[For Bibliographical Note, vide ch. xviii.]

The turn of the century is also a turning-point in the history of the public theatres. In 1599 the Chamberlain’s men built the Globe, and in 1600, not to be outdone, the Admiral’s men built upon the same model the Fortune. These remained the head-quarters of the same companies, when at the beginning of the reign of James the one became the King’s and the other the Prince’s men. Worcester’s, afterwards the Queen’s, men were content for a time with the older houses, first the Rose, then the Curtain and the Boar’s Head, but by 1605 or 1606 they were occupying the Red Bull, probably a new building, but one of which we know very little. Meanwhile the earlier Tudor fashion of plays by boys had been revived, both at Paul’s, and at the Blackfriars, where a theatre had been contrived by James Burbadge about 1596 in a chamber of the ancient priory, for the purposes of a public stage.

We cannot on a priori grounds assume that the structural arrangements of the sixteenth-century houses were merely carried into those of the seventeenth century without modification; the experience of twenty-five years’ working may well have disclosed features in the original plan of James Burbadge which were not altogether convenient or which lent themselves to further development. On the other hand, we have not got to take into account the possibility of any fundamental change or sharp breach of continuity. The introduction of a new type of stage, even if it escaped explicit record, would inevitably have left its mark both upon the dramatic construction of plays and upon the wording of their stage-directions. No such mark can be discerned. You cannot tell an early seventeenth-century play from a late sixteenth-century one on this kind of evidence alone; the handling and the conventions, the situations and the spectacular effects, remain broadly the same, and such differences as do gradually become apparent, concern rather the trend of dramatic interest than the external methods of stage-presentation. Moreover, it is evident that the sixteenth-century plays did not pass wholly into disuse. From time to time they were revived, and lent themselves, perhaps with some minor adaptation, to the new boards as well as to the old. In dealing with early seventeenth-century staging, then, I will assume the general continuance of the sixteenth-century plan, and will content myself with giving some further examples of its main features, and with considering any evidence which may seem to point to specific development in one or more particular directions. And on the whole it will be convenient to concentrate now mainly upon the theatres occupied by the King’s men. For this there are various reasons. One is that the possession of Shakespeare’s plays gives them a prerogative interest in modern eyes; another that the repertories of the other companies have hardly reached us in a form which renders any very safe induction feasible.

Even in the case of the King’s men, the material is not very ample, and there are complications which make it necessary to proceed by cautious steps to somewhat tentative conclusions. The Globe was probably opened in the autumn of 1599. The first play which we can definitely locate there is Every Man Out of his Humour; but I have decided with some hesitation to treat Henry V and Much Ado about Nothing, for the purposes of these chapters, as Globe plays.[325] So far as we know, the Globe was the only theatre used by the company up to the winter of 1609, when they also came into possession of the Blackfriars. From 1609 to 1613 they used both houses, but probably the Globe was still the more important of the two, for when it was burnt in 1613 they found it worth while to rebuild it fairer than before. At some time, possibly about the end of James’s reign, the Blackfriars began to come into greater prominence, and gradually displaced the Globe as the main head-quarters of the London drama. This, however, is a development which lies outside the scope of these volumes; nor can I with advantage inquire in detail whether there were any important structural features in which the new Globe is likely to have differed from the old Globe. At the most I can only offer a suggestion for the historian of the Caroline stage to take up in his turn. In the main, therefore, we have to consider the staging of the Globe from 1599 to 1609, and of the Globe and the Blackfriars from 1609 to 1613. The plays available fall into four groups. There are nineteen or twenty printed and probably produced during 1599–1609, of which, however, one or two were originally written for private theatres.[326] There are two produced and printed during 1609–12, and one preserved in manuscript from the same period.[327] There are ten probably produced during 1599–1603, but not printed before 1622 or 1623.[328] There are perhaps nine or ten produced during 1609–13, and printed at various dates from 1619 to 1634.[329] It will be seen that the first group is of much the greatest value evidentially, as well as fortunately the longest, but that it only throws light upon the Globe and not upon the Blackfriars; that the value of the second and fourth groups is discounted by our not knowing how far they reflect Globe and how far Blackfriars conditions; and that the original features of the third and fourth groups may have been modified in revivals, either at the Blackfriars or at the later Globe, before they got into print. I shall use them all, but, I hope, with discrimination.[330] I shall also use, for illustration and confirmation, rather than as direct evidence, plays from other seventeenth-century theatres. The Prince’s men were at the Fortune during the whole of the period with which we are concerned, and then on to and after the fire of 1621, and the reconstruction, possibly on new lines, of 1623. We know that its staging arrangements resembled those of the Globe, for it was provided in the builder’s contract that this should be so, and also that the stage should be ‘placed and sett’ in accordance with ‘a plott thereof drawen’. Alleyn would have saved me a great deal of trouble if he had put away this little piece of paper along with so many others. Unfortunately, the Prince’s men kept their plays very close, and only five or six of our period got into print before 1623.[331] From the Queen’s men we have rather more, perhaps sixteen in all; but we do not always know whether these were given at the Red Bull or the Curtain. Nor do we know whether any structural improvements introduced at the Globe and Fortune were adopted at the Red Bull, although this is a priori not unlikely.[332] From the Swan we have only The Chaste Maid of Cheapside, and from the Hope only Bartholomew Fair.

