When Henry Fielding enlarged his one-act afterpiece, The Welsh Opera (1731), he named the new version The Grub-Street Opera to point to the extensive travesty it contains. The title also makes a target of hack-writers of the day and implies a connection with The Grub-Street Journal, whose authors maintained a policy of non-partisan satire on hack-writing. The amount of imitation it contains makes it resemble the literary travesty of The Author's Farce (1730) and Tom Thumb (1730), likewise written by Scriblerus Secundus, Fielding's pseudonym which alluded to the “Scriblerus” of his illustrious contemporaries, most obviously to Pope in the Dunciad notes and “Peri Bathous” (1728). The Grub-Street Opera has remained a puzzle to scholars of Fielding's plays, perhaps because its relationship to contemporary drama, politics, and journalism has been neglected.

In the late eighteenth century, and with increasing momentum in the early nineteenth, the minor theatres in London steadily challenged the monopoly of the two patent houses—with great ingenuity in circumventing several Licensing Acts; with highly imaginative and lively (albeit generally unsophisticated) bills; and with eager support from the workers, flocking to the capital as part of the industrial age, for whom the minor theatres provided escape. By the time Planché's “Mother Drama” admitted confusion about her sons “Legitimate Drama” and “Illegitimate Drama” on the stage of the Olympic Theatre on 16 April 1838, the minor theatres had prevailed.

Despite the many admirable qualities of Mr. Clyde Fitch's play, The Way of the World at the Victoria Theatre is not so much a dramatic entertainment as a social function. Any well-ordered comment upon it must take cognizance of the audience as well as of the mummers who perform on the far side of the footlights. They are as much a part of it as the stage setting, and the result of their presence is that the five-act drama and its four intermissions and final curtain form a continuous performance the like of which New York has never seen before.

“Now, I don't want to take anything away from the French resistance,” protests a character in a recent novel. “… Its brave raids and acts of sabotage undermined the Germans and helped bring about their downfall. But in many ways Marcel Carné's movie, his Children of Paradise, was more important than the armed resistance. The resisters might have saved the skin of Paris, Carné kept alive its soul.” It is a fatuous remark, the kind we expect from the determinedly fatuous hero, but its praise of Carné suggests with embarrassing accuracy the seductiveness of Les Enfants du Paradis. A Paris of romantically roiling passions, of pure Pierrots and gay Robert Macaires, of the Boulevard du Crime, whose little theatres stand as metaphors for the brash vitality of le peuple — it is a spectacle that few of us can resist. All our dreams of the City of Light (save those of shabby accordionists strolling beneath balloonbedecked Eiffel Towers) are contained in its opening shot, alive with the turbulent crowds of the old quartier du Temple.

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.

Stories of American democracy, whether critical or congratulatory, canonical or popular, feature “the public” as their recurring protagonist. “The public” is a rhetorical fixture of political campaigns and democratic theories, opinion polls and calls to action. Its influence is formidable: the very idea scores political speech, and calls citizens into being. Yet as many scholars have argued, “the public” is a moving target, and possibly even a total fiction. Perhaps the best-known challenge in recent decades has come from literary critic and social theorist Michael Warner. “Publics” he writes in his Publics and Counterpublics, “have become an essential part of the social landscape, and yet it would tax our understanding to say exactly what they are.” If a public is difficult to describe, it is in part, Warner explains, because the idea hovers in modern imaginaries between the concrete and the abstract. “A public” can conjure at once: a bounded audience—“a crowd witnessing itself in visible space”; a more abstract “social totality” like the constituents of a nation; and a community conjured through shared texts or identities.

