Bacon's Essays: Of Masques and Triumphs

Masques were a very popular form of entertainment at court in the Jacobethan period (James + Elizabeth. Bacon pretends to think little of them, but he wrote several and must seen many. By our standards, they sound fairly static, pompous, heavy-handed on the morality front, although apparently often including half-naked noblewomen.

Wikipedia has a clear definition: “A masque involved music and dancing, singing and acting, within an elaborate stage design, in which the architectural framing and costumes might be designed by a renowned architect, to present a deferential allegory flattering to the patron.”

Great state and pleasure

Oceania, design by Inigo Jones, for Ben Jonson’s The Masque of Blackness, 1605.

Bacon begins by apologizing for including such a trivial topic in his collection of essays, which are generally about weightier matters. “But yet, since princes will have such things, it is better they should be graced with elegancy, than daubed with cost.” If you must do it, do it right.

Then he seems to contradict himself, and I can’t resolve it. Whately’s no help here. First Bacon says, “Dancing to song, is a thing of great state and pleasure.” Then, after specifying some features, like singing in quire (chorus), he says, “Acting in song, especially in dialogues, hath an extreme good grace; I say acting, not dancing (for that is a mean and vulgar thing).”

So which is it, Frank? State and pleasure, or mean and vulgar? We’re standing here with our foot lifted, ready to trip it feetly.

A little farther on, he says, “Turning dances into figure, is a childish curiosity.” Here I think he means pantomime, a widely-shared opinion.

Bit of a digression: Inigo Jones, whose lovely designs for costumes have survived, was mostly an architect. He was appointed Surveyor-General of the King’s Works (King James I) in 1615. This was an age of tremendous building of fantastically lavish prestige houses, as they’re called — many of which you can go and visit today. Jones participated in the design of masques because everyone who could contribute, did so, to gain the favour of King and court. Francis Bacon was a philosopher and a great legal scholar, for pity’s sake, and he wrote the silly things.

Petty wonderment

That’s almost an oxymoron for me, but not for Bacon. I think he means things that are flashy or too obvious. “[T]hose things which I here set down, are such as do naturally take the sense”; not things that force your attention.

daughterofniger“Let the scenes abound with light, specially colored and varied.” I think masques were usually performed indoors, at night, so light would indeed be a part of the spectacle that could be designed. I don’t know for sure, but colored light can be produced by putting a candle or torch behind a piece of thin colored silk. “The colors that show best by candle-light are white, carnation, and a kind of sea-water-green; and oes, or spangs, as they are of no great cost, so they are of most glory.” Os and spangs must be spangles – bits of reflective material.

“Let the gongs be loud and cheerful, and not chirpings or pulings. Let the music likewise be sharp and loud, and well placed.” We don’t want mealy-mouthed music. Let it ring out!

On the costume front: “As for rich embroidery, it is lost and not discerned.” That’s good cost-saving advice there. Don’t embellish to no effect! “Let the suits of the masquers be graceful, and such as become the person, when the vizors are off.” Vizor is a mask. Certainly your want your costumes to flatter the wearer, especially when the wearer is someone like Queen Anne.

He considers the olfactory sense as well – Jacobean sensurround. “Some sweet odors suddenly coming forth, without any drops falling, are, in such a company as there is steam and heat, things of great pleasure and refreshment.”

“But all is nothing except the room be kept clear and neat.” Yes, indeed.

The antimasque

An antimasque (also spelled antemasque) is a comic or grotesque dance presented before or Tempest-masque-1between the acts of a masque, a type of dramatic composition. It’s usually a spectacle of disorder, to contrast with the performance of divine order in the masque proper. You need to know that for Bacon’s advice to make sense.

“Let anti-masques not be long; they have been commonly of fools, satyrs, baboons, wild-men, antics, beasts, sprites, witches, Ethiops, pigmies, turquets, nymphs, rustics, Cupids, statuas moving, and the like. As for angels, it is not comical enough, to put them in anti-masques; and anything that is hideous, as devils, giants, is on the other side as unfit.”

Bacon was raised by a strict Calvinist, remember. He doesn’t approve of putting angels in a scene of discord.

A brief word about Triumphs

These are grand public displays, most likely processions of some kind. The Columbus Day Parade in New York is a sort of Triumph, with floats representing this organization or that tradition.

“For justs, and tourneys, and barriers; the glories of them are chiefly in the chariots, wherein the challengers make their entry; especially if they be drawn with strange beasts: as lions, bears, camels, and the like; or in the devices of their entrance; or in the bravery of their liveries; or in the goodly furniture of their horses and armor. But enough of these toys.”