At the Globe, then, the types of scene presented are much the same as those with which we have become familiar in the sixteenth century; the old categories of open-country scenes, battle scenes, garden scenes, street scenes, threshold scenes, hall scenes, and chamber scenes will still serve. Their relative importance alters, no doubt, as the playwrights tend more and more to concern themselves with subjects of urban life. But there are plenty of battle scenes in certain plays, much on the traditional lines, with marchings and counter-marchings, alarums for fighting ‘within’, and occasional ‘excursions’ on the field of the stage itself.[333] Practicable tents still afford a convenient camp background, and these, I think, continue to be pitched on the open boards.[334] The opposing camps of Richard III are precisely repeated in Henry V.[335] There are episodes before the ‘walls’ too, with defenders speaking from above, assaults by means of scaling ladders, and coming and going through the gates.[336] I find no example in which a wall inserted on the line of the scenic curtain would not meet the needs of the situation. Pastoral scenes are also common, for the urban preoccupation has its regular reaction in the direction of pastoral. There is plenty of evidence for practicable trees, such as that on which Orlando in As You Like It hangs his love verses, and the most likely machinery for putting trees into position still seems to me to be the trap.[337] A trap, too, might bring up the bower for the play within the play of Hamlet, the pleached arbour of Much Ado about Nothing, the pulpit in the forum of Julius Caesar, the tombstone in the woods of Timon of Athens, the wayside cross of Every Man Out of his Humour, and other terrains most easily thought of as free-standing structures.[338] It would open for Ophelia’s grave, and for the still beloved ascents of spirits from the lower regions.[339] It remains difficult to see how a riverbank or the sea-shores was represented.[340] As a rule, the edge of the stage, with steps into the auditorium taken for water stairs, seems most plausible. But there is a complicated episode in The Devil’s Charter, with a conduit and a bridge over the Tiber, which I do not feel quite able to envisage.[341] There is another bridge over the Tiber for Horatius Cocles in the Red Bull play of the Rape of Lucrece. But this is easier; it is projected from the walls of Rome, and there must be a trapped cavity on the scenic line, into which Horatius leaps.[342]

