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The Great Theatre London's First Public Playhouse
The Theatre was the first London playhouse, built in 1576 by the English actor and entrepreneur James Burbage, father of the great actor and friend of Shakespeare, Richard Burbage. It was located in a northern suburb of London (north of London Wall which bounded the city proper); on the edge of Finsbury Fields, just past Bishopsgate Street, where Shakespeare called home up to 1597.
There are no images of the Theatre, but written accounts of the building describe a vast, polygonal, three-story timber structure, open to the sun and rain. Its exterior was coated with lime and plaster. It had features similar to those of the future Globe playhouse and other playhouses of the day, such as galleries, upper rooms, a tiring house, and trap doors in the stage floor. Like the Globe, the Theatre had two external staircases, standing on either side of the building, and leading up to the galleries. Those people who watched from the main "yard" surrounded by the comfortable covered galleries, were forced to stand during the entire performance. The Theatre was home to many acting companies, but was used primarily by Shakespeare's acting troupe, the Chamberlain's Men, after 1594. Unfortunately, the Theatre fell victim to government censorship, due to the production of Thomas Nashe's "seditious" play Isle of Dogs that prompted all of the London theatres to be closed for the summer of 1597. The Theatre did not reopen, and was dismantled by the carpenter Peter Street in 1598, forcing the Chamberlain's Men to find another home.
The Theatre was the first London playhouse, built in 1576 by the English actor and entrepreneur James Burbage, father of the great actor and friend of Shakespeare, Richard Burbage. It was located in a northern suburb of London (north of London Wall which bounded the city proper); on the edge of Finsbury Fields, just past Bishopsgate Street, where Shakespeare called home up to 1597.
There are no images of the Theatre, but written accounts of the building describe a vast, polygonal, three-story timber structure, open to the sun and rain. Its exterior was coated with lime and plaster. It had features similar to those of the future Globe playhouse and other playhouses of the day, such as galleries, upper rooms, a tiring house, and trap doors in the stage floor. Like the Globe, the Theatre had two external staircases, standing on either side of the building, and leading up to the galleries. Those people who watched from the main "yard" surrounded by the comfortable covered galleries, were forced to stand during the entire performance. The Theatre was home to many acting companies, but was used primarily by Shakespeare's acting troupe, the Chamberlain's Men, after 1594. Unfortunately, the Theatre fell victim to government censorship, due to the production of Thomas Nashe's "seditious" play Isle of Dogs that prompted all of the London theatres to be closed for the summer of 1597. The Theatre did not reopen, and was dismantled by the carpenter Peter Street in 1598, forcing the Chamberlain's Men to find another home.
Shakespeare's Globe Theatre The Globe Theatre was constructed in 1599, out of timber taken from the Theatre. It stood next to the Rose, on the south side of the Thames, and was the most elaborate and attractive theatre yet built. The Globe was designed and constructed for the Chamberlain's Men by Cuthbert Burbage, son of the Theatre's creator, James Burbage. The lease for the land on which the Globe stood was co-owned by Burbage and his brother Robert, and by a group of five actors -- Will Kempe, Augustine Phillips, John Heminge, Thomas Pope, and William Shakespeare. Much of Shakespeare's wealth came from his holdings in the Globe. The Globe was the primary home of Shakespeare's acting company beginning in late 1599, and it is a possibility that As You Like It was written especially for the occasion. On June 29, 1613, during a performance of Henry VIII, a misfired canon ball set the Globe's thatched roof on fire and the whole theatre was consumed. Swift reconstruction did take place and the Globe reopened to the public within a year, with the addition of a tiled roof. The new Globe theatre lasted until 1644, at which time it was demolished, and housing was quickly built where it once stood. Recent attempts have been made to re-create the Globe, and replicas have been built in Tokyo and in London.
The Outside of the Globe
The exterior appearance of the Globe can only be pieced together from sketches of the theatre found in sweeping Elizabethan city scenes, and the interior appearance from the drawing of the Swan Theatre. From these images we can describe the Globe as a hexagonal structure with an inner court about 55 feet across. It was three-stories high and had no roof. The open courtyard and three semicircular galleries could together hold more than 1,500 people.
The Globe Stage
The stage had two primary parts: 1) The outer stage, which was a rectangular platform projecting into the courtyard, from the back wall. Above it was a thatched roof and hangings but no front or side curtains. 2) The inner stage was the recess between two projecting wings at the very back of the outer stage. This stage was used by actors who were in a scene but not directly involved in the immediate action of the play, and it was also used when a scene took place in an inner room.
Underneath the floors of the outer and inner stages was a large cellar called "hell", allowing for the dramatic appearance of ghosts. This cellar was probably as big as the two stages combined above it, and it was accessed by two or more trap-doors on the outer stage and one trap door (nicknamed "the grave trap") on the inner stage. Actors in "hell" would be encompassed by darkness, with the only light coming from tiny holes in the floor or from the tiring-house stairway at the very back of the cellar.
The Tiring-House
Rising from behind the stages was the tiring-house, the three story section of the playhouse that contained the dressing rooms, the prop room, the musician's gallery, and connecting passageways. The tiring-house was enclosed in curtains at all times so the less dramatic elements of play production would be hidden from the audience. Two doors on either side of the tiring-house allowed the actors entrance onto the stage. Sometimes an actor would come through the "middle door", which really referred to the main floor curtains of the tiring-house that led directly onto center stage.
The three levels of the tiring-house were each very different. The first level was, essentially, the inner stage when one was needed. Many times Shakespeare's plays call for a scene within a scene, such as Miranda and Ferdinand playing chess as a backdrop to the main scene in The Tempest (V,i); or a scene in which a character or item needs to be dramatically revealed, as we find in The Merchant of Venice (II,vii), when Portia asks Nerissa to "draw aside the curtains" to show the caskets; or a scene that should take place in a small, confining space, such as the Capulet's Tomb in Romeo and Juliet (V,iii). For scenes such as these, the actors would have pulled back the curtains on the outer stage to expose the tiring-house as the inner stage. Moreover, the plays often call for one character eavesdropping from behind a curtain or door. The tiring-house was used in this case as well, because at its very rear, even further back than the inner stage floor, was an tiny room hidden by a set of drapes. These floor length drapes or dyed cloth hangings were suspended from the ceiling, concealing the actor. The drapes of the first floor tiring-house would have hidden Falstaff in 1 Henry IV (II,vi), when the Sheriff comes to the door of the tavern, and would have cloaked Polonius right before he is killed by Hamlet, in Act III, scene iv, just to name two situations.
The second level of the tiring-house contained a central balcony stage in the middle, undoubtedly used multiple times in the production of Romeo and Juliet, (II,ii) -- the most famous balcony scene in the canon; a small window-stage on each side of the balcony, directly above the side doors on the first floor, used when up to four characters had to be seen from a window; and a curtained inner room behind the balcony stage, that served the same purpose as the inner room on the first floor of the tiring-house.
The third level consisted of a central music gallery and two large lofts on either side of it, used as storage and dressing rooms. In rare instances the orchestra was seen by the audience, when select members would come down to the main stage to accompany a dancer or a chorus, but in most cases the musicians played in the third-floor curtained gallery, hidden from site. The lofts holding the props and instruments were always closed off from the public. In the Elizabethan theatre extraordinary amounts of money were spent on costumes and the Globe's storage area would have been overflowing with beautiful clothing, not unlike the kind listed in Henslowe's Diary, as he took inventory at the Rose. Unfortunately, the arcane spelling is difficult to read, but it is nonetheless interesting to peruse a portion of the list:
Item, j orenge taney satten dublet, layd thycke with gowld lace.
Item, j blew tafetie sewt.
Item, j payr of carnatyon satten Venesyons, layd with gold lace.
Item, j longe-shanckes sewte.
Item, ij Orlates sewtes, hates and gorgettes, and vij anteckes hedes.
Item, vj grene cottes for Roben Hoode, and iiij knaves sewtes.
Item, ij black saye gownes, and ij cotton gownes, and j rede saye gowne.
Item, Cathemer sewte, j payer of cloth whitte stockens, iiij Turckes hedes.
Item, j mawe gowne of calleco for the quene, j carnowll hatte.
Item, j red sewt of cloth for pyge, layed with whitt lace.
The Stage Cover
Over the three-story tiring-house was a superstructure composed of huts, resting on a protecting roof (also referred to as a stage-cover), held up by giant posts rising from the main platform. It would appear from drawings of the Bankside that every playhouse contemporaneous with the Globe had a superstructure of one or multiple huts, but the Globe's huts, or "heavens", seem the most elaborate. In the floor of the superstructure were several trap-openings allowing props to hang down over the stage or actors to descend to the floor, suspended by wires concealed under their costumes. The cannon that was so often fired during battle and coronation scenes was located in the huts, and so too was the trumpeter who heralded the beginning of a performance.
Atop the huts of the Globe and of every Bankside theatre stood the playhouse flagpole. When raised, the flag was a signal to people from miles around that a play would be staged that afternoon. J.C. Adams discusses the impact of the playhouse flags in his book The Globe Theatre and includes the following excerpt from the Curtain-Drawer of the World, written in 1612: "Each play-house advanceth his flagge in the aire, whither quickly at the waving thereof are summoned whole troops of men, women, and children" (379). The flag continued to wave until the end of each performance. No one knew exactly when they would see the flag again, for the Elizabethan theatre community lived in uncertain times and were at the mercy of harsh weather, plague, and puritanical government officials.
General Structure of Shakespeare's Theatres
Regarding the structure of the Elizabethan playhouses, it is important to note that, unlike our modern auditoriums with cloaked main stages, and seating limited to the front view, the Elizabethan playhouses were open to the public eye at every turn, and scenery could not be changed in between scenes because there was no curtain to drop.
It is no coincidence that in all of Shakespeare's plays, the scene, no matter how dramatic or climatic, ends on a denumount, with the actors walking off or being carried off the stage. If the play required a change of place in the next scene, most times the actors would not leave the stage at all, and it would be up to the audience to imagine the change had occurred. If props were used, they were usually placed at the beginning of the play, and oftentimes would become unnecessary as the performance went on, but would remain on the stage regardless. As G. C. Moore Smith mentions in the Warwick edition of Henry V, "properties either difficult to move, like a well, or so small as to be unobtrusive, were habitually left on the stage . . . whatever scenes intervened" (Addendum).
For very large objects that were vital in one scene but became an obstacle to the actors on stage in the next scene, it is most likely that the action was halted for their prompt removal. Due to the lack of props and scenery, the acting troupes relied very heavily on costumes. Even though Elizabethan audiences were deprived of eye-catching background scenes, they were never disappointed with the extravagant, breathtaking clothes that were a certainty at every performance.
Above we saw Henslowe's inventory of costumes that he stored in the Rose, and certainly every theatrical company in Shakespeare's day would have had a large and costly wardrobe. In Robert Greene's A Quip for an Upstart Courtier, written in 1592, a player is dressed in a cloth gown "faced down before with grey coney, and laid thick on the sleeves with lace, which he quaintly bore up to show his white taffeta hose and black silk stockings. A huge ruff about his neck wrapped in his great head like a wicker cage, a little hat with brims like the wings of a doublet, wherein he wore a jewel of glass, as broad as a chancery seal."
The Outside of the Globe
The exterior appearance of the Globe can only be pieced together from sketches of the theatre found in sweeping Elizabethan city scenes, and the interior appearance from the drawing of the Swan Theatre. From these images we can describe the Globe as a hexagonal structure with an inner court about 55 feet across. It was three-stories high and had no roof. The open courtyard and three semicircular galleries could together hold more than 1,500 people.
The Globe Stage
The stage had two primary parts: 1) The outer stage, which was a rectangular platform projecting into the courtyard, from the back wall. Above it was a thatched roof and hangings but no front or side curtains. 2) The inner stage was the recess between two projecting wings at the very back of the outer stage. This stage was used by actors who were in a scene but not directly involved in the immediate action of the play, and it was also used when a scene took place in an inner room.
Underneath the floors of the outer and inner stages was a large cellar called "hell", allowing for the dramatic appearance of ghosts. This cellar was probably as big as the two stages combined above it, and it was accessed by two or more trap-doors on the outer stage and one trap door (nicknamed "the grave trap") on the inner stage. Actors in "hell" would be encompassed by darkness, with the only light coming from tiny holes in the floor or from the tiring-house stairway at the very back of the cellar.