This float with the Air Force Office of Special Investigations is so Jacobean, it’s absolutely perfect. No strange beasts, but it’s big and colorful and an expression of the government’s military might.


An example

A tiny taste of the sort of thing that went on in a masque, from Ben Jonson’s 1605 The Masque of Beauty, found at Luminarium. They’re usually mythological in nature, and might have a moral — or not so much. They will usually include a fair amount of thinly-veiled flattery for the monarch, his queen, and any other major patrons who might be around.

B O R E A S.


 Hich, among these is AlbionNeptunes Sonne? 
  I A N V A R I V S.


 Hat ignorance dares make that question? 
Would any aske, who Mars were in the wars? 
Or, which is Hesperus, among the starres? 
Of the bright Planets, which is Sol? Or can 
A doubt arise, ‘mong creatures, which is man? 
Behold, whose eyes do dart Promethian fire 
Throughout this all; whose precepts do inspire 
The rest with duty; yet commanding, cheare: 
And are obeyed, more with loue, then feare.

The Golden Age of Pantomime

Jeffrey Richards (see References, below) writes that “By the 1970s, the nature of pantomime waspanto1 changing, with the role of the harlequinade increasingly curtailed, prose replacing the rhyming couplets and most significantly the interjection into the stories of music hall comedians and their acts.”

This caused consternation and dismay among panto purists, who particularly objected to the appearance of vulgar music hall personages on the boards of their holy Royal Theatres (or it so sounds to me.) Happily for thousands of theater-goers, their cries were ignored, especially after the enterprising Augustus ‘Gus’ Harris Junior took over Drury Lane in 1979.

That controversy is dead and gone. The pro-music hall faction won, but the fairies hung on strong.

Yes, but how much per fairy?

Pantos weren’t just spectacles from the audience’s perspective, they were spectacularly expensive. My sources don’t lay out the money matters in the fashion best suited to blogging and writing novels, alas, and I’m not going to do that much work either, but here are some numbers to put things in perspective.

First, you’ll want to know what ordinary folks earned. These figures are from the Encyclopedia of Victorian London. A bank clerk, one of the legion of top-hatted semi-gents who thickly populate novels from Dickens to Trollope, made £20 to £50 per annum at aged 18, rising 5-10% per year. A laundry woman earned 2s. 6dto 2s. 8d. per day. 12p = 1s, 20s = 1 pound. A footman made £20 to £40 per annum; same as a clerk, but with a shorter career ladder and the clerk had higher status. A Stockbrokers clerk earned £80 to £100 at aged 18; typically with an annual rise of £20 and a present of from £10 to £15 at Christmas.

OK, on to the theater. Ellen Terry, one of the immortal actresses, earned £200/week. A leading comedy actress could earn £20-£40/week; the prima donna in an opera bouffe £40-£50/week; and a popular soubrette / burlesque actress could earn £10-£20/week. Not bad, especially considering that women couldn’t get jobs as clerks.

Male & female supernumeraries (spear-carriers, villagers, butterflies) were paid between 1s 6d & 2s a night in first-rate theaters The average annual income of performers lucky enough to be employed 42 weeks / year was likely to be only £105, or £2/week. That’s before job-related expenses, which bring it down to £70.

Average yearly expenses for actor earning £67 10s:
lodgings                                   £13      0s
washing                                        5     4
wardrobe                                    10     0
Newspapers & tobacco                5     0
Total                                          £33    4s

Actresses might save on tobacco, but have to spend more on clothes. For comparison, a school mistress had to spend £10-£16 on clothes, out of a salary of £100-£130. A clerk paid £227, spent £41; a journalist paid £338, spent £42. Educational requirement for all of these was similar.

Of seas and ships

Set design model for Giuseppe Verdi’s Otello, created for a Paris production in 1895

Wages were not the big expense in a pantomime, although they did hire hundreds of supers to march around in fancy dress. The big money went to sets and costumes. When Eliza Vestris and her husband Charles James Mathews were obliged to surrender Covent Garden with a £30,000 debt, they forfeited £14,000 in scenery, wardrobe, and properties. This was in 1841! 

Scenery paintings were made by noted artists like William Roxby Beverly and Henry Emden. Their names would be listed in the programmes. Costume designers would actually go to the Victoria & Albert museum to sketch historical costumes, to ensure perfection. Victorians wanted realistic sets: gorgeous paintings of shipwrecks or an undersea world or enchanted island.

