The stage : or, Recollections of actors and acting from an experience of fifty years, a series of dramatic sketches

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THE STAGE

PREFACE.

"Custom exacts — and who denies her sway? —
An epilogue to every five-act play." — DR. PANGLOSS.

So does custom warrant an author, in intro-
ducing his work to the public, to offer a few
words concerning its intent and purpose. In
the first place, I do not think it necessary to
apologize for this publication of my book, nor
for the nature and form of its contents. I have
often been strongly impressed with the lively
interest manifested by the public in matters
relating to the stage, not only before but also
" behind the curtain ;" and as my public and pri-
vate recitals, depicting the varied features of
dramatic action and the peculiar traits of actors,
have always met with favor from my auditors,
I have been induced to transfer my professional
impressions to the printed page.

" The Stage " is a phrase of very comprehen-
sive character. I have not attempted to cover
all the territory which it may indicate, but have

8 PREFACE.

reserved to myself the privilege of adhering to
or departing from its literal meaning, as far as
has been necessary for the development of my
plan, or, more properly speaking, the arrange-
ment of my subject-matter.

I need not inform my readers that I am in-
experienced in the art of book-making. If they
should have confidence enough in the author
and interest enough in the title of his book to
undertake the reading of the accompanying
pages, they will have sufficient reason, I feel,
to conclude that it is the work of a novice.

And now, having appeared before the public
to introduce these " Recollections " to those who
were my constant and liberal patrons in my
old vocation, I retire to private life and, in tfie
language of stage-apology for "short-comings,"
I throw myself and my book upon "the indul-
gence of a generous public."

r

THE STAGE

RECOLLECTIONS OF ACTORS AND ACTING

FROM AN EXPERIENCE OF FIFTY YEAR?

A SERIES OF

DRAMATIC SKETCHES

BY

JAMES E. MURDOCH
[ WITH AN APPENDIX}

'1A11 the world's a stage !

And all the men and women merely players"

SHAKESPEAHK.

CINCINNATI
ROBERT CLARKE & CO

1884

Copyright, 188O,

BY JAMES E, MTJRDDCH,

A long association, in the spirit of a friendly and literary sym-
pathy, wherein the Author has realized that grateful
communion of kindred souls -which makes men
brothers— "Not in the fashion that the world
puts on, but brothers in the heart"—
impels him to dedicate these
"Recollections" to

FRANCIS DE HAES JANVIER,

A firm and fearless advocate of the National Integrity, and

a true exponent of the noble, the bright, and the

beautiful in the realm of Nature.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR 13

CHAPTER I.
THE TRAGEDIAN, AND HIS RELATIONS TO THE POET 25

CHAPTER II.
IMITATION AND MIMICRY 42

CHAPTER III.
THE PLAYERS OF A HUNDRED YEARS AGO 59

CHAPTER IV.
JOHN PHILIP KEMBLE, CHARLES KEAN, AND COOKE 72

CHAPTER V.
ANECDOTES OF ACTORS 87

CHAPTER VI.

SHAKESPEARE AND DRAMATIC ART. — MACREADY'S WERNER, no

o

1 2 CONTENTS.

APPEND.IX.

i

I. «

PAGE

DRAMA (from Southern Literary Messenger] ......... 423

II.
THEATRICAL AFFAIRS PREVIOUS TO GARRICK ........ ... 439

HI.

DAVID GARRICK'S FIRST APPEARANCE — BILL OF PLAY.... 454

IV.

DISSERTATION ON THEATRICAL SUBJECTS, BY THEOPHILUS

GIBBER, COMEDIAN (London, 1759) 455

V.

STRICTURES UPON THE ACTING AND PERSONAL TRAITS OF

DAVID GARRICK 490

INDEX 505

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR.

BY J. BUNTING.

JAMES EDWARD MURDOCH, one of the most generally ad-
mired of American actors, was born in the city of Philadel-
phia on January 25, 1811. He was not of that stock from
which actors or intellectual workers of any class usually ap-
pear. His parents were Thomas and Elizabeth Murdoch.
The father was engaged in mechanical pursuits, finding time
also to indulge somewhat in local politics, and in that close
kinship with local politics which was even then, as afterward,
manifested in the associations of the volunteer fire department.
He was also a volunteer soldier, having served as an officer of
artillery in the war of 1812.

The business calling of Thomas Murdoch was that of a book-
binder and paper-ruler. Those were the good old-fashioned
times when the apprentice system prevailed — a system which
produced so much hardship to boys, but which reared so many
sturdy men. To avoid the hardships, and yet retain the ad-
vantages of the system, Thomas Murdoch took all of his four
sons, one after another, into his own establishment, and taught
them himself. Of these, James Edward was the eldest. He had
obtained but a very moderate share of common-school education
at the time of his entering upon the duties of his father's busi-
ness, but the active, inquiring spirit of an American lad helped,
in large measure, to supply this deficiency, which was still fur-
ther improved upon by the systematic studies of a later period.

It is always interesting, when reviewing a public life which
has won its honors in any special department, to trace, wher

2 13

14 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR.

ever it is practicable, the circumstances which led to such a
result. It is, fortunately, quite possible to do so in Murdoch's
case. The apprentice-boy, reared by the father in childhood
and working at his side in youth, naturally imbibed his habits
and associations. What Philadelphia boy of fifty years ago
was there who did not long for the time to come when he
might wear a painted hat and cape and carry a speaking-
trumpet? As Murdoch grew up, but before he was yet old
enough to join a fire company, he had become a member of a
volunteer company of youthful militiamen. Not one of them
was over fifteen years of age. Murdoch, at thirteen, was asso-
ciated with the company when they were detailed to form
part of the escort assigned to La Fayette at his grand recep-
tion in 1824.

Following thus after his father in military proclivities, he
copied him also in due time by becoming a volunteer fire-
man, and it was in the engine-house of the old Vigilant Com-
pany that young Murdoch made his first speech, at a company
meeting. The firemen in those days drew to their ranks some
of the most intelligent classes of the community. In the hall
of the Vigilant a debating-school was in full blast during Mur-
doch's membership. He entered its ranks with his accustomed
enthusiasm, but soon demonstrated — to his own satisfaction at
least — that he was not a debater. He next proceeded to profit
by the discovery ; and profited so well that, after a few of his
spirited specimens of declamation, the debating-club resolved
itself into an association of amateur actors, and found it neces-
sary to secure a larger hall. It was here that Murdoch first
presented an actual dramatic part entire, performing in the
play of Douglas as Glenalvon, the villain.

At this period he placed himself regularly under the tuition
of the late Lemuel G. White, an elocutionist who had previ-
ously taught another pupil destined to obtain great distinc-
tion— Edwin Forrest. Mr. White introduced Murdoch to the
late Dr. James Rush, from whom he studied the science of the
human voice and gathered many valuable principles which
aided largely in adding to the charm of his readings and
recitations.

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 15

It is a very strong evidence of Murdoch's progress in this
amateur way that, before he was eighteen years of age, his efforts
had won a circle of admirers who were not only the first to rec-
ognize his histrionic talents, but who never ceased to urge his
claims as a national actor — one whose talents were destined to
add lustre to the brilliant history of the American Drama.

In the year 1829 the Arch Street Theatre was already one
of the chief places of amusement in Philadelphia. At that
time the fraternity of actors was chiefly composed of perform-
ers brought from England. The manager of the Arch was the
late Aaron Phillips. In October, 1829, he was playing an Eng-
lish company. Murdoch was already yearning for a place be-
fore the footlights, and youthful friends in large numbers were
urging him forward. At last the matter-of-fact bookbinder,
his father, so far succumbed to outside pressure that he en-
gaged the Arch Street Theatre, company and all, from Man-
ager Phillips for a single night, and on the i3th of October,
1829, James E. Murdoch made his first dramatic appearance
in public as Frederick in Kotzebue's play of Lovers' Vows.

A large number of friends were in attendance that evening,
among whom were some whose names afterward became locally
prominent — those of Joseph Harrison, Jr., Andrew Kitchen,
Ferdinand J. Dreer, and several others. Few of them yet sur-
vive. At the close of the play loud calls were made for the
manager, and, upon his appearance, a formal request was made
that Murdoch should be offered a standing engagement. As
the company then playing was only under engagement for the
time being, this demand could not be complied with. He was
permitted, however, to play several characters, without pay,
during the season, among them, Young Norval, JarBer in Venice
Preserved, and Octavian in The Mountaineers. At the close
of the theatrical season a benefit was arranged for him, he ap-
pearing as Selim in a play called Barbarossa.

Although the audiences received all of these efforts with de-
cided favor, they had no appreciable effect on the actor's for-
tunes, nor in elevating his position in the profession. This
was owing to the peculiar etiquette which prevailed, prevent-
ing new players from assuming parts which were in possession

1 6 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR.

of established actors. But the results did have an effect on
his father's mind. Thomas Murdoch said to the future actor,
"You are choosing a new field. You cannot serve two mas-
ters, nor succeed in two callings. I know nothing about this
stage business, but I do know that to prosper in it you must
study and work. All the assistance I can give I will, but you
must trust in the main to your own resources."

While this was really only a sort of moral endorsement, it
had a practical effect and stimulated the young actor to fresh
exertions. Influential friends greatly encouraged him. One
promised to secure for him a scholarship at Princeton, in the
secret hope, as was afterward learned, that he might become
a great pulpit orator. But Murdoch's realm was destined to
be the stage, and the stage looked too far away when seen
over such a horizon. A more active career was offered. In
the spring of 1830 he accepted an engagement as "walking
gentleman ' ' to play in Halifax, Nova Scotia. The salary was
to be eight dollars a week, and his" father paid his travelling
expenses to reach his destination. Even in this subordinate
position Murdoch's abilities became so apparent that he was
soon tendered a benefit, producing therein the dramatic sen-
sation of the season. The company, however, came to grief
before the year was out, the manager going into bankruptcy.
Murdoch was penniless, and his father wrote to a correspond-
ent at Halifax enclosing the means, as he said, to "send
the vagrant home."

At this critical moment the chances of making a good book-
binder and losing a promising actor seemed very fair indeed
in Murdoch's case. However, it happened that Mr. John
Sefton, himself an actor, was then in Philadelphia, looking up
recruits for the travelling company of Vincent DeCamp. De-
Camp was a brother-in-law of Charles Kemble, an actor of
considerable ability, and a manager of experience. His com-
pany was then playing engagements in the South and West.
Murdoch accepted a position in the same humble line as that
at Halifax, but with the pay — or the promise of it at least — in-
creased to eighteen dollars per week. He appeared in Charles-
ton, Savannah, and other cities during the winter of 1830-31.

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 17

At Augusta, Georgia, he played his first leading part with this
company at the special request of Edwin Forrest, who was then
starring with the company. Forrest, being engaged to play
Damon, was so dissatisfied with the Pythias offered by the
management that he flatly refused to appear with him. De-
Camp insisted that it was the best that could be done with the
company then at his command. "No," said Forrest imperi-
ously, " it is not. You have a man named Murdoch in your
company whom I once saw act in Philadelphia. Give the
part to him," The dramatic result was highly satisfactory
to all parties.

The financial result of this engagement was less satisfactory.
It ended, as the other had done, with a break-up. Murdoch
managed to get home to Philadelphia, but with hardly a whole
suit to his back. His affairs were the more desperate in that,
anticipating from his DeCamp engagement a paying business,
he had made arrangements to marry. He carried out this in-
tention during the same year (1831), the wife of his choice
being Miss Eliza Middiecott, the daughter of a London sil-
versmith. At this time he was enjoying a precarious connec-
tion with the Arch Street Theatre, Robert T. Conrad, who
was about his own age, proposed to write him a play. They
were then, as afterward, warm friends and companions, and
Murdoch of course favored the idea. Mr. Conrad's produc-
tion was entitled Conrad •of Naples •, the part of the hero having
been written expressly for Murdoch, and it was played with
marked success at his benefit on the night of its initial per-
formance. But a difficulty afterward arose from the fact, just
alluded to, that no subordinate actor could be assigned a lead-
ing part save at his own benefit. The leading man took no
interest m. it, and the play of Conrad of Naples was shelved.
Soon afterward the manager of the Park Theatre, New York,
hearing of the circumstances attending its performance in Phil-
adelphia, offered to bring it out there, but Murdoch could not
gain permission to leave his unfinished engagement. Neither
he nor Conrad had the necessary means to risk the venture,
entailing, as it would, considerable expense for rehearsals and
travelling bills. Years afterward an adaptation of Conrad by
2 * B

1 8 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR.

the then eminent author's hand became known over the length
and breadth of the country as Jack Cade.

It was during the year 1832 that Murdoch met with an ac-
cident, the effects of which have never been completely erad-
icated. During his connection with the Arch Street Theatre
his wife fell ill. To the fatigues of his professional duties were
added the cares of a sick-room. Weakened by overwork and
anxiety, he was ordered a prescription for a severe attack of
indigestion. In mistake he took a preparation of arsenic.
The late Dr. George B. McClellan, who was called in, suc-
ceeded in saving his life, but said, "You will never get over
it as long as you live." The ominous prophecy has proven
true to the extent that Mr. Murdoch has rarely been able to en-
dure the fatigue of lengthy engagements, and has spent a good
portion of his most active years in retirement and out-door life.

After leaving the Arch, Mr. Murdoch's life for the few follow-
ing years was nomadic. He first accepted the position of lead-
ing juvenile at the old Chestnut Street Theatre, where he played
with Fanny Kemble. His health failing soon after being es-
tablished there, he journeyed South under medical advice, go-
ing as far as New Orleans, but playing very seldom, Upon his
return he attached himself to the company of F. C. Wemyss,
appearing as home star alternately in Pittsburg and Philadel-
phia. His next position was at the Tremont Theatre, Boston,
where he remained a year, but resigned to take the place of
stage-manager at the Chestnut in this city.

It was during his incumbency here at this period that the cele-
brated production of the opera of Norma took place, at which
the Woods (Mrs. Julia Wood, nee Paton, and her husband) were
the chief stars. Old playgoers will easily recall the sensation
which the prima donna then made, and also the strong feeling
of indignation which some of the doings of the Woods aroused
both here and in New York. The sentiment with which they
then regarded Americans was very similar to that which Dick-
ens put into print two years later in his American Notes. The
Woods received four hundred dollars per night for their ser-
vices, and were wisely prompt in collecting it. After they
were paid there was mpstly nothing left for the company, and

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 19

both Murdoch and his associates were obliged to play for
weeks without receiving a dollar of their salaries. When this
could be no longer endured, Murdoch appealed to Mrs. Wood
to allow the actors of the company at least the receipts for one
night, and wait for her money until the close of the week. This
she refused to do. He then told her the theatre would have to
be closed the following night. She laughed at such an impos-
sible event. He went at once into the office, and wrote and
posted a bill stating that the Chestnut would be closed until fur-
ther notice. It remained closed for a number of weeks.

During the same season of 1840-41, Murdoch accepted the
position of stage-manager at the National Theatre of Boston
to assist in the first production in that city of London Assurance.
So great was the desire to see this play that a copy of it had
been taken down by a stenographer in the pit of the old Park
Theatre, New York City, where it was first played in America.
It had in Boston what was considered at that time an unprece-
dented run.

It might have been mentioned before this that Mr. Mur-
doch had, from the beginning of his public appearances, felt
an acute sense of the advantages to be derived from more ex-
haustive study than his opportunities had thus far permitted. His
comparative successes, however much they satisfied his friends,
did not by any means satisfy himself. The opportunity which
he now found, or rather created, for deeper readings and more
complete research, took, at first, the somewhat abrupt and un-
expected form of a retirement from the stage. While still in
the successful management of the National, acting under the
advice of such prominent men as Governor John A. Andrew
and Hon. George S. Hillard, both of whom had been his pu-
pils in elocution, Mr. Murdoch decided to turn his attention to
lecturing and teaching. He appeared before the Boston Ly-
ceum with a lecture on the " Uses and Abuses of the Stage."
This was followed by other lectures, both in Boston and New
York, which were favorably commented upon throughout all
of the larger cities. In private life he was not idle. It has
been already mentioned that, while under the tuition of Mr.
White in Philadelphia, he had made the acquaintance of Dr.

20 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR.

James Rush of that city. To Dr. Rush's vocal theories, as
exemplified in his work on The Philosophy of the Voice, Mur-
doch becdme an avowed convert. He has never since ceased
his efforts to promulgate Rush's views both by precept and ex-
ample. A thorough study of the anatomy of the vocal organs
secured for him credentials from the leading medical men of
New England. At the same period he studied rhetoric with
Prof. William Russell of Boston, and, in connection with that
gentleman, prepared a work on The Cultivation of the Voice,
which was published by Ticknor & Co., and has since been
used extensively as a text-book.

Murdoch returned to the stage in October, 1845, appearing
at the Park Theatre, New York, for the first time as Hamlet.
This appearance seems to have been generally regarded as the
beginning of his greatest period — a period which continued,
with very few interruptions, until 1860. His widely versatile
round of characters, his ready assimilation with both comic and
tragic parts, and his almost equal success in both, made him
henceforward a leading light on the American stage. For the
intellectual refinement of his stage conceptions he had no
equal. His fidelity to the text of his author was always re-
markable, and he never sought for any declamatory effects
which were not the legitimate results of faultless elocution.

One of the most successful and, at the same time, most
interesting of Mr. Murdoch's theatrical engagements occurred
in the year 1853. In consequence of an invitation from Mr.
Lewis Baker, he visited California under that gentleman's
management. He was supported in an extensive repertoire
of parts by Mrs. Baker (formerly Miss Alexina Fisher), a lady
well known in theatrical circles, and an estimable actress.
She was for a long time associated with Murdoch, appearing
as Juliet, Pauline, and other leading characters. At that date
the new El Dorado was a land of adventure, if not of romance.
The California book of Bayard Taylor had already given a
graphic description of the situation of affairs there in 1849
and 1850, when the gold-fever first broke out. Mr. Murdoch
was one of the earliest pioneers in the histrionic department
of art to visit that then remote region. It was partly owing

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 21

to this circumstance, and largely because the best dramatic
art is apt to be most immediately recognized everywhere,
that this California engagement was exceedingly profitable
in a financial point of view. Mr. Murdoch played for a
season of about one hundred nights in San Francisco, Sac-
ramento, Stockton, and Maysville, receiving from numerous
audiences the most profound and sincere demonstrations of
approval.

In the year 1856, Mr. Murdoch visited England. While
this trip was taken with the intention of making it a journey
of rest and recreation, the reputation which had preceded him
secured a very flattering offer of an engagement from Mr. Buck-
stone, manager of the Haymarket Theatre, London. Buck-
stone had already acted with Murdoch during a brief visit to
America, and was very anxious to secure him. The result
was the longest consecutive list of performances which he ever
played. His parts here were exclusively in comedy, being
young Mirabel in The Inconstant, Charles Surface, Alfred
Evelyn, Rover in Wild Oats, Don Felix in The Wonder, and
Vapid in The Dramatist. The London season continued for
one hundred and ten nights, at each of which Murdoch's name
headed the bills. He next repaired to Liverpool, where the
most flattering prospects awaited him. He was there even
more successful than in London, playing, in addition to his
usual round of comedies, Hamlet, which was exhaustively and
carefully criticised. His conception of Hamlet was at this
time favorably compared with those of Kean and Macready,
and, particularly, as resembling that of Charles Young, a
famous Hamlet of the Kemble period. In the midst of this
success ill health obliged him to cut short this engagement, be-
sides cancelling others in Edinburgh, Dublin, and other cities.

After a severe attack of his old illness he recovered
sufficiently to travel in Germany, Switzerland, and Italy.
While on this brief tour Murdoch paid particular attention
to the study of vine-growing. Three years before he had
purchased an extensive farm in Southern Ohio, and resolved
to devote it to grape-culture. Upon his return to America
he carried this plan into effect, securing the services of some

22 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR.

Rhenish farm-hands who were well acquainted with the grape
and its habits.

