Scene v commences with the direction, already referred to, “Enter a

maide with a child in her armes, the mother by her a sleepe.” The Husband rushes in and endeavors to snatch the babe from the maid’s arms. When she resists, he assaults her.

Are you gossiping, prating sturdy queane, Ile breake your clamor with your neck down staires: Tumble, tumble, headlong. Throws her down. [Sig. C3^r]

Thus, three consecutive scenes purport to be upstairs though certainly scenes iv and v must be in different parts of the “house.” Adams places scene v in the “chamber.”[30] What then becomes of the previous scene which, according to the dialogue, also took place upstairs? Somewhere an allusion to “below” does not reflect physical facts. Or is it that all the scenes fail to reflect physical facts and merely reflect the convention that most domestic and tavern rooms were situated in an upper story? None of the other scenes mentioned demands the actual use of an above, and in the tavern scene of _Miseries of Enforced Marriage_ the scene concludes with one of the characters calling on all his friends to follow him to another room in the tavern, an unnecessary exit if a curtain in the above could close upon them. One is forced to conclude, therefore, that though a scene may contain references to being above, it was played below unless the action proves otherwise.

Of scenes upon the walls there are five.[31] Here the stage directions are straightforward. Action takes place between those on the walls and those below, in two cases involving sizable groups and much interchange. In _The Devil’s Charter_ (IV, iv) a sustained assault upon the walls, involving ladders, takes place.

All window scenes--there are four[32]--contain a reference to “window” or “casement” in a stage direction. All of them involve interchanges by one person with characters below. However, the shape of the window, whether bay or otherwise, is not disclosed.

Only one scene, scene x in _Miseries of Enforced Marriage_, is continued for an extended time above. Complicated though the scene is, the demands that it makes on the stage are somewhat uncommon and well worth detailed consideration. Preceding the scene in question, three sharpers, Ilford, Bartley, and Wentloe, have bilked Butler’s master, Scarborrow. Consequently, Butler has devised a way in which to turn the tables on them, in particular, Ilford. He pretends, separately to Ilford and then to the other two, that he has access to a rich heiress, and promises each of them to arrange a match. In reality the “heiress” is the impoverished sister of Scarborrow. Having appointed a place to meet the sharpers, he sends them off. At that point, two of Scarborrow’s brothers, privy to the plot, enter. Without a change of scene, the action shifts to the “place appointed” previously. After being assured that the brothers know how to handle their task, Butler exits. The brothers commend him for his devotion. Then occurs a curious stage direction, “Betwixt this Butler leads Ilford in.” The brothers finish their eulogy when another direction is inserted, “Enter Butler and Ilford above.” Butler pretends that the heiress’ uncles have arrived, and he urges Ilford to overhear their conversation while he goes below to the girl. It is interesting to note that Butler says, “stay you heere in this upper chamber” to listen to the uncles, not at the window. Butler leaves. Ilford listens to the brothers who, pretending to be concerned about finding a suitable husband for their niece, describe the vast wealth of the “heiress.” Butler returns to an exultant Ilford. Light-headed with visions of playing the courtier, Ilford swears to love and be true to the girl. She comes in. Butler leaves them alone to swear their mutual faith. At this point

Enter Wentloe, and Bartley beneath. BART. Here about is the house sure. WENTLOE. We cannot mistake it, for heres the signe of the Wolfe and the Bay-window. Enter Butler above. BUT. [to the lovers] What so close? Tis well, I ha shifted away your Vncles Mistris, but see the spight Sir Francis, if yon same couple of Smel-smockes, Wentloe and Bartley, ha not sented after us. [Sig. G4]

Under the stimulus of competition, Ilford is willing to rush into marriage without seeing the dowry of his wife-to-be. After sending the couple “below,” Butler calls to Bartley and Wentloe to arrange to meet them below, timing matters so that they will arrive after the marriage ceremony is completed.

Location is here treated very loosely. In the course of the scene, action shifts from one place to another. Sometimes the characters seem to be at a window, sometimes in an upper chamber, but there is no exact indication where they are at any one time. Indeed this is a generalized setting, for we know that we are at Scarborrow’s house. The scene clearly shows that an extended action could be played above, but only when related to action below.

