In his informative account of Bernard Shaw as a director, William Armstrong has noted a distinctive practice of the playwright during the rehearsal period:“…Shaw regularly sent private letters or postcards to his actors to supplement the advice he gave them in the theatre. It is to be hoped that one day a more or less complete collection of these documents will be made. They will reveal not only his great mastery of detail but also the remarkable shrewdness with which he adjusted his powers of persuasion to actors with very different temperaments.” Vast indeed is the undertaking Armstrong proposes, but it is possible to proceed towards its realization with respect to particular plays. Such documentation can be supplemented in some cases by the testimony of actors and other theater artists who worked with Shaw, by data from the extant prompt copies of his productions, and by his rehearsal notes. The result would do much not only to illuminate the particulars of his directorial performance, but to clarify many specific problems of dramatic interpretation as well.

Samuel Phelps' revival of The Duchess of Malfi at Sadler's Wells on November 20, 1850 resulted in Webster's tragedy holding the boards in Great Britain and America for some twenty-five years. These performances were enumerated and their casts identified in an earlier article. I want now to attempt a fuller description of some representative productions, both for the light they throw upon the attitudes and practices of nineteenth-century theatre and for the useful insights they give us into the nature of Webster's tragedy itself.

Little is known about the productions of Thomas-Killigrew's plays before the closing of the theaters, and there is even considerable doubt whether some of them were produced at all. During the Interregnum Killigrew lived in exile on the Continent and lacking playhouse, playgoers and actors, nevertheless continued to write his plays as “a diversion.” With the restoration of King Charles II to the throne of England, however, Killigrew's theatrical fortunes rose considerably. On August 21, 1660 Charles II issued a grant bestowing upon Killigrew, then a Groom of the Bedchamber, and upon Sir William Davenant “full power and authority to Erect two Companies of Players.”

In nineteenth-century greenrooms one of the most frequently quoted of David Garrick's remarks concerned his reaction when it was suggested that he introduce the toga and Roman hairstyles to the stage: “I have already stood my ground against the pelting of oranges, but I dare not venture to confront flying benches and bottles.” From the days of Kemble onwards, this comment has, for many theatrical historians, defined Garrick's place in the revolution in costuming taste which began in the mid-eighteenth century and culminated nearly a century later. A pioneer of historical realism, Garrick appears nonetheless a circumspect one; his “progress” was considerable, yet marked by a sense of restraint, either because his own taste was insufficiently advanced or because he shrewdly stopped short of affronting the taste of his audience. Whether one applauds historical costuming or (in the fashion of our own times) bemoans it, one still tends to leave Garrick in the limbo of the “transitional.”

The first use of the limelight in the theatre occurred on December 26, 1837, at Covent Garden, then under the management of William Charles Macready. This marked the beginning of modern stage lighting. The limelight was the first practical spotlight used in the theatre, and the use of the spotlight is basic to all modern lighting theory and practice. To make a spotlight two things are necessary, a lens and a point source of light of high intensity. (The light source must be small so that it can be focused by the lens.) A reflector can be added to increase the efficiency of the instrument. Reflectors and lenses had been in use for several centuries, but until this time there was no light source of sufficient brilliance which was at the same time small enough to make the spotlight practical.

William Winter, that arbiter of affairs dramatic during the last quarter of the nineteenth century and the first decade of the twentieth, after paying high tribute in Shakespeare on the Stage to the greatness of Ellen Terry as an actress, dismisses her as a lecturer on Shakespeare with a few lines. Declaring that she would have been well advised to follow in the footsteps of Fanny Kemble and Charlotte Cushman by giving Shakespearean “readings” rather than lectures, he concludes that “Her views…were often incorrect, generally commonplace, and, in the matter of thought, superficial.” (p. 225)

Since Edwin Booth was so generally considered the best American actor of his time (some say of all time), and since Hamlet was his best known and most frequently performed role, our interest in it is more than academic. Booth knew Hamlet as well as any man in his century. His particular illumination of the role—an intellectual, neurotic, romantic Hamlet—has become a part of our own understanding of the character and has been reflected in the recent interpretations of Burton, O'Toole, and Plummer.

Booth first played Hamlet in California, at the suggestion of his father, Junius Brutus Booth, and it quickly became his most celebrated role. When Edwin joined with John (Sleeper) Clarke and William Stuart in the management of the Winter Garden Theatre in New York, Hamlet was his first production. It had a phenomenal run of one-hundred nights, setting a record which was not eclipsed for some time.

The American theatre patron of the 1840's knew what he liked in entertainment, and he expressed himself vigorously on the subject. His tastes were highly eclectic. Melodrama and romantic spectacle were his dramatic staples at a theatrical buffet which also included phrenologists, magicians, ventriloquists, jugglers, automatons, and a whole range of human physical oddities from Siamese twins to Belgian giants, not the least of which was one Hervio Nanno who, although handicapped by withered legs, boasted hands and arms of such strength that, dressed as a green fly, he literally could climb all over the theatre and auditorium.

One of the highpoints of theatrical management in London during the early part of the 19th century was achieved by Madame Vestris in the nine seasons she operated the Olympic Theatre from January 3, 1831 to May 31, 1839. Important contributions in management, acting and scenic decor were made and have been commented upon. The free list was suspended; the practice of “puffing” (praising a work in advance of actual performance) was abandoned; the final curtain was rung down each night at 11 P.M. instead of the usual hour of midnight; actors' benefit performances were abolished; failures were withdrawn as quickly as possible from further performances; and by allowing no one behind the scenes to visit with actors and actresses the general atmosphere backstage was improved.

Unquestionably an awning or system of awnings was used as a protective cover over Roman theatres and amphitheatres during the Empire. Its appearance and operation however, still puzzle theatre historians.

Because only scanty descriptive evidence of it is available, historians mention the awning barely, if at all. What comments they do make are often incorrect. For example, Bieber's statement that the awnings were “to protect the spectators from rain and sunburn” is true only of the sunburn. In the light of this and other misconceptions about the Roman awning, a review of the evidence is now in order.