During the interval between Mr. Murdoch's return from
Europe and the breaking out of the civil war he played nu-
merous engagements in all the prominent cities of the Union,
with all the honors and profits of a popular star. He spent
also a considerable share of his time on his farm, which is
situated in Murdoch, a post-village named for him and not
far distant from Cincinnati. An amusing occurrence which
shows the drift of the period is worth noting here. One
morning he was aroused by a prodigious outcry in his barn-
yard, and, going out, found one of his men contesting with an
immense eagle* for the possession of a frightened calf. Mur-
doch captured the eagle, which was a splendid specimen, mea-
suring six feet across the wings. This little incident got into
print, and the paragraph went the rounds as paragraphs will.
Charles Barras, the author of The Black Crook, took it up and
prepared a witty brochure, with comic cuts, entitled How Mur
dock vanquished the American Eagle. In 1860, Mr. Murdoch
was playing an engagement at Charleston, South Carolina.
Here he met with an accident which confined him to his
hotel for several days, where he was attended by a prominent
physician. Upon asking for his bill he was informed that
there would be no charge. On being pressed for an explana-
tion, the doctor said emphatically, "I have no charge against
the man who vanquished the American eagle."

It has been often said that the actor can do less for posterity
than other men. He is a part of the history of his country,
but not of its deeds. The works of the painter still glow on
trie canvas, the poet's songs are still sung, but the actor's
art dies with him, or lives only in the uncertain realm of
memory. It has been Murdoch's rare opportunity to so asso-
ciate his name with the fortunes of his country, at a time of
national trouble, that it may be fairly said of him, the pa-
triot's bays will rival the actor's laurels. While playing at
Pittsburg, in the troublous spring of 1861, news reached him
that a favorite son had joined the army. He closed his en-
gagement abruptly, and went to Washington. While there he

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 2$

associated with many prominent citizens in encouraging the
patriotic spirit of the then aroused nation. On one occasion,
when a meeting was being held, Colonel John W. Forney,
then Clerk of the Senate, requested Murdoch to recite Drake's
poem of "The American Flag." The effect was prodigious.
The audience was in an uproar of enthusiasm. Simon Cam-
eron said to the reader afterward, "I never before in my life
felt the full meaning of a flag to fight for." Such were the
circumstances attending the commencement of those patriotic
readings which, springing from Colonel Forney's happy sug-
gestion, and continuing afterward under his special care, ex-
tended to both houses of Congress and permeated the hospitals
and homes of the entire country, and which, even more than
all his talents and acquirements as an actor, have endeared
Murdoch to the popular heart. From that time onward he
gave himself up as absolutely to the country as any soldier on
the field. - He gave readings in all the cities of the North, in
the soldiers' hospitals, in the camps of the army on the field —
wherever there was money to be raised or fainting courage to
be cheered. The amount of good done could scarcely be
overestimated. Its money-value alone was very great, although
that was the least part of its worth. His friend Thomas Bu-
chanan Read, who had just finished his poem "The Wagoner
of the Alleghanies," was persuaded by Murdoch to loan him
the manuscript, and the poet and actor first rehearsed it in the
Ohio log cabin of the latter. The readings of this poem were
wonderfully successful, particularly in the cities and towns of
Pennsylvania. Janvier's "Sleeping Sentinel," Bryant's "Bat-
tle-Field" and Whittier's "Barbara Frietchie" were also im-
mense favorites. But the pathetic side of this period — per-
haps, indeed, the most truly dramatic one also — was con-
nected with the actor's readings at soldiers' camp-fires in the
field — sdmetimes within sound of the enemy's guns — and
in the numerous army hospitals. Many of the scenes which
resulted from his elocutionary efforts on such occasions were
really thrilling, and in keeping with that wild time. On one
occasion, at an invalid camp near Indianapolis, after reciting
Bayard Taylor's poem, "General Scott and the Veteran,"

24 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR.

Murdoch was surrounded and almost overwhelmed by an
excited crowd of veterans who rushed to his desk, eager to
testify their appreciation of the poet's heroic sentiments as
thus impressed upon them by the reader's ringing and elo-
quent utterances.

For a number of years after the war closed Murdoch re-
mained in close retirement on his Ohio farm. So little did he
mingle with the outside world, and so close was his privacy,
that it is said old friends and admirers who visited Cincinnati,
upon inquiring for him and knowing that his residence was in
the vicinity, could not ascertain its locality. Grape-culture still
occupied his outdoor life, and the study of his old profession
formed the recreation of his leisure hours. A series of lectures
and essays on elocution were also prepared, based on the the-
ories of his early preceptor, Dr. Rush. Murdoch's advo-
cacy of these theories has already been referred to in this
narrative. To use his* own words, the Rush method is " the
only one which gives a mastery of the meaning of sentences,
extracting the pith as well as producing the sounds." During
the past year he has given a course of readings and lectures
before the School of Oratory in Philadelphia. There has even
been some prospect of seeing him again on the stage, and,
in October last, an effort was made to have him appear on the
fiftieth anniversary of his life as an actor. Since his great suc-
cesses a new generation has grown up, with new methods and
in many respects a new dramatic ideal. It would be extremely
interesting to compare the manners and methods of the veteran
actor with those which are now familiar.

Mr. Murdoch's days of work are not done, nor will they be
while his life continues. His temperament is, as it has always
been, one of extraordinary mental activity, and, whatever else
may be allotted to him in the future, he has already traced the
record of a busy, a useful, and an honored career.

APRIL, 1880.

THE STAGE.

CHAPTER I.

THE TRAGEDIAN, AND HIS RELATIONS TO THE

POET.

HPHE intellectual rank which is due to the tra-
-*• gedian is, as yet, among the many unsettled
points of criticism. There have been writers who
question his title to any place, even the humblest,
in the domain of genius. His vocation has been
classed among the merely mimetic and mechan-
ical— those in which the human being approaches
the inferior natures by which he is surrounded.

The player's whole function, it has been said,
demands nothing more than passively to take on
the feeling and the character prescribed him, to
find outward look and voice for the creation of
the poet's brain, and to say over the very words
set down for him by another.

Acting is deemed by such authorities in art
and criticism to be but a process of putting on,
a trick of feigning, a facility of assuming, an art
of juggle and imposture — a thing which any one
can do who has a talent for mimicry and who
will descend to exercise it.

3 25

26 THE ACTOR'S GENIUS.

We are told of the contest between Cicero
and Roscius for the palm of excellence in the
art of expressing the emotion of the soul — be-
tween the orator with his language and the
actor with his physical expression and gesture —
and that Roscius received the prize.

Does not this antique record place the power
of the actor on a higher intellectual plane than
that which is commonly assigned to the mimetic
art, when associated with what we will venture
to term the highest effort of human genius, a
great tragedy?

The authors who would belittle the actor's
genius, and deny him even the smallest share
of the poetic element, "reason a little, presume
a great deal, and jump to a conclusion." They
overlook the two prime facts of the case : first,
that the graphic presentation of a thought or
the perfect delineation of a character, when the
conception of it has originated in the mind of
another, demands "a soul capacious of such
things." The mere silent reader of Shakespeare,
who passively submits the surface of his mind
to the influence of the poet's genius, is but poor-
ly impressed with the passing sunshine and shade
of thoughts not his own ; he is at best but half
conscious of them, as " they come like shadows,
and so depart."

From those whose perceptions are so transient-
ly affected by dramatic impressions can come no
rule by which to judge the true merits of the per-
former, he who in the act of study passes, as it

THE ACTORS WORK. 27

were, out of self-consciousness, and identifies him-
self with the spirit and genius of the author, mak-
ing his conceptions the mould into which he pours
his whole being, taking on the fresh and deep
impression of every thought, and reflecting, as a
mirror before the auditor's mind, an exact and
perfect image of every trait of the original.

A true receptive power is by no means the
passive and servile thing which a superficial crit-
icism would make it. Let us say, rather, that it
demands an assimilating and co-operative soul,
a positive genius, to develop it.

In fine, we assume that the entire apprehension
of a poet's conception demands a feeling conge-
nial to that glow which originally kindled it, an im-
agination allied to that which moulded it into form.
Such must be the receptive faculty of the actor
who aspires to the front rank of tragic excellence.

But this is not all. The player is, in soul and
body, to give back the impression he has receiv-
ed. He is to work as an artist on the plastic ma-
terial of his own nature — to give substance and
shape and palpable reality to the imaginings of
the poet. He is to master, in the electric flash of
a moment, the whole art of stamping a true and
vivid impress of the poet on the minds of his
audience.

Feeling and imagination and will must become
intensified passion ere the inspired utterance can
create afresh the character that originally sprang
to life in the soul of the poet

Who has ever thought of denying the original-

28 THE ART OF THE ACTOR.

ity of the genius of those great masters of the
sculptor's art, Phidias and Praxiteles, on the ground
merely that they copied the model of Homer's
mind ? Do we look with a feeling of secondary
interest on Flaxman's noble illustrations of the
bard because they are faithful to Homer ? When
we look at Retsch's masterly outlines which illus-
trate the plays of our own Homer, the Bard of
Avon, do we think of saying, "It is all a mere
trick of imitative art, working on a prescribed
model" ? Is not the wonderful fidelity of those ex-
quisite drawings to that model their great charm ?
Is it not because we see Shakespeare shining
through the whole that we accord them the first
rank among the productions of modern art?

So should it be with the player. He is to
throw his whole nature so copiously into the
world of Shakespeare's conception that the
"molten soul" overflows its limits and infuses
itself into the hearts of his audience.

It is this exuberance, this redundancy of feeling,
which transcends the mere assimilative function,
that stamps the true actor a man of expressive
genius and power. This is the art not merely of
receiving Shakespeare's inspiration, but of giv-
ing it forth.

True artistic expression, in whatever form, de-
mands not only the impulse and the fire, but that
"which is of fervor all compact," the creative
power of genius ; and this is as true of high
cultured tragic personation as of the masterly
delineations of poetry, painting, and sculpture.

THE THEORY OF ACTING. 29

The dramatic impersonator, then, is success-
ful in his art in proportion as he represents his
author by becoming absorbed in the character
delineated by the poet. I do not mean to say,
however, that the actor must forget his own iden-
tity and be the reality of the part he acts ; for in
that case a bad man might become fit company
for the gods, and a good man so transform him-
self into a fiend as to be able to play the very
devil. Dr. Johnson said the same thing of Gar-
rick. When the critics said that great actor
was Richard himself, his reply was, "Then my
friend Garrick must be a very bad man."

The genuine artist will exhibit in his represen-
tations of Shakespeare's characters the great
attributes of his master's expression — simplicity,
nature, and truth — as in presenting Milton's
soaring conception of Satan (which originally
existed in its author's mind embodied in a dra-
matic form) he would portray the loftiness of
that spirit "not lost, in loss itself."

From these imperfect hints may be inferred
the theory of acting and reading which, in my
view, is or should be the student's guide. To
the player who reflects on the qualities of the
various authors whom his profession calls him to
study, Shakespeare, the great model of his art,
stands distinguished, as is universally admitted, by
his perfectly natural manner, whether as regards
plot, incident, character, or language. To per-
sonate Shakespeare, then, he feels that he must
take his cue from Nature, and that from her he

3*

30 THE DANGER OF ERRING.

must receive every prompting of genuine inspi-
ration.

Here, however, when the artist has schooled
himself out of rant and pantomimic trick, and
every other prominent vice of the stage, he
needs all the aid of a just and critical judgment ;
he is in danger of erring in one of several direc-
tions. Leaning to the safe side, as he deems it,
of a just exposition of his author, avoiding the
grossness of mere stage-effects, and adhering
strictly to his text in a merely faithful enuncia-
tion of its words, the actor fails of truth and
Nature, ceases to personate, and sinks into a
mere elocutionist and declaimer. " Words, words,
words" form the sum and substance of his per-
formance. But the heart and soul, .of which the
words were meant to be the medium, are not
there. No aspiration of ardor do we hear, no
tremulous tone of heartfelt emotion, no sob
bursting from the overcharged bosom, no uncon-
scious attitude of passion do we see, no intuitive
power in word, look, or action flashing sympathy
to the soul of the spectator, no ecstasy of the
whole man.

But instead of these qualities, so essential to
a proper dramatic effect, we have the chilly attri-
butes of paraded precision and heartless formality
in action and utterance.

High - sounding and measured declamation
swells out the text — correct and distinct, it may
be, indeed, as to the words, but deadened to every
effect of spirit and expression. In such counter-

DRAMATIC EXPRESSION. 31

feit presentment of human passion the art " whose
end both at the first and now was and is to hold
the mirror up to Nature," falls down to the mo-
notonous delivery of a sermonized lecture or the
recitation of a school-boy's task. The actor who
under such circumstances imagines he is adher-
ing to Nature because he is not tearing a passion
to tatters, has formed but a low conception of the
province of the stage, which is to hit off life itself,
and to use language but as a means to this end.

The true delineator, in order to give proper
effect to premeditated speech, must observe and
employ the grace, fitness, and power of utterance
which mark the flow of thought and rush of feel-
ing when language springs from the event and
circumstance of every-day life.

He who would fill others with the fervor of his
own feelings must be able to mark his language
with the elements of expressive vocality and
incisive and vehement utterance. Thus only
can be expressed the workings of the soul when
distracted with conflicting passions or driven
to despair and madness by outrageous fortune.
Every thought of the mind, every passion of
the soul, has its peculiar quality of voice and its
appropriate mode of utterance.

Dramatic expression, of all the forms of speech,
requires a profound knowledge of such natural
effects, as well as the practical ability to employ
them. Truly, from the Shakespearian view, the
office of dramatic reading or recitation is no slight
affair. It demands a clear expression of every

32 TRICKS OF PERSONAL HABIT.

word, the music of impassioned feeling in every
tone, and the reality of life in every look and
action ; and along with all a marked individuality
of character, emanating from the conceptions of
the performer, but divested of his personality.

By such means only can the hearer be trans-
ported from the ignorant present of actual sur-
rounding life into an ideal world of remotest time
and space. The personal traits of the speaker
or reader of Shakespeare when obtruded on our
notice are always offensive, because they break
up the beautiful illusion which the drama was
meant to create. No such falling off, however,
is so chilling, perhaps ridiculous, as when the
great historical or ideal hero of a piece descends
into the "tricks of habit" by which we recognize
the individual in his relations to daily life.

Individuality is a trait inseparable from the
efforts of genius, and, chastened and subdued
into its proper place and kept subordinate to
the display of the author, it is always a source
of pleasure. But the cant of the times about
naturalness, originality, and creative power on
the stage has gone nigh to tempt the player to
such a style of personation as appropriates both
the stage and Shakespeare to himself, and swal-
lows them up in the inordinate self-esteem of
the individual.

Another and a very different theory of acting
is exhibited by those performers who wish, as it
were, to inspire the author, instead of being in-
spired by him, and to add all manner of stage-

A TRUE IDEA OF NATURE. 33

effects to sustain, as it were, the character and
the writer. Players of this class are prone to
the fault of taking a character in Shakespeare as
they would an outline or sketch prescribed in a
pantomime, which the ingenuity of the performer
is to fill up, and consider language merely the
vehicle for the display of "stage-business," as it
is technically termed. Hence arise those melo-
dramatic attitudes, groupings, and tableaux with
which modern acting abounds, and which go to
make up the attraction of some individual celeb-
rity. From such a perverted and vitiated dra-
matic taste arise those unnaturally natural, famil-
iar, and coarse effects which dispel all illusions
and destroy all ideal harmony.

The term Nature is one of vast comprehension.
It has widely different meanings, according to the
mental character of the individual who makes use
of it. Nature in a picture is, with one man, noth-
ing but " Dutch boors, candlesticks, and cabbages;"
with another it is all nymphs, temples, and wreath-
ing garlands, dancing satyrs and hovering cupids.

A true idea of Nature — Nature heightened by
the inspiring touch of ideal beauty and perfec-
tion— plain, sincere Nature, raised to its own
highest capability by the hand of genius, may be
found in, an evening scene by Claude, where act-
ual objects, faithfully portrayed, are grouped anew,
mellowed into the dim golden dusk of twilight,
and tinged with colors in the very act of fading
into the coming gloom of night.

In vain do we look for Nature in mere bald

34 SHAKESPEARE'S IDEA OF A MAN.

and harsh reality. The landscape of crag and
brake and sluggish pool is naught for pictorial
art till we can look on it in the flush of sunrise
or in the lingering glow of sunset. In vain do
we look for Nature in the narrow scope of the
mere individual. Divest the man of his repre-
sentative relation to all humanity, and what is
he worth to the sculptor, the painter, or the poet ?
He sinks into an unshapely mass, or a personal
portrait for a parlor wall, or a fit subject for a
pasquinade.

How different from Shakespeare's idea of a
man, as uttered by the lips of Hamlet when he
pours out his filial admiration of the person and
presence of his father! —

See, what a grace was seated on this brow ;
Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;
An eye like Mars, to threaten and command ;
A station like the herald Mercury
New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill ;
A combination and a form indeed,
Where every goo! did seem to set his seal,
To give the world assurance of a man.

A fitting illustration of Shakespeare's ideal of
dramatic action, its truth to Nature, and the import-
ance of language as its prime element, may be
found in Troilus and Cressida (Act I., Scene iii. —
the Grecian camp before Agamemnon's tent), where
he shows us plainly his contempt for the unnatural
and barbarous style of presentation which was a
prevalent and deforming feature of the acting of
his own time:

••HIS IDEAL OF DRAMATIC ACTION. 35

The great Achilles, whom opinion crowns

The sinew and the forehand of our host,

Having his ear full of his airy fame,

Grows dainty of his worth, and in his tent

Lies mocking our designs : with him Patroclus

Upon a lazy bed the livelong day

Breaks scurril jests,

And with ridiculous and awkward action,

Which, slanderer, he imitation calls,

He pageants us. Sometime, great Agamemnon,

Thy topless deputation he puts on,

And like a strutting player, whose conceit

Lies in his hamstring, and doth think it rich .

To hear the wooden dialogue and sound

' Twixt his stretch d footing and the scaffoldage, —

Such to-be-pitied, and tf er-wrested seeming

He acts thy greatness in : and when he speaks

'Tis like a chime a-mending ; with terms unsquared,

Which, from the tongue of roaring Typhon dropp'd,

Would seem hyperboles. At this fusty stuff

The large Achilles, on his press'd bed lolling,

From his deep chest laughs out a loud applause ;

Cries " Excellent ! 'tis Agamemnon just.

Now play me Nestor ; hem, and stroke thy beard,

As he being drest to some oration."

That's done, as near as the extremest ends

Of parallels, as like as Vulcan and his wife :

Yet god Achilles still cries "Excellent !

'Tis Nestor right. Now play him me, Patroclus,

Arming to answer in a night-alarm."

And then, forsooth, the faint defects of age

Must be the scene of mirth ; to cough and spit,

And, with a palsy fumbling on his gorget,

Shake in and out the rivet : and at this sport

Sir Valour dies; cries "Oh, enough, Patroclus;

Or give me ribs of steel ! I shall split all

In pleasure of my spleen." And in this fashion.

All our abilities, gifts, natures, shapes,

36 HAMLETS ADVICE TO THE PLAYERS.

Severals and generals of grace exact,
Achievements, plots, orders, preventions,
Excitements to the field, or speech for truce,
Success or loss, what is or is not, serves
As stuff for these two to make paradoxes.

It may, I think, be inferred from this graphic
portraiture of burlesque and bombast that, though
it was common to his fellows, it was not Shake-
speare's mode of delineation, and hence to the
marked difference in his style of acting from that
of his fellow-actors is to be attributed the fact
that the dramatist was not considered as good a
performer as those whom the groundlings ap-
plauded. In fine, Shakespeare was a poet, and
knew the value of language should not be dis-
counted by the exaggerations of the actor.

Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you,
trippingly on the tongue: but if you mouth it, as many of
your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines.
Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but use
all gently ; for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say,
the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a tem-
perance that may give it smoothness. Oh, it offends me to
the soul to hear a robustious, periwig-pated fellow tear a passion
to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings,
who for the most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable
dumb-shows and noise ; I would have such a fellow whipped
for o'erdoing Termagant ; it out-herods Herod : pray you,

avoid it.

FIRST PLAYER.

I warrant your honor.

HAMLET.

Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your
tutor : suit the action to the word, the word to the action ;

EXAGGERATION IN ACTING. 37

with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty
of Nature; for any thing so overdone is from the purpose of
playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was, and is, to
hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to Nature; to show Virtue her
own feature, Scorn her own image, and the very age and body
of the time his form and pressure. Now this overdone, or
come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but
make the judicious grieve ; the censure of the which one must
in your allowance o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. Oh,
there be players that I have seen play, and heard others praise,
and that highly, not to speak it profanely, that, neither having
the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor
man, have so strutted and bellowed that I have thought some
of Nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them
well, they imitated humanity so abominably.

FIRST PLAYER.
I hope we have reformed that indifferently with us, sir.