Altogether there are twelve scenes in ten Globe plays that utilize the above. Ten have been cited. The other two, the monument scene in _Antony and Cleopatra_ (IV, xiv) and the observation scene in _Julius Caesar_ (V, iii) where Pindarus witnesses the distant battle, are discussed in Appendix B, chart iii. To sum up the evidence for the above, the limited study of the Globe plays substantiates Richard Hosley’s broader studies of the plays of Shakespeare, Kyd, Marlowe, and others as well as of the Red Bull plays.[33] He shows that 46 per cent of all the plays examined do not employ a raised production area. At the Globe 66 per cent do not employ such an area. Wherever, in the remaining 34 per cent of the plays, action is set above, invariably it is related to action below, either through actual communication or through persons on one level observing persons on the other.

Several stage facilities remain to be considered: the traps, the heavens, and the pillars. Upon these subjects there is less disagreement amongst scholars. Both J. C. Adams and George Reynolds, opponents in many matters of Elizabethan staging, agree that Elizabethan stages contained more than one trap.[34] In the Globe plays traps are used seven times. From this list I exclude the use of a trap for the Ghost in the first act in _Hamlet_.[35] Of the seven instances four occur in one play, _The Devil’s Charter_. Three of these can be definitely placed at a trap near the front of the platform (prologue; IV, i; V, vi), for preceding each use of the trap a stage direction specifies movement forward. The other scene in _The Devil’s Charter_ (III, v) is similar to one in _A Larum for London_ (sc. xii). In each case a figure peering into a river or a vault respectively is pushed down into the void. The two remaining instances of trap use occur in _Macbeth_ (the cauldron scene, IV, i) and _Hamlet_ (the gravediggers scene, V, i). In light of the character of the enclosure, these too must have been played forward. Confirmation of this assumption can be found in _Hamlet_. Stage productions often begin the gravediggers scene with one or both of the diggers already in a half-dug grave. However, a close reading of the first part of the text rules out such a beginning. Early in the Folio text, the second gravedigger advises the first to make the grave straight. But a little later the first calls to the other, “Come, my Spade.” If he has been digging all along, this remark is unnecessary. Only after the two clowns come in, chat, and then the one calls to the other, “Come, my Spade,” does the digging begin. This action occurs forward on the platform. To summarize, it is certain that the Globe plays require a trap, a trap of sufficient size to raise and lower a cauldron or a man on a property dragon (_The Devil’s Charter_, IV, i), but at no time do they demand more than one trap located on the platform.

About the machinery in the heavens the Globe plays offer no evidence whatsoever. No hint exists from which one can surmise that either actors or properties were dropped from above. Nor is there any evidence for such action from the pre-Globe plays of the Lord Chamberlain’s company. This may be coincidental. Plays containing flying scenes may have perished. But a suggestion that this finding for the Globe may have a more general application comes from two sources. Jonson’s contempt for the “creaking thrones” which come down “the boys to please” is expressed in the prologue to the Folio version of _Every Man In His Humour_ (1616). Although the prologue does not appear in the Quarto of 1601, scholars have assumed that the scornful attack refers to stage devices of that period. But Jonson revised _Every Man In His Humour_ thoroughly, recasting the entire setting of the play. The addition of the prologue is certain, for it is in keeping with the Anglicized setting. Furthermore, the first use of flying in the King’s men’s repertory is recorded in the dream sequence in _Cymbeline_ (V, iv), immediately after the company began to play at Blackfriars. It is pertinent that a dream scene, very similar to the one in _Cymbeline_, occurs in _Pericles_ (V, i), one of the last plays to be produced before the King’s men took over Blackfriars. Instead of Jupiter, Diana appears but does not descend. Nor did the god Hymen in the last scene of _As You Like It_. Could it have been that the company lacked means for flying actors until it moved to Blackfriars? Actually the history of flying apparatuses in the Elizabethan theater needs further study. For the Globe, at least so far as the plays demonstrate, no machinery for flying existed.

