which they considered their proper parterre, and the young clerks, and persons of lower degree, were glad to get a seat on the stage, to see the actors and actresses closely. These classes did not care for illusion. The thing was carried to an absurdity on the benefit nights of the actors, which came very often, when there was that "building" on the stage, the great circus, that rose in tiers to the stage clouds, while the floor in front was covered with spectators sitting or lying down. At the top fluttered dirty pieces of canvas; the wings were all blocked up with crowds of loungers who could not get seats, and who sometimes prevented the actor coming on. In front, the stage boxes, which had taken the place of the good old stage doors, were "built out," with two or three rows of seats, which prevented those behind from seeing. Sometimes the Ranger or Archer, or conventional gallant of the piece, had to "escape" from a balcony, or to scale one; and it was in the regular course of things for him to intrude himself into the side box, with many apologies, to the great disturbance of the tenants. These ridiculous shifts, contemptuously accepted by the audience, were not likely to increase the respect for the players. It was even more absurd on Mrs. Cibber's benefit, to see that charming actress, in the centre of a crowded ring, with scarcely room to turn, prostrate on the tomb of the Capulets, which was an old couch covered with black cloth. More absurdly still, when Mr. Holland came on as Hamlet, through a similar crowd, and according to the strict tradition, made his hat fall, as though lifted off by his hair, in terror at the ghost, one of his admirers, a woman in a red cloak, got up and

replaced it. This, however, caused a universal roar. Such familiarities were fatal to all respect, and to all illusion.

When reform came, came also, as a matter of course, rich dresses and better scenery. Then the Cibbers, and Bellamys, and Barrys, revelled in, and extorted from reluctant managers, those rich, gorgeous, and elaborate robes, in which they looked like true "tragedy queens." They were "inhabitants," as Steele would say, of the most sumptuous structures, stiff, spreading, encrusted with trimmings and furbelows as stiff. Their heads towered with strange and nodding edifices, built and entwined with rows of pearls and other jewels. To turn over the old stage pictures, and come upon Statira and Roxana, the rival queens,; fronting each other, one Cibber, the other Bellamy, and call up the sweet and melodious chanting, and the lofty and pretentious language-poetry sometimesthe sad and tender complainings, the fierce but measured rage and despair, it must be admitted that, in such an ensemble, there was something grand, and even magnificent. With such accessories, and recollections of the majestic demi-chanting which even now obtains on the French stage, we might almost accept this rococo school, as a type of something grand and elevating. These stage royal ladies were usually attended by pages, even in their most intimate and domestic scenes, who never let down the sumptuous trains of their mistresses. There could be none, therefore, of that "crossing" and recrossing which make up the bustle and movement of modern drama. Nor was this style of decoration made subservient to the interests of the play. Mrs. Cibber played her Juliet in white

satin, hoops, and furbelows; so that Don Ferolo's heroine was right in becoming "distraught" in white satin. Clive or Woffington, when doing the "pert" part of a waiting-maid, or the more gauche one of a farmer's rustic daughter, presented themselves in white satin shoes, and with their hair dressed according to the gorgeous canons of the London fashions. These contradictions were not noticed; and it must be said, that there was a certain standard of dress accepted for each part, like the conventional lions of old architecture, which, perhaps, really conduced to idealize the drama, much more than the present minute and "realistic" production of the commonest and most earthly objects in life.

The modern taste for this fatal "realism" is utterly antagonistic to stage effect. This may seem a paradox: but even in the days of Garrick-when the limelight was undreamed of, and scenery very rude-there was a better air of delusion. Because the more perfect and vivid, the more like real life, effects become, the more the spectator is inclined to be on his guard, and to challenge what is presented to him. There is a point beyond which stage imitation should not go; and there should be certain conventional shapes of scenery, which should more indicate than represent. The Greeks, with their heroic pattern of mask-one for comedy, one for tragedy-and their unchangeable scene of a temple or street, understood this principle. The truth was, acting, mental action, and witty and humorous dialogue, were considered the proper business of the stage, and were what people went to see and hear. And the smallest reflection will show that this is the entire foundation of the pleasure that

brings us to the theatre. The excitement is from the play of mind on mind, not in the vulgar accessories of "fires," coal mines, imitation water, "bending trees," and the like. These poor devices are usurping the place of what they are intended to set off.

It was time indeed that some reform should be made in the "ordering" of the house. The effect of Garrick's alterations and improvements, when he took Drury Lane, was only to give it a patched air. Theatrical buildings then scarcely fell within the province of the architect; and the theory of sound, or of convenient approaches and issues, were not dreamed of. At Drury Lane, the galleries to the upper boxes were so contracted, that people trembled to think what would happen in case of a fire. If the box-door was opened, it would be impossible for any one of the tenants to squeeze by. In the pit, the "fast men" were accustomed to gather at the entrances, and prevent the decent citizens from seeing or hearing. Sometimes they talked and laughed, to show their contempt, and were saluted with showers of sucked oranges, skins, and half-eaten pippins from the galleries. At Covent Garden the scenery was of the rudest, oldest, and shabbiest sort. There was an old faded Spanish interior, which had done duty for thirty or forty years, and even in the year 1747, its familiar "wings" and rickety folding-doors, would wheel on "regularly in the 'The Fop's Fortune.' The old dresses, too, cast off by noblemen and ladies of quality, were used again and again. There was no fitness of character attempted; all that was required was that they should be "fine," or as fine as stripes of tawdry tinsel could make them. This all came of the contempt in which

actors were held. The audience thought such decorations quite good enough.

The look of the interior of Drury Lane was more that of a Music Hall, having deep galleries supported by pillars. It was almost square, not horse-shoe shaped. On grand nights, it was ostentatiously put in the bills, that "the house would be lit with wax; but later, Garrick substituted for the chandeliers a great central one, which was considered a triumph of workmanship. We might wonder how the later dim floats" could throw a sufficient light to show the workings and play of feature, but I have discovered that there was hanging over the stage in front of the curtain no less than six enormous chandeliers, each containing twelve candles, in brass sockets, with a great deal of iron "flourishing" at the bottom of each. This principle of lighting from above, and as from the sun, was far more philosophical than the present system of casting an unnatural glare from below, on the faces of the actors. When the piece was over, these chandeliers were let down, as a signal for the audience to depart. In Garrick's day foot-lights were unknown.

Yet with all Garrick's attention to scenery, and his unwearied efforts to secure the newest improvements, the absence of a light like gas must have hindered anything in the shape of real effect. A letter to the manager, about his scenery, shows that they felt this very difficulty. They had "a sun much such as they had at the opera, only larger. Gætano has about convinced me that it is impossible to give a colour to fire. He has tried coloured glass, and it does nothing. Spelter, he says, is very good; sulphur does not succeed;