HAMLET.

Oh, reform it altogether. And let those that play your
clowns speak no more than is set down for them ; for there be
of them, that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity
of barren spectators to laugh too ; though, in the mean time,
some necessary question of the play be then to be considered.
That's villainous, and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool
that uses it.

The exaggerating attempts, under false ideas
of what is natural, to make everything in dra-
matic representation seem as real as possible,
proceed upon the assumption that Nature is
found only in the actual and the real, while the
natural in expression lies ever nearest to the
ideal.

In attempting to make what in stage-language
is called a " point " of some feature of bare reality,

4

38 THE ACTOR AS MACBETH.

the actor is liable to betray a tendency to man-
nerism, because in striving to be strictly natural
he will probably exhibit what is only natural to
himself; and that may be habit, and not Nature.

But when, on the other hand, under the influ-
ence of a poetic spirit, he aims at the delineation
of some image, he loses self in the picturing of
the mind, and seems " breathless as we grow when
feeling most," wrapt in the solemnity of dire im-
aginings, where nothing is but what is not, or
soaring on the wings of aspiring thought " to
pluck bright honor from the pale-faced moon."

From such mental workings emanates the per-
fection of expressive power in the utterance of
figurative language, and not from the cold prompt-
ings of rationality or realism. Let us for a mo-
ment picture to ourselves the actor of Macbeth
moving and speaking under such influences as I
have attempted to describe, and we may, where
he is under the sway of superstitious dread, feel
in his utterances the very form and semblance of
the heaving surges of destiny, remorse, and de-
spair. Such impressions are made on the mind
of the hearer for the reason that the actor has
transformed himself for the time being into a
creature of the poetic world, and gives out his
mental conceptions and the fervor of truth poetic
as well as natural, not coloring imagination and
fancy in the material hues of personal mannerism.

In the former case, as before stated, the truth
of the effect is lost in the too palpable attempt
to create it by an approach to reality ; in the other

READING AND ACTING COMPARED. 39

it is secured and heightened by the fact of the
external giving place to the presence and power
of the internal working of the soul.

It is in the masterly treatment of the poetic
element of the drama that the skilful actor dem-
onstrates the fact that the truest and best effects
of the stage are such as come nearest to the
impressions received in the silent reading of
Shakespeare when the student gives himself up
to thought. Then it is, as Shakespeare himself
has so strongly expressed it, the brain, wedded to
the soul, "begets a generation of still breeding
thoughts."

It must be conceded, from the view presented
by a just representation of the Shakespearian
drama, that the actor living, moving, and speak-
ing through the argument of the play, imperson-
ating in voice, gait, and gesture the characters as
they sprang from the brain of the Poet, exhibits,
when within the bounds of proper conception and
delivery, a more graphic and satisfactory delinea-
tion of Shakespeare than can be presented by a
mere reading of the language, however true to
natural expression the method might be. The
purely intellectual effect which a studious read-
ing of the text can make upon a cultivated mind
we do not here intend to call in question, but
merely to speak of that indefinable gratification
which is enjoyed when the imagination fully real-
izes all the moving incidents of dramatic action
and all the impressive features of living character,
native and to the dramatic manner born.

40 SHAKESPEARE IN THE STUDY.

Such effects can only be realized in the mimic
world where the actor moves the living expositor
of the Poet's creative faculty — where the looker-
on feels the heartstrings vibrate as the chords
of thought and passion are touched by the soul
in the voice, while he yields up his imagination
to be moulded by the magic power of the Poet,
accepting as realities the ideas which assume life
and shape in passing through the subtle alembic
of Shakespeare's mind.

Yet when we compare the fleeting effects of
the stage with the more tangible and lasting
impressions of recorded language, we feel that
the magnetic influence of the delineator's voice,
strong as was its hold on the senses of the
audience, especially in Shakespeare's time, mak-
ing the mind of the spectator as plastic as clay
in the hands of the potter, — even then, we say,
the actor's power was not the supreme attraction
which made Shakespeare's name as familiar to
the playgoing public as a household word. Nor
was it the actor and his art at any time which
built up the imperishable glory of the Bard of
Avon. His inimitable language, his fancy and
imagination, are the foundation of his fame.
Those who gave vitality in the author's time to
his lines repose within the silent chambers of the
past, their names almost forgotten.

Garrick, whose acting was falsely reputed as
adding lustre to the glories of a Hamlet and a
Lear, lives only in the praise of those who paint
him as the once greatest actor. Mrs. Siddons,

THE POET IMMORTAL. 41

whose expressive tones swept the whole gamut
of human joy and woe, — she too is known only
as the Tragic Queen that was.

Like the echoes of Tennyson's " Bugle Song,"
the dramatic voices of the olden time have paled
and died away, never to be heard again, while
the echoes of Shakespeare's immortal strains roll
on from soul to soul for ever and for ever.

4*

CHAPTER II.
IMITATION AND MIMICRY.

TN justice to myself and to my profession, I
-*- would impress upon the minds of my readers
the fact that it is entirely foreign to the purpose of
this presentation to ridicule any of the performers
whose mannerisms I have considered proper sub-
jects for illustration. My aim is to recall to the
minds of those familiar with the subject the pecu-
liarities or vocal eccentricities which have rendered
the style of certain actors remarkable, and to en-
able those who may not have seen the originals to
form some idea of their manner of acting, or at
least of reading; for, without intending to confine
myself to matters concerning the elocution of the
stage, it is mainly the manner of reading among
actors that I shall comment upon and in which I
am most interested.

To the mere acting of the stage — that is, the
personal bearing, modes of action and gesture —
I shall only refer in a passing way ; such being
the mere physical attributes of performers, and of
less importance to the public than the_rnore intel-
lectual qualities of voice and speech. In that de-
partment the profession was once considered a

42

IMITATION OF POPULAR ACTORS. 43

model ; how it is now I leave the public to
decide.*

In introducing these illustrative sketches of
actors I find it expedient to disregard the unities
of time in the histrionic record, in order to bring
within a reasonable limit the most effective ele-
ments of my subject; that is, to string together
some instructive ideas concerning traits of the
spoken language of the stage, together with pro-
fessional incidents, entertaining and amusing in
their nature, but carefully guarded from a spirit
of detraction or malevolence.

One of the peculiar features of the stage is the
almost universal custom of adopting, or striving- to
imitate, the personal traits of vocal quality or the
articulative habits of some popular actor. It is
remarkable that during certain periods or theat-
rical cycles the generality of young actors have
been imitators or followers of some favorite ce-
lebrity.

From Betterton's time down to the present, the
regular links of the dramatic chain of professional
mannerism can be formed into groups distin-
guished for the sameness of their vocal mechan-
ism, while they bear unmistakable marks of a
strongly-contrasted opposite character.

A century ago elocution of a declamatory style
was the prevailing dramatic tone, but, yielding to
the changes of fashion, it gradually assumed the
form of what was termed natural speech ; which

* John Walker and Thomas Sheridan* the lexicographers, were dramatic
performers, the latter especially of distinguished reputation.

44 TRADITIONS OF THE STAGE.

in its turn, at the dictate of novelty, became ec-
centric, and, however paradoxical it may appear,
unnatural. Of late years the elocution of the
English and American stage, with but few excep-
tions, has been, no matter how offensive the term
may be considered, rather a matter of instinct
than the result of intelligent vocal culture.

The traditions of the stage have arbitrarily
determined the kind of voice and the mode of
speech appropriate to the villain, the hero, and
the lover. Shakespeare ridicules this tendency
among the actors of his time when he makes
Bottom, the amateur actor, affirm that he prefers
a tyrant's part, because he can then speak in " the
Ercles vein " — that is, " tear a cat and% make all
split" — while as a lover he would speak in a
" monstrous little voice." The fashion still exists ;
that is, that each character should have a distinct-
ive quality of voice and mode of utterance pecu-
liar to itself, thus ignoring the fact that every
passion of the human soul has its own vocal
sign, dictated by natural laws and common to
the human race, and that every emotion and
passion has also a conventional verbal sign.

Therefore, all natural expression depends upon
the proper blending of the vocal sign with the
words used to express the mental state of the
speaker ; and hence it will be seen that every
person, though marked by peculiarity of utter-
ance (the result of habit), should use an intona-
tion and a quality of voice, as before affirmed,
common to all in the utterance of impassioned

THE STAGE VOICE. 45

language. But, instead of observing this law,
the actor in many cases seems to have accepted
certain freaks and fancies of speech for the true
natural signs, as the Hudibrastic astronomer was
misled by the accident of the kite's tail flashing
across his telescopic vision, and so mistook a
lantern for a luminary.

Every new star is supposed to have received
a special revelation from Nature, which if not, as
the scholar says, "the divine afflatus," has at
least the traditionally divine ring of the dramatic
metal. Wherefore, it is considered imperative
that the natural voice of the actor, if he happens
to have one, must be permeated with the flavor
of the stage. No matter how much his unaffect-
ed vocality may possess of clear resonance and
beauty, it must be colored and toned to the re-
quirements of a fictitious standard ordained and
enforced by the oracles of the dramatic temple ;
therefore, almost all the actors and readers of the
present day have their unmistakable archetypes
in Liston, Kemble, Mathews, and Kean, the
Keeleys, Buckstone, the elder Booth, Fanny
Kemble, and Ellen Tree. These performers, in
turn, but copied the various manners of voice
in vogue at the time in which they were taking
their first steps in the profession.

Sir William Davenant received from Taylor, who
acted Hamlet under the direction of Shakespeare,
the manner of reading, the stage-business, and
other particulars concerning the performance of
the play common in the author's time. Davenant

46 VOCAL IMITATION.

imparted the knowledge he derived from Taylor
to Betterton, and to that fine old actor such per-
formers as Barton Booth owed that professional
knowledge which enabled them to hand down to
their posterity the traditions of the stage. But,
like the tones of the Greek and Latin syllables,
the voices of the old Shakespearian players, with
all their modes and forms, have vanished into air ;
yet the tones of the glorious old sugarloaf-headed
Poet — as S. S. Prentiss, the poetic orator of the
South, used to style him — still live in his immortal
verse, which all can reproduce who care to seek in
Nature for the true vocality common to all our
race.

As an illustrative instance of the same tendency
to reproduce vocal impressions on this side of the
water, we refer to Mr. Forrest, whose peculiar
intonations are duplicated all over the country —
not only on the stage, but also in many individ-
uals in private life, who have sacrificed their own
vocal individuality to adopt the deep chest-tones
of America's first distinguished tragedian.

As before stated, such tendencies are not con-
fined to the stage, for Shakespeare's quick insight
into the habits of mankind gives us an instance
of this proneness to follow fashions. Lady Percy,
speaking of her dead lord — Hotspur, as he was
commonly called — says of his honor,

It stuck upon him as the sun

In the gray vault of heaven ; and by his light

Did all the chivalry of England move

To do brave acts ; he was indeed the glass

OLD-TIME MANNERISMS. 47

Wherein the noble youth did dress themselves;

He had no legs that practised not his gait ;

And speaking thick — which Nature made his blemish —

Became the accents of the valiant ;

For those that could speak low and tardily,

Would turn their own perfection to abuse

To seem like him ; so that, in speech, in gait,

In diet, in affections of delight,

In military rules, humors of blood,

He was the mark and glass, copy and book,

That fashioned others.

Before Garrick's time the English stage was
marked by a mannerism which belonged to " the
fashion of the day." A lingering relic of the old
chanting tone of the Church affected the prevail-
ing style of actors and orators, but was particu-
larly observable in the collegians' ideal of Greek
and Roman oratorical dignity as illustrated in their
declamations.

The Puritans droned through the nose, and
spoke in curt and formal tones, while the more
cheerful Cavaliers assumed a nonchalant or gay
method of speech, sometimes brisk and even bois-
terous ; while in the court-circles conversational
tones were tinctured with a certain kind of finical
softness, the unmistakable characteristic of the
courtier's speech. In one of Beaumont and Fletch-
er's plays the following lines express the courtier's
attributes :

Love those that love good fashions,

Good clothes and rich ; they invite men to admire 'em

That speak the lisp of the court*

Oh, 'tis great learning !

48 INTONATION OF ENGLISH ACTORS.

To ride well, dance well, sing well, or whistle courtly,
They're rare endowments.

Miss Kemble (afterward Mrs. Siddons), in her
first interview with Mr. Garrick, was complimented
by that manager for not having the regular " tie-
tum-tie," or "old song-like tune," of the stage.
Again, it is recorded that Henderson, the great
rival of Kemble, when quite a young man was
told by Garrick that he had too much " wool or
worsted" in his voice to suit the area of Drury
Lane's auditorium ; meaning that his voice was
too much muffled or veiled by his stage-elocution,
and lacked clearness and other penetrative quali-
ties; in short, that his utterance was not natural —
not exercised in conformity with natural vocal
laws, and consequently inefficient in the expres-
sion of thought and passion as they should be
presented in dramatic action.

During my apprenticeship in the Southern the-
atres as far back as 1830, I was impressed with
this peculiar intonation, which was exhibited in a
remarkable manner by some of the old English
actors of the theatres in which I performed. It
was a regular rise and fall of the voice, in a kind
of declining run, gradually diminishing to the close
of the line, recommencing on the next, and so
continuing till the monotony became, to my ear at
least, exceedingly tiresome. The emphatic words
were marked with extended and repeated waves
or swelling prolongations of sound, resembling
the effects often observable in the reading of the

THE "TEAPOT" STYLE OF ACTING. 49

church-service. The gestures used were of the
same measured formality as the movements of the
voice, and their combined effects produced what
was termed, by the younger members of the pro-
fession, " the old teapot style of acting ; " which
simply meant one hand on the hip, the other ex-
tended and moving in curved lines, with a gradual
descent to the side. When the speaker was tired
of this he simply changed his attitude by throwing
the weight of the body on the opposite leg and
going through the same routine of gesture.

Here may be detected a likeness to that old-
time system of ease and elegance in studied de-
portment which Mr. Dickens hits off so admirably
in his well-known character of Turveydrop.*

From the remark made by Mr. Garrick concern-
ing the professional " tie-tum-tie" or sjng-song
tendency, we may infer that his own style must
have been free from any such chanting uniformity.

The more liable the personal manner of an
actor is to be mimicked, the more he is subjected
to a suspicion of non-conformity to the laws gov-
erning natural speech. All the vocal signs of
thought, emotion, and passion — constituting quality

* John B. Rice, Esq., who made his first appearance as an actor in Phila-
delphia about the time of my own advent, had been trained at school in
this old declamatory style of speaking, and before he broke himself of its
habits was called " Walker Elocution Rice." This gentleman, however, in
the fulness of his theatrical career was better known by the titles of mana-
ger, mayor, and Congressman, for after acquiring a fortune as a manager in
Chicago he was elected three times mayor of that city, and finally, on an
exceptionally honorable record, was chosen member for Congress. He died
at Washington, D. C., while in the discharge of his duties in the House of
Representatives.

5 D

50 IMITATION AND MIMICRY.

of voice, elevation and depression of pitch, abrupt-
ness or evenness in force, rapidity or deliberation
in movement, — all these distinctly different parts
of expressive utterance are the common attributes
of spoken language, and are exercised more or
less by all orators, actors, and readers. Yet, in
consequence of a difference in the temperaments
of human beings, these constituent elements of
speech are practised by different persons in vary-
ing and modifying degrees, each individual fixing
his own habits of utterance, which stamp him
among his familiars as differing from his neigh-
bors.

Hence it will be seen that any strongly-marked
peculiarity observable in a speaker distinguishes
him from others just in proportion to the prom-
inence and extent of the peculiarity ; and it is
evident that any unusual or eccentric mode of
speech will be the salient point seized upon by
the imitator or mimic, either to create a laugh
at the expense of the person or to give a more
pleasing impression of his manner. The former
method indicates the mimic ; the latter, the im-
itator.

There is a much greater distinction existing
between the qualities of imitation and mimicry
than may strike the superficial observer. Prop-
erly speaking, when we take great and virtuous
actions for our models we imitate them. It was
said in olden times that heroic actions were imi-
tations of the gods. And again it has been said
that we ape the manners of those above us, while

FAULTS EASILY REPRODUCED. 51

it is common to say the monkey mimics the man.
From this it must be conceded that imitation is
a more intellectual effort than mimicry.

It is more difficult to imitate the natural qual-
ities of an actor's voice than it is to reproduce
his mere mannerisms ; while to mimic his defects
is within the reach of a very ordinary gift. An
actor who imitates another — that is, one who
adopts another's style as his own — is more likely
to reproduce the faults than the perfections of his
model. Blemishes, being more striking, impress
themselves more forcibly than beauties, the ap-
preciation of which requires a more delicate and
intelligent perception. Imitation generally exag-
gerates defects in order to make them apparent
to the minds of those to -whom they are pre-
sented ; -and by the same rule a coloring is given
to points of excellence in order to make them
effective. So the unnatural imperfections of .an
actor's style may readily be imitated, while it
would be difficult to reproduce the natural beau-
ties of his delivery.

By a misplaced or oft-repeated use of some
favorite form of expression, or by some pecu-
liarity of accent or pronunciation, an earnest
speaker may produce unpleasant monotony, or
even grotesque results susceptible of caricature,
and thus afford the mimic an opportunity of cre-
ating ridicule. This may easily be accomplished
by the mocker from a habit which gives him a
ready command over the organs of speech.

But the most palpable hits, the most enjoy-

52 " TAKING OFF" PERSONAL TRAITS.

able with an average audience, are made by
seizing on some deformity of manner or some
extravagant mode of speech — some mincing nice-
ty, affected grandeur of tone, musical cadence, or
other marked style of intonation. And such a
burlesque imitation may be made by persons
wholly unable to read correctly a single sentence
in their own way.

Thus much for the principles of imitation in
speech. And now let us glance at the means of
"taking off," as it is termed, the personal traits
of physical singularity.

The mimic finds his strongest point in observ-
ing and reproducing in extravagant form some
characteristic gesture or posture, perhaps a sway-
ing of the body, a shake of the head, or it may
be a drawing back of the corners of the mouth,
protruding the lips, depressing the chin, or ob-
structing the free use of the lower jaw and
constricting the muscular action of the larynx ;
all of which peculiar movements are the legiti-
mate means of producing the varied effects of a
marked quality of voice. They are the proper
agents, when used understandingly, for the pur-
pose of expressing the various emotions of the
speaker's mind. But when such marked vocal
means are used unwittingly, or suffered to color
die current of continuous discourse from choice,
they become stumbling blocks in the way of true
expression.

Mr. Charles Mathews the Elder, one of the
most accomplished mimics of the English stage,

THE ELDER MA THEWS. , 53

availed himself of all such accessories of his art,
and produced his effects in a perfectly artistic
manner. By tying a handkerchief over his head
in different ways, drawing up his coat-collar be-
hind, or by brushing his hair back from his face or
up in what was termed the " cock's-comb style,"
he presented a laughable portraiture without the
assistance of vocal idiosyncrasies. A working
of the brows, a wink of the eye, a twist of the
mouth, or dropping of the chin, — each or any of
these tricks, variously adapted to his ever-chang-
ing modes and qualities of voice, was sure to
start a laugh upon the most stony face ; and
when to all this was added his exquisite wit, no
one could withstand the fun of the laugh-pro-
voking gentleman.

Mr. Mathews has had many imitators, and, as
far as grimace and sheer buffoonery go, aided
by " shocking bad " hats, grotesque coat-collars,
and dreadfully exaggerated spectacles, they have
produced considerable merriment ; but they lacked
the crowning point of the mimetic art, which with
him consisted in a thorough knowledge of, and con-
trol over, the causative mechanism of the voice,
by which he was enabled to mimic everybody and
entirely obscure his own identity.

In connection with this subject I will mention
a remarkable case where it will be difficult to
draw the line of demarcation which I have stated
as existing between mimicry and imitation. Half
a century ago, among the celebrities of Philadel-
phia, Dr. C was distinguished not only for

5 *

54 • DR. C OF PHILADELPHIA.

his well-known professional ability, but for his wit
and story-telling propensities. He had what is
termed a cleft palate, and his voice was affect-
ed, as is usual in such cases. This peculiarity
of speech gave great point to his story-telling
accomplishments, and made them still more con-
spicuous.* On the first appearance of the elder
, Mr. Mathews in this country, and while engaged in
Philadelphia in one of his " Budget performances,"
he introduced an imitation of the doctor by relat-
ing one of the stories he had heard him tell in
private ; the audience was taken by surprise, and
applauded the actor's joke and the doctor's story
"to the top of its bent." When Mr. Mathews
was encored he came forward and said, in the
peculiar manner of the doctor, " Ladies and gen-
tlemen : I am constrained to say that it is bad
enough to be subjected to Mr. Mathews' imita-
tion, but' it is still worse to find my fellow-citizens
are anxious to have a second dose of it."