The Tiring-House
Rising from behind the stages was the tiring-house, the three story section of the playhouse that contained the dressing rooms, the prop room, the musician's gallery, and connecting passageways. The tiring-house was enclosed in curtains at all times so the less dramatic elements of play production would be hidden from the audience. Two doors on either side of the tiring-house allowed the actors entrance onto the stage. Sometimes an actor would come through the "middle door", which really referred to the main floor curtains of the tiring-house that led directly onto center stage.
The three levels of the tiring-house were each very different. The first level was, essentially, the inner stage when one was needed. Many times Shakespeare's plays call for a scene within a scene, such as Miranda and Ferdinand playing chess as a backdrop to the main scene in The Tempest (V,i); or a scene in which a character or item needs to be dramatically revealed, as we find in The Merchant of Venice (II,vii), when Portia asks Nerissa to "draw aside the curtains" to show the caskets; or a scene that should take place in a small, confining space, such as the Capulet's Tomb in Romeo and Juliet (V,iii). For scenes such as these, the actors would have pulled back the curtains on the outer stage to expose the tiring-house as the inner stage. Moreover, the plays often call for one character eavesdropping from behind a curtain or door. The tiring-house was used in this case as well, because at its very rear, even further back than the inner stage floor, was an tiny room hidden by a set of drapes. These floor length drapes or dyed cloth hangings were suspended from the ceiling, concealing the actor. The drapes of the first floor tiring-house would have hidden Falstaff in 1 Henry IV (II,vi), when the Sheriff comes to the door of the tavern, and would have cloaked Polonius right before he is killed by Hamlet, in Act III, scene iv, just to name two situations.
The second level of the tiring-house contained a central balcony stage in the middle, undoubtedly used multiple times in the production of Romeo and Juliet, (II,ii) -- the most famous balcony scene in the canon; a small window-stage on each side of the balcony, directly above the side doors on the first floor, used when up to four characters had to be seen from a window; and a curtained inner room behind the balcony stage, that served the same purpose as the inner room on the first floor of the tiring-house.
The third level consisted of a central music gallery and two large lofts on either side of it, used as storage and dressing rooms. In rare instances the orchestra was seen by the audience, when select members would come down to the main stage to accompany a dancer or a chorus, but in most cases the musicians played in the third-floor curtained gallery, hidden from site. The lofts holding the props and instruments were always closed off from the public. In the Elizabethan theatre extraordinary amounts of money were spent on costumes and the Globe's storage area would have been overflowing with beautiful clothing, not unlike the kind listed in Henslowe's Diary, as he took inventory at the Rose. Unfortunately, the arcane spelling is difficult to read, but it is nonetheless interesting to peruse a portion of the list:
Item, j orenge taney satten dublet, layd thycke with gowld lace.
Item, j blew tafetie sewt.
Item, j payr of carnatyon satten Venesyons, layd with gold lace.
Item, j longe-shanckes sewte.
Item, ij Orlates sewtes, hates and gorgettes, and vij anteckes hedes.
Item, vj grene cottes for Roben Hoode, and iiij knaves sewtes.
Item, ij black saye gownes, and ij cotton gownes, and j rede saye gowne.
Item, Cathemer sewte, j payer of cloth whitte stockens, iiij Turckes hedes.
Item, j mawe gowne of calleco for the quene, j carnowll hatte.
Item, j red sewt of cloth for pyge, layed with whitt lace.
The Stage Cover
Over the three-story tiring-house was a superstructure composed of huts, resting on a protecting roof (also referred to as a stage-cover), held up by giant posts rising from the main platform. It would appear from drawings of the Bankside that every playhouse contemporaneous with the Globe had a superstructure of one or multiple huts, but the Globe's huts, or "heavens", seem the most elaborate. In the floor of the superstructure were several trap-openings allowing props to hang down over the stage or actors to descend to the floor, suspended by wires concealed under their costumes. The cannon that was so often fired during battle and coronation scenes was located in the huts, and so too was the trumpeter who heralded the beginning of a performance.
Atop the huts of the Globe and of every Bankside theatre stood the playhouse flagpole. When raised, the flag was a signal to people from miles around that a play would be staged that afternoon. J.C. Adams discusses the impact of the playhouse flags in his book The Globe Theatre and includes the following excerpt from the Curtain-Drawer of the World, written in 1612: "Each play-house advanceth his flagge in the aire, whither quickly at the waving thereof are summoned whole troops of men, women, and children" (379). The flag continued to wave until the end of each performance. No one knew exactly when they would see the flag again, for the Elizabethan theatre community lived in uncertain times and were at the mercy of harsh weather, plague, and puritanical government officials.
General Structure of Shakespeare's Theatres
Regarding the structure of the Elizabethan playhouses, it is important to note that, unlike our modern auditoriums with cloaked main stages, and seating limited to the front view, the Elizabethan playhouses were open to the public eye at every turn, and scenery could not be changed in between scenes because there was no curtain to drop.
It is no coincidence that in all of Shakespeare's plays, the scene, no matter how dramatic or climatic, ends on a denumount, with the actors walking off or being carried off the stage. If the play required a change of place in the next scene, most times the actors would not leave the stage at all, and it would be up to the audience to imagine the change had occurred. If props were used, they were usually placed at the beginning of the play, and oftentimes would become unnecessary as the performance went on, but would remain on the stage regardless. As G. C. Moore Smith mentions in the Warwick edition of Henry V, "properties either difficult to move, like a well, or so small as to be unobtrusive, were habitually left on the stage . . . whatever scenes intervened" (Addendum).
For very large objects that were vital in one scene but became an obstacle to the actors on stage in the next scene, it is most likely that the action was halted for their prompt removal. Due to the lack of props and scenery, the acting troupes relied very heavily on costumes. Even though Elizabethan audiences were deprived of eye-catching background scenes, they were never disappointed with the extravagant, breathtaking clothes that were a certainty at every performance.
Above we saw Henslowe's inventory of costumes that he stored in the Rose, and certainly every theatrical company in Shakespeare's day would have had a large and costly wardrobe. In Robert Greene's A Quip for an Upstart Courtier, written in 1592, a player is dressed in a cloth gown "faced down before with grey coney, and laid thick on the sleeves with lace, which he quaintly bore up to show his white taffeta hose and black silk stockings. A huge ruff about his neck wrapped in his great head like a wicker cage, a little hat with brims like the wings of a doublet, wherein he wore a jewel of glass, as broad as a chancery seal."
Shakespeare's Audience Who would have attended an original Shakespeare production?
O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious
periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to
very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who
for the most part are capable of nothing but
inexplicable dumbshows and noise.
(Hamlet, 3.2)
Most of the poorer audience members, referred to as groundlings, would pay one penny (which was almost an entire day's wage) to stand in front of the stage, while the richer patrons would sit in the covered galleries, paying as much as half a crown each for their seats. In 1599, Thomas Platter, a Swiss doctor visiting London from Basel, reported the cost of admission in his diary:
"[There are] separate galleries and there one stands more comfortably and moreover can sit, but one pays more for it. Thus anyone who remains on the level standing pays only one English penny: but if he wants to sit, he is let in at a farther door, and there he gives another penny. If he desires to sit on a cushion in the most comfortable place of all, where he not only sees everything well, but can also be seen then he gives yet another English penny at another door. And in the pauses of the comedy food and drink are carried round amongst the people and one can thus refresh himself at his own cost." (Diary of Thomas Platter)
Shakespeare's audience would have been composed of tanners, butchers, iron-workers, millers, seamen from the ships docked in the Thames, glovers, servants, shopkeepers, wig-makers, bakers, and countless other tradesmen and their families. Ben Jonson commented on the diversity of the playgoers in his verses praising Fletcher's The Faithful Shepherdess:
The wise and many headed bench
That sits upon the life and death of plays, is
Composed of gamester, captain, knight, knight's man
Lady or pucelle, that wears mask or fan,
Velvet or taffeta cap, rank'd in the dark,
With the shop's foreman, or some such brave spark,
That may judge for his sixpence. (Ben Jonson, Underwood) Shakespeare's audience was far more boisterous than are patrons of the theatre today. They were loud and hot-tempered and as interested in the happenings off stage as on. One of Shakespeare's contemporaries noted that "you will see such heaving and shoving, such itching and shouldering to sit by the women, such care for their garments that they be not trod on . . . such toying, such smiling, such winking, such manning them home ... that it is a right comedy to mark their behaviour" (Stephen Gosson, The School of Abuse, 1579). The nasty hecklers and gangs of riffraff would come from seedy parts in and around London like Tower-hill and Limehouse and Shakespeare made sure to point them out: These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse,
and fight for bitten apples; that no audience, but
the Tribulation of Tower-hill, or the Limbs of
Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure.
(Henry VIII, 5.4.65-8)
O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious
periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to
very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who
for the most part are capable of nothing but
inexplicable dumbshows and noise.
(Hamlet, 3.2)
Most of the poorer audience members, referred to as groundlings, would pay one penny (which was almost an entire day's wage) to stand in front of the stage, while the richer patrons would sit in the covered galleries, paying as much as half a crown each for their seats. In 1599, Thomas Platter, a Swiss doctor visiting London from Basel, reported the cost of admission in his diary:
"[There are] separate galleries and there one stands more comfortably and moreover can sit, but one pays more for it. Thus anyone who remains on the level standing pays only one English penny: but if he wants to sit, he is let in at a farther door, and there he gives another penny. If he desires to sit on a cushion in the most comfortable place of all, where he not only sees everything well, but can also be seen then he gives yet another English penny at another door. And in the pauses of the comedy food and drink are carried round amongst the people and one can thus refresh himself at his own cost." (Diary of Thomas Platter)
Shakespeare's audience would have been composed of tanners, butchers, iron-workers, millers, seamen from the ships docked in the Thames, glovers, servants, shopkeepers, wig-makers, bakers, and countless other tradesmen and their families. Ben Jonson commented on the diversity of the playgoers in his verses praising Fletcher's The Faithful Shepherdess:
The wise and many headed bench
That sits upon the life and death of plays, is
Composed of gamester, captain, knight, knight's man
Lady or pucelle, that wears mask or fan,
Velvet or taffeta cap, rank'd in the dark,
With the shop's foreman, or some such brave spark,
That may judge for his sixpence. (Ben Jonson, Underwood) Shakespeare's audience was far more boisterous than are patrons of the theatre today. They were loud and hot-tempered and as interested in the happenings off stage as on. One of Shakespeare's contemporaries noted that "you will see such heaving and shoving, such itching and shouldering to sit by the women, such care for their garments that they be not trod on . . . such toying, such smiling, such winking, such manning them home ... that it is a right comedy to mark their behaviour" (Stephen Gosson, The School of Abuse, 1579). The nasty hecklers and gangs of riffraff would come from seedy parts in and around London like Tower-hill and Limehouse and Shakespeare made sure to point them out: These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse,
and fight for bitten apples; that no audience, but
the Tribulation of Tower-hill, or the Limbs of
Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure.
(Henry VIII, 5.4.65-8)
Going to a Play in Shakespeare's London: Simon Forman's Diary
Renaissance records of Shakespeare's plays in performance are exceedingly scarce. However, those few contemporary accounts that have survived provide brief yet invaluable information about a handful of Shakespeare's dramas. They give us a sense of what the play-going experience was like while Shakespeare was alive and involved in his own productions, and, in some cases, they help us determine the composition dates of the plays. Of all the records of performance handed down to us, none is more significant than the exhaustive diary of a doctor named Simon Forman, from which we obtain lengthy descriptions of early productions of four of Shakespeare's plays: Macbeth, The Winter's Tale, Cymbeline, and Richard II.
Dr. Simon Forman Simon Forman was born on December 30, 1552, in the town of Quidhampton, near Salisbury. He attended the Salisbury grammar school, and his experiences would have been very similar to those of young William Shakespeare who attended school in nearby Stratford. The following is an autobiographical account of Simon's school years: When Simon was almost eight years of age, in those days before the soldiers came from Newhaven, which was about the year of our Lord 1563 that the plague began in Salisbury, there was a certain minister named William Rydot alias Rydar, that by his trade and occupation was a cobbler. But after Queen Mary's days when the law did turn, he was made a minister and so withal became a schoolmaster and teacher of children. He was a man of some fifty years, mean of stature, and a blackgrom Sir [a poor parson]. He could read English well, but he could [know] no more Latin than the single accidence, and that he learned of his two sons that went daily to a free school.