It is generally conceded that the posts supporting the heavens not only did exist, but were introduced into the action. Against the evidence of the Fortune and Hope contracts and the DeWitt drawing, there is no effective argument. Assuming, therefore, the presence of the two pillars, a number of scenes do exist where one was probably employed in the story, either as a post or a tree. However, to suppose that a pillar is used, let us say, for the tree upon which Orlando hangs his verse, reduces the likelihood that property trees were placed on stage for incidental action. Our old friend, the ubiquitous Butler, climbs a tree in _Miseries of Enforced Marriage_. J. C. Adams suggests that what he climbed was a stage pillar. Hodges doubts that an actor could climb a main pillar, but he suggests that a decorative pillar might have been used. So far as staging practice is concerned, it matters little which pillar serves as a tree. The principle is the same. When the actors could use a ready-to-hand stage post instead of a prop, they did so. Inconclusive but provocative is a hint we have that prop trees were introduced when they had symbolic meaning. The tree that arises in _A Warning for Fair Women_ represents the life of Sanders which has been hewn down. And the titles of the trees in Henslowe’s inventory, such as “j tree of gowlden apelles,” and “Tantelouse tre,” support this possibility.

Although we have covered all those structural parts of the stage which are required by the Globe plays, we must deal with the theory that in addition to or in place of the enclosure, mansions, that is, free-standing wooden frames, curtained on one or more sides, usually removable, were employed to suggest specific locations in Elizabethan plays. Except for the tents in _The Devil’s Charter_, no evidence exists for such units on the Globe stage. Even the tents are in a special class, for they may be similar to a property such as a scaffold rather than to stage scenery. Reynolds has found instances for removable structures on the Red Bull stage and Hotson would place mansions on all stages, but there is no warrant for supposing that they were used at the Globe. Henslowe, who claims to include _all_ the properties belonging to the Lord Admiral’s men in his inventory of 1598, lists nothing that can be construed as a mansion, and though evidence for the Lord Admiral’s men is not necessarily evidence for the Lord Chamberlain’s men, nevertheless, it indicates that one playhouse at least seems not to have used temporary structures. For the Globe company not only the absence of evidence but also the system of localization rules out such a method of staging.

A unique theory combining the presence of mansions with the rearrangement of the spectators has been devised by Leslie Hotson. Not content to modify current thinking about Elizabethan staging, he reveals, messiah-like, that after two hundred years of bafflement, the world will be able “now for the first time to understand and visualize the stage of the Globe” because of his discoveries.[36] Citing a compote of evidence from the English and Spanish theaters, he asserts that the essential relationship between actor and audience maintained at Court, playhouse, and college, was one in which the actor performed between two masses of audience, with the privileged audience sitting on one side. In the Globe this privileged audience sat in the gallery over the stage and on the stage between the stage doors. The tiring house, contrary to accepted thought, was below the stage. At either end of the stage two-tiered wooden frames with transparent curtains served as mansions. Actors entered through trap doors into these mansions and from thence onto the stage. Masked attendants drew the curtains as the action required.

By the extravagance of his assertions and the evangelical tone of his arguments, Hotson has made a cause of what is a matter for scholarly examination. His daring views and the insights they afford usually deserve careful consideration. Here, however, it is only necessary to evaluate those theories which directly affect staging at the Globe.

Hotson’s early attempts to prove the existence of “Shakespeare’s Arena Stage” at Whitehall Palace, contrary to what he chooses to believe, have not met with general approbation. Alois Nagler, for example, has shown that Hotson’s reading of _atorno atorno_, a phrase which appears in a description of a Court performance written by Virginio Orsino, Duke of Bracciano, does not mean, as Hotson contends, “completely around on every side,” but on three sides.[37] Nevertheless, extending his interpretation to the public playhouse, Hotson announces that persons of quality “customarily graced” the Globe’s stage. In fact, it was the outstanding characteristic of Elizabethan staging to locate the best seats on the stage and in the gallery over the stage. In establishing his proof, Hotson unfortunately neglects to mention the Induction to _The Malcontent_. This play, it will be remembered, was presented by the Globe company presumably in retaliation for the theft of one of their plays, _Jeronimo_, by the Children at Blackfriars. No other piece of evidence so surely reflects conditions at the Globe as this Induction, written by John Webster especially to justify the appearance of Marston’s satire at this public playhouse. To give the justification indisputable authority, Webster introduces the leading actors of the company, Dick Burbage, Henry Condell, and John Lowin, in their own persons, to explain the matter.