The Hope contract of 1613 provides for the heavens to be supported without the help of posts rising from the stage. For this there was a special reason at the Hope, since the stage had to be capable of removal to make room for bear-baitings. But the advantage of dispensing with the posts and the obstacle to the free vision of the spectators which they presented must have been so great, that the innovation may well have occurred to the builders of the Globe. Whether it did, I do not think that we can say. There are one or two references to posts in stage-directions, but they need not be the posts of the heavens.[343] Possibly, too, there was less use of the descending chair. One might even fancy that Jonson’s sarcasm in the prologue to Every Man In his Humour discredited it. The new type of play did not so often call for spectacular palace scenes, and perhaps some simpler and more portable kind of ‘state’ was allowed to serve the turn. There is no suggestion of a descent from the heavens in the theophanies of As You Like It and Pericles; Juno, however, descends in The Tempest.[344] This, although it has practically no change of setting, is in some ways, under the mask influence, the most spectacular performance attempted by the King’s men at Globe or Blackfriars during our period.[345] But it is far outdone by the Queen’s plays of the Golden, Silver, and Brazen Ages, which, if they were really given just as Heywood printed them, must have strained the scenic resources of the Red Bull to an extreme. Here are ascents and descents and entries from every conceivable point of the stage;[346] divinities in fantastic disguise;[347] mythological dumb-shows;[348] battles and hunting episodes and revels;[349] ingenious properties, often with a melodramatic thrill;[350] and from beginning to end a succession of atmospheric phenomena, which suggest that the Jacobeans had made considerable progress in the art of stage pyrotechnics.[351] The Globe, with its traditional ‘blazing star’, is left far behind.[352]

The critical points of staging are the recesses below and above. Some kind of recess on the level of the main stage is often required by the King’s plays; for action in or before a prison,[353] a cell,[354] a cave,[355] a closet,[356] a study,[357] a tomb,[358] a chapel,[359] a shop;[360] for the revelation of dead bodies or other concealed sights.[361] In many cases the alcove constructed in the tiring-house behind the scenic wall would give all that is required, and occasionally a mention of the ‘curtains’ or of ‘discovery’ in a stage-direction points plainly to this arrangement. The ‘traverse’ of Webster’s plays, both for the King’s and the Queen’s men, appears, as already pointed out, to be nothing more than a terminological variant.[362] Similarly, hall scenes have still their ‘arras’ or their ‘hangings’, behind which a spy can post himself.[363] A new feature, however, now presents itself in the existence of certain scenes, including some bedchamber scenes, which entail the use of properties and would, I think, during the sixteenth century have been placed in the alcove, but now appear to have been brought forward and to occupy, like hall scenes, the main stage. The usage is by no means invariable. Even in so late a play as Cymbeline, Imogen’s chamber, with Iachimo’s trunk and the elaborate fire-places in it, must, in spite of the absence of any reference to curtains, have been disposed in the alcove; for the trunk scene is immediately followed by another before the door of the same chamber, from which Imogen presently emerges.[364] But I do not think that the alcove was used for Gertrude’s closet in Hamlet, the whole of which play seems to me to be set very continuously on the outer stage.[365] Hamlet does not enter the closet direct from in front, but goes off and comes on again. A little distance is required for the vision of the Ghost, who goes out at a visible ‘portal’. When Hamlet has killed Polonius, he lugs the guts into the neighbour room, according to the ordinary device for clearing a dead body from the main stage, which is superfluous when the death has taken place in the alcove. There is an arras, behind which Polonius esconces himself, and on this, or perhaps on an inner arras disclosed by a slight parting of the ordinary one, hangs the picture of Hamlet’s father. Nor do I think, although it is difficult to be certain, that the alcove held Desdemona’s death-chamber in Othello.[366] True, there are curtains drawn here, but they may be only bed-curtains. A longish chamber, with an outer door, seems to be indicated. A good many persons, including Cassio ‘in a chaire’, have to be accommodated, and when Emilia enters, it is some time before her attention is drawn to Desdemona behind the curtains. If anything is in the alcove, it can only be just the bed itself. The best illustrations of my point, however, are to be found in The Devil’s Charter, a singular play, with full and naïve stage-directions, which perhaps betray the hand of an inexperienced writer. Much of the action takes place in the palace of Alexander Borgia at Rome. The alcove seems to be reserved for Alexander’s study. Other scenes of an intimately domestic character are staged in front, and the necessary furniture is very frankly carried on, in one case by a protagonist. This is a scene in a parlour by night, in which Lucrezia Borgia murders her husband.[367] Another scene represents Lucrezia’s toilet;[368] in a third young men come in from tennis and are groomed by a barber.[369] My impression is that in the seventeenth century, instead of discovering a bedchamber in the alcove, it became the custom to secure more space and light by projecting the bed through the central aperture on to the main stage, and removing it by the same avenue when the scene was over. As to this a stage-direction in 2 Henry VI may be significant. There was a scene in 1 Contention in which the murdered body of the Duke of Gloucester is discovered in his bedchamber. This recurs in 2 Henry VI, but instead of a full direction for the drawing of curtains, the Folio has the simple note ‘Bed put forth’.[370] This is one of a group of formulas which have been the subject of some discussion.[371] I do not think that either ‘Bed put forth’ or still less ‘Bed thrust out’ can be dismissed as a mere equivalent of ‘Enter in a bed’, which may admittedly cover a parting of the curtains, or of such a warning to the tire-man as ‘Bed set out’ or ‘ready’ or ‘prepared’.[372] There is a difference between ‘setting out’ and ‘thrusting out’, for the one does and the other does not carry the notion of a push. And if ‘Bed put forth’ is rather more colourless, ‘Bed drawn out’, which also occurs, is clear enough. Unfortunately the extant text of 2 Henry VI may be of any date up to 1623, and none of the other examples of the formulas in question are direct evidence for the Globe in 1599–1613.[373] To be sure of the projected bed at so early a date, we have to turn to the Red Bull, where we find it both in the Golden and the Silver Age, as well as the amateur Hector of Germany, or to the Swan, where we find it in The Chaste Maid of Cheapside.[374] The Golden Age particularly repays study. The whole of the last two acts are devoted to the episode of Jupiter and Danae. The scene is set in