This parson, when the plague began, fled from Salisbury for fear thereof, and came to dwell at the priory of St. Giles, near unto the father of this Simon: to whom this Simon was put to school at Michaelmas. Where he learned his letters. When he came to learn 'In the name of the Father' etc., because his capacity could not understand the mystery of spelling, he prayed his master he might not go to school no more, because he should never learn it. But his said master beat him for it, which made him the more diligent to his book. After some days, when he had pondered thereon well and had the reason thereof, he learned it. After that his master never beat him for his book again. He profited so well that in one year or little more he had learned his single accidence and his rules clean out...After this he was put to the free school in the Close of Salisbury with one Doctor Bowles, which was a very furious man, with whom he went to school some two years. On New Year's Eve of 1563, Simon's father died suddenly. His pitiless mother, who, by Simon's own account beat him repeatedly, forced him to leave school and take a job with Matthew Commin, a local merchant of cloth, rosin, salt, and herbal medicine. From Commin Simon learned "the knowledge of all wares and drugs, and how to buy and sell; and grew so apt and had such good fortune that in short time his master committed all to his charge".
After ten years of working with Matthew Commin, Simon left for Oxford to live with his cousins and resume his education. But Simon was unhappy at Oxford and quickly returned to Salisbury to accept a teaching position. For over six years Simon taught school in and around Salisbury, and, while his occupation paid his bills, it left him deeply unfulfilled. However, in 1579, Simon found his true vocation. He writes, "this year I did prophesy the truth of many things which afterwards came to pass...the very spirits were subject unto me". Thus Simon devoted himself to the study and practice of "physic and magic". Unable to find the resources needed to facilitate his new occupation in the little towns around Salisbury, Simon moved to London. "Forman's move to London was the decisive step in his career: he could not have become the well-known figure he did if he had remained in Salisbury. In spite of the hardships he endured in the first years and the disadvantage of having no connections, the opportunities that opened out were immensely greater. And on both fronts, in magic as well as physic and surgery. The opportunities of practising the former were restricted in a provincial town; in Elizabethan London they were unlimited" (Rowse 39).
Now a fully competent doctor by the standards of the day, Simon, unlike most of the other doctors in the capital, decided to stay in London during the plagues of 1592 and 1594 to help the devastated masses. He saved many lives and acquired a reputation as a courageous man and excellent physician. His experiences treating plague victims led to his publication, Discourses on the Plague, in 1595. Simon's success, however, caught the attention of the Royal College of Physicians in London. They were outraged at Simon's alternative healing practices (as he used his "magical potions" to help patients) and his lack of proper medical training. Upon a rigorous examination, the College found Simon's knowledge of anatomy and medicine sorely inadequate. His answers prompted "great mirth and sport among the auditors". Simon was fined and was banned from practicing medicine in London. When Simon disobeyed the College nine months later by prescribing a potion to a man that died soon after, Simon was committed to prison. His disputes with the College of Physicians dragged on for almost seven years, until he was finally granted a proper license by Cambridge University in 1603.
On July 22, 1599, Simon wed seventeen year-old Jane Baker, a girl renting a room in Simon's house. Simon had never been content with just one woman, and, sadly, marriage "did not make much difference to Forman's way of life, except that he had an inexperienced girl now as mistress of the house; he continued to be master" (Rowse 93).
Although Simon continued to write scores of books and papers on the subjects of medicine and astrology until his death, after 1601 we have very few detailed records of his personal activities. We know that he continued to see patients until the very end, treating them with his unique combination of "physic and magic". The events surrounding Simon's death are very well documented by another astrologer, William Lilly. Lilly's report tells us that, one warm Sunday afternoon in September of 1611, Simon, with what would be his last prophesy, told his wife that he would die the following Thursday night. And, sure enough, "[M]onday came, all was well. Tuesday came, he was not sick. Wednesday came, and still he was well: with which his impertinent wife did much twit him in the teeth. Thursday came, and dinner was ended, he very well. He went down to the waterside, and took a pair of oars to go to some buildings he was in hand with in Puddle-dock. Being in the middle of the Thames, he presently fell down, only saying, 'Am impost, an impost', and so died."
Simon Forman was dead, but his name remained foremost in the minds of the citizens of London due to a posthumous scandal involving Simon and his former client, Lady Essex. Lady Essex was on trial in 1613, accused of attempting to poison her lover, Sir Thomas Overbury. During the testimony, lawyers hurled accusations at Simon, claiming that he had given Lady Essex the potion with which she plotted to kill Overbury. Simon's reputation was severely tarnished.
While Simon Forman's life is intriguing, it is his diary entries that are of ultimate importance to Shakespearean scholars because they contain information on theatrical performances at the Globe in 1610 and 1611.
Dr. Forman's Account of Four Shakespeare Productions
Simon Forman attended productions of four of Shakespeare's plays and his thorough accounts of the performances aid scholars in dating the dramas and uncovering discrepancies in the published texts. The minor details of Simon Forman's narratives are sometimes erroneous, but they nonetheless give modern readers an impression of what it would be like to be an audience member in Shakespearean England. Reprinted below are the relevant excerpts from Simon's record-books. Please note that I have modernized the spelling. Macbeth at the Globe, 20 April 1610
In Macbeth at the Globe, 1610, the 20 of April, Saturday, there was to be observed, first, how Macbeth and Banquo, two noble men of Scotland, riding through a wood, there stood before them three women fairies or nymphs, and saluted Macbeth, saying three times unto him, "Hail, Macbeth, King of Codon; for thou shall be a King, but shall beget no kings," etc. Then said Banquo, "what all to Macbeth, and nothing to me?" "Yes", said the nymphs, "hail to thee, Banquo, thou shall beget kings, yet be no king"; and so they departed and came to the country of Scotland to Duncan, King of Scots and it was in the days of Edward the Confessor. And Duncan had them both kindly welcome, and made Macbeth forthwith Prince of Northumberland, and sent him home to his own castle, and appointed Macbeth to provide for him, for he would sup with him the next day at night, and did so.
And Macbeth contrived to kill Duncan and through the persuasion of his wife did that night murder the King in his own castle, being his guest; and there were many prodigies seen that night and the day before. And when Macbeth had murdered the king, the blood on his hands could not be washed off by any means, nor from his wives hands, which handed the bloody daggers in hiding them, which by means they became both much amazed and affronted. The murder being known, Duncan's two sons fled, the one to England, the other to Wales, to save themselves. They being fled, they were supposed guilty of the murder of their father, which was nothing so.
Then was Macbeth crowned kings; and then he, for fear of Banquo, his old companion, that he should beget kings but be no king himself, he contrived the death of Banquo, and caused him to be murdered on his way as he rode. The next night, being at supper with his noble men whom he had to bid to a feast, to the which also Banquo should have come, he began to speak of noble Banquo, and to wish that he were there. And as he did thus, standing up to drink a carouse to him, the ghost of Banquo came and sat down in his chair behind him. And he, turning about to sit down again, saw the ghost of Banquo, which fronted him so, that he fell into a great passion of fear and fury, uttering many words about his murder, by which, when they hard that Banquo was murdered, they suspected Macbeth. Then MackDove fled to England to the kinges sonn, and soon they raised an army and cam to Scotland, and at Dunstonanse overthrue Macbeth. In the meantime, while MacDove was in England, Macbeth slew MackDove's wife and children, and after in the battle MackDove slewe Macbeth. Observe also how Macbeth's queen did rise in the night in her sleep, and walked and talked and confessed all, and the doctor noted her words.
The Winter's Tale at the Globe, 15 May 1611
Observe there how Leontes, the king of Sicilia, was overcome with jealousy of his wife with the king of Bohemia, his friend, that came to see him. How he contrived his death, and would have had his cupbearer to have poisoned him: who have the king of Bohemia waning thereof and fled with him to Bohemia.
Remember also how he sent to the oracle of Apollo, and the answer of Apollo -- that she was guiltless and that the King was jealous, etc.; and how, except the child was found again that was lost, the King should die without issue. For the child was carried into Bohemia and there laid in a forest and brought up by a shepherd. The King of Bohemia's son married that wench. And how they fled into Sicilia to Leontes. The shepherd, having shown the letter of the nobleman by whom Leontes sent away that child and the jewels found about her, she was known to be Leontes' daughter, and was then sixteen years old.
Remember also the rogue that came in all tattered like Coll Pixie; how he feigned him sick and to have been robbed of all that he had. How he cozened the poor man of all his money. And, after, came to the sheep-shearing with a pedlar's pack and there cozened them again of all their money. How he changed apparel with the King of Bohemia's son, and then how he turned courtier, etc. Beware of trusting feigned beggars or fawning fellows.
Cymbeline at the Globe, 1611 (unspecified date)
Remember also the story of Cymbeline, king of England, in Lucius' time. How Lucius came from Octavius Caesar for tribute; and, being denied, sent Lucius with a great army of soldiers, who landed at Milford Haven, and after were vanquished by Cymbeline, and Lucius taken prosioner. All by means of three outlaws: of which two of them were the sons of Cymbeline, stolen from him when they were but two years old by an old man whom Cymbeline banished. He kept them as his own sons twenty years with him in a cave.
And how one of them slewe Cloten, the Queen's son, going to Milford Haven to seek the love of Imogen, the King's daughter, whom he had banished also for loving his daughter. How the Italian that came, from her love [from love of her], conveyed himself into a chest; and said it was a chest of plate sent, from her love and others, to be presented to the King. In the deepest of the night, she being asleep, he opened the chest and came forth of it. And viewed her in bed and the marks on her body; took away her bracelet, and after accused her of adultery to her love.
In the end, how he came with the Romans into England and was taken prisoner. And after revealed to Imogen, who had turned herself into man's apparel and fled to meet her love at Milford Haven and chanced to fall on the cave in the woods where her two brother were. How by eating a sleeping dram they thought she had been dead, and laid her in the woods, the body of Cloten by her, in her love's apparel that he left behind him. And how she was found by Lucius, etc.
Richard II at the Globe, 20 April 1611
Remember therein how Jack Straw by his overmuch boldness, not being politic nor suspecting anything, was suddenly at Smithfield Bars stabbed by Walworth, the mayor of London. So he and his whole army was overthrown. Therefore, in such a case or the like, never admit any party without a bar between; for a man cannot be too wise, nor keep himself too safe.
Also remember how the duke of Gloucester, the earl of Arundel, Oxford and others, crossing the King in his humour about the duke of Ireland and Bushy, were glad to fly and raise an host of men. Being in his castle, how the duke of Ireland came by night to betray him with three hundred men; but having privy warning thereof kept his gates fast and would not suffer the enemy to enter. Which went back again with a flea in his ear, and after was slain by the earl of Arundel in the batle.
Remember also, when the duke (Gloucester) and Arundel came to London with their army, King Richard came forth to them, met them and gave them fair words; and promised them pardon and that all should be well if they would discharge their army. Upon whose promises and fair speeches they did it. And, after, the King bid them all to a banquet and so betrayed them and cut off their heads, etc., because they had not his pardon under his hand and seal before, but his word.
Remember therein also, how the duke of Lancaster privily contrived all villainy to set them together by the ears; and to make the nobility to envy the King, and mislike of him and his government. By which means he made his own son king, which was Henry Bolingbroke.
Remember also how the duke of Lancaster asked a wise man whether himself should ever be king; and he told him No, but his son shuold be a king. When he had told him, he hanged him up for his labour, because he should not bruit it abroad or speak thereof to others.
This was a policy in the commonwealth's opinion, but I say it was a villain's part and a Judas kiss to hang the man for telling him the truth. Beware by this example of noblemen of their fair words, and say little to them, lest they do the like by thee for thy goodwill.
References
Brooke, Tucker. Shakespeare of Stratford. New Haven, Yale UP, 1947.
Holzknecht, Karl J. The Backgrounds of Shakespeare's Plays. New York: American Book Company, 1950.
Lee, Sir Sidney. A Life of William Shakespeare. New York: Dover Publications, 1968.
Rowse, A. L. Simon Forman. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1974.
