Chambers\'s Edinburgh Journal, No. 443
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Various >> Chambers\'s Edinburgh Journal, No. 443
Our conductor now provided himself with a lantern, in order to lead us
to the regions under the stage; for, in consequence of the mass of
inflammable material connected with a theatre, there are as strict
regulations against going about with open lights as in a coal-pit
addicted to carbonic acid gas. Descending a trap, we reached the
so-called mazarine-floor, a corruption of the Italian _mezzanine_,
from which the musicians have access to the orchestra. It is not much
higher than the human stature; and hither descends that _Ateista
Fulminato_, Don Juan, or any other wight unlucky enough to be
consigned to the infernal regions until the curtain drops. In this
floor is a large apartment for the orchestra, in which are deposited
the musical instruments in their cases; and beside it is the so-called
pass-room, in which note is taken of the punctual arrival of
performers.
Below this is the ground-floor, and below that, again, a vast extent
of catacombs. One of these is the rubbish-vault, and this is of
considerable size; for although dresses and properties are often made
of the coarsest materials, and will not stand a close inspection--the
problem to be solved being the combination of stage effect with
economy--yet, on the other hand, their want of durability, and the
constant production of new pieces, necessarily creates a large amount
of waste; and for this accommodation must of course be provided.
Leaving the rubbish-vault, we examined the gasometer, and the remains
of gas-works; for Covent Garden made its own gas, until an explosion
took place, which suffocated several men. My conductor pointed out to
me the spot where they attempted to escape, having gone through a long
corridor until they were stopped by a dead wall, now pierced by a
door. Near the gasometer is the hydraulic machine for supplying with
water the tank on the top of the house; all the other services on this
line of pipe are screwed off, and thus the water is forced to the top
of the building. In the Queen's Theatre, Haymarket, a supply for the
tank on the roof is obtained from a well which was sunk by Mr Lumley
under the building, in consequence of the river company having raised
his water-rate from L.60 to L.90. From the well, the water is forced
up by a machine.
We next ascended a stair, flight after flight; then wound our way
through a region of flies and pulleys; and then scrambled up ladders
until we arrived at the tank itself, which is large enough to hold
sufficient water to supply six engines for half an hour. It has long
hose attached to it, ready, at the shortest notice, to have the water
directed either over the scenery or the audience part. We now
proceeded over the roof of the audience part, to what appeared to be a
large well, fenced by a parapet; and looking down ten or twelve feet,
saw below us the centre chandelier, the aperture, which would
otherwise be unsightly, being closed by an open framework in
Arabesque. Through this the chandelier is lighted by a long rod,
having at the end a wire, to which is attached a piece of ignited
sponge soaked in spirits of wine: the chandelier is raised and lowered
at pleasure by a three-ton windlass.
Not less than eighty-five apartments, great and small, surround the
stage or adjoin it, and are used as dressing-rooms, workshops,
store-rooms, and offices. We first visited the dressing-room of Madame
Grisi, nearest the stage, and it had the air of an elegant boudoir,
hung and furnished in green and crimson; while another close beside
it, fitted up in precisely the same style, was somewhat prematurely
called the dressing-room of Mademoiselle Wagner. The dresses of the
various performers, we may mention, are supplied by the management;
but some of them, with large salaries, and priding themselves on
appearing before the public in costly and well-fitting garments,
choose to incur this expense themselves.
The sempstresses-room looks exactly like a large milliner's shop, and
here we found a forewoman with eighteen assistants at work. Books of
costumes are always at hand, so that a degree of historical accuracy
is now attained in Opera costume, which materially assists the
illusion; and no such anachronism is visible in Covent Garden as in a
certain theatre across the Thames, where, instead of the Saracenic
minarets of Cairo, this gorgeous Arab city is represented by pyramids,
obelisks, and sphynxes. The painting-room of Covent Garden is a light
and lofty apartment at the top of the house, and the name of Mr Grieve
is a sufficient guarantee both for historical accuracy and artistic
character. Scene-painting, as practised at Covent Garden, is a most
systematic process: a coloured miniature of each scene is made on
Bristol-board, and consigned to an album; then a larger miniature is
made, and placed in a model of the Opera stage, on a large table, and
from this the scenes themselves are executed. Near the painting-room
is the working property-room, filled with carpenters, mechanists,
smiths, painters, and other artificers--everything either before or
behind the curtain being kept up, repaired, and altered by the people
of the establishment.