This by no means decreased the amount of
laughter, and in the midst of the uproar it was

* The following witty play upon words is said to have been made by

Dr. C after dining with some gentlemen at a hotel. While sitting

over the wine and cigars the gentlemen had formed themselves into
groups ; at one end of the table the doctor was the attraction, while at

the other was a gentleman who was familiarly known as Sam . He

had been called on to sing. Another person had been asked to confer
the like favor on the group where the doctor sat. Without knowing
their mutual intent, the two gentlemen raised their voices at the same
moment. This of course caused both to desist ; at which the doctor rose
and said, " Oh, of course the gentleman at the head of the table has the
precedence; besides," said he, pointing in that direction, " I would rather
hear psalm- (Sam) singing," and then pointing to the party at his own end
o»f the table, "than hymn- (him) singing."

MATHEWS' S IRRITABILITY. 55

found that one of the audience (a well-known
and influential merchant, advanced in years) had
gone off into laughing hysterics. He was car-
ried home, and laid upon the floor in one of his
parlors in a terrible state of spasmodic laughter,
totally unable to control himself.

His physician, Dr. C , was sent for, and

speedily came. Upon seeing his patient he ex-
claimed, in his usually brusque manner, " You
infernal old jackass ! what are you braying about
in this obstreperous manner?" Whereupon the pa-
tient, rolling over on the floor, cried out between
the paroxysms, " Oh, take him away ! take him away!
or I shall die with laughing !" Shakespeare says,
" One fire burns out another's burning," etc.

The story was soon told, at which the doctor
set to laughing in a most boisterous manner,
causing a revulsion in the state of the patient,
who thereupon fell to crying, and in good time
was put to bed, while the doctor sought an early
opportunity of getting even with the laughter-
loving player who had taken him off, and nearly
done for his patient by taking him off too.

One morning, in company with Mr. Mathews,
I was rehearsing a farce of his in which there
are only two characters. He was suffering from
rheumatism, and not at all in an amiable mood.
The smoke from the burning of some greasy
matter found its way to the stage, at which
Mr. Mathews cried out petulantly, "Oh dear!
oh dear! what's that? Now that's unbearable!
Such a stench ! Where can it come from ? Poh !

5 6 MA THE WS'S "£ VENINGS A T HOME."

poh!" I told him the stage-carpenter lived in the
back part of the theatre, and I supposed the odor
came from the kitchen. " Ah, ah, that's it ! that's
it — ' beefsteak done brown.1 You Americans don't
know how to cook ; you burn everything up.
You know the old story : ' Heaven sends meat —
the devil sends cooks.' Hey ? hey ?" I laughed,
and we went on rehearsing. However, I had the
better part of the laugh — " in my sleeve," as the
saying is — for I knew the property-man was burn-
ing his lamp-rags under the stage (we had no gas
then, but used fish oil), and the smell that had
offended our olfactories was something widely dif-
ferent from the cooking of a beefsteak. Consid-
ering the Englishman's proverbially " rare taste,"
this did no credit to his sense of smell.

Mr. Charles Mathews, Jr., in speaking of ner-
vousness, told me he considered his father a per-
fect martyr to his profession. " For," said he,
"his anxiety to have things 'just right,' to hit the
exact effect so squarely as to leave nothing to be
questioned, grew, with his advancing years, to be
little less than a disease. He would spend day
after day and week after week rehearsing 'the
business ' of a new entertainment, and when the
night came no novice ever suffered more fearful
anxiety at a first appearance than did this veteran
of a 'thousand engagements.'! At the opening
of one of his 'Evenings/ called 'At Home,'" said
my informant, "while I was in front noticing the
' effects,' I observed an old-fashioned, comfortable
kind of man, with his wife and daughter, who

A SLEEPY "OLD MUFF." 57

occupied a conspicuous place, having his silk
handkerchief flattened like a pancake on his bald
head. Very soon his eyes closed and he settled
himself back in the seat for a snooze. ' Now,'
said I to myself, 'if father observes this napping
chap, there will be Old Scratch to pay;' and, sure
enough, he did find out the delinquent, and there-
upon began to talk at the man, and to fidget, fuss,
and splutter to such an extent that I thought he
would certainly 'get out in his words,' How-
ever," continued Mr. Mathews, <4he got through
the first part, and I went ' behind ' to see how he
was getting along ; but, oh dear ! such a state of
irritability as I found him in I cannot describe.
He burst out with, ' Did you ever see such an
exhibition ?' — ' Why, it was a perfect success/ I
replied. — * No, no, no !' said my father. ' Charles !
Charles! I tell you he will be the death of me,
that old muff with his handkerchief slipping over
his eyes and his head nid-nodding like a plaster
image on a mantel. Oh, it's dreadful ! I can't go
on, Charles, unless you stop him, turn him out,
or abolish him. He'll destroy me ! he'll destroy
everything !' I therefore went in front, and found
an opportunity to get at the old gentleman be-
fore the curtain rose again, and told him he would
oblige me if he would not go to sleep. At which
he began in the most pathetic manner to express
his regrets, saying, in a way which attracted the
attention of the audience, 'Why, is it possible
that I annoyed my dear old friend Mr. Mathews ?
Why, I am sorry indeed ; I can never forgive my-

5 A LAUGHING HYENA.

self for such a thing-. To be sure I will keep awake.
I really am ashamed that I should be guilty of
falling asleep while my old friend was being so
funny. Never fear, sir; I'll keep awake, sir!'

" All things being ready, the curtain rose for the
second part, 'and all went merry as a marriage-
bell/ But oh, terrible to relate, the old muff, now
fully aroused to the necessity of keeping awake,
and, I have no doubt, alive to the fun which was
shaking the sides of the audience, began to laugh
until he at length made himself 'the observed of
all observers.' You must see, of course, that this
threw things 'out of the frying-pan into the fire/
as the old saying has it. For father, more dis-
gusted now than ever, began to show unmistak-
able signs of a disturbing element in his acting
which threatened an explosion ; and not until the
curtain fell was I free from the apprehension that
he would (unable to bear the infliction) cry out,
' I'll give five pounds to anybody who will choke
that laughing hyena or carry him out!' How-
ever, the performance came to an end without
such a disaster taking place, while father's good-
nature, after the excitement had passed off, found
real enjoyment and a hearty laugh at the sleepy
' old muff/ with the red bandanna handkerchief for
a wig, whose nid-nodding had nearly turned the
tables on the comedian, by causing him to choke
with anger when he was striving to convulse
others with merriment, and who had afterward
set the audience in a roar by out-laughing the
laughers."

CHAPTER III.

THE PLAYERS OF A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

following lines from Churchill's Rosciad
so aptly illustrate the subject of my remarks
that I am induced to think the reader may not
find them so familiar as to think their introduction
out of place :

By turns transform'd into all kinds of shapes,

Constant to none, Foote laughs, cries, struts, and scrapes;

Now in the centre, now in van or rear,

The Proteus shifts — bawd, parson, auctioneer.

His strokes of humor and his bursts of sport

Are all contain'd in this one word — distort.

Doth a man stutter, look asquint, or halt,

Mimics draw humor out of Nature's fault ;

With personal defects their mirth adorn,

And hang misfortunes out to public scorn.

E'en I, whom Nature cast in hideous mould,

Whom, having made, she trembled to behold,

Beneath the load of mimicry may groan,

And find that Nature's errors are my own.

Shadows behind of Foote and Woodward came ;

Wilkinson this, Obrien was that name.

Strange to relate, but wonderfully true,

That even shadows have their shadows too !

With not a single comic power endued,

The first a mere, mere mimic's mimic stood;

The last, by Nature form'd to. please, who shows

In Jonson's Stephen which way genius grows,

59

60 CHURCHILL'S "ROSCIAD."

Self quite put off, affects with too much art
To put on Woodward in each mangled part ;
Adopts his shrug, his wink, his stare — nay, more,
His voice, and croaks ; for Woodward croak'd before.
When a dull copier simple grace neglects,
And rests his imitation on defects,
We readily forgive ; but such vile arts
Are double guilt in men of real parts.

By Nature form'd in her perversest mood
With no one requisite of art endued,
Next Jackson came. Observe that settled glare,
Which better speaks a puppet than a player;
List to that voice : did ever Discord hear
Sounds so well fitted to her untuned ear?
When, to enforce some very tender part,
The right hand sleeps by instinct on the heart,
His soul, of every other thought bereft,
Is anxious only where to place the left ;
He sobs and pants to soothe his weeping spouse —
To soothe his weeping mother turns and bows ;
Awkward, embarrass'd, stiff, without the skill
Of moving gracefully or standing still,
One leg, as if suspicious of his brother,
Desirous seems to run away from t'other.

Some errors, handed down from age to age,
Plead custom's force, and still possess the stage.
That's vile. Should we a parent's faults adore,
And err because our fathers erred before ?
If, inattentive to the author's mind,
Some actors made the jest they could not find,
If by low tricks they marr'd fair Nature's mien,
And blurred the graces of the simple scene, —
Shall we, if reason rightly is employed,
Not see their faults, or, seeing, not avoid ?
When Falstaff stands detected in a lie,
Why, without meaning, rolls Love's glassy eye ?
Why? There's no cause — at least no cause we know:
It was the fashion twenty years ago.

GARRICK AS A MANAGER. 6l

Fashion ! — a word which knaves and fools may use

Their knavery and folly to excuse.

To copy beauties forfeits all pretence

To fame ; to copy faults is want of sense.

" The heroes before Agamemnon had no poets,
and they died." What a world of suggestion is
contained in such a saying! and how fortunate
have been the actors whose characters, and imper-
sonations of character, have been admired and
cherished by poets and historians !

Garrick, as a necessary consequence of his pro-
fession, has left no material evidence of his art
that can be tested by the criticisms of the present,
so that his merits must be viewed through the
sketches of the past — of contemporary appre-
ciation or prejudice. The age in which Garrick
lived and acted was noted for its literature and its
taste in art. He was popular with all classes, and
the social equal of his educated admirers ; there-
fore, the record of his merits as a man and his
talents as an actor has come down to us with all
the advantages of cultivated tradition.

o

It must be remembered that as a manager he
was enabled, by his controlling power, to keep
competitive acting out of his way. No performer
was. tolerated in his company whose peculiar cha-
racteristics marked him as a rival. In the parts
he had made, as it is said, his own, no one was
allowed to appear except upon conditions and
under circumstances which he dictated and con-
trolled. Even his female performers were subject
to that jealousy which brooked no rival near the

62 HOLLAND THE PLAYER.

theatrical throne. It has been said the mantle of
his genius never descended to grace the shoulders
of another as he wore it.* The same, however,
cannot be said of his managerial habits of acquir-
ing by all available means a lion's share of popu-
lar favor, and keeping it solely to himself.

The history of the drama, both here and in
England, shows numerous instances of actors
who by " managing means " have made them-

* Holland, a pupil of Mr. Garrick, under whose tuition he made some
proficiency, though he seldom merited more praise than that of being a
tolerable copy of a fine original, first appeared on the stage in 1755. He
was a good-looking man, but had an affectation of carrying his head either
stiffly erect or leaning toward one shoulder, which gave an awkwardness
to his person, which was not otherwise ungraceful. Holland's ear was
perfectly good, and he had great good sense, industry, and application, with
a moderate share of sensibility. He had also a fine, powerful, melodious,
and articulate voice, and by a constant attention to the tone, manner, and
action of Mr. Garrick did not displease when he represented some of his
most favorite characters, particularly Hamlet, Chamont, Hastings, and
Tancred ; in the last he manifested an uncommon degree of spirit. He
was, however, always most correct when acting under the eye and imme-
diate direction of his master ; he was then scrupulously exact ; and if he
never rose to excellence, his endeavors to attain it merited and obtained
the approbation of the public.

Next Holland came. With truly tragic stalk

He creeps, he flies — a hero should not walk

As if with Heaven he warr'd ; his eager eyes

Planted their batteries against the skies ;

Attitude, action, air, pause, start, sigh, groan,

He borrowed, and made use of as his own.

By fortune thrown on any other stage,

He might, perhaps, have pleased an easy age ;

But now appears a copy, and no more,

Of something better we have seen before.

The actor who would build a solid fame

Must Imitation's servile arts disdain —

Act from himself, on his own bottom stand :

I hate e'en Garrick thus at second-hand. — Churchill.

GARRICK'S ACTING. 63

selves stars of popular splendor while refusing \
others a chance to shine.

The charm of Garrick's acting, we have every
reason to believe, was its naturalness and smooth-
ness. It has been said that while he never start-
led his auditors with unexpected flashes of genius,
he riveted their attention by an exhibition of match-
less skill. He depicted the human passions as
they were portrayed in the language of the cha-
racter he represented, not only by his well-man-
aged intonations and other expressive qualities
of voice, but by disciplined art as a pantomimist.
Hence he was enabled to captivate both the eye
and the ear of his auditor. He thoroughly identi-
fied himself with the spirit of his author, and could
delineate the passions in dumb show as well as by
vocal power. He was a consummate mimic, a bril-
liant wit, a keen observer, and a practised man of
the world, round whom celebrities might cluster and
gather additional store of humor and social wealth.

From such a combination of artistic material
and intellectual endowment, superadded to the
graces of a lively poetic imagination, he could
not fail to grasp the dramatic sceptre, and wield
it with commanding effect among the subjects of
the mimic scene.

At the same time that the wits, literati, and
scientists of the age were his admirers at the
" clubs," in domestic life they delighted to be wel-
comed at his own generous board, where were
always to be found " the feast of reason and the
flow of soul."

64 GARRICK AND GOLDSMITH.

The age, too, in which Garrick lived and won
and wore his distinctions afforded him an intel-
lectual and cultivated audience, well calculated to
inspire the actor with more than ordinary enthu-
siasm in the study and practice of his profession.
The most distinguished men in literature, science,
and art thronged the theatre, listened to the lan-
guage of the play, and enjoyed the masterly de-
lineations of the actors, not merely as a light and
trifling mode of passing the time, but as a men-
tal gratification, an artistic study, and a pleasing
exhibition of human nature.

The ability of the great actor to distinguish
himself among the wits of the day may be esti-
mated from a reading of the following epigram-
matic poems. It may be observed also that his
peculiar way of dealing in theatrical affairs behind
and before the curtain was not unknown to those
who were his familiars in convivial matters and
in professional pen-and-ink traffic.

Dr. Goldsmith's satiric wit was much affected
by his good-nature, while the naturalness and sim-
plicity of the man shone through even his most
inconsistent and bitter invectives. The same can-
not be said of Garrick, who may be charged with
writing and saying brilliant and biting things for
the mere love of the applause they produced.
The two men were the antipodes of each other
in nature and disposition.

As the story runs, on a certain festive occa-
sion at a literary club the members agreed to
write epitaphs on their fellow-member, Dr. Gold-

GOLDSMITH'S AND GARRICK' S EPITAPHS. 65

smith, in order to provoke him to reply in kind.
Garrick's effort in this direction is chronicled in
the following lines, entitled

JUPITER AND MERCURY: A FABLE.
BY DAVID GARRICK.

" Here, Hermes !" says Jove, who with nectar was mellow,
" Go, fetch me some clay : I will make an odd fellow.
Right and wrong shall be jumbled, much gold and some dross;
Without cause be he pleased, without cause be he cross :
Be sure, as I work, to throw in contradictions —
A great lover of truth, yet a mind turned to fictions.
Now mix these ingredients, which, warmed in the baking,
Turn to learning and gaming, religion and raking.
With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste ;
Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste.
That the rake and the poet o'er all may be seen,
Set fire to his head and give heat to his spleen.
For the joy of each sex on the world I'll bestow it,
The scholar, rake, Christian, dupe, gamester, and poet.
Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame,
And among brother-mortals be Goldsmith his name :
When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear,
You, Hermes, shall fetch him to make us sport here."

PORTRAIT OF DAVID GARRICK.
BY DR. GOLDSMITH.

Here lies David Garrick : describe him who can —
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man.
As an actor confessed without rival to shine ;
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line.
Yet with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings — a dupe to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty his colors he spread,
And he plastered with rouge his own natural red.
6* B

66 STEELE ON GARRICK.

On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting ;

'Twas only that, when he was off he was acting.

With no reason on earth to go out of his way,

He turned and he varied full ten times a day :

Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick

If they were not his own by finessing and trick,

He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack,

For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back.

Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came,

And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame ;

Till, his relish grown callous almost to disease,

Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please.

But let us be candid, and speak out our mind :

If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.

Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave,

What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave !

How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you raised,

While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-praised !

But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies

To act as an angel and mix with the skies !

Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill

Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will,

Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love,

And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.

Sir Joshua Steele, in his work on The Measure
and Melody of Speech, published in 1775, gave an
original notation of some points concerning Gar-
rick's manner of reading. From this, as well as
from observations in other quarters, I have been
enabled to form an idea of the great actor's style.

The speech-notation of Steele resembles a sheet
of music in appearance, the notes of speech being
written on the five lines of the staff, minus the
clefs and signatures. It marks the pitch of syl-
lables, and their quantity and the time and rate of

GARRICK'S READING OF HAMLET. 6j

movement. By this system a copy can be made
of any speaker's mode of delivery, and read intel-
ligently by another, who would thus be enabled to
judge of the manner without hearing the recital.

Garrick's reading of Hamlet's soliloquy on death
appears to have been an impressive and tranquil
utterance of reflective thought, without impas-
sioned or demonstrative emphasis or significant
accentual stress ; with little or no distinction of
loud and soft, but nearly uniform, something below s
ordinary force, or, as Steele said, " sotto voce or ^
poco piano." He also says Garrick was distinctly \
heard in the most subdued tones of his voice in
every part of the house, while other actors around
him, though often offensively loud, were scarcely
intelligible. This essential quality of voice was
doubtless owing to his well -managed syllabic
quantities, wherein the tone was sustained with
a uniformity of sound to the entire extent of the
syllable. The upward and downward intervals
were within the compass of thirds and fifths, ex-
cept for unusual emphasis, while the movement of
the voice was marked by deliberate rather than by
rapid time.

Garrick's clearly-distinct and well-rounded tones
of subdued or undemonstrative speech kept his
audience in a state of mental quietude commensu-
rate with the subject of his recital when his main
object was to fix their attention and minister to
their understanding; consequently, when he be-
came aroused by the spirit of the language, they
were in a condition to receive and appreciate the

68 STEELE ON MOSSOP.

stronger enforcements of his more impassioned
presentations.

Such a judicious grouping of tone, time, and
force must have been more agreeable to his audi-
ence than continuous intermingled and crowded
impressions, the result of injudicious vehemence
or monotony, such as marked the manner of many
of the actors of that period.

Before the author of The Measure and Melody
of Speech saw Garrick act he made a notation of
what must have been the manner of the tragedian
Mossop, who was the object of Churchill's poetic
censure, on account, chiefly, of his unvarying tone
and indiscriminate emphasis. His recitation must
have been measured, grandiloquent, and stately,
consequently inexpressive and tiresome. Churchill
says ;

With studied impropriety of speech

He soars beyond the hackney'd critic's reach ;

To epithets allots emphatic state,

Whilst principals, ungraced, like lackeys wait ;

In ways first trodden by himself excels,

And stands alone in indeclinables ;

Conjunction, preposition, adverb, join

To stamp new vigor on the nervous line ;

In monosyllables his thunders roll,

He, she, it, and, we, ye, they, fright the soul.

I may here remark that the "mouthing" re-
ferred to in Hamlet's advice to the players, as I
understand it, is a measured uniformity of speech,
which gives the same distinct utterance to the un-
accented syllables as to those on which the accent

"TRIPPINGLY ON THE TONGUE." 69

falls. This was Mossop's fault, the same that
Shakespeare found with the recitation of his day.*
The phrase " trippingly on the tongue " means
movement in speech, which strikes the accented
syllable with a proper force and quantity, and
passes lightly, though correctly, over the unac-
cented syllables of the line. This must have been
Garrick's grace of utterance, and is what Shake-
speare meant by these words, so frequently quoted
and so little understood. The same idea is again
expressed by our author in the following : " Whose
name runs smoothly in the even flow of a blank

verse."