Renaissance records of Shakespeare's plays in performance are exceedingly scarce. However, those few contemporary accounts that have survived provide brief yet invaluable information about a handful of Shakespeare's dramas. They give us a sense of what the play-going experience was like while Shakespeare was alive and involved in his own productions, and, in some cases, they help us determine the composition dates of the plays. Of all the records of performance handed down to us, none is more significant than the exhaustive diary of a doctor named Simon Forman, from which we obtain lengthy descriptions of early productions of four of Shakespeare's plays: Macbeth, The Winter's Tale, Cymbeline, and Richard II.
Dr. Simon Forman Simon Forman was born on December 30, 1552, in the town of Quidhampton, near Salisbury. He attended the Salisbury grammar school, and his experiences would have been very similar to those of young William Shakespeare who attended school in nearby Stratford. The following is an autobiographical account of Simon's school years: When Simon was almost eight years of age, in those days before the soldiers came from Newhaven, which was about the year of our Lord 1563 that the plague began in Salisbury, there was a certain minister named William Rydot alias Rydar, that by his trade and occupation was a cobbler. But after Queen Mary's days when the law did turn, he was made a minister and so withal became a schoolmaster and teacher of children. He was a man of some fifty years, mean of stature, and a blackgrom Sir [a poor parson]. He could read English well, but he could [know] no more Latin than the single accidence, and that he learned of his two sons that went daily to a free school.
This parson, when the plague began, fled from Salisbury for fear thereof, and came to dwell at the priory of St. Giles, near unto the father of this Simon: to whom this Simon was put to school at Michaelmas. Where he learned his letters. When he came to learn 'In the name of the Father' etc., because his capacity could not understand the mystery of spelling, he prayed his master he might not go to school no more, because he should never learn it. But his said master beat him for it, which made him the more diligent to his book. After some days, when he had pondered thereon well and had the reason thereof, he learned it. After that his master never beat him for his book again. He profited so well that in one year or little more he had learned his single accidence and his rules clean out...After this he was put to the free school in the Close of Salisbury with one Doctor Bowles, which was a very furious man, with whom he went to school some two years. On New Year's Eve of 1563, Simon's father died suddenly. His pitiless mother, who, by Simon's own account beat him repeatedly, forced him to leave school and take a job with Matthew Commin, a local merchant of cloth, rosin, salt, and herbal medicine. From Commin Simon learned "the knowledge of all wares and drugs, and how to buy and sell; and grew so apt and had such good fortune that in short time his master committed all to his charge".
After ten years of working with Matthew Commin, Simon left for Oxford to live with his cousins and resume his education. But Simon was unhappy at Oxford and quickly returned to Salisbury to accept a teaching position. For over six years Simon taught school in and around Salisbury, and, while his occupation paid his bills, it left him deeply unfulfilled. However, in 1579, Simon found his true vocation. He writes, "this year I did prophesy the truth of many things which afterwards came to pass...the very spirits were subject unto me". Thus Simon devoted himself to the study and practice of "physic and magic". Unable to find the resources needed to facilitate his new occupation in the little towns around Salisbury, Simon moved to London. "Forman's move to London was the decisive step in his career: he could not have become the well-known figure he did if he had remained in Salisbury. In spite of the hardships he endured in the first years and the disadvantage of having no connections, the opportunities that opened out were immensely greater. And on both fronts, in magic as well as physic and surgery. The opportunities of practising the former were restricted in a provincial town; in Elizabethan London they were unlimited" (Rowse 39).
Now a fully competent doctor by the standards of the day, Simon, unlike most of the other doctors in the capital, decided to stay in London during the plagues of 1592 and 1594 to help the devastated masses. He saved many lives and acquired a reputation as a courageous man and excellent physician. His experiences treating plague victims led to his publication, Discourses on the Plague, in 1595. Simon's success, however, caught the attention of the Royal College of Physicians in London. They were outraged at Simon's alternative healing practices (as he used his "magical potions" to help patients) and his lack of proper medical training. Upon a rigorous examination, the College found Simon's knowledge of anatomy and medicine sorely inadequate. His answers prompted "great mirth and sport among the auditors". Simon was fined and was banned from practicing medicine in London. When Simon disobeyed the College nine months later by prescribing a potion to a man that died soon after, Simon was committed to prison. His disputes with the College of Physicians dragged on for almost seven years, until he was finally granted a proper license by Cambridge University in 1603.
On July 22, 1599, Simon wed seventeen year-old Jane Baker, a girl renting a room in Simon's house. Simon had never been content with just one woman, and, sadly, marriage "did not make much difference to Forman's way of life, except that he had an inexperienced girl now as mistress of the house; he continued to be master" (Rowse 93).
Although Simon continued to write scores of books and papers on the subjects of medicine and astrology until his death, after 1601 we have very few detailed records of his personal activities. We know that he continued to see patients until the very end, treating them with his unique combination of "physic and magic". The events surrounding Simon's death are very well documented by another astrologer, William Lilly. Lilly's report tells us that, one warm Sunday afternoon in September of 1611, Simon, with what would be his last prophesy, told his wife that he would die the following Thursday night. And, sure enough, "[M]onday came, all was well. Tuesday came, he was not sick. Wednesday came, and still he was well: with which his impertinent wife did much twit him in the teeth. Thursday came, and dinner was ended, he very well. He went down to the waterside, and took a pair of oars to go to some buildings he was in hand with in Puddle-dock. Being in the middle of the Thames, he presently fell down, only saying, 'Am impost, an impost', and so died."
Simon Forman was dead, but his name remained foremost in the minds of the citizens of London due to a posthumous scandal involving Simon and his former client, Lady Essex. Lady Essex was on trial in 1613, accused of attempting to poison her lover, Sir Thomas Overbury. During the testimony, lawyers hurled accusations at Simon, claiming that he had given Lady Essex the potion with which she plotted to kill Overbury. Simon's reputation was severely tarnished.
While Simon Forman's life is intriguing, it is his diary entries that are of ultimate importance to Shakespearean scholars because they contain information on theatrical performances at the Globe in 1610 and 1611.
Dr. Forman's Account of Four Shakespeare Productions
Simon Forman attended productions of four of Shakespeare's plays and his thorough accounts of the performances aid scholars in dating the dramas and uncovering discrepancies in the published texts. The minor details of Simon Forman's narratives are sometimes erroneous, but they nonetheless give modern readers an impression of what it would be like to be an audience member in Shakespearean England. Reprinted below are the relevant excerpts from Simon's record-books. Please note that I have modernized the spelling. Macbeth at the Globe, 20 April 1610
In Macbeth at the Globe, 1610, the 20 of April, Saturday, there was to be observed, first, how Macbeth and Banquo, two noble men of Scotland, riding through a wood, there stood before them three women fairies or nymphs, and saluted Macbeth, saying three times unto him, "Hail, Macbeth, King of Codon; for thou shall be a King, but shall beget no kings," etc. Then said Banquo, "what all to Macbeth, and nothing to me?" "Yes", said the nymphs, "hail to thee, Banquo, thou shall beget kings, yet be no king"; and so they departed and came to the country of Scotland to Duncan, King of Scots and it was in the days of Edward the Confessor. And Duncan had them both kindly welcome, and made Macbeth forthwith Prince of Northumberland, and sent him home to his own castle, and appointed Macbeth to provide for him, for he would sup with him the next day at night, and did so.
And Macbeth contrived to kill Duncan and through the persuasion of his wife did that night murder the King in his own castle, being his guest; and there were many prodigies seen that night and the day before. And when Macbeth had murdered the king, the blood on his hands could not be washed off by any means, nor from his wives hands, which handed the bloody daggers in hiding them, which by means they became both much amazed and affronted. The murder being known, Duncan's two sons fled, the one to England, the other to Wales, to save themselves. They being fled, they were supposed guilty of the murder of their father, which was nothing so.
Then was Macbeth crowned kings; and then he, for fear of Banquo, his old companion, that he should beget kings but be no king himself, he contrived the death of Banquo, and caused him to be murdered on his way as he rode. The next night, being at supper with his noble men whom he had to bid to a feast, to the which also Banquo should have come, he began to speak of noble Banquo, and to wish that he were there. And as he did thus, standing up to drink a carouse to him, the ghost of Banquo came and sat down in his chair behind him. And he, turning about to sit down again, saw the ghost of Banquo, which fronted him so, that he fell into a great passion of fear and fury, uttering many words about his murder, by which, when they hard that Banquo was murdered, they suspected Macbeth. Then MackDove fled to England to the kinges sonn, and soon they raised an army and cam to Scotland, and at Dunstonanse overthrue Macbeth. In the meantime, while MacDove was in England, Macbeth slew MackDove's wife and children, and after in the battle MackDove slewe Macbeth. Observe also how Macbeth's queen did rise in the night in her sleep, and walked and talked and confessed all, and the doctor noted her words.
The Winter's Tale at the Globe, 15 May 1611
Observe there how Leontes, the king of Sicilia, was overcome with jealousy of his wife with the king of Bohemia, his friend, that came to see him. How he contrived his death, and would have had his cupbearer to have poisoned him: who have the king of Bohemia waning thereof and fled with him to Bohemia.
Remember also how he sent to the oracle of Apollo, and the answer of Apollo -- that she was guiltless and that the King was jealous, etc.; and how, except the child was found again that was lost, the King should die without issue. For the child was carried into Bohemia and there laid in a forest and brought up by a shepherd. The King of Bohemia's son married that wench. And how they fled into Sicilia to Leontes. The shepherd, having shown the letter of the nobleman by whom Leontes sent away that child and the jewels found about her, she was known to be Leontes' daughter, and was then sixteen years old.
Remember also the rogue that came in all tattered like Coll Pixie; how he feigned him sick and to have been robbed of all that he had. How he cozened the poor man of all his money. And, after, came to the sheep-shearing with a pedlar's pack and there cozened them again of all their money. How he changed apparel with the King of Bohemia's son, and then how he turned courtier, etc. Beware of trusting feigned beggars or fawning fellows.
Cymbeline at the Globe, 1611 (unspecified date)
Remember also the story of Cymbeline, king of England, in Lucius' time. How Lucius came from Octavius Caesar for tribute; and, being denied, sent Lucius with a great army of soldiers, who landed at Milford Haven, and after were vanquished by Cymbeline, and Lucius taken prosioner. All by means of three outlaws: of which two of them were the sons of Cymbeline, stolen from him when they were but two years old by an old man whom Cymbeline banished. He kept them as his own sons twenty years with him in a cave.
And how one of them slewe Cloten, the Queen's son, going to Milford Haven to seek the love of Imogen, the King's daughter, whom he had banished also for loving his daughter. How the Italian that came, from her love [from love of her], conveyed himself into a chest; and said it was a chest of plate sent, from her love and others, to be presented to the King. In the deepest of the night, she being asleep, he opened the chest and came forth of it. And viewed her in bed and the marks on her body; took away her bracelet, and after accused her of adultery to her love.
In the end, how he came with the Romans into England and was taken prisoner. And after revealed to Imogen, who had turned herself into man's apparel and fled to meet her love at Milford Haven and chanced to fall on the cave in the woods where her two brother were. How by eating a sleeping dram they thought she had been dead, and laid her in the woods, the body of Cloten by her, in her love's apparel that he left behind him. And how she was found by Lucius, etc.
Richard II at the Globe, 20 April 1611
Remember therein how Jack Straw by his overmuch boldness, not being politic nor suspecting anything, was suddenly at Smithfield Bars stabbed by Walworth, the mayor of London. So he and his whole army was overthrown. Therefore, in such a case or the like, never admit any party without a bar between; for a man cannot be too wise, nor keep himself too safe.
Also remember how the duke of Gloucester, the earl of Arundel, Oxford and others, crossing the King in his humour about the duke of Ireland and Bushy, were glad to fly and raise an host of men. Being in his castle, how the duke of Ireland came by night to betray him with three hundred men; but having privy warning thereof kept his gates fast and would not suffer the enemy to enter. Which went back again with a flea in his ear, and after was slain by the earl of Arundel in the batle.
Remember also, when the duke (Gloucester) and Arundel came to London with their army, King Richard came forth to them, met them and gave them fair words; and promised them pardon and that all should be well if they would discharge their army. Upon whose promises and fair speeches they did it. And, after, the King bid them all to a banquet and so betrayed them and cut off their heads, etc., because they had not his pardon under his hand and seal before, but his word.
