In looking over a description of London we have met with a quotation of a passage from Fitz-Stephen, an old historian of that city, in which he gives a quaint description of these familiar sports, as they were practised in King Henry the Second's day on the large pond or marsh which then occupied the site of what is now Moorfields. The passage is short and we will quote it.
"When that vast lake," he says, "which waters the walls of the city towards the north is hard frozen, the youth in great numbers go and divert themselves on the ice. Some, taking a small run for increment of velocity, place their feet at a proper distance and are carried sliding sideways a great way. Others will make a large cake of ice, and seating one of their companions upon it, they take hold of one another's hands and draw him along; when it happens that, moving so swiftly on so slippery a place, they all fall headlong. Others there are who are still more expert in these amusements on the ice; they place certain bones, the leg bones of animals, under the soles of their feet by tying them round their ankles, and then, taking a pole shod with iron into their hands, they push themselves forward by striking it against the ice, and are carried on with a velocity equal to the flight of a bird or a bolt discharged from a cross-bow."
But amongst all the amusements which in cities contribute to make the Christmas time a period of enchantments for the young and happy, there is another, which must not be passed over without a word of special notice; and that one is the theatre,—a world of enchantment in itself. We verily believe that no man ever forgets the night on which as a boy he first witnessed the representation of a play. All sights and sounds that reached his senses before the withdrawing of the mysterious curtain, all things which preceded his introduction to that land of marvels which lies beyond, are mingled inextricably with the memories of that night, and haunt him through many an after year. The very smell of the lamps and orange-peel, the discordant cries, the ringing of the prompter's bell, and above all the heavy dark green curtain itself, become essential parts of the charm in which his spirit is long after held. It was so with ourselves; and though many a year is gone by since that happy hour of our lives, and most of the spells which were then cast have been long since broken, yet we felt another taken from us when at Drury Lane an attempt was made to substitute a rich curtain of crimson and gold for the plain dark fall of green. And then the overture! the enchanting prelude to all the wonders that await us! the unearthly music leading us into fairy land! the incantation at whose voice, apparently, the mysterious veil on which our eyes have been so long and so earnestly rivetted rises, as if by its own act, and reveals to us the mysteries of an enchanted world! From that moment all things that lie on this side the charmed boundary are lost sight of, and all the wonders that are going on beyond it are looked on with the most undoubting faith. It is not for a moment suspected that the actors therein are beings of natures like ourselves, nor is there any questioning but that we are gazing upon scenes and doings separated from the realities of life. Verily do we believe that never again in this life are so many new and bewildering and bewitching feelings awakened in his breast, as on the first night in which the boy is spectator of a theatrical performance, if he be old enough to enjoy and not quite old enough clearly to understand what is going on.
At this holiday period of the year the boxes of our theatres are filled with the happy faces, and their walls ring with the sweet laughter of children. All things are matters of amazement and subjects of exclamation. But in London above all things,—far, far beyond all other things (though it does not begin for some days later than this) is the pantomime with its gorgeous scenery and incomprehensible transformations and ineffable fun. "Ready to leap out of the box," says Leigh Hunt, "they joy in the mischief of the clown, laugh at the thwacks he gets for his meddling, and feel no small portion of contempt for his ignorance in not knowing that hot water will scald, and gunpowder explode; while with head aside to give fresh energy to the strokes, they ring their little palms against each other in testimony of exuberant delight." The winter pantomimes are introduced on the evening next after Christmas night; and some account of this entertainment seems, as a feature of the season, due to our Christmas readers.
Christmas Pantomime.—Page 249.
From Italy, then, we appear to have derived our pantomime,—the legitimate drama of Christmas, and to pagan times and deities the origin of our pantomimical characters may be directly referred. The nimble harlequin of our stage is the Mercury of the ancients, and in his magic wand and charmed cap may be recognized that god's caduceus and petasus. Our columbine is Psyche, our clown Momus, and our pantaloon is conjectured to be the modern representative of Charon,—variously habited indeed, according to Venetian fancy and feelings. Even Punch, the friend of our childhood, the great-headed, long-nosed, hump-backed "Mister Pōnch," it seems, was known to the Romans, under the name of Maccus.
Our pantomime, however, is an inferior translation, rather than a good copy, from its Italian original. The rich humor, the ready wit, the exquisite raciness of the Italian performance have all evaporated, and with us are burlesqued by the vapid joke, the stale trick, and acts of low buffoonery. We read of the pantomimic actors, Constantini and Cecchini, being ennobled; of Louis XIII. patronizing the merits of Nicholas Barbieri, and raising him to fortune; that Tiberio Fiurilli, the inventor of the character of Scaramouch, was the early companion of Louis XIV., and that the wit of the harlequin Dominic made him a favored guest at the same monarch's table. These instances of distinction are alone sufficient proof of the superior refinement of the actors of Italian pantomime, above our vulgar tribe of tumblers. The Italian artists were fellows "of infinite jest," whose ready wit enabled them to support extempore dialogue, suiting "the action to the word, and the word to the action;" for the Arlequino of Italy was not a mute like his English representative. Many of the Italian harlequins were authors of considerable reputation; Ruzzante, who flourished about 1530, may be regarded as the Shakspeare of pantomime. "Till his time," says D'Israeli, "they had servilely copied the duped fathers, the wild sons, and the tricking valets of Plautus and Terence; and perhaps, not being writers of sufficient skill but of some invention, were satisfied to sketch the plots of dramas, boldly trusting to extempore acting and dialogue. Ruzzante peopled the Italian stage with a fresh, enlivening crowd of pantomimic characters. The insipid dotards of the ancient comedy were transformed into the Venetian Pantaloon, and the Bolognese Doctor; while the hare-brained fellow, the arch knave, and the booby, were furnished from Milan, Bergamo, and Calabria. He gave his newly created beings new language and a new dress. From Plautus, he appears to have taken the hint of introducing all the Italian dialects into one comedy, by making each character use his own,—and even the modern Greek, which, it seems, afforded many an unexpected play on words for the Italian. This new kind of pleasure, like the language of Babel, charmed the national ear; every province would have its dialect introduced on the scene, which often served the purpose both of recreation and a little innocent malice. Their masks and dresses were furnished by the grotesque masqueraders of the Carnival, which, doubtless, often contributed many scenes and humors to the quick and fanciful genius of Ruzzante."
To the interesting essay, by the author of the "Curiosities of Literature," from whence this extract is derived, we beg leave to refer the reader for an anecdotical history of pantomime. Mr. D'Israeli in conclusion observes, that "in gesticulation and humor our Rich appears to have been a complete mime; his genius was entirely confined to pantomime, and he had the glory of introducing Harlequin on the English stage, which he played under the feigned name of Lun. He could describe to the audience by his signs and gestures, as intelligibly as others could express by words. There is a large caricature print of the triumph which Rich had obtained over the severe muses of tragedy and comedy, which lasted too long not to excite jealousy and opposition from the corps dramatique.
"Garrick, who once introduced a speaking Harlequin, has celebrated the silent but powerful language of Rich:—