We now proceeded to hear the rehearsal of the opera of _Lucia di
Lammermoor_, and entering the stalls, found the orchestra full and
nearly ready to commence, Mr Costa discussing a glass of port-wine and
a sandwich, while the stage-manager was marshalling the people for the
first tableau, the principal singers being seated on chairs at the
side. What would most have struck those accustomed only to English
theatricals, was the respectable appearance of the chorus, so
different from the ragamuffin troop that fill up the back-ground of an
English scene. The Covent Garden chorus includes, at rehearsal, a
considerable number of well-dressed men in shining hats and new
paletots, many of whom are good music-teachers, not the less qualified
for that business by the opportunities they have in this establishment
of becoming familiar with the way in which the best works of the best
masters are executed by the best artists.
The rehearsal over, we turned our attention to the audience part of
the house, more particularly the Queen's box, of the privacy and
splendour of which even old _habitues_ have no idea. In the first
place, Her Majesty has a separate court-yard for entrance, in which
she may alight, which is a check not only upon obtrusive curiosity on
the part of the public, but upon the evil disposed; for although one
might naturally suppose, that if there is any individual who ought to
enjoy immunity from danger or disrespect, it would be a lady who is
exemplary in her public duties as a constitutional sovereign, as well
as in those of a consort and mother--experience has shewn the
fallaciousness of the idea.
The staircase is very noble, such as few mansions in London possess.
Passing through the vestibule, we enter the grand drawing-room, in the
centre of which is one of those tables that formed an ornament of the
Exhibition last year. The drapery is of yellow satin damask. The
principal feature of this drawing-room is the conservatory, which is
separated from it by one vast sheet of plate-glass, the gas-light
being contrived in such a way as to be unseen by those in the room,
although bringing out the colours of the flowers with the greatest
brilliancy.
Adjoining the drawing-room is the Queen's dressing-room; and between
the grand drawing-room and the royal box is the little drawing-room,
the walls of which are hung with blue satin damask, relieved by rich
gilt ornaments, mouldings, and bronzes, in the style of Louis Quinze.
The royal box itself is fitted up with crimson satin damask, a large
arm-chair at the extreme right of the front of the box being the one
Her Majesty usually occupies; but when she visits the theatre in
state, fourteen boxes in the centre of the house, overlooking the back
of the pit, are opened into one, involving a large amount of expense
and trouble, which, however, is no doubt amply compensated by the
extraordinary receipts of the night.
A private and separate entrance is not the exclusive privilege of
royalty. The Duke of Bedford, as ground-landlord, and Miss Burdett
Coutts, who has likewise a box in perpetual freehold, have separate
entrances, just under that of the Queen's box, with drawing-rooms
attached, which are small and low-roofed, but sumptuously fitted up.
Such were the principal objects appertaining to the audience part of
the house.
Returning behind the scenes, the two principal public rooms are the
manager's room and green-room, which both suggested recollections of
old Covent Garden in its British drama-days. Unlike the audience part
of the theatre, which has been entirely reconstructed, the stage part
has only been refurnished--and yet not entirely refurnished--for in
this very manager's room, where John Kemble used to play the potentate
off the stage with as much dignity as on it, stands a clock with the
following inscription: 'After the dreadful fire of Covent Garden
Theatre, on the morning of September the 21st 1808, this clock was dug
out of the ruins by John Saul, master-carpenter of the theatre, and
repaired and set to work.' When we reached the green-room itself, what
recollections crowded on me of the stars that glittered around the
Kemble dynasty! In Costa, seated at the pianoforte, I saw the face of
an honest man, who unites dogged British perseverance and energy with
the Italian sense of the beautiful in art. A feeling of regret,
however, came over me, to think that our British school of dramatic
representation and dramatic literature, which dawned brightly under
Elizabeth, and in the eighteenth century was associated with
everything distinguished in polite letters and polite society, should
have become all but extinct. But this feeling was momentary, when I
reflected that our sense of the beautiful, including the good and the
true, had not diminished, but had merely gone into new channels; and,
more especially, that Meyerbeer and Rossini, in order to hear their
own incomparable works executed in perfection, must come to the city
which the Exhibition of last year has indelibly stamped as the capital
of the civilised world.
NUMBER TWELVE.