The Induction commences.

Enter W. Sly, a Tire-man following him with a stool. TIRE-MAN. Sir, the gentlemen will be angry if you sit here. SLY. [as a gallant]. Why, we may sit upon the stage at the private house.

Immediately it is apparent that, contrary to Hotson’s fancy, sitting on the stage was not the custom and its introduction was not happily countenanced by the “gentlemen.” Since the tire-man still holds the stool as he refers to the “gentlemen,” the word “here” must mean the stage as a whole and therefore the “gentlemen” are the actors. The one time Sly refers to any spectators, he does it in such terms that he clearly intends the groundlings. Otherwise, no mention is made of other spectators on the stage. Toward the end of the Induction, Lowin succeeds in ushering Sly out by offering to lead him to a “private room.”

Thomas Platter, who supposedly attended one of the opening performances at the Globe, in his enumeration of possible seats for the audience, makes no mention of seats on the stage. Dekker, in the widely known passage from _The Gull’s Hornbook_, does refer to sitting on the stage at the public playhouse, but Hotson takes seriously what is patently a satiric description of a fool intruding where he does not belong. Throughout the passage the stage sitter is referred to in the most derogatory terms, and what sharply contradicts Hotson’s contention is the injunction to the gallant that “though the Scar-scrows in the yard, hoot at you, hisse at you, spit at you, yea throw durt even in your teeth: tis most Gentlemanlike patience to endure all this.”[38] Were all those gentlemen who “customarily graced” the Globe stage treated in this fashion? Obviously the thrust of Dekker’s wit, coming as it did in 1609, was a vain endeavor to resist the press of gallants who sought to impose upon the public playhouse the privileges they enjoyed at the private.

Hotson also claims that the gentlemen sat “over the stage, i’ the lords roome.” For this claim he enjoys considerably more support. In and out of plays references to sitting “over the stage” suggest the employment in some way of the area I have called the above. But “over the stage” is not specific. Does “over” mean directly over, or to one side? Does it include the entire length of the stage wall, as Hosley asserts, so that actors in order to play their scenes above were obliged to thrust themselves into the midst of the auditors?[39]

However, the case for sitters in a gallery which runs the length of the stage wall depends not merely upon words, but more effectively upon graphic representation. Four interior views of Elizabethan and Jacobean theaters are extant: the Swan drawing (1596), the engraving on the _Roxana_ title page (1632), the drawing on the _Messalina_ title page (1640), and the frontispiece to _The Wits_ (1672). Only one, the first and most important, is Elizabethan. Three of the representations, the Swan, the _Roxana_, and _The Wits_, depict figures in the gallery above the stage.

In each drawing the figures appear to be looking at the action on the stage below, particularly in the _Roxana_ print. The frontispiece to _The Wits_, obviously depicting an interior, shows solemn-faced puritans in the gallery. Dressed as they are like the figures grouped around the platform, they certainly seem to be members of the audience. Less certain but of a similar character is the evidence from the _Roxana_ title page. Both of these representations come late, it is true. But because they seem to echo the same conditions as those in the Swan playhouse of 1596, they have been cited as authority. About the figures in the Swan drawing it is difficult to tell. They appear to be drawn in positions that connote listening and seeing a play. But they are small and indistinct. Two or possibly three persons are wearing hats. Quite clearly all are related in some way to the action taking place below them. To a certain extent all these representations verify the theory that spectators sat overlooking the playing area.

