"Methinks, my Lord of Essex," said the Queen, who had listened with great interest to the words, "Master Prologue promiseth well. Marked you how much was contained in those few lines? And lo, here begins the piece."
As the Queen spoke, Sampson and Gregory, with their swords and bucklers, and clad pretty much after the fashion of serving men of their own day, entered, and instantly commenced their animated dialogue.
Not, however, be it understood "slubbered over" by inferior actors, as in our times, but with exceeding humour, and with force and emphasis in every word; for even these minor characters were performed by actors of great talent.
Nothing could exceed the curiosity and interest in the audience even at this, the very commencement. The lively and sharp dialogue, the action so suited to the times in which the spectators lived; the animosity of the Capulet underlings towards the servitors of the Montagu family—and which bore so hardly upon several nobles present, whose followers frequently brawled and fought in the streets—produced a great effect; till, at length, as the lie was given, and Gregory, being prompted to remember his swashing blow, drew out his weapon, and the whole four engaged, the excitement, especially in the pit, was extraordinary. A murmur of delight was heard, and whilst some clapped their hands upon their rapiers, others shouted and seemed half inclined to jump upon the stage, and "fight on part and part." The entrance of Benvolio and Tybalt, however, produced a deep and silent attention.
"What, art thou drawn amongst these heartless hinds?
Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death."
There was, indeed, now amongst the audience no inclination to pursue their accustomed practical jokes—no mewling of cats, squeaking of pigs, and tickling each other's ears with the rushes. The wondrous words of the poet held them in a state of enchantment. The nobles of the Court for the moment forgot the accustomed homage of eye and ear. Their bearded faces betrayed their interest, and the templars and students, as they stood leaning upon their heavy-hilted rapiers, sent their eyes upon the stage as if they could have devoured each line.
Indeed, to have any ideas of the interest created, we most again call to the reader's remembrance how great was the contrast between that which had been and that which was; and if the melody of the verse of Shakespeare can, in the present day, make such an impression whilst we have so many and such varied productions suited to the hour and the time, in how much more was it likely to strike the senses of all present, when it seemed to have descended at once, in all its glorious beauty, like the music of the spheres!
There is that in theatrical representation, it has been observed by one of the greatest writers of our day, which perpetually awakens whatever of romance belongs to our characters. The comic wit, the strange art that gives such meaning to the poet's lightest word, the fair exciting life that is detailed before us, crowded into some little three hours—all that our most busy ambition could desire, love, enterprize, war, glory, the exaggeration of the sentiments which belong to the stage—like our own boldest movements.
Meanwhile the interest increased momentarily. The audience, from the Queen down to the meanest person there, seemed held in a state of enchantment as the piece proceeded. How different was it already from anything they had ever conceived of theatrical representation! It was a picture of life, such as is in the order of nature; there was the buoyant spirit of youth in every line! The Knight of Charlecote even became young again; he cast his eyes for a moment around, and was edified at beholding the deep, the breathless attention of the audience. The royal Tudor, "with eye and ear attentive bent," the lovely faces of her attendant ladies, each thrust forward and eager to catch the words of the poet, and the fine features of the attendant cavaliers, lighted up and animated with an expression of deep interest; the whole assemblage seeming, he thought, to hang upon each word.
As the eye of Sir Thomas again turned from the audience and rested upon the stage, he observed that the scene had been fresh placarded, and was now "a street in fair Verona." Indeed the serving-man who had announced to Lady Capulet, in the preceding scene, that "supper was served, Juliet asked for, the nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity," had before his own exit changed the placard, and the next moment, as a gay party of revellers filled up the back of the stage, Romeo, Mercutio, and Benvolio, clad in masking costume, vizors in their hands, entered.