Most of the action requires a courtyard, and the wall and gate of this, with a porter’s lodge and an alarm-bell, must have been given some kind of structural representation on the stage. An inner door is supposed to lead to Danae’s chamber above. It is in this chamber, presumably, that attendants enter ‘drawing out Danae’s bed’, and when ‘The bed is drawn in’, action is resumed in the courtyard below.[375]

There are chamber scenes in the King’s plays also, which are neither in the alcove nor on the main stage, but above. This is an extension of a practice already observable in pre-Globe days. Hero’s chamber in Much Ado about Nothing is above.[376] So is Celia’s in Volpone.[377] So is Falstaff’s at the Garter Inn in The Merry Wives of Windsor.[378] In all these examples, which are not exhaustive, a reasonable amount of space is required for action.[379] This is still more the case in The Yorkshire Tragedy, where the violent scene of the triple murder at Calverley Hall is clearly located upstairs.[380] Moreover, there are two plays which stage above what one would normally regard as hall rather than chamber scenes. One is Sejanus, where a break in the dialogue in the first act can best be explained by the interpretation of a scene in an upper ‘gallery’.[381] The other is Every Man Out of his Humour, where the personages go ‘up’ to the great chamber at Court.[382] Elaborate use is also made of the upper level in Antony and Cleopatra, where it represents the refuge of Cleopatra upon a monument, to which Antony is heaved up for his death scene, and on which Cleopatra is afterwards surprised by Caesar’s troops.[383] But I do not agree with the suggestion that it was used in shipboard scenes, for which, as we learn from the presenter’s speeches in Pericles, the stage-manager gave up the idea of providing a realistic setting, and fell back upon an appeal to the imagination of the audience.[384] Nor do I think that it was used for the ‘platform’ at Elsinore Castle in Hamlet;[385] or, as it was in the sixteenth century, for scenes in a Capitoline senate overlooking the forum at Rome.[386] In Bonduca, if that is of our period, it was adapted for a high rock, with fugitives upon it, in a wood.[387] I do not find extensive chamber scenes ‘above’ in any King’s play later than 1609, and that may be a fact of significance to which I shall return.[388] But shallow action, at windows or in a gallery overlooking a hall or open space, continues to be frequent.[389] In The Devil is an Ass, which is a Blackfriars play of 1616, a little beyond the limits of our period, there is an interesting scene played out of two contiguous upper windows, supposed to be in different houses.[390]