Remember therein also, how the duke of Lancaster privily contrived all villainy to set them together by the ears; and to make the nobility to envy the King, and mislike of him and his government. By which means he made his own son king, which was Henry Bolingbroke.
Remember also how the duke of Lancaster asked a wise man whether himself should ever be king; and he told him No, but his son shuold be a king. When he had told him, he hanged him up for his labour, because he should not bruit it abroad or speak thereof to others.
This was a policy in the commonwealth's opinion, but I say it was a villain's part and a Judas kiss to hang the man for telling him the truth. Beware by this example of noblemen of their fair words, and say little to them, lest they do the like by thee for thy goodwill.
References
Brooke, Tucker. Shakespeare of Stratford. New Haven, Yale UP, 1947.
Holzknecht, Karl J. The Backgrounds of Shakespeare's Plays. New York: American Book Company, 1950.
Lee, Sir Sidney. A Life of William Shakespeare. New York: Dover Publications, 1968.
Rowse, A. L. Simon Forman. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1974.
Worst Diseases in Shakespeare's London From a disease standpoint, Shakespeare was living in arguably the worst place and time in history. Shakespeare's overcrowded, rat-infested, sexually promiscuous London, with raw sewage flowing in the Thames, was the hub for the nastiest diseases known to mankind. Here are the worst of the worst. 1. Plague
It is little surprise that the plague was the most dreaded disease of Shakespeare's time. Carried by fleas living on the fur of rats, the plague swept through London in 1563, 1578-9, 1582, 1592-3, and 1603 (Singman, 52). The outbreaks in 1563 and 1603 were the most ferocious, each wiping out over one quarter of London's population. Lucky Elizabethans would contract the basic bubonic plague with their odds of survival around fifty percent. Symptoms would include red, grossly inflamed and swollen lymph nodes, called buboes (hence the name bubonic), high fever, delirium, and convulsions. However, if the bacterial infection spread to the lungs (pneumonic plague) or to the bloodstream (septicemic plague) the unfortunate victim would certainly die, usually within hours with symptoms too horrific to recount.
The Elizabethan pamphleteer Thomas Dekker wrote a chilling account of the chaos and despair brought by the plague:
Imagine then that all this while, Death (like a Spanish Leagar, or rather like stalking Tamberlaine) hath pitched his tents, (being nothing but a heape of winding sheets tacked together) in the sinfully-polluted Suburbes: the Plague is Muster-maister and Marshall of the field: Burning Feauers, Boyles, Blaines, and Carbuncles, the Leaders, Lieutenants, Serieants, and Corporalls: the maine Army consisting (like Dunkirke) of a mingle-mangle, viz. dumpish Mourners, merry Sextons, hungry Coffin-sellers, scrubbing Bearers, and nastie Graue-makers: but indeed they are the Pioners of the Campe, that are imployed onely (like Moles) in casting up of earth and digging of trenches; Feare and Trembling (the two catch-polles of Death) arrest every one: No parley will be graunted, no composition stood vpon, But the Allarum is strucke up, the Toxin ringes out for life, and no voice heard but Tue, Tue, Kill, Kill. (The Wonderful Yeare, 1603) During the outbreak of 1592-93, the Crown ordered the complete closure of all theatres in London. Shakespeare, then working with Lord Strange’s Men at the Rose theatre, would have been in the midst of a run of his Henry VI history plays (Bradbrook, 65), and likely financially devastated by the edict. Shakespeare mentions plague in several plays, including The Tempest (1.2.426), Timon of Athens (4.3.120), and King Lear:
But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter;
Or rather a disease that's in my flesh,
Which I must needs call mine: thou art a boil,
A plague-sore, an embossed carbuncle,
In my corrupted blood.
(2.4.242), Lear, describing his daughter, Goneril Shakespeare also describes the act of searching out plague victims and quarantining them in Romeo and Juliet (5.2.7). Incidentally, plague is the indirect cause of the deaths of the star-cross'd lovers.
2. Smallpox
One of the worst outbreaks of smallpox occurred two years before Shakespeare's birth, in 1562. Queen Elizabeth herself, then 29, was attacked by the virus that causes high fever, vomiting, excessive bleeding, and pus-filled scabs that leave deep pitted scars. Although the Queen recovered she was rendered completely bald and forced to wear an extra thick layer of make-up made from white lead and egg whites.
3. Syphilis
Syphilis, one of the deadliest of all venereal diseases, spread rapidly throughout Europe in the 15th century. A current theory on the origin of the outbreak argues that Spaniards carried the disease home from the Americas in 1493. Elizabethans had many names for this foul malady; the most popular being the French pox, the Spanish sickness, the great pox, and simply, the pox.
Without antibiotics, Elizabethans would have experienced the full effects of syphilis, which included raging fever (referred to as "burnt blood"), tortuous body aches, blindness, full body pustules, meningitis, insanity, and leaking heart valves, known today as aortic regurgitation. According to a document written in 1585 by the famed Elizabethan barber-surgeon William Clowes, the victims of syphilis were so numerous that London hospitals had no room for the "infinite multitude."
Interestingly, Shakespeare's most famous mention of disease: A plague on both your houses!" (Romeo and Juliet), was, in the original printing of the play (the first quarto), "A pox of your houses" (3.1.60).
Shakespeare mentions syphilis often in his work and in Timon of Athens he alludes to the calamitous Elizabethan treatment of syphilis: the inhalation of vaporized mercury salts:
Give them diseases, leaving with thee their lust.
Make use of thy salt hours: season the slaves.
For tubs and baths; bring down rose-cheeked youth.
To the tub-fast and the diet. (4.3) 4. Typhus
Epidemics of louse-borne typhus ravaged London several times during the reigns of Elizabeth and James I. Crowded, filthy conditions and a near total lack of bathing made room for body lice, which, when scratched, would defecate on a person's skin. It would take just one minor cut or sore for the typhus infected feces to enter the victim's bloodstream, and soon high fever, delirium, and gangrenous sores would develop.
The disease was a huge problem among prisoners. The poor wretches, most of them beggars, drunks, petty thieves and pamphleteers, who found themselves in the Newgate jail, would typically die before they could serve their full sentences. Shakespeare felt their pain: If we mean to thrive and do good, break open the gaols and let out the prisoners. (2 Henry VI, 4.3.15) Although we will likely never know what really caused Shakespeare's own death, a serious outbreak of typhus in 1616 lends credibility to the story that he succumbed to a fever.
5. Malaria
Known to the Elizabethans as ague, Malaria was a common malady spread by the mosquitoes in the marshy Thames. The swampy theatre district of Southwark was always at risk. King James I had it; so too did Shakespeare’s friend, Michael Drayton. Without antimalarial medications, many Londoners would have experienced dreadful symptoms, including fever, unbearable chills, vomiting, enlarged liver, low blood pressure, seizures, and coma.
Shakespeare's characters speak often of ague. A common belief was that the sun spread the fever by sucking up the vapors from the marshes. In The Tempest, Caliban describes the process while cursing Prospero: All the infections that the sun sucks up
From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall and make him
By inch-meal a disease!
(2.2) So too does Hotspur in 1 Henry IV: Worse than the sun in March,
This praise doth nourish agues. (4.1) The facts are mind-boggling, especially when you consider that London's population hovered around a mere 150,000 during Shakespeare's lifetime. It is little wonder that the average life expectancy was 35 years.
It is little surprise that the plague was the most dreaded disease of Shakespeare's time. Carried by fleas living on the fur of rats, the plague swept through London in 1563, 1578-9, 1582, 1592-3, and 1603 (Singman, 52). The outbreaks in 1563 and 1603 were the most ferocious, each wiping out over one quarter of London's population. Lucky Elizabethans would contract the basic bubonic plague with their odds of survival around fifty percent. Symptoms would include red, grossly inflamed and swollen lymph nodes, called buboes (hence the name bubonic), high fever, delirium, and convulsions. However, if the bacterial infection spread to the lungs (pneumonic plague) or to the bloodstream (septicemic plague) the unfortunate victim would certainly die, usually within hours with symptoms too horrific to recount.
The Elizabethan pamphleteer Thomas Dekker wrote a chilling account of the chaos and despair brought by the plague:
Imagine then that all this while, Death (like a Spanish Leagar, or rather like stalking Tamberlaine) hath pitched his tents, (being nothing but a heape of winding sheets tacked together) in the sinfully-polluted Suburbes: the Plague is Muster-maister and Marshall of the field: Burning Feauers, Boyles, Blaines, and Carbuncles, the Leaders, Lieutenants, Serieants, and Corporalls: the maine Army consisting (like Dunkirke) of a mingle-mangle, viz. dumpish Mourners, merry Sextons, hungry Coffin-sellers, scrubbing Bearers, and nastie Graue-makers: but indeed they are the Pioners of the Campe, that are imployed onely (like Moles) in casting up of earth and digging of trenches; Feare and Trembling (the two catch-polles of Death) arrest every one: No parley will be graunted, no composition stood vpon, But the Allarum is strucke up, the Toxin ringes out for life, and no voice heard but Tue, Tue, Kill, Kill. (The Wonderful Yeare, 1603) During the outbreak of 1592-93, the Crown ordered the complete closure of all theatres in London. Shakespeare, then working with Lord Strange’s Men at the Rose theatre, would have been in the midst of a run of his Henry VI history plays (Bradbrook, 65), and likely financially devastated by the edict. Shakespeare mentions plague in several plays, including The Tempest (1.2.426), Timon of Athens (4.3.120), and King Lear:
But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter;
Or rather a disease that's in my flesh,
Which I must needs call mine: thou art a boil,
A plague-sore, an embossed carbuncle,
In my corrupted blood.
(2.4.242), Lear, describing his daughter, Goneril Shakespeare also describes the act of searching out plague victims and quarantining them in Romeo and Juliet (5.2.7). Incidentally, plague is the indirect cause of the deaths of the star-cross'd lovers.
2. Smallpox
One of the worst outbreaks of smallpox occurred two years before Shakespeare's birth, in 1562. Queen Elizabeth herself, then 29, was attacked by the virus that causes high fever, vomiting, excessive bleeding, and pus-filled scabs that leave deep pitted scars. Although the Queen recovered she was rendered completely bald and forced to wear an extra thick layer of make-up made from white lead and egg whites.
3. Syphilis
Syphilis, one of the deadliest of all venereal diseases, spread rapidly throughout Europe in the 15th century. A current theory on the origin of the outbreak argues that Spaniards carried the disease home from the Americas in 1493. Elizabethans had many names for this foul malady; the most popular being the French pox, the Spanish sickness, the great pox, and simply, the pox.
Without antibiotics, Elizabethans would have experienced the full effects of syphilis, which included raging fever (referred to as "burnt blood"), tortuous body aches, blindness, full body pustules, meningitis, insanity, and leaking heart valves, known today as aortic regurgitation. According to a document written in 1585 by the famed Elizabethan barber-surgeon William Clowes, the victims of syphilis were so numerous that London hospitals had no room for the "infinite multitude."
Interestingly, Shakespeare's most famous mention of disease: A plague on both your houses!" (Romeo and Juliet), was, in the original printing of the play (the first quarto), "A pox of your houses" (3.1.60).
Shakespeare mentions syphilis often in his work and in Timon of Athens he alludes to the calamitous Elizabethan treatment of syphilis: the inhalation of vaporized mercury salts:
Give them diseases, leaving with thee their lust.
Make use of thy salt hours: season the slaves.
For tubs and baths; bring down rose-cheeked youth.
To the tub-fast and the diet. (4.3) 4. Typhus
Epidemics of louse-borne typhus ravaged London several times during the reigns of Elizabeth and James I. Crowded, filthy conditions and a near total lack of bathing made room for body lice, which, when scratched, would defecate on a person's skin. It would take just one minor cut or sore for the typhus infected feces to enter the victim's bloodstream, and soon high fever, delirium, and gangrenous sores would develop.
The disease was a huge problem among prisoners. The poor wretches, most of them beggars, drunks, petty thieves and pamphleteers, who found themselves in the Newgate jail, would typically die before they could serve their full sentences. Shakespeare felt their pain: If we mean to thrive and do good, break open the gaols and let out the prisoners. (2 Henry VI, 4.3.15) Although we will likely never know what really caused Shakespeare's own death, a serious outbreak of typhus in 1616 lends credibility to the story that he succumbed to a fever.
