the theatre was cousin to the bear-pit. They
were ranged together on the Bankside and they sweat and smelled like
congenial neighbors. But these days are past. Let Bartholomew Fair be as
rowdy as it pleases, let acrobats and such loose fellows keep to Southwark,
the theatre has risen in the world! It has put on a wig, as it were, it has
tied a ribbon to itself and has become fashionable. And although it has
taken on a few extra dissolute habits, they are of the genteelest kind and
will make it feel at home in the upper circles.

But also the theatre introduced movable scenery. There is an attempt toward
elaboration of stage effect. "To the King's playhouse--" says Pepys, "a
good scene of a town on fire." Women take parts. An avalanche of new plays
descends on it. Even the old plays that have survived are garbled to suit a
change of taste.

But if you would really know what kind of theatre it was that sprang up
with the Stuarts and what the audiences looked like and how they behaved,
you must read Pepys. With but a moderate use of fancy, you can set out with
him in his yellow coach for the King's house in Drury Lane. Perhaps hunger
nips you at the start. If so, you stop, as Pepys pleasantly puts it, for a
"barrel of oysters." Then, having dusted yourself of crumbs, you take the
road again. Presently you come to Drury Lane. Other yellow coaches are
before you. There is a show of foppery on the curb and an odor of smoking
links. A powdered beauty minces to the door. Once past the doorkeeper, you
hear the cries of the orange women going up and down the aisles. There is a
shuffling of apprentices in the gallery. A dandy who lolls in a box with a
silken leg across the rail, scrawls a message to an actress and sends it
off by Orange Moll. Presently Castlemaine enters the royal box with the
King. There is a craning of necks, for with her the King openly "do
discover a great deal of familiarity." In other boxes are other fine ladies
wearing vizards to hold their modesty if the comedy is free. A board breaks
in the ceiling of the gallery and dust falls in the men's hair and the
ladies' necks, which, writes Pepys, "made good sport." Or again, "A
gentleman of good habit, sitting just before us, eating of some fruit in
the midst of the play, did drop down as dead; being choked, but with much
ado Orange Moll did thrust her finger down his throat and brought him to
life again." Or perhaps, "I sitting behind in a dark place, a lady spit