When I was a young man, working at my trade as a mason, I met with a
severe injury by falling from a scaffolding placed at a height of
forty feet from the ground. There I remained, stunned and bleeding, on
the rubbish, until my companions, by attempting to remove me, restored
me to consciousness. I felt as if the ground on which I was lying
formed a part of myself; that I could not be lifted from it without
being torn asunder; and with the most piercing cries, I entreated my
well-meaning assistants to leave me alone to die. They desisted for
the moment, one running for the doctor, another for a litter, others
surrounding me with pitying gaze; but amidst my increasing sense of
suffering, the conviction began to dawn on my mind, that the injuries
were not mortal; and so, by the time the doctor and the litter
arrived, I resigned myself to their aid, and allowed myself, without
further objection, to be carried to the hospital.
There I remained for more than three months, gradually recovering from
my bodily injuries, but devoured with an impatience at my condition,
and the slowness of my cure, which effectually retarded it. I felt all
the restlessness and anxiety of a labourer suddenly thrown out of an
employment difficult enough to procure, knowing there were scores of
others ready to step into my place; that the job was going on; and
that, ten chances to one, I should never set foot on that scaffolding
again. The visiting surgeon vainly warned me against the indulgence of
such passionate regrets--vainly inculcated the opposite feeling of
gratitude demanded by my escape: all in vain. I tossed on my fevered
bed, murmured at the slowness of his remedies, and might have thus
rendered them altogether ineffectual, had not a sudden change been
effected in my disposition by another, at first unwelcome, addition to
our patients. He was placed in the same ward with me, and insensibly I
found my impatience rebuked, my repinings hushed for very shame, in
the presence of his meek resignation to far greater privations and
sufferings. Fresh courage sprang from his example, and soon--thanks to
my involuntary physician--I was in the fair road to recovery.
And he who had worked the charm, what was he? A poor, helpless old
man, utterly deformed by suffering--his very name unnoticed, or at
least never spoken in the place where he now was; he went only by the
appellation of No. 12--the number of his bed, which was next to my
own. This bed had already been his refuge during three long and trying
illnesses, and had at last become a sort of property for the poor
fellow in the eyes of doctors, students, nurse-tenders, in fact, the
whole hospital staff. Never did a gentler creature walk on God's
earth: walk--alas! for him the word was but an old memory. Many years
before, he had totally lost the use of his legs; but, to use his own
expression, 'this misfortune did not upset him:' he still retained the
power of earning his livelihood, which he derived from copying deeds
for a lawyer at so much per sheet; and if the legs were no longer a
support, the hands worked at the stamped parchments as diligently as
ever. But some months passed by, and then the paralysis attacked his
right arm: still undaunted, he taught himself to write with the left;
but hardly had the brave heart and hand conquered the difficulty, when
the enemy crept on, and disabling this second ally, no more remained
for him than to be conveyed once more, though this time as a last
resource, to the hospital. There he had the gratification to find his
former quarters vacant, and he took possession of his old familiar bed
with a satisfaction that seemed to obliterate all regret at being
obliged to occupy it again. His first grateful accents smote almost
reproachfully on my ear: 'Misfortune must have its turn, but _every
day has a to-morrow_.'
It was indeed a lesson to witness the gratitude of this excellent
creature. The hospital, so dreary a sojourn to most of its inmates,
was a scene of enjoyment to him: everything pleased him; and the poor
fellow's admiration of even the most trifling conveniences, proved how
severe must have been his privations. He never wearied of praising the
neatness of the linen, the whiteness of the bread, the quality of the
food; and my surprise gave place to the truest pity, when I learned
that, for the last twenty years, this respectable old man could only
afford himself, out of the profits of his persevering industry, the
coarsest bread, diversified with white cheese or vegetable porridge;
and yet, instead of reverting to his privations in the language of
complaint, he converted them into a fund of gratitude, and made the
generosity of the nation, which had provided such a retreat for the
suffering poor, his continual theme. Nor did his thankful spirit
confine itself to this. To listen to him, you would have believed him
an especial object of divine as well as human benevolence--all things
working for his good. The doctor used to say, that No. 12 had 'a mania
for happiness;' but it was a mania that in creating esteem for its
victim, infused fresh courage into all that came within its range.
I think I still see him seated on the side of his bed, with his little
black silk cap, his spectacles, and the well-worn volume, which he
never ceased perusing. Every morning, the first rays of the sun rested
on his bed, always to him a fresh subject of rejoicing and
thankfulness to God. To witness his gratitude, one might have supposed
that the sun was rising for him alone.