5. Malaria
Known to the Elizabethans as ague, Malaria was a common malady spread by the mosquitoes in the marshy Thames. The swampy theatre district of Southwark was always at risk. King James I had it; so too did Shakespeare’s friend, Michael Drayton. Without antimalarial medications, many Londoners would have experienced dreadful symptoms, including fever, unbearable chills, vomiting, enlarged liver, low blood pressure, seizures, and coma.
Shakespeare's characters speak often of ague. A common belief was that the sun spread the fever by sucking up the vapors from the marshes. In The Tempest, Caliban describes the process while cursing Prospero: All the infections that the sun sucks up
From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall and make him
By inch-meal a disease!
(2.2) So too does Hotspur in 1 Henry IV: Worse than the sun in March,
This praise doth nourish agues. (4.1) The facts are mind-boggling, especially when you consider that London's population hovered around a mere 150,000 during Shakespeare's lifetime. It is little wonder that the average life expectancy was 35 years.
The Theatre of Shakespeare's Day From Julius Caesar. Ed Samuel Thurber.
Let us now pay a visit to the Globe, to us the most interesting of all the theatres, for it is here that Shakespeare's company acts, and here many of his plays are first seen on the stage. We cross the Thames by London Bridge with its lines of crowded booths and shops and throngs of bustling tradesmen; or if it is fine weather we take a small boat and are rowed over the river to the southern shores. Here on the Bankside, in the part of London now called Southwark, beyond the end of the bridge, and in the open fields near the Bear Garden, stands a roundish, three-story wooden building, so high for its size that it looks more like a clumsy, squatty tower than a theatre. As we draw nearer we see that it is not exactly round after all, but is somewhat hexagonal in shape. The walls seem to slant a little inward, giving it the appearance of a huge thimble, or cocked hat, with six flattened sides instead of a circular surface. There are but few small windows and two low shabby entrances.
The whole structure is so dingy and unattractive that we stand before it in wonder. Can this be the place where "Hamlet," "The Merchant of Venice," and "Julius Caesar" are put on the stage? Our amazement on stepping inside is even greater. The first thing that astonishes us is the blue sky over our heads. The building has no roof except a narrow strip around the edge and a covering at the rear over the back part of the stage.
The front of the stage and the whole center of the theatre is open to the air. Now we see how the interior is lighted, though with the sunshine must often come rain and sleet and London fog. Looking up and out at the clouds floating by, we notice that a flag is flying from a short pole on the roof over the stage. This is most important, for it is announcing to the city across the river that this afternoon there is to be a play. It is bill-board, newspaper notice, and advertisement in one: and we may imagine the eagerness with which it is looked for among the theatre-loving populace of these later Elizabethan years. When the performance begins the flag will be lowered to proclaim to all that "the play is on."
Where, now, shall we sit? Before us on the ground level is a large open space, which corresponds to the orchestra circle on the floor of a modern play-house. But here there is only the flat bare earth, trodden down hard, with rushes and in the straw scattered over it. There is not a sign of a seat! This is the "yard," or, as it is sometimes called, "the pit," where, by paying a penny or two, London apprentices, sailors, laborers, and the mixed crowd from the streets may stand jostling together. Some of the more enterprising ones may possibly sit on boxes and stools which they bring into the building with them. Among these "groundlings" there will surely be bustling confusion, noisy wrangling, and plenty of danger from pickpockets; so we look about us to find a more comfortable place from which to watch the performance.
On three sides of us, and extending well around the stage, are three tiers of narrow balconies. In some places these are divided into compartments, or boxes. The prices here are higher, varying from a few pennies to half a crown, according to the location. By putting our money into a box held out to us, -- there are no tickets, -- we are allowed to climb the crooked wooden stairs to one of these compartments. Here we find rough benches and chairs, and above all a little seclusion from the throng of men and boys below.
Along the edge of the stage we observe that there are stools, but these places, elevated and facing the audience, seem rather conspicuous, and besides the prices are high. They will be taken by the young gallants and men of fashion of London, in brave and brilliant clothes, with light swords at their belts, wide ruffled collars about their necks, and gay plunies in their hats. It will be amusing to see them show off their fine apparel, and display their wit at the expense of the groundlings in the pit, and even of the actors themselves. We are safer, however, and much more comfortable here in the balcony among the more sober, quiet gentlemen of London, who with mechanics, tradesmen, nobles, and shop-keepers have come to see the play.
The moment we entered the theatre we were impressed by the size of the stage. Looking down upon it from the balcony, it seems even larger and very near us. If it is like the stage of the Fortune it is square.... Here in the Globe it is probably narrower at the front than at the back, tapering from the rear wall almost to a point. Whatever its shape, it is only a roughly-built, high platform, open on three sides, and extending halfway into the "yard." Though a low railing runs about its edge, there are no footlights, -- all performances are in the afternoon by the light of day which streams down through the open top, -- and strangest of all there is no curtain. At each side of the rear we can see a door that leads to the "tiring-rooms" where the actors dress, and from which they make their entrances. These are the "green-rooms" and wings of our theatre today.
Between the doors is a curtain that now before the play begins is drawn together. Later when it is pulled aside, -- not upward as curtains usually are now, -- we shall see a shallow recess or alcove which serves as a secondary, or inner stage. Over this extends a narrow balcony covered by a roof which is supported at the front corners by two columns that stand well out from the wall. Still higher up, over the inner stage, is a sort of tower, sometimes called the "hut," and from a pole on this the flag is flying which summons the London populace from across the Thames. Rushes are strewn over the floor; there are no drops or wings or walls of painted scenery. In its simplicity and bareness it reminds us of the rude stage of the strolling players. Indeed, the whole interior of the building seems to be but an adaptation of the tavern-yard and village-green.
How, we wonder, can a play like "Julius Caesar" or "The Merchant of Venice" be staged on such a crude affair as this! What are the various parts of it for? Practically all acting is done, we shall see see, on the front of the platform well out among the crowd in the pit, with the audience on three sides of the performers. All out-of-door scenes will be acted here, from a conversation in the streets of Venice or a dialogue in a garden, to a battle, a procession, or a banquet in the Forest of Arden. Here, too, with but the slightest alteration, or even with no change at all, interior scenes will be presented. With the "groundlings" crowded close up to its edges, and with young gallants sitting on its sides, this outer stage comes close to the people. On it will be all the main action of the drama: the various arrangements at the rear are for supplementary purposes and certain important effects.
The inner stage, or alcove beyond the curtain, is used in many ways. It may serve for any room somewhat removed from the scene of action, such as a passage-way or a study. It often is made to represent a cave, a shop, or a prison. Here Othello, in a frenzy of jealous passion, strangles Desdemona as she lies in bed; here probably the ghost of Caesar appears to Brutus in his tent on the plains of Philippi; here stand the three fateful caskets in the mansion at Belmont, as we see by Portia's words, "Go, draw aside the curtains and discover
The several caskets to this noble Prince." Tableaux and scenes within scenes, such as the short play in "Hamlet" by which the prince "catches the conscience of the king," are acted in this recess. But the most important use is to give the effect of a change of scene. By drawing apart and closing the curtain, with a few simple changes of properties in this inner compartment, a different background is possible. By such a slight variation of setting at the rear, the platform in the pit is transformed, by the quick imagination of the spectators, from a field or a street to a castle hall or a wood. Thus, the whole stage becomes the Forest of Arden by the use of a little greenery in the distance. Similarly, a few trees and shrubs at the rear of the inner stage, when the curtain is thrown aside, will change the setting from the court-room in the fourth act of "The Merchant of Venice," to the scene in the garden at Belmont which immediately follows.
The balcony over the inner stage serves an important purpose, too. With the windows, which are often just over the doors leading to the tiring-rooms, it gives the effect of an upper story of a house, of walls in a castle, a tower, or any elevated over the position. This is the place, of course, where Juliet comes to greet Romeo who is in the garden below. In "Julius Caesar" when Cassius says, "Go Pindarus, get higher on that hill;....
And tell me what thou notest about the field," the soldier undoubtedly climbs to the balcony, for a moment later, looking abroad over the field of battle, he reports to Cassius what he sees from his elevation. Here Jessica appears when Lorenzo calls under Shylock's windows, "Ho! who's within?" and on this balcony she is standing when she throws down to her lover a box of her father's jewels. "Here, catch this casket; it is worth the pains," she says, and retires into the house, appearing below a moment later to run away with Lorenzo and his masquerading companions.
Besides these simple devices, if we look closely enough we shall see a trap-door, or perhaps two, in the platform. These are for the entrance of apparitions and demons. They correspond, in a way, to the balcony by giving the effect of a place lower than the stage level. Thus in the first scene of "The Tempest," which takes place in a storm at sea, the notion of a ship may be suggested to the audience by sailors entering from the trap-door, as they might come up a hatchway to a deck. If it is a play with gods and goddesses and spirits, we may be startled to see them appear and disappear through the air. Evidently there is machinery of some sort in the hut over the balcony which can be used for lowering and raising deities and creatures that live above the earth. On each side of the stage is a flight of steps leading to the balcony. These are often covered... Here sit councils, senates, and princes with their courts. Macbeth uses them to give the impression of ascending to an upper chamber when he goes to kill the king, and down them he rushes to his wife after he has committed the fearful murder.
What astonishes us most, however, is the absence of scenery. To be sure, some slight attempt has been made to create scenic illusion. There are, perhaps, a few trees and boulders, a table, a chair or two, and pasteboard dishes of food. But there is little more. In the only drawing of the interior of an Elizabethan theatre that has been preserved, -- a sketch of the Swan made in 1596, -- the stage has absolutely no furniture except one plain bench on which one of the actors is sitting. Here before us in the Globe the walls may be covered with loose tapestries, black if the play is to be a tragedy, blue if a comedy; but it is quite possible that they are entirely bare. A placard on one of the pillars announces that the stage is now a street in Venice, now a courtroom, now the hall of a stately mansion. It may be that the Prologue, or even the actors themselves, will tell us at the opening of an act just where the scene is laid and what we are to imagine the platform to represent.
In "Henry V," for instance, the Prologue at the beginning not only explains the setting of the play, but asks forgiveness of the audience for attempting to put on the stage armies and battles and the "vasty fields of France." "But pardon, gentles all,
The flat unraised spirit that hath dared
On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth
So great an object. Can this cockpit hold
The vasty fields of France? or may we cram
Within this wooden O the very casques
That did affright the air at Agincourt?
O, pardon! since a crooked figure may
Attest in little place a million;
And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,
On your imaginary forces work.
Suppose within the girdle of these walls
Are now confined two mighty monarchies,
Whose high-upreared and abutting fronts
The perilous, narrow ocean parts asunder.
Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts;
Into a thousand parts divide one man,
And make imaginary puissance.
Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them
Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth,
For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings,
Carry them here and there, jumping o'er times.
Turning the accomplishment of many years
Into an hour-glass." In "As You Like It" it is an actor who tells us at the opening of the second act that we are now to imagine the Forest of Arden before us. In the first sentence which the banished Duke speaks, he says, "Are not these woods more free from peril than the envious court?" and a moment later, when Touchstone and the runaway maidens first enter the woods, Rosalind exclaims, "Well, this is the Forest of Arden!" A hint, a reference, a few simple contrivances, a placard or two, -- these are enough. "Imaginary forces" are here in the audience keenly alive, and they will do the rest. By means of them, without the illusion of scenery, the bare wooden stage will become a ship, a garden, a palace, a London tavern. Whole armies will enter and retire by a single door. Battles will rage, royal processions pass in and out, graves will be dug, lovers will woo, -- and all with hardly an important alteration of the setting.
Lack of scenery does not limit the type of scenes that can be presented. On the contrary, it gives almost unlimited opportunities to the dramatist, for the spectators, in the force and freshness of their imagination, are children who willingly "play" that the stage is anything the author suggests. Their youthful enthusiasm, their simple tastes, above all their lack of knowledge of anything different, give them the enviable power of imagining the grandest, most beautiful, and most varied scenes on the same bare, unadorned boards. Apparently they are well satisfied with their stage; for it is not until nearly fifty years after Shakespeare's death that movable scenery is used in an English theatre.