* The following comments on the style of a certain orator apply so well
to many of the actors of Garrick's time that I have given it a place as per-
tinent matter. The writer says of the subject of his article: "He is not
an impressive speaker. There is, indeed, about him an appearance of
impressiveness very likely to deceive for a few moments, but the illusion is
soon lost, and the result is monotony and fatigue. Effect is so carefully
calculated, so steadily aimed at, that it is missed amid the machinery which
is used to produce it. The orator, no less than the actor, if he would
move men, must now and then forget himself in his subject, or at least

seem to do so. Mr. never forgets or seems to forget himself. He

delivers himself in the large orotund, pompous way which is as much out
of fashion as the Kemble school of acting, so far as we of this generation
know anything of that school. The same allowance of elocution is meted
to all parts of the speech, which therefore moves along a dead level,
although the level is artificially forced to a sort of high table-land. The
commonplaces of an address, the asides, the subordinate parts, are given
out with the measured magnificence and deliberation which may properly

belong to important utterances and eloquent climaxes. If Mr. were

an actor he would deliver a footman's « My lord, the carriage waits,' with
the same pose, the same precision, the same volume, which he would give
to Lear's curse or Othello's address to the senate. His method is the
reverse of popular. It is opposed to the naturalness and the simplicity
which the taste of the time demands in all kinds of art. We miss the
relief, the nice proportion, the real repose, which is the last charm of
oratory."

70 MONBODDO ON STEELE'S NOTATION.

When Steele's notation of speech was explained
to Garrick he asked if anybody, by the help of
such notes, could pronounce his words in exactly
the same tone and manner as he did himself. The
reply was : " Suppose a great musician had written
a piece of music, and had played it on a very fine
violin, and then another performer had played
the same composition on an ordinary fiddle with
the same accuracy as the great master, though
perhaps with less ease and elegance ? In such a
case, no matter how correctly the music might be
played on the poor fiddle, nothing could prevent
the audience from perceiving the difference in the
instruments — that one was fine and beautiful, the
other mean and execrable. And so, though the
speech-notes, and the rules by which they are
expressed, may enable a master to teach a just
application of the expressive forms of speaking,
they cannot give sweetness to a voice where Na-
ture has denied such a gift."

Lord Monboddo, the author of The Origin and
Progress of Language^ says of Steele's notation :
" Upon the whole, it is my opinion — and I find it
the opinion of all the musical men here to whom
I have shown it — that Mr. Steele's dissertation is
a most ingenious performance. It is reducing to
an art what was thought incapable of all rule and
measure, and it shows that there is a melody and
a rhythm in our language which I doubt not may
be improved by observing and noting what is most
excellent of the kind in the best speakers. In that
way I should think that both the voice and ear of

IMPROVEMENT IN DECLAMATION. 71

those who do not speak so well might be mended,
and even the declamation of our best actors may
be improved, by observing in what respects they
fall short or exceed ; for as soon as a thing is
reduced to an art, faults will be found in the best
performers that were not before observed."

CHAPTER IV.

JOHN PHILIP KEMBLE, CHARLES KEAN, AND
COOKE.

JOHN PHILIP KEMBLE, who followed Gar-
rick, must be viewed as an actor entirely
from the tragic standpoint. Coldly classic in his
conceptions, dignified and deliberate in action,
he seems never to have risen above the pall
and gloom of the Tragic Muse. His acting and
bearing upon the stage resembled the sculp-
tured marble of the classic times or the heroic
presentations of the historic canvas. It is said
he suffered from asthma, and that his voice was
deep and hollow, lacking in force, and of little
variety save in the quality of pathos. His effects
were confined within a proper range of height
and depth, and marked with appropriate varia-
tions of quantity.

The late Dr. Walter Channing of Boston was
a lover of Shakespeare and an ardent admirer
of good speaking and reading. In his younger
days he had heard the London celebrities of the
stage, and remembered their several modes of
speaking and the distinctive qualities of their
voices. In comparing notes with the doctor I
remember reciting for him Hamlet's soliloquy on
death, after what I had considered Mr. Kemble's

72

KEMBLE' S READING. 73

manner of delivery, and which I had picked up
from the traditions of the stage. He was sur-
prised when I told him that I had never heard
Mr. Kemble, "For," said he, "your imitation of
his quality and movement of voice and intona-
tion is certainly a well-marked presentation of
the tragedian's manner, without, of course, the
high coloring of a literal likeness." As I re-
marked to Dr. Channing, this might be attrib-
utable to my having acted frequently with Mr.
Charles Kemble, whose manner in tragedy must
have been a close copy of his brother's pecu-
liarities.

The stately movement and the undulating swell
of tone in altitude and depression which marked
Mr. John Kemble's recitation must have been
peculiarly adapted to grave and sombre effects,
and, though it might tardily meet the require-
ments of abrupt and startling passion, it was
fully equal to the expressive demands of inten-
sified grandeur in declamatory force. Imagine,
for instance, the majesty of Kemble's voice giv-
ing utterance to the o'erfraught soul of the proud
Roman as expressed by Shakespeare's Coriolanus,
when Tullus Aufidius tauntingly calls him a " boy
of tears." The outraged hero, towering to the
full height of majestic indignation, exclaims —

Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart

Too great for what contains it. — " Boy ! " O slave !

* * * * * * *

Cut me to pieces, Volsces ; men and lads,

Stain all your edges on me. — "Boy ! " False hound !

7

74 KEMBLE AND GARRICK CONTRASTED.

If you have writ your annals true, 'tis there,
That, like an eagle in a dove-cote, I
Flutter' d your Volsces in Corioli :
Alone I did it— "Boy!"

Deliberate even in impetuous utterance, too
dignified to be boisterous, and too haughty to be
aroused to unbridled anger, the arrogant patrician
would find expressive utterance in the full swell
of "the orotund," the well -sustained force of
"final stress," and every degree of the undulating
"wave." Such forms and quality of voice only
could exhibit the indignant astonishment and sup-
pressed rage with which he greets the insulting
epithet of a "boy of tears." Save in the one
element of absolute force, in which he was want-
ing, there can be no doubt Mr. Kemble's voice
was equal to the emergency of such a situation.

The movement and quality of Garrick's voice
and speech, on the other hand, were comparatively
shorter, sharper, and more rapid, and, it may be
said, harder, consequently better adapted to the
expression of incisive and fierce declamation or
petulant and angry utterances beyond the limit
of dignity, while for the expression of intensified
heroism, love, and pity, or the mingled bitterness
of scorn, hate, and rage, and for all such ardent
presentations of human passion, the English Ros-
cius must have appropriately worn the garland of
the British stage.

Again, Garrick not only possessed the graces
and force of vocal expression, but also all the
physical attributes of action. His features were

HON. EDWARD EVERETT. 75

adapted in an eminent degree to the faithful ex-
hibition of every state of the mind. His person,
though small, was at once compact and flexible,
answering readily to the manifestations of fancy
or will in all the forms of attitude, gesture, and
the general adaptation of physical conformity to
the creative promptings of the imagination or the
more determinate phases of intellectual embodi-
ment.*

I am indebted to Dr. Channing for the follow-
ing interesting statement : The late Hon. Edward
Everett, when a young man in London, called
upon the distinguished tragedian, Mr. Edmund
Kean, and received a few hints relating to his
habits of articulation. Mr. Everett was told that
he paid too much attention to his vowel-sounds,

* One of Garrick's distinguishing characteristics was his power of sud-
denly assuming any passion he was called to represent. This often occurred
during his continental travels, when in the private rooms of his various
hosts — princes, merchants, actors — he would give them a taste of his qual-
ity, Scrub or Richard, Brute or Macbeth, with which he identified himself
on the instant. He once drew tears from his spectators when, in telling
the story of a child falling from a window out of its father's arms, he threw
himself into the attitude and put on the look of horror of that distracted
father. We saw him, says a writer, play the dagger-scene in Macbeth in a
drawing-room in his ordinary dress, surrounded by ladies and gentlemen,
and as his eyes followed the air-drawn dagger the effect was so startling
that the whole assembly broke into a general cry of admiration. Another
writer says his studio was the crowded streets, and he perfected his great
talents by the profound study of Nature. Again he says : " He has much
humor, discernment, and correctness of judgment — is naturally monkeyish,
imitating all he sees, and is always graceful, an admirable dancer, unaf-
fected and natural." It is said that while sitting for his portrait he amused
himself by running the whole scale of the passions, passing through imper-
ceptible gradations from extreme joy to extreme sadness, and thence to
terror and despair. It is even said that this ever-restless actor fairly fright-
ened Hogarth himself. He has been known to set the green-room in a
roar of laughter between the most affecting scenes of King Lear.

76 EVERETT'S MEASURED UTTERANCE.

and did not, as the actor said, attack his conso-
nants with determination ; he should strike them
with pronounced force at the beginning of syl-
lables, and bite them off sharply when they end
them. In illustration of this idea Kean recited the
lines, " I hate thee, Harry, for thy blood of Lan-
caster," and others of a like kind. The distinct
and powerful effect of Kean's articulation made
such an impression on Mr. Everett that he took
the lesson to heart and made it a special study.
But he came near carrying this nicety of articula-
tion to pedantic precision ; exact and explicit as
his enunciation was, one degree more of distinct-
ness would have degenerated into affectation.

Let every initial and final consonant in the
following passage be distinctly pronounced and
given with marked deliberation : " A cup of tea
spilled upon a lady's embroidered petticoat set
the continent of Europe in a blaze ; a few boxes
of tea thrown into Boston harbor cost George
the Third his colonies ;" and the effect will be like
Mr. Everett's measured utterance.

In the absence of expressive effort it may do
to follow the time-honored injunction to distinct-
ly stamp and round our words, "like newly-im-
pressed coin fresh from the mint;" but where
emotion or passion is concerned our words re-
ceive their vocal value from the clear ring of the
metal, rather than from the completeness of form
or impression.

In connection with his habit of over-nice pre-
cision, so called, in the utterance of the conso-

THE ELDER AND YOUNGER KEAN. 77

nants, it will be remembered that Mr. Everett
gave to his vowels a peculiarly distinct vocality,
which afforded a fine coloring to his speech and
made it attractive in an elocutionary sense. On
the contrary, actors who adopted the elder Kean's
style made themselves ridiculous by a labored
effort to give the consonants an undue share of
articulative effect. In consequence of this affec-
tation their vowel-sounds were smothered in the
throat or obscured by husky aspiration. This
studied "effect defective," as Polonius says, was
particularly observable in the acting of Charles
Kean, of whom it may be said that, while he im-
itated the striking peculiarities of his father's artic-
ulative methods, he lacked in a great degree the
vivid and incisive powers of expression for which
the latter was so highly distinguished.

The younger Kean had, in his turn, many im-
itators, who, falling short of his excellence as a
finished tragedian, copied his eccentricities and
exhibited only the objectionable features of his
style. The consequence was, that imitation de-
generated into mimicry, and while Mr. Kean's
acting was applauded to the echo for its artistic
details and breadth of dramatic force, the imitations
of his speech, whenever presented upon the stage
(as they frequently were) by low comedians, were
received with boisterous applause and laughter.

The following lines will give a fair and unex-
aggerated impression of the specific characteris-
tics for which both the elder Kean and his son
were distinguished :

78 SUCKS TONE THE COMEDIAN.

Can'st thou not minister to a mind diseased,

Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,

^aze out the written /roubles of the <£rain

And with some jwee/ ob/ivious antidote

Cleanse the jturTe^/3osom of that perilous stuff

Which weighs upon the ^ear/? — Macbeth, Act V., S. iii.

I am reminded here of an incident that occurred
while I was acting, at the Haymarket Theatre,
London, the character of Rover in Wild Oats —
a part which affords the performer, from the many
quotations he has to deliver, an opportunity of
imitating the style of other actors, which is often
freely indulged in, and generally applauded by the
audience. On the occasion of my first rehearsal
the well-known comedian and manager, the late
Mr. Buckstone, remarked to me that as he and
his brother-comedians had been so much in the
habit of mimicking Mr. Kean, my imitation of
him might not be recognized. I took the hint,
although I shrewdly suspected that Mr. Buck-
stone's real meaning was a London audience
might feel that a stranger had no right to take
liberties with the eccentricities of their distin-
guished actor. Old Mirabel says of his son Bob,
" Mr. Duritete, though I call my son hard names
myself, you sha'n't do so ; for, though Bob is a
sad dog, remember he is nobody's puppy but my

own."

Now, in order to show how far imitation may
degenerate into mimicry, I will quote a few lines
from the character of Shylock in the spirit of an
article that appeared in London Punchy which

GEORGE FREDERICK COOKE. 79

thus criticises Mr. Kean : " We don't like the act- i
ing of Mr. Kean, but we must acknowledge his \
antiquarian researches into the private habits of
Shakespeare's Jew. In speaking of the means of
Shylock's subsistence, by his peculiar pronuncia-
tion of the word ' means ' he proves the Jew to
have been a lover of vegetables, as thus: 'You
take my house when you do take the prop that
doth sustain my house; you take my life when
you do take the beans whereby I live.' " *

From this it will be seen that the actor's pecu-
liarities of articulation were so striking that the
reference to a single word italicised as uttered by
him could be made to create a broad grin wher-
ever it was read.

In marked contrast to the dignified, unimpas-
sioned, and coldly-impressive manner of John
Philip Kemble was the acting of George Fred-
erick Cooke, an actor who divided honors with
that gentleman, and by some was even preferred
to him. Mr. Cooke's voice was powerful and
well sustained throughout — rather hard and sharp,

* The letters m and n are sounded by passing the breath from the glottis
entirely through the nose ; this gives to them a nasal effect, and adds to the
quantity of such words as means, move. The letter b has an unmixed
vocality, and is formed in the larynx, but the sound in its outward course
has a modifying vibration in the fauces, the mouth, and the cavity of the
nose. The vocality of the letter b is short and more or less abrupt. Bat
is a short syllable, man a long one. Now, if the nasal murmur of the m
be cut off, and the letter quickly sounded, the word man will sound like
ban. The peculiar snappy sort of articulation for which the Keans were
distinguished made the pronunciation of the word means, as it fell upon
the ear, sound like beans. By closing the lips tightly, and then opening
them quickly in the utterance of the word mant any person may prove the
truth of the proposition.

8O JOHN KEMBLE AND COOKE.

but remarkable for compass — while the actor's
entire command over it gave it a special effect
in ease and rapidity of movement. In such a
presentation we can readily perceive qualities
which mark a direct departure from the Kemble
rule as striking as that was from the previous
standard of Garrick.

Kemble's acting was marked by a decidedly
oratorical style of delivery, arising from his famil-
iarity with the long and short quantities of classic
verse. On the other hand, Cooke, it is said, wrote
out his Shakespearian blank verse in the form of
prose, in order to facilitate his study and break
up a tendency to a rhythmic delivery. He always
gave the language of his characters in the form of
unpremeditated speech, divested of what Shake-
speare calls the " even flow of a blank verse."
Kemble's style may therefore be termed the
poetic-dramatic, and Cooke's the dramatic-poetic.

Cooke, while excelling in such characters as
Richard the Third and Lear, was unsurpassed in
his impersonation of that remarkable character,
Sir Archie MacSycophant. There is every rea-
son to believe that it was an inimitable and unique
impersonation. The broad Scotch brogue was
sustained throughout in a perfectly correct and
faithful manner, while his oily smoothness and
craft were plainly traceable in every tone, look,
and action of the heartless hypocrite and time-
serving politician.

Such excellence in dramatic art was mainly at-
tributable to the actor's mastery over his voice,

COOKE AND OTHER ACTORS. 8 1

and his skill in adapting it to the play of feature
and bodily action in the familiar expression of
every-day life and character.

In such dramatic power Cooke was the equal
of Garrick, whose Abel Drugger was considered
the perfection of what is now termed " character-
acting" — a performance in which the delineation
of special traits of personal character is consid-
ered of more consequence than the artistic treat-
ment of the language in which the dramatist has
embodied the principles of humanity in the fitting
garb of poetic imagery. Jefferson's Rip Van
Winkle is a type of Nature in the former, while
Booth's Lear was an exposition of the same in
the latter sense. The " letter " of Rip's language
is lost in the vitalizing power of Jefferson's tones,
and by Booth's acting the auditor was raised to
the intellectual plane of the author's language,
thereby realizing the mental as well as the physical
storm which wrecked the fortunes of the brain-
struck Lear.

Next in order after his MacSycophant was
considered Cooke's wonderful performance of
lago, of which it has been said of all the im-
personators of that character he was the only
one who never took the audience into his special
consideration, or evinced a desire to make them
"chuckle over" his successful villainy. On the
contrary, though applauding him for the soldierly
and social traits exhibited in his relations with
Cassio, he never failed to create feelings of the
bitterest hatred for his depraved acts and duplicity.

82 THE IAGO OF COOKE.

He gave to this protean character a pointedly
varied and diverse complexion, fitted to lago's
several relations with the other personages of the
play, each of his assumed dispositions being indi-
vidualized and sustained ; while his unassumed
personal malignity was the crowning-point of art-
istic delineation.

To Othello he was the humble and earnest
though seemingly over-watchful guardian of the
honor of a. respected friend, jealous of everything
likely to detract from the dignity of the officer to
whom he owed the duties of a trusted and valued
subordinate. Avoiding a cringing servility, his
manner was that of submissive though self-re-
specting obedience, and so he won the name of
"honest lago."

To Cassio his self-satisfied, free-and-easy sol-
dier-like bearing became the snare. Never before
was man entrapped by a more seemingly jovial
and courteous invitation to an innocent indulgence
befitting a special occasion, as a relaxation from
the stern duties of war, than that which led the
unhappy lieutenant to folly and disgrace. Yet the
mask under which it was perpetrated was distinct
and opposite to the one worn, in the presence of
the confiding and tortured general.

Toward the foolish Roderigo was turned, and
faithfully, the aspect of a licentious, unscrupulous,
but merry seducer to the basest of actions, which
was logically presented as a gentlemanly recrea-
tion. By a well-sustained levity and jocose indif-
ference, no matter how atrocious the sentiment

ITS MARKED FEATURES. 83

expressed, the victim was blinded to the real in-
tentions of his crafty adviser, and accepted the
proposed murder as a necessary link in a compli-
cated chain of intrigue and villainy — a mere love-
affair, common and excusable. Thus the stimu-
lated and provoked lover accepted the situation
without suspecting the personal object or motive
of the tempting fiend. Such were the meshes
which entangled the feet of Roderigo and dragged
him to infamy and death.

The masquerade in every case was perfect and
distinct from the personalities of the villain, thus
fully interpreting lago's own remarks in the early
part of the play regarding himself:

For when my outward action doth demonstrate
The native act and figure of my heart
In compliment extreme, 'tis not long after
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve
For daws to peck at : I am not what I am.

From the deep secrecy of that baleful centre
of evil, so terribly illuminated in his soliloquies,
flashed forth the fires of malignant hatred as fatal
as the glance from the eyes of the death-darting
cockatrice, while from between his clenched teeth
hissed forth the withering words of resistless doom.
Such, tradition tells us, were the marked features
of Cooke's impersonation of lago.*

* Doran says : " Kemble excelled Cooke in nobleness of presence, but
Cooke surpassed the other in power and compass of voice, which was
sometimes as harsh as Kemble's; and indeed I may say the Kemble voice
was invariably feeble. In statuesque parts and in picturesque characters —
in the Roman Coriolanus and in Hamlet the Dane — Kemble's scholarly
and artistic feeling gave him the precedence ; but in lago, and especially

84 AN ESTIMATE OF COOKE.

In my youth I was much impressed by the
opinions of an old gentleman who was in the
habit of hearing and enjoying, as he said, the
language of Shakespeare rounded and sounded
in his ear, until his understanding was illuminated
and his emotional nature flooded with the sense
and passion it contained ; and he added that the
degree of gratification he derived from the im-
personation depended upon the actors speech
and his ability to merge his own feelings in those
of the part he sustained without Detracting from
the naturalness of the author's portraiture. He
was not a highly-educated man, but judged both
author and actor from the standpoint of common
sense and the impressions made upon his sympa-
thies and passions. Mr. Cooke was always held
up by him a head and shoulders above all his con-
temporaries as the embodiment of dramatic truth.
While the elder Kean, he said, startled and sur-
prised him, he made no impression save that of
one whose impetuosity of temperament and vehe-
mence of speech excited and bewildered the im-
agination, leaving the mind in the unsatisfactory
state of confusion expressed by Cassio after his
drunkenness :

in Richard, Cooke has been adjudged very superior in voice, expression,
and style, ' his manner being more quick, abrupt, and impetuous, and his
attitudes better, as having less the appearance of study.' Off the stage,
during the progress of a play, he did not, like Betterton, preserve the cha-
racter he was acting, nor, like Young, tell gay stories and even sing gay
songs; but he loved to have the strictest order and decorum. Could he
have carried into real life the scrupulousness which at one time he carried
into the mimicry of it, he would have been a better actor and a better
man."