Richards reports that in the 1875-6 production of Dick Whittington and His Cat, there were two major transformation scenes (when we’re transported by fairy magic from one world to another.) Dick and the cat are, for reasons opaque to me, on a voyage to Zanzibar. “As The Era (2 January 1876) put it, the ship suddenly disappeared [probably pulled down through a long slot in the stage floor]:

‘leaving behind the rigging, which is covered with sea-weed, and up which swarm dusky urchins [children, supernumeraries, 1s/night] whose head adornments send forth a dazzling light [portable electric batteries carried by each child, maybe]. Obedient to (the Fairy Bluebell’s) summons nymphs and mermaids rise from their emerald beds and coral banks [on trap doors], and there takes place a grand Ballet of Marine Wonders, reflecting credit on the taste and ingenuity of Mr. John Cormack [the choreographer, who also played Harlequin.]”

Oh, yeah.

Roll over, Mother Goose

You’re probably still thinking, “Wait. Zanzibar?” Me too. The fairy tales portrayed in Victorian Christmas pantos seem to have borne only a slender relation to the original stories we learned in our childhoods. They make Disney movies look like historically accurate docu-dramas! I can’t explain the whys or wherefores, apart from the combination of poetic license with the need to recoup the tens of thousands of pounds lavished on each production. So I’ll just give you a random sampling from Richards’ book.

Jack and the Beanstalk

From the Victoria & Albert Museum. A wonderful article you should go read!

I chose this one to be the panto my characters are producing. I liked the poster, mainly. I also liked the part about the heroes and heroines from Shakespeare’s plays who have been imprisoned by the Giant and descend from Cloudland in a grand procession after Jack liberates them. No — I didn’t remember that from the version I heard, either.

Twenty-one of the bard’s great plays were represented. Each couple paused to perform a short scene, then moved on down the staircase. This stair was made of giant books, because it originated in the Giant’s Library. I remember the Giant as being kind of stupid, but hey — in the privacy of his library, who would know what he read?

The Shakespeares were followed by another procession of the gods and goddesses from Olympus, along with other ancient luminaries. “The mythical figures of the Greek poets stand before us in classical garb, and in costumes in which the utmost artistic beauty has been displayed.” I guess the Giant got them too.

Note that Jack was played by a woman, daring to bare her legs before the world. Mother Trott was played by a man, preferably a large fat comedian with a nice deep voice.

We would need for them to leap into action and start blasting each other with godly fire or something. Waaay too static for 21st century tastes! But spectacle is easy for us.


The illustration, also taken from the excellent article at V&A without permission*  is of a production of Cinderella at Drury Lane in 1875, as reported in the Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News. I have no idea how this battle scene relates to the standard Cinderella story but it sure as heck looks dramatic! 

Cinderella at Drury Lane, 1875
Cinderella at Drury Lane, 1875

Richards shares a snippet from The Era (1 Jan. 1865) about an earlier Covent Garden production of Cinderella  (p.258):

“The crowning glories are, as usual, achieved by the union of scenic and ballet attractions. To begin with the ballet scene par excellence, nothing more exquisitely delicate and beautiful has ever been imagined than the Butterfly Haunt, painted by Mr. T. Grieve. A calm and unruffled lake, finishing in flowery banks, occupies the breadth of the stage. From the surface rises an island, covered with delicate foliage, and showing the cliffs at the back. The enormous rock is pierced by two arched caverns, while to the left a distant and higher lake is seen, partly surrounded by mountains, and having a waterfall leaping down to the plain beneath. The wings of this lovely scene are formed by flowers and overhanging trees.”

I’m guessing a hundred children dressed as butterflies emerged from one of those caves or sprang up from beneath some three-dimensional papier-mache flowers. 

*I downloaded the 1875 volumes of Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News, but couldn’t find this picture. Sigh. Here’s another for your delight, however.

Scenes from "Spectresheim" at the Alhambra Theatre, 1875
Scenes from “Spectresheim” at the Alhambra Theatre, 1875

Onward, into the Now

We don’t have Christmas pantos in Texas. Seems like a sad omission in our cultural options, which are many. But you can see them in London — a whole bunch of them — from early December to beanstalk2mid-January. Absolutely the very same stories that the Victorians enjoyed, but with fewer battles with insects, I’ll bet: Dick Whittington, Cinderella, Robin Hood, Jack & the Beanstalk…. Make your selections from the Big Panto Guide, which looks pretty comprehensive. 

Or maybe you just want your own beanstalk, 14 meters (45 feet) tall. You can order one and have it delivered. 45 feet is 15 feet over my local building code, so I can’t have one. Just as well. The shipping costs from England would be murder. But what a statement, eh? Order it from the Twins FX, stage effects creators extraordinaire.


Booth, Michael R. 1981. Victorian Spectacular Theatre, 1850-1910. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul.

Richards, Jeffrey. 2015. The Golden Age of Pantomime: Slapstick, Spectacle, and Subversion in Victorian England. London: I.B. Tauris.