It is now three o'clock and time for the performance to begin. Among the motley crowd of men and boys in the yard there is no longer room for another box or stool. They are evidently growing impatient and jostle together in noisy confusion. Suddenly three long blasts on a trumpet sound. The mutterings in the pit subside, and all eyes turn toward the stage. First an actor, clothed in a black mantle and wearing a laurel wreath on his head, comes from behind the curtain and recites the prologue. From it we learn something of the story of the play to follow, and possibly a little about the scene of action. This is all very welcome, for we have no programs and the plot of the drama is unfamiliar. In a minute or two the Prologue retires and the actors of the first scene enter. We are soon impressed by the rapidity with which the play moves on. There is little stage "business"; though there may be some music between the acts, still there are no long waits; one scene follows another as quickly as the actors can make their exits and entrances. The whole play, therefore, does not last much over two hours. At the close there is an epilogue, spoken by one of the actors, after which the players kneel and join in a prayer for the queen. Then comes a final bit of amusement for the groundlings: the clown, or some other comic character of the company, sings a popular song, dances a brisk and boisterous jig, and the performance of the day is done.
During our novel experience this afternoon at the Globe, nothing has probably surprised us more than the elaborate and gorgeous costumes of the actors. At a time when so little attention is paid to of the scenery we naturally expect to find the dress of the players equally simple and plain. But we are mistaken. The costumes, to be sure, make little or no pretension to fit the period or place of action. Caesar appears in clothes such as are worn by a duke or an earl in 1601. "They are the ordinary dresses of various classes of the day, but they are often of rich material, and in the height of current fashion. False hair and beards, crowns and sceptres, mitres and croziers, armour, helmets, shields, vizors, and weapons of war, hoods, bands, and cassocks, are relied on to indicate among the characters differences of rank or profession.
The foreign observer, Thomas Platter of Basle, was impressed by the splendor of the actors' costumes. 'The players wear the most costly and beautiful dresses, for it is the custom in England, that when noblemen or knights die, they leave their finest clothes to their servants, who, since it would not be fitting for them to wear such splendid garments, sell them soon afterwards to the players for a small sum'" (Sidney Lee, Shakespeare and the Modern Stage, p. 41). But no money is spared to secure the fitting garment for an important part. Indeed, it is quite probable that more is paid for a king's velvet robe or a prince's silken doublet than is given to the author for the play itself. Whether the elaborate costumes are appropriate or not, their general effect is pleasing, for they give variety and brilliant color to the bare and unattractive stage.
If we are happily surprised by the costuming of the play, what shall we say of the actors who take the female parts! They are very evidently not women, or even girls, but boys whose voices have not changed, dressed, tricked out, and trained to appear as feminine as possible. It is considered unseemly for a woman to appear on a public stage, -- indeed, the professional actress does not exist and will not be seen in an English theatre for nearly a century.
Meanwhile plays are written with few female parts (remember "The Merchant of Venice," "Julius Caesar," and "Macbeth") and young boys are trained to take these roles. The theatregoers seem to enjoy the performance just as much as we do today with mature and accomplished actresses on the stage. Shakespeare and his fellow dramatists treated the situation with good grace or indifference. Thus in the epilogue of "As You Like It" Rosalind says to the audience, "If I were a woman I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me." The jest, of course, consists in the fact that she is not a woman at all, but a stripling.
In a more tragic vein Cleopatra, before she dies, complains that "the quick comedians . . . will stage us, . . . and I shall see some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness." It may be that the boys who take the women's parts this afternoon wear masks to make them seem less masculine, though how that can improve the situation it is difficult to understand. There is an amusing reference to this practice in "A Midsummer Night's Dream." When Flute, the bellows-mender, is assigned a part in the drama which the mechanics of Athens are rehearsing, he exclaims, "Nay, faith, let me not play a woman; I have a beard coming"; to which protest Quince replies, "That's all one: you shall play it in a mask, and you may speak as small as you will."
Though rapid action, brilliant costumes, and, above all, the force and beauty of the lines, may lead us to forget that the heroine is only a boy, it is more difficult to keep our attention from being distracted by the audience around us. It surprises us at the that there are so few women present. We notice, too, that many of those who have come wear a mask of silk or velvet over their faces. Evidently it is hardly the proper thing for a respectable woman to be seen in a public theatre. The people in the balconies are fairly orderly, but below in the pit the crowd is restless, noisy, and at times even boisterous. Bricklayers, dock-laborers, apprentices, serving-men, and idlers stand in jostling confusion. There are no police and no laws that are enforced. Pickpockets ply an active trade.
One, we see, has been caught and is bound to the railing at the edge of the stage where he is an object of coarse jests and ridicule. Refreshment-sellers push about in the throng with apples and sausages, nuts and ale. There is much eating and drinking and plenty of smoking. On the stage the gallants are a constant source of bother to the players. They interrupt the Prologue, criticise the dress of the hero, banter the heroine, and joke with the clown. Even here in the gallery we can hear their comments -- far from flattering -- upon a scene that does not please them; when a little later they applaud, their praises are just as vigorous. Once it seems as though the play is going to be brought to a standstill by a wrangling quarrel between one of these rakish gentlemen and a group of groundlings near the stage. Their attention, however, is taken by the entrance of the leading actor declaiming a stirring passage, and their differences are soon forgotten.
It is, on the whole, a good-natured rough crowd of the common people, the lower and middle classes from the great city across the river, -- more like the crowd one sees today at a circus or a professional ball-game than at a theatre of the highest type. They loudly cheer the clown's final song and dance, and then with laughter, shouting, and jesting they pour out of the yard and in a moment the building is empty. The play is over until tomorrow afternoon.
What a contrast it all has been to a play in a theatre of the twentieth century! When we think of the uncomfortable benches, the flat bare earth of the pit, the lack of scenery, footlights, and drop curtains ; when we hear the shrill voices of boys piping the women's parts, and see mist and rain falling on spectator's heads, we are inclined to pity the playgoer of Elizabethan times. Yet he needs no pity. To him the theatre of his day was sufficient.
The drama enacted there was a source of intense and genuine pleasure. His keen enthusiasm; his fresh, youthful eagerness; above all, his highly imaginative power, -- far greater than ours today, -- gave him an ability to understand and enjoy the poetry and dramatic force of Shakespeare's works, which we, with all the improvements of our palatial theatres, cannot equal. Crude, simple, coarse as they now seem to us, we can look back only with admiration upon the Swan and the Curtain and the Globe; for in them "The Merchant of Venice," "As You Like It," "Julius Caesar," "Hamlet," and "Macbeth" were received with acclamations of joy and wonder.
In them the genius of Shakespeare was recognized and given a place in the drama of England which now, after three centuries have passed, it holds in the theatres and in the literature of all the world.
Let us now pay a visit to the Globe, to us the most interesting of all the theatres, for it is here that Shakespeare's company acts, and here many of his plays are first seen on the stage. We cross the Thames by London Bridge with its lines of crowded booths and shops and throngs of bustling tradesmen; or if it is fine weather we take a small boat and are rowed over the river to the southern shores. Here on the Bankside, in the part of London now called Southwark, beyond the end of the bridge, and in the open fields near the Bear Garden, stands a roundish, three-story wooden building, so high for its size that it looks more like a clumsy, squatty tower than a theatre. As we draw nearer we see that it is not exactly round after all, but is somewhat hexagonal in shape. The walls seem to slant a little inward, giving it the appearance of a huge thimble, or cocked hat, with six flattened sides instead of a circular surface. There are but few small windows and two low shabby entrances.
The whole structure is so dingy and unattractive that we stand before it in wonder. Can this be the place where "Hamlet," "The Merchant of Venice," and "Julius Caesar" are put on the stage? Our amazement on stepping inside is even greater. The first thing that astonishes us is the blue sky over our heads. The building has no roof except a narrow strip around the edge and a covering at the rear over the back part of the stage.
The front of the stage and the whole center of the theatre is open to the air. Now we see how the interior is lighted, though with the sunshine must often come rain and sleet and London fog. Looking up and out at the clouds floating by, we notice that a flag is flying from a short pole on the roof over the stage. This is most important, for it is announcing to the city across the river that this afternoon there is to be a play. It is bill-board, newspaper notice, and advertisement in one: and we may imagine the eagerness with which it is looked for among the theatre-loving populace of these later Elizabethan years. When the performance begins the flag will be lowered to proclaim to all that "the play is on."
Where, now, shall we sit? Before us on the ground level is a large open space, which corresponds to the orchestra circle on the floor of a modern play-house. But here there is only the flat bare earth, trodden down hard, with rushes and in the straw scattered over it. There is not a sign of a seat! This is the "yard," or, as it is sometimes called, "the pit," where, by paying a penny or two, London apprentices, sailors, laborers, and the mixed crowd from the streets may stand jostling together. Some of the more enterprising ones may possibly sit on boxes and stools which they bring into the building with them. Among these "groundlings" there will surely be bustling confusion, noisy wrangling, and plenty of danger from pickpockets; so we look about us to find a more comfortable place from which to watch the performance.
On three sides of us, and extending well around the stage, are three tiers of narrow balconies. In some places these are divided into compartments, or boxes. The prices here are higher, varying from a few pennies to half a crown, according to the location. By putting our money into a box held out to us, -- there are no tickets, -- we are allowed to climb the crooked wooden stairs to one of these compartments. Here we find rough benches and chairs, and above all a little seclusion from the throng of men and boys below.
Along the edge of the stage we observe that there are stools, but these places, elevated and facing the audience, seem rather conspicuous, and besides the prices are high. They will be taken by the young gallants and men of fashion of London, in brave and brilliant clothes, with light swords at their belts, wide ruffled collars about their necks, and gay plunies in their hats. It will be amusing to see them show off their fine apparel, and display their wit at the expense of the groundlings in the pit, and even of the actors themselves. We are safer, however, and much more comfortable here in the balcony among the more sober, quiet gentlemen of London, who with mechanics, tradesmen, nobles, and shop-keepers have come to see the play.
The moment we entered the theatre we were impressed by the size of the stage. Looking down upon it from the balcony, it seems even larger and very near us. If it is like the stage of the Fortune it is square.... Here in the Globe it is probably narrower at the front than at the back, tapering from the rear wall almost to a point. Whatever its shape, it is only a roughly-built, high platform, open on three sides, and extending halfway into the "yard." Though a low railing runs about its edge, there are no footlights, -- all performances are in the afternoon by the light of day which streams down through the open top, -- and strangest of all there is no curtain. At each side of the rear we can see a door that leads to the "tiring-rooms" where the actors dress, and from which they make their entrances. These are the "green-rooms" and wings of our theatre today.
Between the doors is a curtain that now before the play begins is drawn together. Later when it is pulled aside, -- not upward as curtains usually are now, -- we shall see a shallow recess or alcove which serves as a secondary, or inner stage. Over this extends a narrow balcony covered by a roof which is supported at the front corners by two columns that stand well out from the wall. Still higher up, over the inner stage, is a sort of tower, sometimes called the "hut," and from a pole on this the flag is flying which summons the London populace from across the Thames. Rushes are strewn over the floor; there are no drops or wings or walls of painted scenery. In its simplicity and bareness it reminds us of the rude stage of the strolling players. Indeed, the whole interior of the building seems to be but an adaptation of the tavern-yard and village-green.
How, we wonder, can a play like "Julius Caesar" or "The Merchant of Venice" be staged on such a crude affair as this! What are the various parts of it for? Practically all acting is done, we shall see see, on the front of the platform well out among the crowd in the pit, with the audience on three sides of the performers. All out-of-door scenes will be acted here, from a conversation in the streets of Venice or a dialogue in a garden, to a battle, a procession, or a banquet in the Forest of Arden. Here, too, with but the slightest alteration, or even with no change at all, interior scenes will be presented. With the "groundlings" crowded close up to its edges, and with young gallants sitting on its sides, this outer stage comes close to the people. On it will be all the main action of the drama: the various arrangements at the rear are for supplementary purposes and certain important effects.
