strolls nowadays. The theatre is stationary--the audience peripatetic. The wheels have been taken off the cart of Thespis. Hamlet's line, ”Then came each actor on his a.s.s,” or the stage direction in the old ”Taming of the Shrew”
(1594), ”Enter two players with packs on their backs,” no longer describes accurately the travelling habits of the histrionic profession. But of old the country folk had the drama brought as it were to their doors, and just as they purchased their lawn and cambric, ribbons and gloves, and other raiment and bravery of the wandering pedlar--the Autolycus of the period--so all their playhouse learning and experience they acquired from the itinerant actors. These were rarely the leading performers of the established London companies, however, unless it so happened that the capital was suffering from a visitation of the plague. ”Starring in the provinces”
was not an early occupation of the players of good repute. As a rule, it was only the inferior actors who quitted town, and as Dekker contemptuously says, ”travelled upon the hard hoof from village to village for cheese and b.u.t.termilk.” ”How chances it they travel?”
inquires Hamlet concerning ”the tragedians of the city”--”their _residence_ both in reputation and profit were better both ways.” John Stephens, writing in 1615, and describing ”a common player,” observes, ”I prefix the epithet 'common' to distinguish the base and artless appendants of our City companies, which oftentimes start away into rustical wanderings, and then, like Proteus, start back again into the City number.” The strollers were of two cla.s.ses, however. First, the theatrical companies protected by some great personage, wearing his badge or crest, and styling themselves his ”servants”--just as to this day the Drury Lane troop, under warrant of Davenant's patent, still boast the t.i.tle of ”Her Majesty's Servants”--who attended at country seats, and gave representations at the request or by the permission of the great people of the neighbourhood; and secondly, the mere unauthorised itinerants, with no claim to distinction beyond such as their own merits accorded to them, who played in barns, or in large inn-yards and rooms, and against whom was especially levelled the Act of Elizabeth declaring that all players, &c., ”not licensed by any baron or person of high rank, or by two justices of the peace, should be deemed and treated as rogues and vagabonds.”
The suppression of the theatres by the Puritans reduced all the players to the condition of strollers of the lowest cla.s.s. Legally their occupation was gone altogether. Stringent measures were taken to abolish stage-plays and interludes, and by an Act pa.s.sed in 1647, all actors of plays for the time to come were declared rogues within the meaning of the Act of Elizabeth, and upon conviction were to be publicly whipped for the first offence, and for the second to be deemed incorrigible rogues, and dealt with accordingly; all stage galleries, seats, and boxes were to be pulled down by warrant of two justices of the peace; all money collected from the spectators was to be appropriated to the poor of the parish; and all spectators of plays, for every offence, fined five s.h.i.+llings. a.s.suredly these were very hard times for players, playhouses, and playgoers. Still the theatre was hard to kill. In 1648, a provost-marshal was nominated to stimulate the vigilance and activity of the lord mayor, justices, and sheriffs, and among other duties, ”to seize all ballad-singers and sellers of malignant pamphlets, and to send them to the several militias, and to suppress stage-plays.” Yet, all this notwithstanding, some little show of life stirred now and then in the seeming corpse of the drama. A few players met furtively, a.s.sembled a select audience, and gave a clandestine performance, more or less complete, in some obscure quarter. Secret Royalists and but half-hearted Puritans abounded, and these did not scruple to abet a breach of the law, and to be entertained now and then in the old time-honoured way.
With the Restoration, however, Thespis enjoyed his own again, and sock and buskin became once more lawful articles of apparel. Charles II.
mounted the throne arm-in-arm, as it were, with a player-king and queen. The London theatres reopened under royal patronage, and in the provinces the stroller was abroad. He had his enemies, no doubt.
Prejudice is long-lived, of robust const.i.tution. Puritanism had struck deep root in the land, and though the triumphant Cavaliers might hew its branches, strip off its foliage, and hack at its trunk, they could by no means extirpate it altogether. Religious zealotry, strenuous and stubborn, however narrow, had fostered, and parliamentary enactments had warranted, hostility of the most uncompromising kind to the player and his profession. To many he was still, his new liberty and privileges notwithstanding, but ”a son of Belial”--ever of near kin to the rogue and the vagabond, with the stocks and the whipping-post still in his immediate neighbourhood, let him turn which way he would.
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