I need hardly say, that he soon interested himself in my cure, and
regularly made inquiry respecting its progress. He always found
something cheering to say--something to inspire patience and hope,
himself a living commentary on his words. When I looked at this poor
motionless figure, those distorted limbs, and, crowning all, that
smiling countenance, I had not courage to be angry, or even to
complain. At each painful crisis, he would exclaim: 'One minute, and
it will be over--relief will soon follow. _Every day has its
to-morrow._'
I had one good and true friend--a fellow-workman, who used sometimes
to spare an hour to visit me, and he took great delight in cultivating
an acquaintance with No. 12. As if attracted by a kindred spirit, he
never passed his bed without pausing to offer his cordial salutation;
and then he would whisper to me: 'He is a saint on earth; and not
content with gaining Paradise himself, must win it for others also.
Such people should have monuments erected to them, known and read of
all men. In observing such a character, we feel ashamed of our own
happiness--we feel how comparatively little we deserve it. Is there
anything I can do to prove my regard for this good, poor No. 12?'
'Just try among the bookstalls,' I replied, 'and find the second
volume of that book you see him reading. It is now more than six years
since he lost it, and ever since, he has been obliged to content
himself with the first.'
Now, I must premise that my worthy friend had a perfect horror of
literature, even in its simplest stages. He regarded the art of
printing as a Satanic invention, filling men's brains with idleness
and conceit; and as to writing--in his opinion, a man was never
thoroughly committed, until he had recorded his sentiments in black
and white for the inspection of his neighbours. His own success in
life, which had been tolerable--thanks to his industry and
integrity--he attributed altogether to his ignorance of those
dangerous arts; and now a cloud swept across his lately beaming face
as he exclaimed: 'What! the good creature is a lover of books? Well,
we must admit that even the best have their failings. No matter. Write
down the name of this odd volume on a slip of paper; and it shall go
hard with me, but I give him that gratification.'
He did actually return the following week with a well-worn volume,
which he presented in triumph to the old invalid. He looked somewhat
surprised as he opened it; but our friend proceeding to explain that
it was at my suggestion he had procured it in place of the lost one,
the old grateful expression at once beamed up in the eyes of No. 12;
and with a voice trembling with emotion, he thanked the hearty giver.
I had my misgivings, however; and the moment our visitor turned his
back, I asked to see the book. My old neighbour reddened, stammered,
and tried to change the conversation; but, forced behind his last
intrenchments, he handed me the little volume. It was an old Royal
Almanac. The bookseller, taking advantage of his customer's ignorance,
had substituted it for the book he had demanded. I burst into an
immoderate fit of laughter; but No. 12 checked me with the only
impatient word I ever heard from his lips: 'Do you wish our friend to
hear you? I would rather never recover the power of this lost arm,
than deprive his kind heart of the pleasure of his gift. And what of
it? Yesterday, I did not care a straw for an almanac; but in a little
time it is perhaps the very book I should have desired. _Every day has
its to-morrow._ Besides, I assure you it is a very improving study:
even already I perceive the names of a crowd of princes never
mentioned in history, and of whom up to this moment I have never heard
any one speak.'
And so the old almanac was carefully preserved beside the volume of
poetry it had been intended to match; and the old invalid never failed
to be seen turning over the leaves whenever our friend happened to
enter the room. As to him, he was quite proud of its success, and
would say to me each time: 'It appears I have made him a famous
present.' And thus the two guileless natures were content.
Towards the close of my sojourn in the hospital, the strength of poor
No. 12 diminished rapidly. At first, he lost the slight powers of
motion he had retained; then his speech became inarticulate; at last,
no part obeyed his will except the eyes, which continued to smile on
us still. But one morning, at last, it seemed to me as if his very
glance had become dim. I arose hastily, and approaching his bed,
inquired if he wished for a drink; he made a slight movement of his
eyelids, as if to thank me, and at that instant the first ray of the
rising sun shone in on his bed. Then the eyes lighted up, like a taper
that flashes into brightness before it is extinguished--he looked as
if saluting this last gift of his Creator; and even as I watched him
for a moment, his head fell gently on the side, his kindly heart
ceased to beat. He had thrown off the burden of To-day; he had entered
on his eternal To-morrow.
THINGS TALKED OF IN LONDON.