The investigation is complicated as soon as we inquire about the numbers and disposition of the spectators. Examining these prints again, all four of them this time, we discover some significant disparities. The Swan drawing shows a long gallery divided by five posts into six sections. Each section is wide enough for two people. No architectural treatment of the gallery is delineated. The frontispiece of _The Wits_ has some things in common with the Swan drawing. A gallery divided into six sections runs across the back of the stage. Four of the sections apparently are cut in half, but from the appearance of the other two, each section seems to be able to accommodate two persons side by side. One difference does exist. In the center of the upper level, there hangs a striped curtain, somewhat like an awning. The flap is parted so that two balusters may be seen, indicating some architectural structure behind the curtain. It is possible, but not certain, that the structure is cantilevered and thus protrudes. Some lines behind the balusters may have been intended to represent an actor waiting for his cue. The _Roxana_ title page shows an upper level divided into two sections by a column. The framing about each section conveys the impression of two windows. Two figures occupy each section. Finally the _Messalina_ title page, showing a bare stage, depicts a curtained window placed high in a brick wall. Thus, each of the views presents a different physical arrangement. Aside from the Swan drawing there is no support for a long, unadorned, uncurtained gallery in theaters of this period.

Since its discovery in 1888, repeated attempts have been made to prove that a particular occasion is represented by the Swan drawing. Nagler, among the latest to repeat the attempt, believes “that a rehearsal was in progress. DeWitt seems to have visited the theater in the morning and sketched the interior while the actors were rehearsing a scene.”[40] He asserts that the persons in the gallery were actors or “at any rate, theater personnel.” Without quarreling with the last comment, I believe that we must discount the theory that a rehearsal was in progress or, in actuality, that any specific moment is recorded in the sketch. One internal contradiction has been noted often. Why are there people in the gallery, but not in the auditorium? Because a rehearsal is in progress, says Nagler. Because DeWitt did not trouble to sketch all the details, says Hosley. But another contradiction exists in the drawing. At the head of the sketch, flying from a staff at the top of the huts, is the ensign of the playhouse, a flag emblazoned with a Swan. The flag was a sign that a performance was in progress. Below the flag is a figure who is blowing a trumpet. Either he is summoning the audience or he is announcing the commencement of the play. Customarily the play began after the third sounding of the trumpet. But, in the sketch, a scene is already under way. Consequently, if a rehearsal was in progress, why is the flag flying, the trumpeter calling the audience? If a performance was in progress, why at the beginning are we in the midst of the action? Could it be that the sketch reflects no particular instance but a composite impression of the Swan and that the rendition of such an impression was likely to have been made after DeWitt had left the playhouse? The text which accompanies the sketch, starting with a general discussion of London playhouses and proceeding to a description of the Swan, indicates that DeWitt set down a summary of experiences either after he had visited various theaters or after he had had them described to him.

It may be well at this time to consider the reliability of the Swan drawing in other respects. Currently it is the fashion to adhere to the sketch closely. However, one fact must be faced, insofar as the Globe is concerned. Granted that the original drawing, as well as Arend van Buchell’s copy that has come down to the present, were both trustworthy, nevertheless we are still forced to amend the sketch in order to have it accord with other, indisputable evidence. All sorts of ingenious explanations, that the hangings were not in place or that a stage-width curtain was added for performance, have been offered, but the fact remains: the Swan, as it is depicted in the drawing, unaltered, could not have accommodated the Globe plays. However plausible the suggestions for additions may be, they cannot still the doubt with which one is obliged to regard the sketch, and though DeWitt’s testimony cannot be ignored, it cannot be accepted without corroboration.

From the preceding material two conclusions emerge. First, there was no single form for the above. Therefore, in developing an image of the Globe, we cannot rely on the Swan drawing. Yet even if we do, we discover that such an unrelieved gallery as it shows is simply not characteristic of the Renaissance design which presumably DeWitt sought to catch. A glance at prints of various continental stages will illustrate this point.[41] What is suggested by the later views and what accords with the needs of the Globe playhouse is an above which, regardless of the presence of auditors, could be differentiated structurally from the rest of the gallery. Architecturally this might have been accomplished by separating and emphasizing a central, probably uncurtained, section in the balcony, reserved for the actors. On either side of this area, auditors might have overlooked the stage.

Second, all the views agree that the maximum number of spectators in each section was two. Keeping literally to the evidence, we must conclude that twelve persons could be accommodated in the Swan gallery. We could, of course, indulge in the fascinating game of using the dimensions of the Fortune to calculate the capacity of the Swan. But this is unnecessary. DeWitt tells us the Swan could hold three thousand people. Whether twelve or twenty or a few more could sit above, their proportion to the total would be small. Could the actors have directed their performance to such a minority? It is certain that they did not, for in one other respect the extant views are in complete agreement. Where performers are shown in action on stage, they play, not toward the “spectators” in the gallery, but toward the auditors listening “round about.” In short, they turn their backs to the stage wall and play front.