COOKE IN "RICHARD THE THIRD." 85

I remember a mass of things, but nothing distinctly —
A quarrel, but nothing wherefore.

My old-fashioned critic, in speaking of Kean,
used to say that he often uttered his speech as
if he had a mouthful of hot potatoes. Strange
as the remark was, it finds a fellowship with what
Garrick said of Henderson's " wool-and- worsted "
obstruction to vocality.

As an evidence of the estimation in which Mr.
Cooke was held by the scholars of his time the
fact may be cited that Mr. George Ticknor pro-
nounced him the only perfect embodiment of nat-
ural acting he had ever seen, either in this coun-
try or in Europe. The impression made by Mr.
Cooke's impersonation of Richard the Third was
that of bold and manly defiance. There was an
almost entire absence of the aspirated and smoth-
ered tones of fretful spite and complaint which in
our day, with but one illustrious exception, have
marked the acting of Shakespeare's boldest vil-
lain. Cooke's tone of voice indicated a man con-
scious of power and sure of success, who looked
upon the physical obstacles in the way of his
schemes as so many feathers which it only re-
quired a breath of his will to blow aside. The
removal of obnoxious personages was to him a
natural means to the accomplishment of an ambi-
tious end, that end being simply the perpetuation
of the kingly rule of the house of York, which
of course meant the good of the kingdom wrought
through the instrumentality of the axe and block.

86 THE ELDER KEAN AS RICHARD.

The actor impressed his auditor with the idea
that it was the inherent right of the strong to put
the weak out of the way ; which, by the by, was
much the fashion of the times. Practically, he
seemed to consider his deformities as something
which entitled him to compensation at the hands
of fortune for the ill turn Nature had done him.
He sported with his infirmities in the spirit of an
unrelenting philosophy, not attempting to shelter
himself behind them or making them apologies
for his hate.

On the other hand, the elder Kean by his hiss-
ing and snarling tones made the auditor feel that
Richard, in the poet's phrase, " nursed his spleen
to keep it warm." He excited within himself a
constant state of ferocity and disgust for his in-
firmities of mind and body, and snarled out his
hatred for the whole world. In short, he seemed
to feel that if for a moment he lost sight of these
incentives to mischief he would fail to execute his
evil work. Thus the tiger, by his angry growls
and the lashings of his tail, it is said, excites his
passion to a state of intensified fury.

But Cooke, in a more comprehensive treatment
of language, gave it a varied complexion. To the
utterance of exalted thought he gave the clear
ring of a pleasing vocality, and when under the
lash of excited feeling his intonations were those
which Nature has furnished for the expression
of varying kinds and degrees of human passion.

CHAPTER V.
ANECDOTES OF ACTORS.

TV/T R. THOMAS COOPER was the first distin-
guished star-actor on the American stage.
He was an Englishman, and came to this country
before he had won any marked distinction on the
London boards. It is evident that he modelled
himself, if we may so speak, halfway between
Kemble and Cooke ; for he exhibited some of
the peculiarities of both those great actors, he
being a young man and a rising performer when
they were in the height of their popularity. He
was endowed with a fine figure and a voice of
great richness and compass, and was equally
effective in tragedy and the higher range of
comedy.

Without sinking individuality in his imitation,
Cooper depended upon a certain imposing bear-
ing and the power of his well-modulated voice,
rather than upon the strong and determined
effects of dramatic action which have since his
time become so popular. In such characters as
Damon, Virginius, Pierre, and William Tell he
found the material for the special exemplification
of his peculiar powers.

The distinction intended to be suggested here

88 COOPER IN "VENICE PRESERVED:'

is that which exists between the descriptive lan-
guage of human feeling and passion and the more
realizing effect of those qualities when illustrated
in forms which present them direct from the
sources of natural emotion. An exemplification
of these different modes of treatment may be ob-
served in a thoughtful contemplation of the lan-
guage used by Shakespeare in illustrating men
and manners, and in that of many of the elder
dramatists, as well as in the impassioned poetry
of Byron and other writers of that form of com-
position. In the one case passion may be said to
speak directly from the central point of its crea-
tion in the human breast; in the other it is de-
scribed as existing there.

This difference marks the dividing-line between
dramatic poetry and the other forms — epic, lyric,
and ballad.

The tendency to a declamatory style of delivery,
with a voice pleasing in melody and harmonious in
general effect, gave to Mr. Cooper's acting a cha-
racter consonant with the spirit of the following
lines from Otway's tragedy of Venice Preserved.
His acting of Pierre was considered a grand expo-
sition of the " romance of the stage."

JAFFIER.

I'm thinking, Pierre, how that damned starving quality
Called honesty got footing in the world.

PIERRE.

Why, powerful villainy first set it up
For its own ease and safety. Honest men

PIERRE AND JAFFIER. 89

Are the soft, easy cushions on which knaves
Repose and fatten. Were all mankind villains,
They'd starve each other; lawyers would want practice,
Cut-throats reward ; each man would kill his brother
Himself; none would be paid or hanged for murder.
Honesty ! 'Twas a cheat invented first
To bind the hands of bold, deserving rogues,
That fools and cowards might sit safe in power,
And lord it uncontrolled above their betters.

JAFFIER.
Sure, thou art honest ?

PIERRE.

So, indeed, men think me ;
But they're mistaken, Jaffier.
I'm a rogue as well as they —
A fine, gay, bold-faced villain, as thou seest me !
'Tis true I pay my debts when they're contracted ;
I steal from no man ; would not cut a throat
To gain admission to a great man's purse or a lady's favor;
I scorn to flatter

A blown-up fool above me, or crush the wretch beneath me ;
Yet, Jaffier, for all this, I am a villain.

JAFFIER.
A villain ?

PIERRE.

Yes, a most notorious villain —
To see the sufferings of my fellow-creatures,
And own myself a man ; to see our senators
Cheat the deluded people with a show
Of liberty, which yet they ne'er must taste of.
They say by them our hands are free from fetters,
Yet whom they please they lay in basest bonds ;
Bring whom they please to infamy and sorrow ;
Drive us like wrecks down the rough tide of power,
Whilst no hold's left to save us from destruction.
8*

90 MR. COOPER'S CHARACTER.

All that bear this are villains, and I one
Not to rouse up at the great call of Nature
And check the growth of these domestic spoilers,
That make us slaves, and tell us 'tis our charter !

Let the reader imagine the recital of such Ian-

o

guage by an actor of manly form and courtly
bearing, with a fine resonant voice, of good com-
pass, strong in head-tones, musical in cadence, and
highly sympathetic, and a lively impression will be
received of the physical characteristics which made
Cooper a popular favorite in both comedy and
tragedy.

Mr. Cooper was of a proud and rather over-
bearing disposition, but a well-educated man of
the world, and possessed of social qualities that
ensured him a hearty welcome in society. He had,
apparently, but little respect for what the world
knows as the opinion of Mrs. Grundy. For many
years he lived at a little villa on the banks of the
Delaware above Philadelphia. His daughter, an
estimable and accomplished lady, who was on the
stage for a brief period, left it to be married to
Robert Tyler, the son of the ex-President. During
the administration of John Tyler, he being a wid-
ower, Mrs. Robert Tyler did the honors of the
White House.

Our tragedian was one day taking his usual
stroll on Chestnut street, Philadelphia, when he
went for a moment into the old State-House.
Judge Robert Conrad, the well-known poet and
dramatist, was presiding at court in one of the
rooms appropriated to the holding of legal tribu-

AN ANECDOTE OF COOPER. 9!

nals. David Paul Brown, the distinguished crim-
inal lawyer, was addressing the jury, and seated
at the table within the prescribed circle fronting
the judges were quite a number of members of
the bar, while a crowd of people sitting or stand-
ing outside were watching the proceedings of the
court. The case on trial was one of public inte-
rest in which an Israelite prominently figured —
exactly how I do not now recollect.

Before proceeding with my story, however, I
must say that Mr. Edwin Thayer, the accom-
plished gentleman and elegant comedian of the
old school, as it is termed, was a constant attend-
ant at the court-house in his hours of leisure, be-
ing fond of public speaking, and more especially
of the arguments of distinguished lawyers. He
was a particular friend of Cooper, though entirely
opposite to him in disposition and habits. Mr.
Thayer was shy of public notice (aside from his
position on the stage), refined in his tastes, and
punctilious in his deportment; while Mr. Cooper
was of a free-and-easy bearing, fond of a joke,
and, for a gentleman, at times rather boisterous
in his manner.

Mr. Thayer, upon the occasion referred to, had
taken a seat — which the courtesy of the lawyers
often afforded him — within the legal circle, and
occupied rather a conspicuous position. During
a profound silence, while Mr. Brown was looking
out an authority, Mr. Thayer heard his name dis-
tinctly pronounced ; looking up he saw, to his
astonishment and discomfiture, the unmistakable

92 HON. WILLIAM C. PRESTON.

personality of Mr. Cooper, with eye-glass in hand,
standing right in the entrance to the inner bar.
After saluting Thayer in the most familiar manner
and with provoking indifference to the legal solem-
nity of the surroundings, the tragedian exclaimed,
in the well-known words of Portia in the scene
with Shylock, " Thayer ! Thayer ! which is the
merchant here, and which the Jew?"

As Mr. Thayer afterward remarked, he was
ready to sink through the floor, while laughter
and confusion reigned over the scene in spite of
judicial and legal dignity. Before order was re-
stored the tragedian, having dismayed his friend
and made his hit with the audience, disappeared,
without waiting for the anticipated onslaught of
the tipstaves, who were evidently ready to inves-
tigate his case ; he having, in the language of
the play, " disturbed cool Justice in her judg-
ment-seat" by raising laughter and exciting ap-
plause.

During 1838 or '39, while acting in the city of
Washington, it was my good fortune to become
acquainted with the Hon. William C. Preston,
U. S. Senator from South Carolina, and at one
time president of Columbia College. Mr. Pres-
ton was a gentleman of very fine and commanding
appearance, of classic culture and refinement, and
one of the most distinguished orators of the day.
His delivery was marked in an eminent degree
by all the graces and beauty of a highly-culti-
vated and impressive style. His speaking in the
Senate Chamber was always sure to call out a

MR. PRESTON'S REMINISCENCE. 93

large audience of admirers who were independ-
ent of any political bias.

In the course of a mid-day breakfast (or lunch,
as we call it now) to which I was invited by Mr.
Preston, that I might enjoy the society of some of
his intimate friends, among the subjects discussed
was that of public speaking. Mr. Preston re-
marked that in early life he had not paid especial
attention to the study of elocution, for which the
advantages offered in those times, even in our col-
leges, were very limited. And to show how he had
been led to a more determined practical consider-
ation of the subject, he related the following inci-
dent, which occurred while he was taking his final
course of studies in the English metropolis. One
night, after having seen Macready act, while lying
awake revolving in his mind the many ideas he
had received from the finished acting of the tra-
gedian, and the new light which had been shed
upon the author's language, he was suddenly
startled from his reverie and sprang from his
bed. The first impression was that a terrible
crime was being committed, for prominent amidst
the unearthly sounds which proceeded from the
apartments below the cry of "Murder!" had
struck upon his ear, apparently gasped out in
agony. As he listened the sounds seemed to die
away in suppressed, smothered tones. Again they
became distinctly audible, and the voice assumed
a weird character that seemed like the meanings
of distress, at one time husky, and again hollow
and sepulchral, with repeated exclamations of

94 MACREADY'S MIDNIGHT REHEARSAL.

"Sleep no more! sleep no more!" and " Mur-
dered ! murdered ! " — all suggesting a fearful
nightmare struggle.

Astonished and bewildered, Mr. Preston stood
doubting his sense of hearing or the reality of the
disturbing sounds, when again came " Murdered !
murdered ! murdered ! " in every note of the
gamut. No longer doubting, he sprang to the
door and called loudly, over the banisters, to the
dark void below, " Hallo there ! hallo ! " A door
opened, and out flashed a candle and a night-
capped head. Then came a voice saying, " Don't
be alarmed, sir ; don't be alarmed ; it is only Mr.
Macready the tragedian ; he is dreaming, or acting
in his sleep, or practising the words of his part.
Don't be frightened, sir; we are all used to such
things here, sir. We are all used to it, so don't
be alarmed." The head and the candle disap-
peared, and Mr. Preston returned to his bed. The
next morning an apologetic note brought an ex-
planation. The tragedian, not being satisfied with
his treatment of the murder-scene in his last per-
formance, had been submitting the words "mur-
der" and "murdered" to a kind of aspirated and
husky utterance in different degrees, high and
low, and, becoming interested in the trial, had
forgotten the near proximity of the other inmates
of the house, and had applied a more than usual
degree of force to his experiments ; and thus the
mystery was explained.

" From that hour," said Mr. Preston, " I deter-
mined to pursue a different course in my ora-

INCAPACITY TO REPRODUCE SOUNDS. 95

torical studies, and began to test by practical
methods the power of words and the expressive
character of the tones severally belonging to their
different rates of movement, variety of pitch, and
other qualities. The consequence has been that
my interest in language as a medium of expres-
sion has been considerably increased, my ear
better tuned to an appreciative state of hearing,
and my vocal powers very much improved."

A careful observation of the sounds peculiar to
the different elements of speech has impressed me
with the wonderful differences in the capacity of
people to reproduce the inflections and intona-
tions of a teacher's voice in elocutionary instruc-
tion, more especially where the pupil is expected
to enunciate as the tutor does without the dis-
cipline of elementary details. The incapacity, in
such cases, arises either from a lack of ear or
inability to mark distinctions in sound, or, if able
to do that, a want of ability to reproduce the
sounds in accordance with any example given by
the voice of another.

Fully recognizing these difficulties, I have often
had occasion to smile at the painstaking but to-
tally ineffectual attempts on the part of those
directing stage-rehearsals to teach a subordinate
actor some peculiar but necessary mode of utter-
ing a sentence. Mr. Macready, who had drilled
his own voice to the execution of the most minute
intervals in syllabic utterance, was exceedingly
desirous of having certain .words spoken in a par-
ticular way, in order that the voice of the actor

96 MACREADY'S PECULIARITY OF VOICE.

addressing him might be entirely in accord with
the tone of the sentiment with which he had to
reply. In an artistic sense this was certainly
proper, but I never knew an instance where the
result in such cases was satisfactory. The reason
is obvious: the directions are generally given in
a nomenclature technical in its character and un-
intelligible to the person addressed, in addition
to which the vocal organs, from want of disci-
pline, are in most cases totally unable, at the
command of the will, to produce, without consid-
erable previous practice, those effects which are
always promptly obedient to the demands of emo-
tion and passion when invoked by the cultivated
and experienced speaker.

A very striking illustration of this subject may
be found in a stage-story related of Mr. Macready.
In order, however, to give a proper idea of the
point involved, it will be necessary to call the
attention of my readers to a characteristic pecu-
liarity of the great tragedian, the ordinary current
of whose articulation was marked by a certain
catching of the breath preceding the utterance
of the initial syllable of certain words. A sudden
catch of the glottis, which causes a short, cough-
like sound to be heard previous to the articulative
movement of the voice, was a distinctly- marked
characteristic of Kean's utterance, never before
observed in any other actor in this country. This
peculiar organic act is the result of a dropping of
the jaw and consequent depression of the larynx ;
it gives strength to the muscles which are called

ENGLISH AFFECTATIONS. 97

into play and control the organs of vocality, thus
enabling the speaker to execute that abrupt
movement by which he expels the vowel-sound
from what may be called the cavernous parts of
the mouth — that space which includes the roots
of the tongue, the glottis, and pharynx. This
power, when joined to the guttural murmur or
deeply-aspirated quality of the voice, is a strong
element oL expressive force in the suppressive
utterance of passionate language in the drama.
Like in kind, but differing in degree of force to
the vocal catch of the glottis which I have referred
to, is that remarkable effect so observable among
public-speaking Englishmen, who exhibit a kind
of iterated murmur along with an apparent hesi-
tation, as it were, in the choice of words, recalling
the one last uttered to supply its place with one
more appropriate ; it is this that causes that soft
rattling sound in the throat which resembles the
closely-repeated utterance of the letter u as heard
in up, and forms a sort of muttering or grumbling
effect of voice. I have attempted to explain this
manner of speech, because I wish to show that it
can be traced back as far as to the personal pro-
nunciation of King George the Third. Dr. John
Walcott, in a poem ridiculing the king, says of
his eccentricities of speech —

And lo ! no single thing came in his way
That, full of deep research, he did not say,
" What's this? Hay! hay? What's that?
What's that ? What's this ? What's that?

98 WILKINSON'S IMITATION OF GARRICK.

"True," said the cautious monarch with a smile,
" From malt — malt — malt — I meant malt

All the while.

I did, I did, I did, I, I, I, I!"

So quick the words too when he deigned to speak,

As if each syllable would break its neck.

Such was the singular habit of speech which made
the old king the object of ridicule among his sub-
jects. There is no doubt that Garrick — who was
nothing if not in the fashion, especially in court-
matters — mimicked this peculiarity of the king,
and finally came to adopt it in his own conver-
sation off the stage. This was sufficient to make
it fashionable among those who imitated the great
actor's mode of talking. Tate Wilkinson, who
used to mimic Garrick's manner in conversation,
gave great prominence to his habit of quick speech
and repetition of phrases in taking off the theatri-
cal monarch. The following will give some idea
of Wilkinson's imitation : " Hey ! now, Wilkie, you
know, Wilkie, you m-mustn't, uh, m-mustn't take
me o-off, in-in your-r devilish funny wa-a-y u-uv
making people 1-1-laugh, uh-uh-you know, be-
cause, uh, you know, Wilkie, it doesn't do, you, uh,
know, to make your-r manager ridiculous, uh-uh,
you know.'*

Although a great mimic himself, and in the habit
of taking off others in a most unwarrantable style,
as it is said, Garrick was very sensitive about the
mimicry of his own personal traits. Foote's imi-
tation of Garrick's dying-scene in Lothario was an
annoyance to Garrick and a delight to ' the town,

MACREADY' S EVENING RECEPTION. 99

particularly at the concluding words : "Adorns my
tale, and che-che-che-che-che-cheers my heart in
dy-dy-dy-dying."

Now, next in line of succession, as we may say,
was the elder Kean, who when a boy picked up
this " trick of the tongue " from some follower of
Garrick, and for the special effect he saw in it
grafted it on the stock of his own manner of
speech. But in Kean's case the catch of the
glottis became a more positive movement than
that used in conversation, and in connection with
his other strongly- marked modes of utterance
gave a wonderful and even startling effect to his
delivery. In Kean's time the imitators were nu-
merous, and finally Mr. Macready caught the infec-
tion ; and, as every habit with that gentleman
became second nature, he employed the catch of
the glottis until it became strongly characteristic
of his speech on and off the stage.

At the time I retired from the stage to lecture
upon, and teach the principles of, Rush's Philoso-
phy of the Voice — I think about 1843 — m tne a^-
joining law-offices of the Hon. George S. Hillard
and the Hon. Charles Sumner I had the pleasure
of meeting and becoming acquainted with Mr.
William Macready. At the close of his American
engagements, and before sailing for Europe, he
took leave of his friends and acquaintances at
an evening reception given by him in the spacious
and elegant rooms of Papanti, Boston's celebrated
dancing-master. The evening was occupied first
with readings from Shakespeare and other poets,

100 AN INDIGNANT TRAGEDIAN.

and thereafter with a supper and social enjoyment.
I well remember the admiration with which I be-
held an elegant and refined gentleman offering an
intellectual feast by his readings and recitations to
some of the most distinguished ladies and gentle-
men of a metropolis celebrated for its refinement
and cultivated taste, and then mingling with the
assemblage and courteously discharging the duties
of a host. In contemplating such a scene I was
glad to acknowledge Mr. Macready as a represen-
tative man of the profession of which I was a
member.