_June 1852._
As usual, everything shews in this month that our season will soon be
past its perihelion: soirees, whether scientific, exquisite, or
political, take place almost too frequently for the comfort and
wellbeing of the invited; and loungers and legislators are alike
beginning to dream of leafy woods and babbling brooks. Our learned
societies have brought their sessions to a close, with more or less of
satisfaction to all concerned, the Royal having elected their annual
instalment of new Fellows, and the Antiquaries having decided to
reduce their yearly subscription from four guineas to two, with a view
to an increase and multiplication of the number of their members, so
that the study of antiquity may be promoted, and latent ability or
enthusiasm called into play. The British Association are making
preparations for their meeting at Belfast, and if report speak truth,
the result of the gathering will be an advancement of science in more
than one department. Concerts, musical gatherings, spectacles, are in
full activity, the _entrepreneurs_ seizing the moments, and coins too,
as they fly. In short, midsummer has come, and fashion is about to
substitute languor for excitement. Meantime, our excursion trains have
commenced their trips to every point of the compass; and during the
next few months, thousands will have the opportunity of exploring the
finest scenery of our merry island at the smallest possible cost; and
for one centre of attraction, as London was last year, there will now
be a hundred.
The award of Lord Campbell on the bookselling question has given a
great triumph to the innovating party, to which the authors to a man,
and the great bulk of the public, had attached themselves. The
_Trade_, as the booksellers call themselves, while admitting that they
can no longer stand under a protective principle, feel certain
difficulties as to their future career, for unquestionably there is
something peculiar in their business, in as far as a nominal price for
their wares is scarcely avoidable. If so, the question is, How is it
to be adjusted? at a lower allowance for the retailer? In that case,
some would still undersell others; and the old troubles would still be
experienced. Ought there, then, to be no fixed retailing price at all,
but simply one for the publisher to exact from the retailer, leaving
him to sell at what profit he pleases or can get? In that case, the
publisher's advertisement, holding forth no price to the public, would
lose half its utility. Shall we, then, leave the retailer to
advertise? All of these questions must occupy the attention of
booksellers for some time to come, and their settlement cannot
speedily be hoped for. The general belief, however, is, that the cost
for the distribution of books from the shops of the publishers must be
considerably reduced, the prices of books of course lowered, and their
diffusion proportionately extended. It will perhaps be found that some
of the greatest obstructions that operate in the case are not yet so
much as touched upon.
The French have resumed their explorations and excavations at
Khorsabad, and will doubtless bring to light many more remains of the
arts of Nineveh; and Colonel Rawlinson has found the burial-place of
the kings and queens of Assyria, where the bodies are placed in
sarcophagi, in the very habiliments and ornaments in which they were
three thousand years ago! What an important relic it will be for our
rejuvenated Society of Antiquaries to exercise their faculty of
investigation upon! If discoveries go on at this rate, we shall soon
want to enlarge our British Museum.
The Registrar-General tells us, in his first Report for the present
year, that 90,936 persons were married in the last quarter of 1851--a
greater number than in any quarter since 1842, except two, when it was
slightly exceeded. It is altogether beyond the average, and confirms
what has been before observed, that marriages are most numerous in
England in the months of September, October, and November, after the
harvest. To every 117 of the whole population there was one marriage.
On the other hand, births are found to be most abundant in the first
quarters of the year; the number for the first three months of the
present year was 161,776. 'So many births,' says the Registrar, 'were
never registered before in the same time.' In the same period of 1851,
it was 157,374; and of 1848, 139,736. The deaths during the three
months were 106,682, leaving an increase in the population of 55,094,
which, however, disappears in the fact, that 57,874 emigrants left the
United Kingdom in the course of the quarter. The mortality, on the
whole, was less than in the ten previous winters, owing, perhaps, to
the temperature having been 3 deg. above the average; but the difference
was more marked in rural districts than in the large towns. According
to the meteorological table attached to the Report, it appears that
the mean temperature for the three months ending in February was
41 deg..1, being 4 deg..2 above the average of eighty years. On the 10th of
February, the north-east wind set in, and on seventy nights during the
quarter the temperature went below freezing. The movement of the air
through January and February was 160 miles per day--in March, 100
miles. Up to February 9, the wind was generally south-west, and rain
fell on twenty-three days, and on six days only after that date. These
periodical reports, and those of our Meteorological and
Epidemiological Societies will doubtless, before long, furnish us with
sufficient data for a true theory of cause and effect as regards
disease, and for preventive measures.