III. THE DESIGN OF THE STAGE

Until now the discussion of the Globe playhouse has proceeded from dramatic function to theatrical realization. But inevitably the reader is bound to wonder, if only inwardly, what the Globe looked like. No one knows. Startling as it may seem, no one really can reconstruct the design of the Globe playhouse. The reader may remonstrate: what about the various reconstructions of Walter Godfrey, John C. Adams, C. Walter Hodges, Richard Southern? What about their sketches and models? All hypotheses, some reasonable, some farfetched. Each scholar, selecting for his palette certain scraps of evidence, has painted a hypothetical image of the Elizabethan playhouse. Each realizes, of course, that his image is conjectural. The damage occurs when the image is realized in drawings and the drawings are reproduced with such frequency that what was conjecture comes to be regarded as historical fact by the general reader. Acknowledging that “the hard facts available [for the reconstruction of Elizabethan playhouses] are insufficient in themselves,” Hodges admits that each scholar interprets the evidence according to “influences of taste” of which he may not even be aware.[42] The result has been that equally reputable scholars have produced widely divergent images of the Globe playhouse. In recent times the once prevailing Tudor image has yielded to Renaissance design.

The leading advocate of Tudor style is John Cranford Adams. He affirms that it was a “tendency of [Elizabethan] stage design to imitate contemporary London houses,” and therefore, that “the façade of the tiring-house differed from its model, a short row of London houses, mainly in having upper and lower curtains suspended in the middle.” Each reference to a contemporary urban structural feature of the stage is considered to be a description of a realistic detail. “It was the habit of Elizabethan dramatists to accept the equipment of their stage rather literally and to refer to that equipment in dialogue.”[43] He cites construction methods of the period for support. The building contract for the Fortune calls for wooden frames “sufficiently enclosed withoute [outside] with lathe, lyme & Haire.” This specification suggests a half-timbered-and-plaster building of Tudor design, a type of construction which continued to appear through the early part of the seventeenth century. In contrast, buildings in the newer Renaissance style were largely built of stone or brick.[44] Since its completion in 1950, Adams’ model of the Globe, now at the Folger Library, has impressed itself upon the imagination of lovers of Shakespeare, particularly in America.

In 1953 C. Walter Hodges presented an opposing image of the Globe.[45] Adhering closely to the Swan drawing, which Adams rejects, and deriving the Elizabethan stage from market place booth stages and _tableaux vivants_, Hodges developed a series of sketches in Renaissance style. Doors and galleries in the stage façade are flanked by columns of one of the three regular orders; obelisks and statuary appear above the cornices of the Fortune sketch; and in his drawing of the Hope, carved busts support the gallery ends of the heavens. To avoid contradicting the Swan drawing, which shows no enclosure, he devised one to project from the stage façade.

The contribution of the _tableaux vivants_ to the design of the Elizabethan stage was first explored by George Kernodle. His thesis is that “The greatest problem of the Renaissance stage was the organization of a number of divergent scenic elements into some principle of spatial unity.” Medieval art bequeathed three forms to the theater: the side arches leaving the center clear, the center arch or pavilion with subordinate side accents, the flat arcade screen. While the Italian theater, later to be imitated by Inigo Jones in England, utilized the form of side arches in combination with central perspective to create illusion, the northern theaters of England and Flanders developed the central pavilion into a theater of architectural symbolism. The immediate predecessors of these stages were the _tableaux vivants_, or street pageants, erected to signalize the entry of a royal or civic personage into a city. It was “from the _tableaux vivants_ (whose conventions they took over)” that the Flemish and English stages derived “the power to suggest, by decoration and remembered associations, the places they symbolized.” The conventions of medieval art, which persisted throughout the early Renaissance, were passed on to the street theaters where they were interwoven with Renaissance forms. Prints of the Flemish stages illustrate the conventional architecture which resulted from these influences. In parallel fashion, the English theater was subject to the same influences. “Most of the new buildings erected in England in the latter half of the sixteenth century were of the newer Renaissance architecture.” Yearly the Londoner could witness the pageants in the Lord Mayor’s Show. “A comparison [of street shows and stage drama] will make clear,” Kernodle believes, “not only that many particular scenes of Elizabethan drama were derived from the _tableaux vivants_ but that they provided the basic pattern of the English stage façade.”[46] This basic pattern involved a central arch which conventionally represented an interior, and side arches or doors which conventionally represented an exterior. Architectural symbols as throne, arbor, arras, by general recognition could transform the façade into the symbols of palace, garden, room.