There is other evidence to show that in the seventeenth century as in the sixteenth, the stage was not limited to the presentation of a single house only at any given moment. A multiplicity of houses would fit the needs of several plays, but perhaps the most striking instance for the Globe is afforded by The Merry Devil of Edmonton, the last act of which requires two inns on opposite sides of the stage, the signs of which have been secretly exchanged, as a trick in the working out of the plot.[391] The King’s plays do not often require any marked foreshortening of distance in journeys over the stage. Hamlet, indeed, comes in ‘a farre off’, according to a stage-direction of the Folio, but this need mean no more than at the other end of the graveyard, although Hamlet is in fact returning from a voyage.[392] In Bonduca the Roman army at one end of the stage are said to be half a furlong from the rock occupied by Caractacus, which they cannot yet see; but they go off, and their leaders subsequently emerge upon the rock from behind.[393] The old device endured at the Red Bull, but even here the flagrant example usually cited is of a very special type.[394] At the end of The Travels of the Three English Brothers, the action of which ranges widely over the inhabited world, there is an appeal to imagination by Fame, the presenter, who says,

Then follow the stage-directions, ‘Enter three seuerall waies the three Brothers’, and ‘Fame giues to each a prospective glasse, they seme to see one another’. Obviously such a visionary dumb-show cannot legitimately be twisted into an argument that the concurrent representation of incongruous localities was a matter of normal staging. Such interplay of opposed houses, as we get in The Merry Devil of Edmonton, would no doubt seem more effective if we could adopt the ingenious conjecture which regards the scenic wall as not running in a straight line all the way, but broken by two angles, so that, while the central apertures below and above directly front the spectators, the doors to right and left, each with a room or window above it, are set on a bias, and more or less face each other from end to end of the stage.[395] I cannot call this more than a conjecture, for there is no direct evidence in its favour, and the Swan drawing, for what that is worth, is flatly against it. Structurally it would, I suppose, fit the round or apsidal ended Globe better than the rectangular Fortune or Blackfriars. The theory seems to have been suggested by a desire to make it possible to watch action within the alcove from a gallery on the level above. I have not, however, come across any play which can be safely assigned to a public theatre, in which just this situation presents itself, although it is common enough for persons above to watch action in a threshold or hall scene. Two windows in the same plane would, of course, fully meet the needs of The Devil is an Ass. There is, indeed, the often-quoted scene from David and Bethsabe, in which the King watches the Hittite’s wife bathing at a fountain; but the provenance of David and Bethsabe is so uncertain and its text so evidently manipulated, that it would be very temerarious to rely upon it as affording any proof of public usage.[396] On the other hand, if it is the case, as seems almost certain, that the boxes over the doors were originally the lord’s rooms, it would no doubt be desirable that the occupants of those rooms should be able to see anything that went on within the alcove. I do not quite know what weight to attach to Mr. Lawrence’s analogy between the oblique doors which this theory involves and the familiar post-Restoration proscenium doors, with stage-boxes above them, at right angles to the plane of the footlights.[397] The roofed Caroline theatres, with their side-walls to the stage, and the proscenium arch, probably borrowed from the masks, have intervened, and I cannot pretend to have traced the history of theatrical structure during the Caroline period.