The inner stage, or alcove beyond the curtain, is used in many ways. It may serve for any room somewhat removed from the scene of action, such as a passage-way or a study. It often is made to represent a cave, a shop, or a prison. Here Othello, in a frenzy of jealous passion, strangles Desdemona as she lies in bed; here probably the ghost of Caesar appears to Brutus in his tent on the plains of Philippi; here stand the three fateful caskets in the mansion at Belmont, as we see by Portia's words, "Go, draw aside the curtains and discover
The several caskets to this noble Prince." Tableaux and scenes within scenes, such as the short play in "Hamlet" by which the prince "catches the conscience of the king," are acted in this recess. But the most important use is to give the effect of a change of scene. By drawing apart and closing the curtain, with a few simple changes of properties in this inner compartment, a different background is possible. By such a slight variation of setting at the rear, the platform in the pit is transformed, by the quick imagination of the spectators, from a field or a street to a castle hall or a wood. Thus, the whole stage becomes the Forest of Arden by the use of a little greenery in the distance. Similarly, a few trees and shrubs at the rear of the inner stage, when the curtain is thrown aside, will change the setting from the court-room in the fourth act of "The Merchant of Venice," to the scene in the garden at Belmont which immediately follows.
The balcony over the inner stage serves an important purpose, too. With the windows, which are often just over the doors leading to the tiring-rooms, it gives the effect of an upper story of a house, of walls in a castle, a tower, or any elevated over the position. This is the place, of course, where Juliet comes to greet Romeo who is in the garden below. In "Julius Caesar" when Cassius says, "Go Pindarus, get higher on that hill;....
And tell me what thou notest about the field," the soldier undoubtedly climbs to the balcony, for a moment later, looking abroad over the field of battle, he reports to Cassius what he sees from his elevation. Here Jessica appears when Lorenzo calls under Shylock's windows, "Ho! who's within?" and on this balcony she is standing when she throws down to her lover a box of her father's jewels. "Here, catch this casket; it is worth the pains," she says, and retires into the house, appearing below a moment later to run away with Lorenzo and his masquerading companions.
Besides these simple devices, if we look closely enough we shall see a trap-door, or perhaps two, in the platform. These are for the entrance of apparitions and demons. They correspond, in a way, to the balcony by giving the effect of a place lower than the stage level. Thus in the first scene of "The Tempest," which takes place in a storm at sea, the notion of a ship may be suggested to the audience by sailors entering from the trap-door, as they might come up a hatchway to a deck. If it is a play with gods and goddesses and spirits, we may be startled to see them appear and disappear through the air. Evidently there is machinery of some sort in the hut over the balcony which can be used for lowering and raising deities and creatures that live above the earth. On each side of the stage is a flight of steps leading to the balcony. These are often covered... Here sit councils, senates, and princes with their courts. Macbeth uses them to give the impression of ascending to an upper chamber when he goes to kill the king, and down them he rushes to his wife after he has committed the fearful murder.
What astonishes us most, however, is the absence of scenery. To be sure, some slight attempt has been made to create scenic illusion. There are, perhaps, a few trees and boulders, a table, a chair or two, and pasteboard dishes of food. But there is little more. In the only drawing of the interior of an Elizabethan theatre that has been preserved, -- a sketch of the Swan made in 1596, -- the stage has absolutely no furniture except one plain bench on which one of the actors is sitting. Here before us in the Globe the walls may be covered with loose tapestries, black if the play is to be a tragedy, blue if a comedy; but it is quite possible that they are entirely bare. A placard on one of the pillars announces that the stage is now a street in Venice, now a courtroom, now the hall of a stately mansion. It may be that the Prologue, or even the actors themselves, will tell us at the opening of an act just where the scene is laid and what we are to imagine the platform to represent.
In "Henry V," for instance, the Prologue at the beginning not only explains the setting of the play, but asks forgiveness of the audience for attempting to put on the stage armies and battles and the "vasty fields of France." "But pardon, gentles all,
The flat unraised spirit that hath dared
On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth
So great an object. Can this cockpit hold
The vasty fields of France? or may we cram
Within this wooden O the very casques
That did affright the air at Agincourt?
O, pardon! since a crooked figure may
Attest in little place a million;
And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,
On your imaginary forces work.
Suppose within the girdle of these walls
Are now confined two mighty monarchies,
Whose high-upreared and abutting fronts
The perilous, narrow ocean parts asunder.
Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts;
Into a thousand parts divide one man,
And make imaginary puissance.
Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them
Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth,
For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings,
Carry them here and there, jumping o'er times.
Turning the accomplishment of many years
Into an hour-glass." In "As You Like It" it is an actor who tells us at the opening of the second act that we are now to imagine the Forest of Arden before us. In the first sentence which the banished Duke speaks, he says, "Are not these woods more free from peril than the envious court?" and a moment later, when Touchstone and the runaway maidens first enter the woods, Rosalind exclaims, "Well, this is the Forest of Arden!" A hint, a reference, a few simple contrivances, a placard or two, -- these are enough. "Imaginary forces" are here in the audience keenly alive, and they will do the rest. By means of them, without the illusion of scenery, the bare wooden stage will become a ship, a garden, a palace, a London tavern. Whole armies will enter and retire by a single door. Battles will rage, royal processions pass in and out, graves will be dug, lovers will woo, -- and all with hardly an important alteration of the setting.
Lack of scenery does not limit the type of scenes that can be presented. On the contrary, it gives almost unlimited opportunities to the dramatist, for the spectators, in the force and freshness of their imagination, are children who willingly "play" that the stage is anything the author suggests. Their youthful enthusiasm, their simple tastes, above all their lack of knowledge of anything different, give them the enviable power of imagining the grandest, most beautiful, and most varied scenes on the same bare, unadorned boards. Apparently they are well satisfied with their stage; for it is not until nearly fifty years after Shakespeare's death that movable scenery is used in an English theatre.
It is now three o'clock and time for the performance to begin. Among the motley crowd of men and boys in the yard there is no longer room for another box or stool. They are evidently growing impatient and jostle together in noisy confusion. Suddenly three long blasts on a trumpet sound. The mutterings in the pit subside, and all eyes turn toward the stage. First an actor, clothed in a black mantle and wearing a laurel wreath on his head, comes from behind the curtain and recites the prologue. From it we learn something of the story of the play to follow, and possibly a little about the scene of action. This is all very welcome, for we have no programs and the plot of the drama is unfamiliar. In a minute or two the Prologue retires and the actors of the first scene enter. We are soon impressed by the rapidity with which the play moves on. There is little stage "business"; though there may be some music between the acts, still there are no long waits; one scene follows another as quickly as the actors can make their exits and entrances. The whole play, therefore, does not last much over two hours. At the close there is an epilogue, spoken by one of the actors, after which the players kneel and join in a prayer for the queen. Then comes a final bit of amusement for the groundlings: the clown, or some other comic character of the company, sings a popular song, dances a brisk and boisterous jig, and the performance of the day is done.
During our novel experience this afternoon at the Globe, nothing has probably surprised us more than the elaborate and gorgeous costumes of the actors. At a time when so little attention is paid to of the scenery we naturally expect to find the dress of the players equally simple and plain. But we are mistaken. The costumes, to be sure, make little or no pretension to fit the period or place of action. Caesar appears in clothes such as are worn by a duke or an earl in 1601. "They are the ordinary dresses of various classes of the day, but they are often of rich material, and in the height of current fashion. False hair and beards, crowns and sceptres, mitres and croziers, armour, helmets, shields, vizors, and weapons of war, hoods, bands, and cassocks, are relied on to indicate among the characters differences of rank or profession.
The foreign observer, Thomas Platter of Basle, was impressed by the splendor of the actors' costumes. 'The players wear the most costly and beautiful dresses, for it is the custom in England, that when noblemen or knights die, they leave their finest clothes to their servants, who, since it would not be fitting for them to wear such splendid garments, sell them soon afterwards to the players for a small sum'" (Sidney Lee, Shakespeare and the Modern Stage, p. 41). But no money is spared to secure the fitting garment for an important part. Indeed, it is quite probable that more is paid for a king's velvet robe or a prince's silken doublet than is given to the author for the play itself. Whether the elaborate costumes are appropriate or not, their general effect is pleasing, for they give variety and brilliant color to the bare and unattractive stage.
If we are happily surprised by the costuming of the play, what shall we say of the actors who take the female parts! They are very evidently not women, or even girls, but boys whose voices have not changed, dressed, tricked out, and trained to appear as feminine as possible. It is considered unseemly for a woman to appear on a public stage, -- indeed, the professional actress does not exist and will not be seen in an English theatre for nearly a century.
Meanwhile plays are written with few female parts (remember "The Merchant of Venice," "Julius Caesar," and "Macbeth") and young boys are trained to take these roles. The theatregoers seem to enjoy the performance just as much as we do today with mature and accomplished actresses on the stage. Shakespeare and his fellow dramatists treated the situation with good grace or indifference. Thus in the epilogue of "As You Like It" Rosalind says to the audience, "If I were a woman I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me." The jest, of course, consists in the fact that she is not a woman at all, but a stripling.
In a more tragic vein Cleopatra, before she dies, complains that "the quick comedians . . . will stage us, . . . and I shall see some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness." It may be that the boys who take the women's parts this afternoon wear masks to make them seem less masculine, though how that can improve the situation it is difficult to understand. There is an amusing reference to this practice in "A Midsummer Night's Dream." When Flute, the bellows-mender, is assigned a part in the drama which the mechanics of Athens are rehearsing, he exclaims, "Nay, faith, let me not play a woman; I have a beard coming"; to which protest Quince replies, "That's all one: you shall play it in a mask, and you may speak as small as you will."
Though rapid action, brilliant costumes, and, above all, the force and beauty of the lines, may lead us to forget that the heroine is only a boy, it is more difficult to keep our attention from being distracted by the audience around us. It surprises us at the that there are so few women present. We notice, too, that many of those who have come wear a mask of silk or velvet over their faces. Evidently it is hardly the proper thing for a respectable woman to be seen in a public theatre. The people in the balconies are fairly orderly, but below in the pit the crowd is restless, noisy, and at times even boisterous. Bricklayers, dock-laborers, apprentices, serving-men, and idlers stand in jostling confusion. There are no police and no laws that are enforced. Pickpockets ply an active trade.
One, we see, has been caught and is bound to the railing at the edge of the stage where he is an object of coarse jests and ridicule. Refreshment-sellers push about in the throng with apples and sausages, nuts and ale. There is much eating and drinking and plenty of smoking. On the stage the gallants are a constant source of bother to the players. They interrupt the Prologue, criticise the dress of the hero, banter the heroine, and joke with the clown. Even here in the gallery we can hear their comments -- far from flattering -- upon a scene that does not please them; when a little later they applaud, their praises are just as vigorous. Once it seems as though the play is going to be brought to a standstill by a wrangling quarrel between one of these rakish gentlemen and a group of groundlings near the stage. Their attention, however, is taken by the entrance of the leading actor declaiming a stirring passage, and their differences are soon forgotten.
It is, on the whole, a good-natured rough crowd of the common people, the lower and middle classes from the great city across the river, -- more like the crowd one sees today at a circus or a professional ball-game than at a theatre of the highest type. They loudly cheer the clown's final song and dance, and then with laughter, shouting, and jesting they pour out of the yard and in a moment the building is empty. The play is over until tomorrow afternoon.
What a contrast it all has been to a play in a theatre of the twentieth century! When we think of the uncomfortable benches, the flat bare earth of the pit, the lack of scenery, footlights, and drop curtains ; when we hear the shrill voices of boys piping the women's parts, and see mist and rain falling on spectator's heads, we are inclined to pity the playgoer of Elizabethan times. Yet he needs no pity. To him the theatre of his day was sufficient.
The drama enacted there was a source of intense and genuine pleasure. His keen enthusiasm; his fresh, youthful eagerness; above all, his highly imaginative power, -- far greater than ours today, -- gave him an ability to understand and enjoy the poetry and dramatic force of Shakespeare's works, which we, with all the improvements of our palatial theatres, cannot equal. Crude, simple, coarse as they now seem to us, we can look back only with admiration upon the Swan and the Curtain and the Globe; for in them "The Merchant of Venice," "As You Like It," "Julius Caesar," "Hamlet," and "Macbeth" were received with acclamations of joy and wonder.
In them the genius of Shakespeare was recognized and given a place in the drama of England which now, after three centuries have passed, it holds in the theatres and in the literature of all the world.