The next morning, while enjoying a pleasant
chat with Mr. Hillard, Mr. Macready came in and
began an open conversation with Mr. Sumner,
who acted as his legal adviser in a friendly way.
He held in his hand a letter from Papanti, and
appeared to be much irritated on account of a
misunderstanding by which some extras had been
introduced into his bill that the agreement did not
justify. He became excited, and spoke with great
decision and ^>ra:ision. I was struck at once with
the similarity of his every-day style of impressive
speech to Jhis dramatic method of dealing with
language, and was convinced that his peculiarity
of utterance in each case was a trick, as it were,
of custom, rather than the result of intention. It
is astonishing how easily persons may acquire
habits of speech of which they may be uncon-
scious, and from which they are seldom free.

" But, Mr. Sumner," said Mr. Macready, " the
thing doesn't admit of a-a-argument. Mr. Papanti,

MACREADY'S CONVERSATIONAL STYLE. IOI

I have n-no doubt, is a very good person, but
e-e-evidently his memory is not as good a-a-as his
manners. He has made the mistake to which he
alludes, and not i-I-I. The proposition was his ; I
accepted it, and have complied with the agreement
literally. I shall not, under present circumstances,
reconsider the matter. As long as M-I know I
a-a-am right I shall consider Mr. Papanti wrong ;
and if he applies to you, why tell him, if you
please, that my m-m-mind is made up — positively,
positively, and therefore Mr. Papanti will a-a-act
as he pleases ; but I must say his present
m-m-method does not please me. Pray excuse my
positiveness, but plain talk saves time." *

As nearly as I can remember such were Mr.
Macready's words, and as nearly as I can here
reproduce a very strong impression such was his
manner of speaking. In connection with this sub-
ject I will mention an incident showing something
of the tragedian's method at rehearsal.

The play was Macbeth. An actor slow of speech
and dull of comprehension was to deliver the lines
of the terrified messenger who announces the su-
pernatural coming of Birnam Wood. Being par-
ticularly anxious to execute the directions given
to him — as justice compels me to acknowledge is
generally the case with subordinate performers —
he listened attentively to the preparatory remarks
by which the tragedian endeavored to inform him

* The hesitating articulative utterance of the initial vowel of some of the
words indicated by a repetition in smaller type is in reality more like a
slight muttering of the letter u as heard in up than the sound of any other
letter.

9*

102 "MACBETH" REHEARSED.

how very important it was to him (Macbeth) to
have the news properly enunciated. This state-
ment, made in the measured tones of Mr. Macrea-
dy, was quite sufficient to render the man nervous,
and he began in faltering accents — entirely nat-
ural to him at least, considering his situation and
the state of his mind —

"As I did stand my watch upon the hill,
I looked towards Birnam, and anon
Methought the wood began to move."

To which Macbeth replied —
"Liar and slave!"

Falling on his knees, the messenger continued,
in a still greater perturbation of manner —

" Let me endure your wrath if it be not true.
Within these three miles you may see it a-coming."

" No, no, no," replied the disgusted tragedian ;
" that won't do, sir — a-coming won't do. Try it
again, sir, and don't say a-coming."

Again the messenger essayed his task.

"Within these three miles you may see it a-coming."

Mr. Macready : "Good Heavens, sir! have you
no ears? You are not speaking common lan-
guage ; it is blank verse, sir, and a single mis-
placed syllable destroys the metre. Now, sir,
you say 'a-coming;' don't you perceive that the
a is a gratuitous sound? You know how to

THE MESSENGER'S RETORT. 1 03

spell coming, which begins with a c — no preced-
ing sound of a; therefore you should say,

' Within these three miles you may see it a-a-coming. ' '

Once more the now bewildered actor began,
but in a still less confident manner than before,
feeling that the difficulty was growing, if possible,
more complicated, the reference to that terrible
"blank verse" being to his mind as unintelligi-
ble as Greek.

" Go on, sir, if you please," said Mr. Macready.

"Within these three miles you may see it — may see it — it — "

And, in spite of all his desire to avoid the rock
ahead, the objectionable a asserted the power of
habit, and "a-coming" bolted out with frightful
distinctness.

Turning to the stage-manager, who was trying
to keep his countenance, the discomfited trage-
dian exclaimed in despair, " He cannot do it, sir ;
he would if he could, but he cannot."

To which the mortified messenger, in justifi-
cation of his failure, replied, " Mr. Macready, I
don't see the difference between my way of doing
it and yours, unless it is that I put only one a
before ' coming,' and you put half a dozen little
ones."

This was virtually the fact: the one a of the
actor was the result of a vulgar habit, while the
stammering hesitation of the tragedian was a bad
habit, though not a vulgar one.

104 A FRIGHTENED ACTOR.

I am here reminded also of a somewhat sim-
ilar occurrence which was publicly exhibited on
the Boston stage, and with a much more tragic
result.

On Mr. Macready's last visit to this country
the regular managers had refused to give him
the usual star terms ; in consequence of which
an "outside manager" engaged him, and convert-
ed one of the large halls into a theatre as a spec-
ulation. The result was, that while Mr. Macready
made money the admirers of the drama, though
satisfied with his finished and beautiful perform-
ances, had reason to complain of the insufficiency
of the subordinate elements employed in his sup-
port. As Miss Cushman, however, performed the
leading female character, there was no room for
dissatisfaction with that part of the entertainment,
although she had not then attained the full height
of her popularity. The play upon this occasion
also was Macbeth, and, notwithstanding sundry
general deficiencies, nothing especial occurred to
mar the admirable performances of Macbeth and
his consort until the fifth act, when matters cul-
minated.

The usurping thane, lashed by despair into a
state of fury — asserting his defiance and scorn
for the avenging powers that were beleaguering
his castle — is suddenly confronted by the trem-
bling bearer of ill-omened news, and stands defi-
antly awaiting the doom of fate. " My lord — my
lord — " began the hesitating and breathless actor,
who, being a novice, was more frightened than the

AN ENRAGED TRAGEDIAN. 1 05

messenger himself could have been, especially as
he had no doubt undergone the usual verbal cas-
tigation of the morning rehearsal — " My lord — my
lord — " said the messenger ; then a pause.

u Go on, sir — go on, sir," came in suppressed
tones from the tragedian. " Go on, sir."

" My lord, as I did stand my watch upon the hill,
I looked— I looked— "

" Well, sir — well, sir ? What then ? what then ?
Go on, go on, sir ! " said Mr. Macready in a
fierce, husky whisper.

The audience now began to titter, and the be-
wildered actor made a desperate effort, and started
afresh :

" As I did stand my watch upon the hill,
I looked toward -Birnam, and anon — anon — ' '

But here, alas ! nerve failed as well as memory,
and, though the prompter's voice was ringing in
his ears, the words stuck in his throat and would
not out.

Mr. Macready, who had been working himself
up for the great point of the scene, at last broke
out with the text, " Liar and slave ! " at the same
time striking with his truncheon at the messenger,
who fell upon his knees, wildly shrieking, " As I
did stand my watch upon the hill — " But the
audience was now in a roar and Mr. Macready

m a rage.

"Get off, sir! get off!" hissed from between the
tragedian's set teeth as he rushed up the stage in

106 JOHN TAYLOR AND JOHN KEMBLE.

a white heat of fury, while the messenger, choking
with fright, sprang to his feet and bolted off as if
shot from a cannon, amid shouts of laughter from
the audience, now as completely demoralized as
the tragedian himself.

This incident shows something of the nervous
and irritable nature of Mr. Macready, and how
while performing he became subject to a person-
ality of feeling rather than absorbed in that broad
and comprehensive abstraction or ideal fervor
through which, in a certain sense, self becomes
merged in enthusiastic fellowship with the lan-
guage of the drama.

Had such an accident occurred to the elder
Booth, he would have covered up the " effect de-
fective," and saved the man from disgrace and
himself from mortification by one of those impro-
vised efforts in stage-business for which he was so
famous.

John Taylor, a London editor and critic of ce-
lebrity,* wrote : " I was at first so little an admirer
of John Kemble's performance of Hamlet that,
considering it stiff, conceited, and unnatural, I
wrote four epigrams in ironical commendation of
it, and inserted them together in a public print
which I then conducted. The late Mr. Francis
Twiss, who took a strong interest in the welfare
of Mr. Kemble, introduced me to him in the lobby
of Drury Lane Theatre. I had just before seen

* John Taylor was the author of the old-time ballad of " Monsieur
Tonson Come again." Planche founded his amusing farce of that name
on the poem.

KEMBLE'S MISTAKEN AMBITION. 1 07

him point Kemble's notice to me, and heard him
whisper the word * epigrams.' I was therefore not
prepared for the unaffected civility with which he
addressed me. We immediately fell into conver-
sation, and I remember that Mr. Kemble very
soon began a defence of declamation, stating it
as originally constituting one of the chief features
of theatrical excellence on the Grecian stage.

" Mr. Kemble's classical and general knowledge
and the courtesy of his manners, as well as his
improving theatrical powers, procured him high
and extensive connections. He kept a hospitable
and elegant table, without display. He was fond
of Dryden, and sometimes read to me passages
from that admirable poet. I do not think he was
a good reader, for he generally read in a tone
either too low or too high. There is obviously
but one tone in reading or acting that excites the
sympathy of the hearer, and that is the tone which
feeling suggests and expresses ; and such was the
charm of Garrick, which rendered his acting in
tragedy or comedy impressive in the highest de-
gree. Kemble, with all his professional judgment,
skill, and experience, like all other mortals, was
sometimes induced to mistake the natural direc-
tion of his powers, and to suppose that he was as
much patronized by the Comic as by the Tragic
Muse. When I called on him one morning he
was sitting in his great chair with his night-cap on,
and, as he told me, cased in flannel. Immediately
after the customary salutation he said, * Taylor, I
am studying a new part in a popular comedy, and

108 REYNOLDS' 'S ANECDOTE OF KEMBLE.

I should like to know your opinion as to the man-
ner in which I am likely to perform it/ — ' As you
tell me it is a comic part/ said I, ' I presume it is
what you style "intellectual comedy/' such as the
chief characters in Congreve, Wycherley, and
Vanbrugh/ — 'What do you think/ said he, ''of
Charles in The School for Scandal?' — 'Why/ said
I, ' Charles is a gay, free-spirited, convivial fellow/
— ' Yes/ said he, ' but Charles is a gentleman/ He
tried the part, but his gayety did not seem to the
town to be of the right flavor."

Mr. Reynolds, the author of a score of lively
comedies justly popular on the English stage
within the early part of the present century,
writing of John P. Kemble, says : " In several
characters — particularly in those of The Roman
and The 'Misanthrope — he was unquestionably the
finest actor I ever saw, and off the stage his un-
affected simplicity of manner rendered him most
pleasing and entertaining. One instance of this
simplicity I well remember. Meeting him at a
dinner in the city not long after he had performed
Charles in The School for Scandal, when our flat-
tering host, asserting that this character had been
lost to the stage since the days of Smith, added
that Kemble's performance of it should be consid-
ered as ' Charles's Restoration/ To this a less
complimentary guest replied, in an under tone,
evidently intending not to be heard by the subject
of his remark, that in his opinion this perform-
ance should rather be considered as ' Charles's
Martyrdom/ Our witty critic, however, did not

KEMBLE'S STORY ABOUT HIMSELF. 1 09

speak so low but that the great tragedian heard
him, when, to our surprise and amusement, in-
stead of manifesting indignation and making a
scene, he smiled and said, * Well, now, that gen-
tleman is not altogether singular in his opinion,
as, if you will give me leave, I will prove to you. A
few months ago, having unfortunately taken what
is usually called a glass too much, on my return
late at night I inadvertently quarrelled with a
gentleman in the street This gentleman very
properly called on me the following morning for
an explanation of what was certainly more acci-
dental than intentional. "Sir," said I, "when I
commit an error I am always ready to atone for
it, and if you will only name any reasonable rep-
aration in my power, I — " " Sir," interrupted the
gentleman, "at once I meet your proposal, and
name one. Solemnly promise me, in the pres-
ence of this my friend, that you will never play
Charles Surface again, and I am perfectly satis-
fied."— Well, I did promise, not from nervosity,
as you may suppose, gentlemen, but because,
though Sheridan was pleased to say that he liked
me in the part, I certainly did not like myself in
it — no, no more than that gentleman who has
just done me the favor to call it "Charles's
Martyrdom." '

" Kemble on many previous occasions having
publicly proved his courage, I need not add that
we were all convinced that on this occasion he
was only actuated by good taste and good na-

ture."

10

CHAPTER VI.

SHAKESPEARE AND DRAMATIC ART—MACREA-
DTS WERNER.

"D EADERS and actors are generally too much
given to an idea that where a character is
placed in a position to require a change of dress
or of voice in order to disguise its personality, it
becomes necessary for the impersonator to make
the deception so complete — that is, so natural, as
it is termed — that the mask assumed may not
be penetrated by those whom it was intended to
deceive.

Now, where such transformations are intro-
duced in the action of a play it must be remem-
bered that they are meant to impose only on the
personages of the scene. As far as deception
goes, the actors and auditors are in the author's
secret, and consequently they accept the disguise
as a part of the play, and thus it may be said to
pass current with them as theatrical coin.

The character of Portia in The Merchant of Ven-
ice we will cite as illustrating our meaning. Besides
assuming the costume of a doctor of laws, sup-
pose the actress should think it advisable, in order
to make the disguise complete in the sense we
have spoken of, to adopt a moustache, together
no

THE FEMININITY OF PORTIA. Ill

with the masculine voice and professional tone
of a veritable advocate, in order to make good
her legal pretensions to the court. Under such
circumstances would not the impersonator of
Portia, by attempting to put on a masculine man-
ner and tone of voice, destroy in the minds of
her hearers all the tender interest which arises
from the sweet womanly tones of Portia's plead-
ings, so necessary for the proper realization of
that touching appeal for mercy by which Shake-
speare's heroine sought to soften the rigor of the
Jew's stern plea for justice ? Are those beautiful
effects in the ideal forms of dramatic representa-
tion to be impaired — nay, destroyed — by the chill-
ing hand of precision, introducing some gratuitous
reality in order to prevent the possible misappre-
hension on the part of the audience of some imag-
inary effect only intended by the author to be seen
through the medium of the mind's eye ?

But Shakespeare himself has made all such pre-
cautionary " appliances and means to boot " of no
avail by ushering Portia into the court with his
magic wand, thus compelling the spectator to real-
ize in the person of the actress a real advocate
who knew the law and could construe it faithfully,
notwithstanding the womanly voice and imperfec-
tions of mere legal trappings.

Portia is thus made a proper representative of
law. Therefore, the actress is not only allowed,
but expected, to employ her own peculiar feminine
vocality in her pleading, while she is at liberty to
adopt as much or as little as likes her best of mas-

112 ROSALIND IN "AS YOU LIKE IT."

culine firmness and depth of tone that a female
voice may assume without making it harsh to her
hearers. Shakespeare's As You Like It was per-
formed for more than half a century with young
men acting Rosalind and Celia : from this we may
suppose that the male performers had to change
the tones of their voices in order to give effect to
the feminine graces of the characters they assumed.
When Rosalind put on her male attire the actor
no doubt resumed his natural tones, but this must
have been in a modified form, so that he might
present in some degree at least the feminine del-
icacy and tenderness of Rosalind. Unless this
had been the case, the audience might have been
unfavorably impressed by a too strongly-colored
personation of the young forester. Now, as to the
Rosalind of to-day, just in proportion as she might
succeed in imposing a certain masculine dash of
manner upon the auditor as befitting her doublet
and hose, she would run the risk of presenting
the features " of a very forward March chick of the
male kind " — a poor substitute indeed for the pic-
ture of a brilliant and sensitive female who from
necessity had been compelled to assume the male
costume.

In fine, Rosalind, by putting on a too know-
ing manner of manhood, must as a consequence
throw into shade those feminine traits of speech
peculiar to an artless girlish character, while the
delicacy and grace of action inseparable from wo-
manly taste and cultivation would, by the obtru-
sion of a marked masculine manner, be sacrificed

THE LITTLE REALISM IN SHAKESPEARE. 113

to flippancy of gesture and pertness of expres-
sion.

A just and critical application of that principle
which Hamlet termed "discretion" to our studies
of dramatic character and situation must lead us
to perceive that it is the poet's art which makes
us accept as naturally efficient the disguises as-
sumed by Portia and Rosalind and numerous
others in the same line of dramatic action ; and
we are content to be deceived by the maskers in
consideration of the pleasure we enjoy in realizing
the deception. Therefore, it must be conceded
that all overstrained and far-fetched attempts on
the part of impersonators to reconcile and make
plain cause and effect in dramatic situations must
result in defeating the very object the dramatist
has in view ; which is to create in the mind of his
auditors an impression of naturalness in order that
his language, through the medium of their excited
imaginations, may people his mimic world with
living, thinking, and acting beings.

Shakespeare's dramas show how little compara-
tively their author relied on mere physical or me-
chanical action for effects. His main dependence
was on his language, on his ability to enthuse each
form with the life and soul of his glorious imagery,
his sparkling fancy, and all the unbounded wealth
of his expressive power. With such forces, guided
by his all-seeing observation, which scanned alike
the simple and the complex of all Nature's works,
animate or inanimate, the mighty maker of the
English drama was able to depict humanity in
10* H

114 MACREADY'S ART TOO ARTISTIC.

every condition of mind, soul, and body. It is
only from such a comprehensive view of Nature
in art that the Shakespearian student can hope to
acquire the ability to give fitting expression to the
thoughts and passions which agitate the human
soul, and should be reflected in the mirror held
up to Nature by the stage and the platform.

The only way by which the reader or actor can
reach the sympathies and affections of the human
heart is through the magnetic power of the voice.
When that delicate organism, which produces the
broad effects and nice distinctions in kind and de-
gree of expressive vocality, is subjected to true
feeling, good taste, and judgment, then may Shake-
speare's creations be transformed from the dead
letter of the printed page to that stage of action
where they first drew breath and looked and
moved as living things.

MACREADY.

I propose to show that the tragedian's art in
Mr. Macready's case was so elaborate and aesthetic
that it asserted its perfections to the auditor as
fully as it claimed his delight and admiration for
the beauties of its execution. In other words,
Macready's art exhibited the art too fully.

Who is not conscious of the fact that lasting
impressions are made upon the heart and brain,
which, though stamped with sufficient force for
retention, become obscured by time, only remem-
bered, it may be, in our dreams, and sometimes
flashed into recollection by sudden and accidental

MA CREAD Y AS HAMLET. 1 1 5

associations, but always lingering round the heart,
subject to the power of a kindred spirit in Nature's
realms of form, color, and sound to conjure them
into life again ? Such sympathies of the soul are
often wrought upon and excited by the voice and
spirit of the actor in the utterance of the author's
language, as well as by its sentiment ; and when
the chord is struck whose vibrations reproduce
such intermingling memories, the auditor feels
and acknowledges a power coexistent with the-
voice of Nature — a subtle power defying the abil-
ity of tongue or pen to describe its charms.

Fortunate and happy must the orator or actor
be who from intent and purpose or accidental
cause possesses the ability to strike such chords
in the human heart and draw his audience to him
by such natural affinities. As a well-painted pic-
ture, harmonious in its details, well executed in
perspective, perfect in light and shade, and striking
in its objective point of sight, natural in tone and
color, appropriately framed and artistically hung,
fills the eye of the beholder with pleasure, so
was Macready's Hamlet an object of infinite de-
light to the auditor. It was almost universally
considered the masterpiece of England's most art-
istic and intellectual tragedian. Yet in a dramatic
sense, from the standpoint of natural effect, it was
merely a picture of the melancholy and still in-
tensely impassioned child of sorrow and affliction.
We mean that it was such a picture that one
might stand before it entranced in a generalism
of human sympathies, and yet it lacked any

II 6 MACREADY'S YOUTHFUL NATURALNESS.

strongly individual or central point of affinity.
How often do we hear the remark, "That is a
beautiful or highly-finished picture of such or such
a one," or, "That is a speaking likeness of my
friend ; he talks to me from the canvas, and yet I
confess it might be more artistically executed in
detail"!

Such a distinction between the merits of per-
formers equally distinguished for dramatic excel-
lence may serve to point the difference of impres-
sion made upon auditors of equal discernment
and cultivation in the delineative effects of the
stage, the one preferring the simple and natural
speaking likeness, while the other accepts the
high art of the elaborated portrait of human
nature.