I have felt justified in dealing more briefly with the early seventeenth-century stages than with those of the sixteenth century, for, after all, the fundamental conditions, so far as I can judge, remained unaltered. I seem able to lay my finger upon two directions in which development took place, and both of these concern the troublesome problem of interior action. First of all there is the stage gallery. Of this I venture to reconstruct the story as follows. Its first function was to provide seating accommodation for dignified and privileged spectators, amongst whom could be placed, if occasion arose, presenters or divine agents supposed to be watching or directing the action of a play. Perhaps a differentiation took place. Parts of the gallery, above the doors at either end of the scene, were set aside as lord’s rooms. The central part, with the upper floor of the tiring-house behind it, was used for the musicians, but was also available for such scenes as could effectively be staged above, and a curtain was fitted, corresponding to that below, behind which the recess could be set as a small chamber. Either as a result of these changes or for other reasons, the lord’s rooms, about the end of the sixteenth century, lost their popularity, and it became the fashion for persons of distinction, or would-be distinction, to sit upon the stage itself instead.[398] This left additional space free above, and the architects of the Globe and Fortune took the opportunity to enlarge the accommodation for their upper scenes. Probably they left windows over the side-doors, so that the upper parts of three distinct houses could, if necessary, be represented; and it may be that spectators were not wholly excluded from these.[399] But they widened the music-room, so that it could now hold larger scenes, and in fact now became an upper stage and not a mere recess. Adequate lighting from behind could probably be obtained rather more easily here than on the crowded floor below. There is an interesting allusion which I have not yet quoted, and which seems to point to an upper stage of substantial dimensions in the public theatres of about the year 1607. It is in Middleton’s Family of Love, itself a King’s Revels play.[400] Some of the characters have been to a performance, not ‘by the youths’, and there ‘saw Sampson bear the town-gates on his neck from the lower to the upper stage’. You cannot carry a pair of town-gates into a mere box, such as the Swan drawing shows.

Meanwhile, what of the alcove? I think that it proved too dark and too cramped for the convenient handling of chamber scenes, and that the tendency of the early seventeenth century was to confine its use to action which could be kept shallow, or for which obscurity was appropriate. It could still serve for a prison, or an ‘unsunned lodge’, or a chamber of horrors. For scenes requiring more light and movement it was replaced, sometimes by the more spacious upper stage, sometimes by the main stage, on to which beds and other properties were carried or ‘thrust out’, just as they had always been on a less extensive scale for hall scenes. The difficulties of shifting were, on the whole, compensated for by the greater effectiveness and visibility which action on the main scene afforded. I do not therefore think it possible to accept even such a modified version of the old ‘alternationist’ theory as I find set out in Professor Thorndike’s recent Shakespeare’s Theater. The older alternationists, starting from the principle, sound enough in itself, of continuous action within an act, assumed that all interior or other propertied scenes were played behind the curtains, and were set there while unpropertied action was played outside; and they deduced a method of dramatic construction, which required the dramatists to alternate exterior and interior scenes so as to allow time for the settings to be carried out.[401] The theory breaks down, not merely because it entails a much more constant use of the curtains than the stage-directions give us any warrant for, but also because it fails to provide for the not infrequent event of a succession of interior scenes; and in its original form it is abandoned by Professor Thorndike in common with other recent scholars, who see plainly enough that what I have called hall scenes must have been given on the outer stage. I do not think that they have always grasped that the tendency of the seventeenth century was towards a decreased and not an increased reliance upon the curtained space, possibly because they have not as a rule followed the historical method in their investigations; and Professor Thorndike, although he traces the earlier employment of the alcove much as I do, treats the opening and closing of the curtains as coming in time to be used, in Antony and Cleopatra for example and in Cymbeline, as little more than a handy convention for indicating the transference of the scene from one locality to another.[402] Such a usage would not of course mean that the new scene was played wholly or even partly within the alcove itself; the change might be merely one of background. But, although I admit that there would be a convenience in Professor Thorndike’s development, I do not see that there is in fact any evidence for it. The stage-directions never mention the use of curtains in such circumstances as he has in mind; and while I am far from supposing that they need always have been mentioned, and have myself assumed their use in one scene of Cymbeline where they are not mentioned, yet mentions of them are so common in connexion with the earlier and admitted functions of the alcove, that I should have expected Professor Thorndike’s view, if it were sound, to have proved capable of confirmation from at least one unconjectural case.