For the design of the English stage, Kernodle’s theory is provocative rather than proved. There is no clear flow of Flemish theatrical influence into Elizabethan England, and even in art, though we know many Flemish craftsmen were in London, there is no certain influence.[47] Furthermore, the medieval tradition in art, which Kernodle has shown to have persisted on the continent, was abruptly terminated in England. “The year 1531, in which the convocation of Canterbury recognized Henry VIII as the Supreme Head of the Church of England, can be conveniently taken to mark the close of the medieval period of art in England [and the severance of] what had been the most fruitful field of subject-matter for artists in Europe for a thousand years.”[48] What followed was a court art of portraiture which does not readily yield demonstration of Kernodle’s thesis. Even in the popular forms of art, which he recommends for study, the formal medieval elements are absent. For example, the woodcuts of Wynken de Worde show no consistent use of conventional devices.

As for the street pageants, continental experience cannot be readily applied to Tudor practice. For the last half of the sixteenth century the royal entries were virtually abandoned by Elizabeth, and it was not until the coronation of James that the magnificence of the royal entry returned to London. When it did, it had all the characteristics of the flamboyant Renaissance style described by Kernodle. Until then, from 1558 to 1603, the Londoner could witness the Lord Mayor’s Show, an annual event to honor the installation of the new Lord Mayor. The central device was a single pageant supplied by the Company of which the Lord Mayor was a member.[49] Featuring child orators, it was usually carried along in the procession by porters, though from time to time we hear of frames being built to support the pageants.[50] It appears that the pageant was stored in the company hall from which it was removed when needed, with or without redecoration, though occasionally a new pageant would be ordered.[51] The fact that the pageant remained on permanent view in the company halls suggests that it may have been similar to the figures of saints carried even today in religious processions.

Allegorical in nature, the pageant depicted a theme apt for the new Lord Mayor and his company. In 1561, for example, five ancient harpers, David, Orpheus, Amphion, Arion, and Iopas, were displayed in a pageant to honor the new Lord Mayor, Sir William Harper. Often the themes of the pageants represented the trade rather than the man, the Ship, for instance, being deemed appropriate for the Merchant Tailors Company.[52] At an appropriate point in the procession, the figures in the pageant would speak commendatory verses to the Lord Mayor. From the extant texts, it is quite clear that the presentations were brief and rhetorical; they did not involve dramatic action. In fact, the very people being honored were those who most assiduously sought to destroy the public playhouses.[53]

No sketch of a sixteenth century pageant exists. The presence of mythical figures encourages the notion that Renaissance design characterized these pageants, but there is no graphic or thoroughly descriptive evidence for assuming so. Nor do the symbols which Kernodle enumerates appear prominently in these pageants. Instead the companies relied on those trade-or-personal symbols which held special significance for them. For one company the lion appears in pageant because a lion is part of the company’s coat of arms;[54] for another, a Moor rides on a lynx, which animal is deemed appropriate for the Skinners’ company.[55]

What is substantiated by these pageants and reinforced by the royal entries of the seventeenth century is the mode of presentation. Perhaps the particular symbols which Kernodle emphasizes did not have significance for the Londoner of the 1590’s, but he was familiar with presenting and interpreting theatrical forms in a symbolic manner, and I believe that to this extent the pageants may have influenced the design of the public playhouse.