The story of South Asian colonial modernity and music offers up a multidirectional and polymorphous conceptual terrain featuring, among many agents, Hindustani royalty, touring minstrel and burlesque troupes, Jesuit missionaries and orientalists, and not least, social reformists. Nevertheless, scholarship on the history of Hindustani music consistently traces its development through classicization against the rise of Hindu nationalism while overlooking other palpable clues in the colonial past. This article argues for a substantial reevaluation of colonial South Asian music by positing an alternative and hitherto invisible auditory stimulus in colonial Asia's aural landscape: opera. Janaki Bakhle contends that “as a musical form, opera put down even fewer roots than did orchestral, instrumental Western classical music,” even though she subsequently states that “Western orchestration did become part of modern ceremonial activities, and it moved into film music even as it was played by ersatz marching bands.” Bakhle further argues that Hindustani music underwent processes of sanitization and systematization within a Hindu nation-making project, a view that has been complicated by historians such as Tejaswini Niranjana. Niranjana describes how scholarship that focuses exclusively on the codification or nationalization of Hindustani music through the interpellation of a Hindu public neglects “sedimented forms of musical persistence.” Not dissimilarly, Richard David Williams highlights how the singular emphasis on the movement of Hindustani music reform risks reducing the heterogeneous and complex musicological traditions in the colonial period to the output of a single, monolithic, middle-class “new elite.” Previous scholarship, he argues, concentrates on “one player in a larger ‘economy’ of musical consumption.” Following these calls for more textured perspectives on South Asian musical cultures, I suggest a somewhat heretical thesis: that opera functioned as a common mediating stimulus for both the colonial reinscription of Hindustani music as classical as well as the emergence of popular pan-Asian musical genres such as “Bollywood” music.

After storming the Bastille on 14 July 1789, Joseph Arné had little time to take in the significance of his actions. Earlier that day, the twenty-something soldier from Franche-Comté had led a daring assault, neutralized several Swiss Guards with his bare hands, and supposedly disabled a cannon that was pointed at his charging comrades. As the sun set, Arné was greeted by throngs of cheering Parisians, who joined the young grenadier in patriotic songs, chants, and dancing. What Arné perhaps did not understand when he finally went to sleep that night was that he was about to become a theatrical star and a public figure. The next morning, Arné was back in the streets, this time “drawn through Paris in a triumphal chariot.” Several weeks later, he was portrayed as the protagonist in La Fête du grenadier, the first play dedicated to the July events, which premiered at the Théâtre de l'Ambigu on 3 September. That evening, the real-life Arné, and not the actor who was playing him, was “enthusiastically celebrated by the spectators and at the end of the piece went onstage to standing ovations.”

The Oberammergau Passion Play became internationally famous in the latter half of the nineteenth century. Beginning in the 1840s and 1850s and through the early twentieth century, English-speaking foreign tourists from Ireland and the United Kingdom, the United States, Canada, and even Australia published a surprising number and variety of accounts of travel to the village and attendance at the Passion Play. Professional and amateur historians described the production as an evolutionary throwback or curious hybrid of ancient Greek and medieval theatre, regarding it as an object and event of antiquarian interest. Foreign female travelers attended the play in impressive numbers, and their accounts provide insight into contemporary women's readings of theatre, travel, spirituality, gender inequality, gendered spaces, and cultural difference. Protestant writers reflected uneasily on the play's communication of spiritual truth by means of images. And all of these accounts, whether published in the popular periodical press or as monographs, in turn encouraged increasing numbers of travelers to make the same journey—represented sometimes as a religious and sometimes as an artistic pilgrimage—to the isolated Bavarian village.

In 1956 a small group of scholars, all of them engaged in some way or other in the study of theatre, past and present, met and founded a certain remarkable organization. I hardly need to explain that that organization was the American Society for Theatre Research, then and still the only organization of American scholars devoted entirely to promoting the cause, the activity, and the results of research in theatre. Nor is it necessary here for me to recapitulate, even briefly, the course of events that now sees us celebrating the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Society. Fortunately, one of those founding members, Thomas Marshall, has generously accepted the charge offered him a year ago by the ASTR Executive Committee to write a concise history of the Society from the time of its founding. That review of the first twenty-five years has just come off the press, nicely timed for distribution to all members in attendance at this meeting. Subsequently it is to appear also in the twenty-fifth anniversary issue of the Society's journal, Theatre Survey.

