more harlequin; his humour was quite disconcerted; his conscience could not with the same effrontery declare against nature without the cover of that unchanging face. Without that armour his courage could not come up to the bold strokes that were necessary to get the better of common-sense."
Early in the eighteenth century the characters of the Italian comedy were introduced into ballets. Harlequin ceased to speak, and assumed by degrees a more romantic, a less comic air, and the peculiarities of modern pantomime were gradually approached. Rich, the manager of the theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields and afterwards of Covent Garden—the "immortal Rich" of "The Dunciad"—became famous for his pantomimes, and under the name of Lun acquired great distinction as a harlequin. Pope handles severely the taste of the town in regard to pantomimes, and the excessive expenditure incurred on account of them. "Persons of the first quality in England" were accused of attending at these representations twenty and thirty times in a season. The line "Lo! one vast egg produces human race," had reference to the trick, introduced by Rich, of hatching harlequin out of a large egg. This was regarded as a masterpiece of dumb show, and is described in glowing terms by a contemporary writer. "From the first clipping of the egg, his receiving motion, his feeling the ground, his standing upright, to his quick harlequin trip round the empty shell, through the whole progression, every limb had its tongue and every motion a voice." Rich was also famed for his "catching a butterfly" and his "statue scene;" his "taking leave of columbine" was described as "graceful and affecting;" his trick of scratching his ear with his foot like a dog was greatly admired; while in a certain dance he was said to execute 300 steps in a rapid advance of three yards only. A writer in The World (1753) ironically recommended the managers to dispense entirely with tragedy and comedy, and to entertain the town solely with pantomime, people of taste and fashion having given sufficient proof that they thought it the highest entertainment the stage was capable of affording—"the most innocent we are sure it is, for where nothing is said and nothing meant very little harm can be done." Garrick, it was fancied, might start a few objections to this proposal; "but," it was added, "with those universal talents which he so happily possesses, it is not to be
doubted but he will in time be able to handle the wooden sword with as much dignity and dexterity as his brother Lun."
Possibly harlequin became a mute, in the first instance, to suit the limited capacity in the matter of elocution of some such performer as Rich; or the original dumbness of the harlequinade figures may be attributable to the strictness with which of old the theatres, unprotected by patents, were prohibited from giving spoken entertainments. What were then called the "burletta houses" were permitted performances of dancing, singing, tumbling, juggling—anything, indeed, but speech unaccompanied by music. The popularity of these performances was beyond question, however, and, in time, the mute drove the speaking harlequin from the stage: the great theatres probably copying the form of pantomimes of the minor houses, as they were by-and-by also induced to follow the smaller stages in the matter of their melodramas and burlettas.
The comic "openings" known to modern times had no place in Rich's pantomimes. These were divided into two parts, the first being devoted to scenic surprises and magical transformations of a serious nature, and the last to all kinds of comic antics, tumbling and dancing. No allusions to passing events or the follies of the day were, however, introduced.
Harlequin lost his place as the chief member of the pantomime troop, when the part of clown was entrusted to the famous Grimaldi, "the Garrick of clowns," as Theodore Hook called him. This great comic artist devised the eccentric costume still worn by clowns—the original whiteness of the Pierrot's dress being used as a groundwork upon which to paint variegated spots, stars, and patches; and nearly all the "comic business" of modern harlequinades is of his invention. The present dress of the harlequin dates from the beginning of the century only. Until then the costume had been the loosely fitting parti-coloured jacket and trousers to be seen worn by the figures in Watteau's masquerade subjects. In the pantomime of "Harlequin Amulet; or, The Magic of Mona," produced at Drury Lane in 1800, Mr. James Byrne, the ballet-master, the father of the late Mr. Oscar Byrne, appeared as harlequin in "a white silk shape, fitting without a wrinkle," into which the coloured silk patches were woven, the whole being profusely covered with spangles, and presenting a very sparkling appear
ance. The innovation was not resisted, but was greatly applauded, and Mr. Byrne's improved attire is worn by all modern harlequins.
Some eighty years ago John Kemble, addressing his scene-painter in reference to a forthcoming pantomime, wrote: "It must be very short, very laughable, and very cheap." If the great manager-actor's requirements were fairly met, it is certain that the entertainment in question was of a kind very different to the pantomime of our day—a production that is invariably very long, rarely laughable, and always of exceeding costliness. Leigh Hunt complained in 1831 that pantomimes were not what they had been, and that the opening, "which used to form merely a brief excuse for putting the harlequinade in motion," had come to be a considerable part of the performance. In modern pantomime it may be said that the opening is everything, and that the harlequinade is deferred as long as possible. "Now the fun begins," used to be the old formula of the playbills announcing the commencement of the harlequinade, or what is still known in the language of the theatre as the "comic business." Perhaps experience proved that in point of fact "the fun" did not set in at the time stated; at any rate the appearance of harlequin and clown is now regarded by many of the spectators as a signal for the certain commencement of dreariness, and as a notice to quit their seats. The pantomime Kemble had in contemplation, however, was of the fashion Leigh Hunt looked back upon regretfully. Harlequin was to enter almost in the first scene. "I have hit on nothing I can think of better," writes Kemble, "than the story of King Arthur and Merlin, and the Saxon Wizards. The pantomime might open with the Saxon witches lamenting Merlin's power over them, and forming an incantation by which they create a harlequin, who is supposed to be able to counteract Merlin in all his designs for the good of King Arthur. If the Saxons came on in a dreadful storm, as they proceeded in their magical rites, the sky might brighten and a rainbow sweep across the horizon, which, when the ceremonies are completed, should contract itself from either end and form the figure of harlequin in the heavens; the wizards may fetch him down how they will, and the sooner he is set to work the better. If this idea for producing a harlequin is not new do not adopt it."
The main difficulty of pantomime-writers at this time seems to have been the contriving of some new method of bringing harlequin upon the scene. Now he was conjured up from a well, now from a lake, out of a bower, a furnace, &c.; but it was always held desirable to introduce him to the spectators as early as might be. In Tom Dibdin's pantomime of "Harlequin in his Element; or, Fire, Water, Earth, and Air," produced at Covent Garden in 1807, the first scene represents "a beautiful garden, with terraces, arcades, fountains," &c. The curtain "rises to a soft symphony." Aurino, the Genius of Air, descends on a light cloud; Aquina, the Spirit of Water, rises from a fountain; Terrena, the Spirit of Earth, springs up a trap; and Ignoso, the Genius of Fire, descends amid thunder from the skies. These characters interchange a little rhymed dialogue, and discuss which of them is the most powerful. Ignoso is very angry, and threatens his associates. Terrena demands:
Fire, why so hot? Your bolts distress not me,
But injure the fair mistress of these bowers,
Whose sordid guardian would her husband be,
For lucre, not for love.
Rather than quarrel, let us use our powers,
And gift with magic aid some active sprite,
To foil the guardian and the girl to right.