In conclusion, then, one cannot verify whether the Elizabethan playhouse reflected the outgoing Tudor or the incoming Renaissance style. Roughed up by a master carpenter, such as James Burbage, Peter Streete, or Gilbert Katherens, the structure could have retained the traditions of design familiar to these men or it could have responded to the new fashions. These new fashions, however, were principally decorative; classical forms were applied to Tudor-Gothic foundations.[56] I tend to think that the pragmatic attitude of Elizabethan builders led them to erect a fundamentally Tudor structure to which they attached classical ornaments more or less at random. In such a structure the stage would certainly be the focus of such adornment.

Based solely on the evidence of the Globe plays, what then is the picture of the Globe stage? The principal part of the stage was a large rectangular platform upon which rested two pillars. At the rear of the platform two doors and a curtained recess between them provided access to the stage. The recess, which was an integral part of the tiring house, had to accommodate less than half a dozen people. Above the recess and/or doors was an upper level principally required where characters related themselves to others below. In the floor of the outer stage there was at least one substantial trap. No machinery for flying either actors or properties existed. In over-all design the stage, which was Renaissance in surface details, emphasized formal rather than realistic decoration. Altogether it was a theater that presented itself as a show place rather than as an imitation of London.

In a review once Granville-Barker remonstrated against overemphasis on the physical aspects of the stage at the expense of the imaginative. Such overemphasis has too frequently resulted. In their zeal to reconstruct the Elizabethan stage, theorists have given the impression that the theater of that day was constantly using traps, heavens, upper level, and enclosure. However, a comparison of the number of scenes which use some stage facility, be it merely a stool, with the number which use no stage facility whatsoever, neither property nor stage machinery, save merely a means to get on and off, shows that of the 345 scenes in the Shakespearean Globe plays, only 20 per cent require any facility. Fully 80 per cent need nothing but a bare space and an audience, not so much as a stool.

As a result, Shakespearean drama depends a great deal upon the vigorous movement of the actors coming on and off the stage. The actors themselves, rather than the stage equipment, provide the impetus for a play’s progression. We are all familiar with the conclusion of a Shakespearean scene. More often than not, a character will say, “Come along with me,” and off will go the actors. I have checked every scene in the Globe plays and found a startlingly high percentage of such exits. For purposes of computation I divide the scene conclusions into four categories.

First, there is the explicit exit line.

ORL. Come, I will bear thee to some shelter, and thou shalt not die for lack of a dinner if there live any thing in this desert. Cheerly, good Adam. Exeunt. [_As You Like It_, II, vi, 16-19]

Next, there is the implicit exit line.

ANT. [musing upon Sebastian’s departure] But come what may, I do adore thee so That danger shall seem sport, and I will go. Exit. [_Twelfth Night_, II, i, 48-49]

Thirdly, there is the scene which ends with no exit line implying motion.

TO. [to the dancing Sir Andrew] Let me see thee caper. Ha, higher! ha, ha, excellent! Exeunt. [_Twelfth Night_, I, iii, 149-150]

Lastly, there is the scene which ends in a soliloquy or an aside. Although the playwright occasionally inserts an exit line in such a conclusion, his opportunity to do so is slight. Below I have enumerated the scene endings that conclude with explicit and implicit exit lines, with no exit lines, and as a solo exit.

Explicit Implicit No. Solo Exit lines Exit lines Exit lines Exits Shakespeare 192 57.2% 74 22% 35 10.4% 35 10.4% Non-Shakes. 88 48.4% 37 20.3% 23 12.6% 34 18.7%

Only 9 to 13 per cent of the scenes fail to indicate that the characters end a scene by leaving the stage. Although the soliloquies may or may not imply that the actors leave the stage, the majority of the scene endings clearly demonstrate that it was the physical departure of the actors which gave fluency to the action. When a stage direction reads “exeunt” at the end of a scene, it means exactly that: “they go out.”

It is time to revive an old cry. The pendulum has swung too far. It is time to reassert that the Globe stage _was_ bare. Sumptuous and gorgeous as this playhouse may have appeared, the decoration was largely permanent and passive. In brief, the Globe was constructed and employed to tell a story as vigorously and as excitingly and as intensely as possible. Though spectators were usually informed where a scene took place, they were informed by the words they heard, not the sights they saw. Instead, place was given specific emphasis only when and to the degree the narrative required. Otherwise, the audience gazed upon a splendid symbol of the universe before which all sorts of human actions could be unfolded.