SCENERY AND COSTUME OF THE STAGE
We must assume there is something very peculiar in the rural landscapes and the town residences inhabited by the dramatic population, if the haunts of their rustics and the dwelling-places of their citizens are to be judged by the representations of these places which we see upon the British stage. The dramatic idea of the country consists usually of a series of set pieces, backed by a six-inch deal bridge, surmounting a two-foot waterfall, and leading to a profile cottage of such diminutive dimensions that when the feet of any one entering it are on the basement, his head soars into the second story, and he cannot, without doubling himself completely up, go either in or out of the door. In some cases the cottages have no pretension to habitable qualities, but are simply “made out” of a single piece of canvas, on which a clearly “impracticable” window is painted, and which the business of the scene does not require to be opened, the cottage being only needed as the cue for some song or sentiment, such as “Ah! that humble cot—how its aspect makes me sigh for Home, Sweet Home!” or, “The sight of that lowly roof makes me feel no envy for pampered pride in its palace, or venal villany in its villa; for I am convinced more and more of the beautiful truth, that it is in the cottage alone contentment can be found.”
Daughter. What do you think of the quartette?
Grumpy Father. Humph, won’t take as long as four solos!
“My dear Lady Thompson, I had no idea you’d broken your arm.”
“Don’t be alarmed, dear. These horrid people would never have let Fido in, so I had recourse to a little ruse!”
Sometimes there is, by way of background, a castle, frightfully foreshortened, with its battlements half a yard high, and its towers towering among the sky-borders, while its foundations rest on a rock no higher than the top of the low comedian’s hat; but the structure is sufficient to admit of its being apostrophized by some young gentleman in hessians and a chocolate surtout as “Deserted halls of my ancestors, whose pavements have rung to the clang of the usurper’s hoof, and whose donjon-keep has echoed to the noisy revels of a stranger band.” When the occasion is an operatic one, the distant castle forms an admirable subject for something like the following—
RECITATIVE.
Long cherished pile—home of my ancient sires,
Your aspect kindles all my youthful fires;
And when your sainted towers salute mine eyes,
Within my breast revengeful feelings rise.
Every playgoer is familiar with the “mossy bank” of dramatic rural scenery, with one end slightly elevated for the head of the weary wayfarer or benighted traveller, and a bit of an old bolster craftily crammed underneath the canvas to complete the mossiness of the contrivance.
The town scenery of the stage is not less peculiar than its landscapes, and the exteriors are particularly adapted for teaching “what to avoid” to the youthful architect. If young Dashington calls upon Lord Toplofty, the latter lounges lazily out of the first-floor French window, in which his head and shoulders are a pretty tight fit, while the former bears about the same proportion to the house that the peasant bears to the cottage we have already been speaking of. It is a singular fact that the inside of any one room is no sooner represented to us, than we find it to be much larger than the whole house when judged by its external appearance; and though the mansion itself may be only ten feet high from the basement to the tip of the topmost chimney-pot, the smallest apartment is found to be as wide as the wings are apart, and as lofty as the proscenium.
A MORNING CONCERT.
Wife. George! George! You are not in church!
In costume, the stage presents some really astounding phenomena; and we have often been struck by the similarity of the dresses worn by the retainers of every country, every age, and indeed of almost every family. One would think that the word retainer referred to the fact of the same habiliments being always retained under all circumstances, whether the wearer happens to be a creature of the house of Hapsburg, a vassal of a Norman noble, or a member of a bellowing band of Swiss patriots, shouting such choruses as the following:—
Then onwards to freedom;
Our tyrants shall know,
No longer we need ’em;
Let’s join in the blow:
Yes, out let us weed ’em,
And lay them all low.
Oh! oh! oh! oh! oh!
While our blood
In a flood
We’ll freely let flow.
Oh! oh! oh! oh! oh!
Echo (by the Prompter) in the mountains,
Oh! oh! oh! oh!
Punch.
PIT, BOXES AND GALLERY.