The difficulty which has led Professor Thorndike to his conclusion is, however, a real one. In the absence of a scenario with notes of locality, for which certainly there is no evidence, how did the Elizabethan managers indicate to their audiences the shifts of action from one place to another? This is both a sixteenth- and a seventeenth-century problem. We have noted in a former chapter that unity of place was characteristic of the earlier Elizabethan interlude; that it failed to impose itself upon the romantic narrative plots of the popular drama; that it was departed from through the device of letting two ends of a continuously set stage stand for discrete localities; that this device proved only a transition to a system in which the whole stage stood successively for different localities; and that there are hints of a convention by which the locality of each scene was indicated with the help of a label, placed over the door through which the personages in that scene made their exits and their entrances.[403] The public stage of the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries experienced no re-establishment of the principle of unity; broadly speaking, it presents an extreme type of romantic drama, with an unfettered freedom of ranging from one to another of any number of localities required by a narrative plot. But the practice, or the instinct, of individual playwrights differs. Ben Jonson is naturally the man who betrays the most conscious preoccupation with the question. He is not, however, a rigid or consistent unitarian. In his two earliest plays the scene shifts from the country to a neighbouring town, and the induction to Every Man Out of his Humour is in part an apology for his own liberty, in part a criticism of the licence of others.

Sejanus is throughout in Rome, but five or six distinct houses are required, and it must be doubtful whether such a multiplicity of houses could be shown without a change of scene.[404] The prologue to Volpone claims for the author that ‘The laws of time, place, persons he obserueth’, and this has no more than four houses, all in Venice.[405] In Catiline the scenes in Rome, with some ten houses, are broken by two in open country.[406] In Bartholomew Fair a preliminary act at a London house is followed by four set continuously before the three booths of the fair. Absolute unity, as distinct from the unity of a single country, or even a single town, is perhaps only attained in The Alchemist. Here everything takes place, either in a single room in Lovewit’s house in the Blackfriars, or in front of a door leading from the street into the same room. Evidently advantage was taken of the fact that the scene did not have to be changed, to build a wall containing this door out on to the stage itself, for action such as speaking through the keyhole requires both sides of the door to be practicable.[407] There is also a window from which persons approaching can be seen. Inner doors, presumably in the scenic wall, lead to a laboratory and other parts of the house, but these are not discovered, and no use is made of the upper level. Jonson here is a clear innovator, so far as the English public theatre is concerned; no other play of our period reproduces this type of permanent interior setting.