When Samuel Phelps revived John Webster's tragedy, The Duchess of Malfi, at Sadler's Wells on November 20, 1850, its success was immediate. Based on an adaptation by Richard Hengist (Henry) Horne and presenting Isabella Glyn as the Duchess, the revival inspired numerous performances in subsequent years. The British performances varied little from the original revival, Miss Glyn's remarkable success as the Duchess having created an almost instant tradition that was seldom tampered with to any extent. However, in the United States there was less respect for what Horne-Phelps-Glyn had wrought, and the first performance of Webster's tragedy included innovations that were to have a lasting influence upon American productions. These changes are indicated in detail in the promptbook of James Stark, the actor-manager who introduced the Duchess of Malfi to the United States at the American Theatre in San Francisco on August 22, 1857. Stark's book is based upon Horne, consisting in fact of pages from the printed edition pasted in traditional fashion into a notebook, with the page opposite the printed text offering space for longhand revisions, notations of stage business, calls, and so forth. With the exception of the fifth act Stark makes few major changes in Horne's dialogue, merely shortening some speeches and noting a few longer passages which may be cut if necessary. Home's Act II, scene iii, where Ferdinand and the Cardinal discuss the Duchess' looseness, “Can be omitted,” Stark notes, suggesting that American spectators may have been even more prudish than their London cousins. The last act, on the other hand, has been completely revised. Although it retains most of Home's dialogue, it greatly simplifies his structure—a significant change, as Home's handling of the fifth act had not always satisfied even his admirers.

By Mabel Rowland's public accounting, the Institute of the Woman's Theatre helped hundreds of so-called stagestruck girls realize their ambitions by providing a safety net for the pitfalls of the commercial theatre. The organization, officially established in 1926 and in operation until roughly 1930, was said to have begun years earlier, “the outgrowth of a group which was formed in 1910 and used to meet in the Fitzgerald Building.” As president, Rowland—a press agent, well-known comedic monologist, and all-around theatre factotum—was supported by society women and a cadre of famous female writers and performers, including Florence Reed, who served as Vice President, and charter members Julia Arthur, Irene Castle, Rachel Crothers, Helen Hayes, Violet Heming, Elsie Janis, Anita Loos, Mary Pickford, and Mary Shaw, plus about a dozen more. At the time of its official founding, the institute announced that it would undertake three activities. First, it sought to establish a professional Broadway theatre as exclusively a women's operation, employing female playwrights, designers, directors, managers, producers, box-office staff, and so forth: “The only men who will be connected with the enterprise … are the actors and stagehands.” Second and third, the institute would give “aid and advice to girls from out of town who think they have something to offer the theater, read scripts and give opinions thereon, and in other ways labor in behalf of the feminine side of the stage.” The institute's goal of a theatre in tandem with discovering talented women looked to create a meaningful shift in women's inclusion and power within commercial theatre.

Germany's amateur agitprop theatre movement produced some of the most popular, pervasive, and politically contentious art in the Weimar Republic, not least because of the way performers inserted themselves into the fabric of working-class life with the unequivocal intention of politicizing audiences. Germany's first agitprop troupes formed within youth clubs affiliated with the Communist Party (KPD) around 1925, but the movement quickly grew beyond established club culture, with troupes sprouting up “like mushrooms,” as one critic of the period put it. By 1929 police estimated there were about two hundred self-proclaimed agitprop troupes spread across Germany, all pursuing a transparently aggressive political agenda: to turn the theatre into a site of revolutionary class struggle. If the Weimar period saw an unprecedented mixing of art and politics, agitprop took this tendency to the extreme by declaring theatre to be a weapon in the hands of the proletariat. As the slogan of the 1931 International Meeting of Agitprop Troupes in Cologne put it: “Workers’ theatre is class struggle.”