Shakespeare is no classicist; yet in some of his plays, comedies and romantic tragedies, it is, I think, possible to discern at least an instinctive feeling in the direction of scenic unity. The Comedy of Errors, with its action in the streets of Syracuse, near the mart, or before the Phoenix, the Porpentine, or the priory, follows upon the lines of its Latin model, although here, as in most of Jonson’s plays, it is possible that the various houses were shown successively rather than concurrently. Twelfth Night, Much Ado about Nothing, and Measure for Measure each require a single town, with two, three, and five houses respectively; Titus Andronicus, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, The Merry Wives of Windsor, As You Like It, Troilus and Cressida, Timon of Athens, each a single town, with open country environs. Love’s Labour’s Lost has the unity of a park, with perhaps a manor-house as background at one end and tents at the other; The Tempest complete pastoral unity after the opening scene on shipboard. Hamlet would all be Elsinore, but for one distant open-country scene; Romeo and Juliet all Venice, but for one scene in Mantua. In another group of plays the action is divided between two towns. It alternates from Padua to near Verona in The Taming of the Shrew, from Verona to Milan in The Two Gentlemen of Verona, from Venice to Belmont in The Merchant of Venice; in Othello an act in Venice is followed by four in Cyprus. On the other hand, in a few comedies and in the histories and historical tragedies, where Shakespeare’s sources leave him less discretion, he shifts his scenes with a readiness outdone by no other playwright. The third act of Richard II requires no less than four localities, three of which have a castle, perhaps the same castle from the stage-manager’s point of view, in the background. The second act of 1 Henry IV has as many. King John and Henry V pass lightly between England and France, All’s Well that Ends Well between France and Italy, The Winter’s Tale between Sicily and Bohemia, Cymbeline between Britain, Italy, and Wales. Quite a late play, Antony and Cleopatra, might almost be regarded as a challenge to classicists. Rome, Misenum, Athens, Actium, Syria, Egypt are the localities, with much further subdivision in the Egyptian scenes. The second act has four changes of locality, the third no less than eight, and it is noteworthy that these changes are often for quite short bits of dialogue, which no modern manager would regard as justifying a resetting of the stage. Shakespeare must surely have been in some danger, in this case, of outrunning the apprehension of his auditory, and I doubt if even Professor Thorndike’s play of curtains would have saved him.

It is to be observed also that, in Shakespeare’s plays as in those of others, no excessive pains are taken to let the changes of locality coincide with the divisions between the acts. If the second and third acts of All’s Well that Ends Well are at Paris, the fourth at Florence, and the fifth at Marseilles, yet the shift from Roussillon to Paris is in the middle and not at the end of the first act. The shift from Sicily to Bohemia is in the middle of the third act of The Winter’s Tale; the Agincourt scenes begin in the middle of the third act of Henry V. Indeed, although the poets regarded the acts as units of literary structure, the act-divisions do not appear to have been greatly stressed, at any rate on the stages of the public houses, in the actual presentation of plays.[408] I do not think that they were wholly disregarded, although the fact that they are so often unnoted in the prints of plays based on stage copies might point to that conclusion.[409] The act-interval did not necessarily denote any substantial time-interval in the action of the play, and perhaps the actors did not invariably leave the stage. Thus the lovers in A Midsummer Night’s Dream sleep through the interval between the third and fourth acts.[410] But some sort of break in the continuity of the performance is a natural inference from the fact that the act-divisions are the favourite, although not the only, points for the intervention of presenters, dumb-shows, and choruses.[411] The act-intervals cannot have been long, at any rate if the performance was to be completed in two hours. There may sometimes have been music, which would not have prevented the audience from stretching themselves and talking.[412] Short intervals, rather than none at all, are, I think, suggested by the well-known passage in the induction of The Malcontent, as altered for performance at the Globe, in which it is explained that passages have been added to the play as originally written for Revels boys, ‘to entertain a little more time, and to abridge the not-received custom of music in our theatre’.[413] Some information is perhaps to be gleaned from the ‘plots’ of plays prepared for the guidance of the book-keeper or tire-man, of which examples are preserved at Dulwich.[414] These have lines drawn across them at points which pretty clearly correspond to the beginnings of scenes, although it can hardly be assumed that each new scene meant a change of locality. The act-divisions can in some, but not all, cases be inferred from the occurrence of dumb-shows and choruses; in one, The Dead Man’s Fortune, they are definitely marked by lines of crosses, and against each such line there is the marginal note ‘musique’. Other musical directions, ‘sound’, ‘sennet’, ‘alarum’, ‘flourish’, come sometimes at the beginning, sometimes in the middle of scenes.

We do not get any encouragement to think that a change of locality was regularly heralded by notes of music, even if this may incidentally have been the case when a procession or an army or a monarch was about to enter. Possibly the lines on the plots may signify an even slighter pause than that between the acts, such as the modern stage provides with the added emphasis of a drop-curtain; but of this there is no proof, and an allusion in Catiline to action as rapid