Early in the twentieth century such a bias did not exist in the United States, especially on the New York stage, and Spanish plays enjoyed an extraordinary wave of popularity. Works by Benavente, the husband and wife team of Gregorio (1881–1947) and María (1874–1974) Martínez Sierra, the Álvarez Quintero brothers (Serafín, 1871–1938 and Joaquín, 1873–1944), and, somewhat later, Federico García Lorca (1898–1936), reached the English-language stage quickly and often with considerable success. In 1920 the Theatre Guild staged Benavente's The Passion Flower (La malquerida, translated by John Garrett Underhill); this rural tragedy of a dysfunctional family was an immediate box office hit. The Martínez Sierras' The Cradle Song (Canción de cuna, translated by Underhill) had its American premiere at the Times Square Theater in 1921 and later became a trademark production for Eva Le Gallienne and her widely respected Civic Repertory company.According to Julia S. Price, Le Gallienne's Civic Repertory “was not exactly Off-Broadway” but shared its “credo in regard to the presentation of the new, unusual play.” The Off-Broadway Theater (New York: Scarecrow Press, 1962), 18. María Martínez Sierra's name appeared as co-author of The Cradle Song on Civic Repertory's opening night program, 24 January 1927, but her contribution to this and other plays has often been overlooked. For a full discussion of María's authorship, see Patricia O'Connor's Gregorio and María Martínez Sierra, Twayne World Authors Series 412 (Boston: G. K. Hall, 1977). Burns Mantle chose the sentimental comedy of a foundling raised by convent nuns as one of the 1926–27 season's best plays.Robert Burns Mantle, The Best Plays of 1926–27 and the Year Book of the Drama in America (New York: Dodd, Mead and Company, 1927). Another Martínez Sierra work, The Kingdom of God (El reino de Dios, translated by Helen and Harley Granville-Barker) was chosen as the inaugural production of the Ethel Barrymore Theatre and made the Burns Mantle list for 1928–29.Mantle, The Best Plays of 1928–29 and the Year Book of the Drama in America (New York: Dodd, Mead and Company, 1929). In a single season, 1929–30, there were New York productions of no fewer than three comedies by the Álvarez Quinteros. In 1933, besides New York stagings of additional Martínez Sierra plays, The Cradle Song was made into a movie by Paramount Pictures.The film starred Dorothea Weick and Evelyn Venable. “Reviews uniformly praised the sensitivity of the stars and the beauty of the photography as they welcomed Cradle Song to the charmed circle of filmed masterpieces of modern international drama.” O'Connor, Gregorio and María Martínez Sierra, 36. Frederico García Lorca's Blood Wedding (Bodas de sangre; titled Bitter Oleander in the translation by José A. Weissberger) reached the American audience in 1935, a scant two years after its Spanish premiere.

When Tyrone Guthrie rescued Marlowe's Tamburlaine the Great from three centuries of theatrical oblivion, he raised several issues—some intentionally, some not—touching on the play's, and Marlowe's, adaptability to the modern stage and pertinence to the modern temper.

To view street actions of the American colonial period as theatrical events is nothing new. As Jeffrey Richards has shown in his much-admired book of 1991, writers of the colonial period—even in towns where “official” theatre performances were strictly prohibited—preferred the metaphors of theatre over any others in describing the actions of individuals and crowds upon what these writers saw as the “world stage.”

The Bancrofts' work, first at the Prince of Wales's (1865–1879), then, briefly, at the Haymarket (1880–1885), played a crucial role in the evolution of the Victorian “idea” of theatre, providing a model for their contemporaries, a “symbol of innovation” and a focal point for debate concerning the “new” realism. Their collaboration with T. W. Robertson formed the core of this work, but attention has recently shifted from a concern with the dramatic value (or lack of it) of Robertson's six Prince of Wales's comedies to an appreciation of the playwright's role in this larger, more complex theatrical achievement—one which also included management and public relations, as well as production and acting style. The precise nature of this achievement is only now coming into focus, and while much remains to be done and said on the subject, at this point one facet seems to require special attention; the important dramatic, scenic and managerial aspects of the Bancrofts' work should not be allowed to obscure the fact that their theatre was also fundamentally an actors' theatre.

Is there a real world out there? I'll soon be moving the question to other perceptual sites, but at bedrock, Ground Zero (now hallowed by 9/11), or when push comes to shove, making their peace with deconstruction, few historians deny it—and come, let's face it, none really can (no Bishop Berkeleys among them), it's real enough for them. With all the signifiers shifting, and some of them under erasure, there may be uncertainties in the referential structure, as out the window, through the rain, across the lake from me now in Seattle, what should be the Cascades is, with a hint of snowcaps above, mainly a minimalist gray vaporous wall of clouds, nothing to be seen on the landscape of what I am sure was there, but then for a moment the trees (from Berkeley's forest, perhaps?), but not as metahistory. And so it may be with the recuperated vagaries of any historical context that, however obscured by the years, somehow inhabited time, or survived the attritions of time, to more than suggest, if not certify, that there was a there there. The important thing, of course—no different in this millennium, but after the collapsing towers suddenly a crazier world, with there all over, dispersed or even secreted—is to determine how to get there, with the swift accrual of history affecting theatre history.