Mr. Macready, we have been told by the late
Professor William Russell, who was his townsman,
possessed in his youth a voice of great clearness,
compass, and beauty. He was distinguished by a
fine manly bearing, and was unaffected in his style
of speech and ardent and impulsive in his dispo-
sition. His declamation at school was marked by
poetic fervor and exquisite taste, while his voice
showed good training and perfect obedience to
command. Direct from college, he entered upon
his dramatic course with all the accomplishments
which mark the scholar and the gentleman.

The history of his professional career as a
young man in London is only a repetition of the
old story of an artist's struggles between neces-
sity and choice — on the one hand love of art and

HE ADOPTS THE STYLE OF OTHERS. 117

devotion to its principles ; on the other, love of
praise and money and neglect of the interests of
true art.

His performances, though eliciting the admira-
tion of the intelligent and critical, and giving sat-
isfaction to the public as those of a rising and
promising actor, yet failed from lack of managerial
influence to meet with popular success ; therefore
he did not pass as current coin in the market of
dramatic values. In fine, his performances lacked
the so-termed startling originality of effect which
in theatrical parlance brings an audience to their
feet and makes them hoarse with approving,
shouts.

Disappointed in his hopes, and thinking he
might have made a mistake in depending too
much on his elocutionary and poetic ideas of stage
delivery and action, he took a resurvey of the situ-
ation, and compared his acting with that of other
tragedians who were more successful in securing
the sterling stamp of the profession. Accepting
in due time the idea so prevalent among profes-
sional people that what is popular must be perfect,
he remodelled his style, adopting by degrees,
though it may be without intending imitation,
some of the peculiarly expressive traits of certain
distinguished performers then masters of the situ-
ation in London.

In consequence of this change of base, his act-
ing became more theatrical or stagey. His fervor
and impulse were not in the least abated, and,
still influenced by taste and good judgment —

Il8 THE INTERPRETATION OF AMBIGUITIES.

which it was not in his nature to lose sight of —
his efforts were produced more in conformity with
the fashion of the times, and at the dictation of
the critics were at last pronounced brilliant mani-
festations of theatrical genius.

Thus he established a reputation of increased
pecuniary worth, and finally became the embodi-
ment of what was termed the perfection of artistic
skill in his profession. From this period of his
history it was observable to Mr. Macready's true
admirers that, though his acting was marked by
some of the best points of his predecessors and
contemporaries in respect to force and vividness,
yet it was plain that the refining influence of pre-
cision and polish in minute details had in some
sense deadened the native fire and breadth of
his poetic temperament, and thereby impaired his
natural powers.

One peculiar effect of this new style was that,
while conveying an impression of its grace and
elegance, it produced a feeling that the actor was
anxious to give such an illustration of the author's
meaning as would supply any possible lack of
proper understanding on the part of the auditor,
such a want of appreciation concerning the text
being clearly indicated by the actor's studied man-
ner of striving to give a correctly emphasized
interpretation of what he might deem ambiguous
or obscure.

This peculiar idea of making the way plain to
those who are supposed to be in the dark con-
cerning the true significance of an author's lite-

A BURLESQUE ON COMMENTATORS. II 9

ral meaning is exemplified by editors of dramatic
works, who make expository notes to passages
so plain to ordinary intelligence as to render any
explanation superfluous. The same thing is true
of the habits of certain writers, who underscore
their words with bewildering uniformity, no mat-
ter how obvious their import may be. A good
hit at this extra help gratuitously rendered to
inexperienced readers and hearers is made in a
travesty of the play of Hamlet. When the Prince
rudely assaults Laertes in his sister's grave the
Queen apologizes for her son's madness, and
concludes with the following jingle:

Anon he's furious as an angry Towzer,
And then as patient as a hungry mouser.

Explanatory of this mysterious matter there
follows a foot-note by the editor, who informs
the reader that, having looked into the author-
ities regarding the word Tawzer, though rather
puzzled by the many suggestions so kindly offered
to unriddle the mystery, he is inclined to the opin-
ion, but expresses it cautiously, that by a word so
strange and unfamiliar in its aspect the author
possibly meant a watch-dog.

I have before referred to the fact that in Mr.
Macready's early life he had depended more upon
the tones of natural vocality than upon the artifi-
cialities of an affected intonation. But his voice
finally lost its clear ring and other attractive qual-
ities of tone, and became harsh, and even, at times,
repulsive ; this, in addition to the strongly-marked

120 MACREADY AS WERNER.

peculiarity of his speech, became as much the na-
ture of the actor as if it had been born with him.
In one performance, however, the tragedian seemed
to become so entirely absorbed in the character
he was representing that this objectionable feature
was not observable. I refer to his impersonation
of the remarkable character of Werner in Byron's
play of that name. Here the vocal peculiarities
of the actor seemed so entirely appropriate that
one might fancy that Werner talked as Mr. Ma-
cready did.

This poetic drama is strongly marked with do-
mestic traits, which impose upon the spectator the
fascinations of a familiar yet profound mystery.
It has no advantage of display in scenery, no mere
stage- effects, no pageantry of the battlefield or
dazzling presence of regal splendor. Unaided
or unaffected by any such adjuncts, the actor has
to depend entirely upon himself for the materials
by which to give color to the emotions and pas-
sions so ably portrayed by the author.

No man who ever saw Macready as Werner
could fail to accept the performance as the per-
fection of natural acting untrammelled by the ob-
trusion of affected art. In witnessing the moody
mental tortures of the sore-tried and desperate
nobleman the auditor was made, through a con-
scious feeling of respect due to an over-sensitive
nature, to shrink from too close a scrutiny of the
scene before him, and, instead of considering his
presence as a spectator a purchased privilege, he
regarded himself almost as an intruder upon the

THE CHARACTER OF WERNER. 121

privacy of a man who was unable to withdraw his
sorrows from the public gaze. Such an impres-
sion, arising from the consummate skill of the
actor, transformed the auditor into an entranced
observer of the enactment of a terrible domestic
scene, rather than the public representation of a
play.

Under such influences, it may be said, Macready
swayed the feelings of his audience, until from the
stage-surroundings Werner stood out in natural
lineaments, a human being bowed down by an in-
supportable affliction and claiming the respect and
sympathy of his fellow- creatures. How entirely
did the auditors become engrossed with the settled
misanthropy of a despairing mind, the concen-
trated bitterness of an outraged nature struggling
against the overmastering force of an apparently
inexorable destiny ! When the developments of
the plot bring his proud boy face to face with an
accusing witness to answer the fearful charge of
homicide, the miseries of the wretched parent were
so faithfully portrayed that the spasmodic twitch-
ings of the face, the heaving of the breast, and the
excited tremulous tones of fear and anxiety all
seemed to be the expressions of realized agony.
But who shall attempt to portray the wailing tones
of the crushed heart that thrilled through the
nerves of the auditor when the bold and defiant
avowal of his child revealed him to the horror-
stricken father as a cold-blooded murderer? No
tongue can fittingly describe such a scene.

In addition to the thorough discipline to which
11

122 A SYMPATHETIC CARPENTER.

his vocal effects were submitted, Mr. Macready's
minutiae of details in what is termed stage-busi-
ness were always premeditated and carefully and
repeatedly practised before they were trusted to a
public trial. The rehearsals of his plays (where
the companies were of the standard order) af-
forded to those who could appreciate their artistic
excellence a study of the histrionic art unique and
invaluable to the profession.

One night, just before making his entrance on
the first scene of Richelieu, the tragedian stopped
and took hold of the protruding edge of a scene
and began to practise his stage-cough — in a dry,
husky way at first, and gradually increasing until
it reached a suffocating kind of guttural spasm
resembling somewhat a fit of whooping-cough in
a child. Just as the climax of this cough was
reached a stage-carpenter, who never had been
present at a rehearsal, thinking, as he said, that
Mr. Macready was choking, unexpectedly ex-
claimed, " Mr. Macready, sir ! sir ! " accompanying
the words with two or three sharp slaps on the
back. With a scream the tragedian, now choking
with anger, turned on the man, but before he could
speak or the carpenter could offer an explanation
the call-boy, pulling the sleeve of the cardinal's
dress, cried out, "Stage waiting, Mr. Macready —
stage waiting, sir." Then, slowly putting one
hand behind his back and the other on the shoul-
der of the monk Joseph, Richelieu began his
measured walk toward the stage-entrance, utter-
ing all the while, in half-coughing and half-growl-

A KINGLY REPUBLICAN. 123

ing tones, denunciations on the carpenter in return
for the compliment he had paid him in taking his
professional cough for a real one. Some time, of
course, elapsed before he reached the side-door.
The audience were waiting, but the artist could
not hurry on that account; he coughed and tot-
tered so well, however, when he got on the stage,
that more than usual applause greeted his appear-
ance.

Mr. Macready was fond of telling the following
story as his experience of American ifldependence,
exemplified in a Western actor of the self-satisfied
kind. " In the last act of Hamlet" said he, " I was
very anxious to have the King, who was rather of
a democratic turn of mind, to fall, when I stabbed
him, over the steps of the throne and on the right-
hand side, with his feet to the left, in order that
when I was to fall I should have the centre of the
stage to myself as befitting the principal person-
age of the tragedy. No objection was made to
this request on the part of the actor, but at night,
to my great surprise, he wheeled directly round
after receiving the sword-thrust and deliberately
fell in the middle of the scene, just on the spot
where I was in the habit of dying. Well, as a
dead man cannot move himself, and as there was
no time for others to do it, the King's body re-
mained in possession of my place, and I was
forced to find another situation, which I did, and
finished the scene in the best way I could. When
I expostulated with His Majesty for the liberty he
had taken, he coolly replied, ' Mr. Macready, we

124 MISS ELIZA RIDDLE.

Western people know nothing about kings, ex-
cept that they have an odd trick of doing as they
please ; therefore I thought, as I was a king, I had

a right to die wherever I pleased; and so,

sir, I fell back upon my kingly rights, from which,
you perceive, sir, there is no appeal.' I retired,"
said Mr. Macready, "to my dressing-room to have
a hearty laugh over what I had felt more like cry-
ing over a moment before."

AN UNREHEARSED STAGE-EFFECT.

While yet a mere youth I was acting in the old
city of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, during the vaca-
tion of the regular theatrical season, with a por-
tion of the company attached to the Arch Street
Theatre, Philadelphia. Miss Eliza Riddle, one of
the most beautiful and accomplished actresses of
the American stage, and a great favorite in Phila-
delphia, was the leading lady of the " star combi-
nation," as it is generally termed in provincial
towns.

Miss Riddle, was afterward a popular star-ac-
tress in the principal theatres of the South and
West. She became the wife of Mr. Joseph M.
Field, the eccentric comedian and the witty editor
of one of the popular papers of St. Louis. Their
only* child is our talented young countrywoman,
Miss Kate Field.

That my readers may realize the situation of
affairs in connection with the incident to be re-
lated, I will state that the building in which we
were acting was originally a barn, and had been

"THE TOMB OF THE CAPULETS." 125

fitted up, as the playbills say, " regardless of ex-
pense " to answer the purposes of a theatre. The
rear stone wall, which formed the back part of the
stage, still retained the large double folding doors
of the barn, while the yard at the rear, with its
sheds, was used for the accommodation of the
proprietor's cows. The double doors were made
available for scenic purposes when shut, having
a rude landscape scene painted on the boards, and
when they were open they afforded the means of
increasing the size of the stage, which was done
by laying 'down a temporary floor on the outside
directly opposite the opening, a wooden frame-
work, covered with painted canvas, forming the
sides, back, and top of the extension. The play
was Romeo and Juliet, Miss Riddle performing
the part of Juliet, and I that of Romeo.

The extra staging described had been set up
in the barnyard and enclosed by the canvas walls,
and thus room was obtained for the "Tomb of
the Capulets." The front part of the tomb was
formed of a set piece, so called, painted to rep-
resent the marble of the sepulchre, in which were
hung the doors forming its entrance, and at the
top was painted in large letters "The Tomb of
the Capulets." Within the tomb, and against the
canvas which formed the rear wall, was a small
wooden platform, on which was placed a compact
mass of hay, shaped like a pallet and nicely cov-
ered with black muslin, and on this hay-stuffed
couch was to rest the body of the dead or drug-
surfeited Lady Juliet.

126 THE FORE DONE JULIET. '''*

In view of the gloomy surroundings of the
tomb, and particularly of its close proximity to
the barnyard, it would not be considered, under
any circumstances, a pleasant resting-place for a
young lady, especially of an imaginative turn of
mind. Before the rising of the curtain on the
fifth act, however, I had carefully inspected the
premises and looked after the proper disposal of
Juliet in the tomb, so that when the doors were
to be thrown open in sight of the audience there
might be no obstacle to the full view of the sepul-
chred heroine.

Everything was pronounced in a state of read-
iness, and, receiving from Miss Riddle an earnest
request to hurry on the scene which precedes the
catastrophe of the tragedy, I left her, her last
words being, " Oh do hurry, Mr. Murdoch ! I'm
so dreadfully afraid of rats !"

The curtain rose. Romeo received the news
of the death of his Juliet, in despair provided the
fatal poison, and rushed to the graveyard. Here
he met and despatched his rival, the county Paris,
burst open the doors of the tomb, and there, in
the dim, mysterious light, lay Juliet. The frantic
lover rushed to her side, exclaiming —

Oh my love ! my wife !

Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath,
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty :
Thou art not conquered ; beauty's ensign yet
Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,
And death's pale flag is not advanced there.

A SUDDEN RESURRECTION. 127

Ah, dear Juliet,
Why art thou yet so fair?

Here, observing strange twitchings in the face
and hands of the lady, I stooped during my last
line to ask her in a stage-whisper what was the
matter; to which she sobbingly replied, "Oh,
take me out of this ! oh take me out of this, or
I shall die!"

Feeling assured of the necessity of the case,
and wishing to bring the scene to a close, I seized
upon the poison and exclaimed —

Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavory guide !
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on
The dashing rocks, thy seasick weary bark !

Smothered sobbings and suppressed mutterings
of "Oh, Mr. Murdoch, take me out! you must
take me out !" came from the couch. Now fully
alarmed, I swallowed the poison, exclaiming —

Here's to my love !

Then, throwing away the vial and with my
back to the tomb, I struck an attitude, as usual,
and waited for the expected applause, when I was
startled by a piercing shriek, and, turning, I be-
held my lady-love sitting up wringing her hands
and fearfully alive. I rushed forward, seized and
bore her to the footlights, and was received with
shouts of applause. No one had noticed the by-
play of the tomb, nor did the dying scene lose
any of its effects, for Juliet was excited and hys-

128 THE POINTS OF THE STORY.

terical and Romeo in a state of frantic bewilder-
ment. The curtain fell amid every manifestation
of delight on the part of the audience.

And now for the scene behind the curtain.
All the dead-alive Juliet could gasp out was,
"Oh, oh, the bed! the bed! Oh, oh, the rats!
the rats !' I ran up the stage, tore open the pal-
let, and there — oh, horrors ! — sticking through the
canvas walls of the tomb, were the horns and
head of a cow. Though the intruder had smelt
no rats, she had in some mysterious way scented
the fodder, and after pushing her nose through an
unfortunate rent in the canvas proceeded to make
her supper off the hay which formed the couch of
the terrified Juliet.

CHAPTER VII.

EDMUND KEAN AND HIS CRITICS.— HIS SON
CHARLES AN IMITATOR.

T^DMUND KEAN, as a country actor fear-
••— * less of criticism, regarded the stage merely
as a platform upon which to exhibit the powers
of an impetuous nature that required fitting op-
portunity of audible expression to give vent to
its turbulent emotions, which, unuttered, prey
upon themselves. Scorning all restrictive rules
or professional formulas except those which he
found within his own practical experiences, he
rather dashed at than studied his profession.
Applauded and flattered at the onset by rustic and
unlettered audiences, whose judgment came more
from their feelings than their knowledge, he found
himself, without premeditation, in heartfelt sym-
pathy with his subject and his audience. Thus
developed and disciplined, his highly -wrought
forms of expression became a second nature, till,
under the lash and spur of irresistible passion, he
finally believed himself to be the character he
nightly assumed.

In view of such a professional experience we
are prepared to accept the advent of Kean upon
the English stage as a triumph of natural power

I 129

130 "THE LITTLE MAN IN EARNEST."

accompanied by a preparatory discipline — not
founded, however, upon the refinements and ele-
gances of art or influenced by the merely formal
dictation of a prevailing school.

As the strongly-marked character of the style
of David Garrick supplied what we may term a
background of contrast to that of John Philip
Kemble, so did Kemble's stately mannerism of
voice and bearing furnish "a like foil to set it
off" for that of Kean.

Kean flashed upon the English stage, it might
be said, like a meteor. The patrons of the drama
had become apathetic in their feelings, while their
tastes were toned down to the sombre coloring
of sobriety and dignity which was the prevailing
style, at least among the gentlemen of the stage.
The sudden and unheralded introduction of an
intensely vital element aroused their perceptions
and quickened their slumbering dramatic interest.

It is said that when Kean appeared in London,
Kemble (who was present at his first performance
of Shylock), in answer to a query regarding his
opinion of the new actor, replied, " The little man
is terribly in earnest." This rousing earnestness
was the keynote to the little man's success, for
he made the audience as much in earnest as he
was himself.

Without attempting to trace any likeness be-
tween the entirely opposite characters of the poet
Byron and the actor Kean, we may venture to
suggest a resemblance apparent in certain traits
of their respective styles of dealing with language

LEAR'S BEWILDERED FRENZY. 131

— the one in the written, the other in its spoken,
form. It may be observed, by all who notice the
modes by which intensified passion expresses
itself in real life, that when the feelings are
wrought up to a state of frenzy mere words lose
their power, and cries, shrieks, and screams usurp
their place, or when shocked by sudden and stu-
pefying horror words are swallowed up and pas-
sion is choked down into silence. Shakespeare
furnishes us with illustrations in the characters
of Lear and Macduff. When the old and outraged
king awakes to a realizing sense of the cruel and
unnatural treatment of his daughters, the hot lava
of wrath struggling for vent in his exasperated
breast, he exclaims in bewildered frenzy —

You heavens give me that patience, patience I need !

You see me here, you gods, a poor old man,

As full of grief as age ; wretched in both !

If it be you that stir these daughters' hearts

Against their father, fool me not so much

To bear it tamely ; touch me with noble anger,

And let not women's weapons, water-drops,

Stain my man's cheeks 1 — No, you unnatural hags,

I will have such revenges on you both,

That all the world shall — I will do such things, —

What they are, yet I know not ; but they shall be

The terrors of the earth. You think I'll weep ; /^&-^-

No, I'll not weep: f( UNI VEli

I have full cause of weeping; but this heart ^^.Cd/ c

Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws,

Or ere I'll weep : O fool, I shall go mad !"

Here it will be perceived that connected ex-
pression fails, while the tempest rages on in wild

132 MACDUFF'S PETRIFIED GRIEF.

^^~

and whirling words. And on the other hand,
Macduff in receiving the news of the murder of
his wife and children, stands as if petrified in mute
despair. Malcolm, filled with awe at the speech-
less misery of his friend, strives to break the
fetters of his tongue and rouse him to action.
Striking him on the shoulder with sudden ener-
gy, he exclaims —

What, man ! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows ;
Give sorrow words : the grief that does not speak
Whispers the o'erfraught heart, and bids it break.

— — --"~~

Byron in Childe Harold gives us an exempli-
fication of a different state of the mind, though
of a kindred nature. Subdued at first, the poet's
passionate emotion suddenly breaks from the re-
straint which had confined it, and finally threatens,
as Shakespeare has said, to make the " heart too
great for what contains it." Gathering together
all the elements of passion, the poet hurls forth
in a flood of vehement utterance the feelings which
smoulder in his breast, "wreaking his thoughts
upon expression." After describing a storm on
Lake Leman and the adjacent mountains, he
likens the flashing bolts and scorching shafts of
the elemental strife to the blighting rage of love
and hate in the human soul, and goes on to ex-
press the intensified depths of his own passion-
seared nature. But the poet fails to paint the
state of the soul for lack of fitting words, while
moody silence triumphs over the mental struggle :

TAYLOR ON EDMUND KEAN. 133

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye !
With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul
To make these felt and feeling, well may be
Things that have made me watchful ; the far roll
Of your departing voices is the knoll
Of what in me is sleepless — if I rest.
But where of ye, O tempests, is the goal ?
Are ye like those within the human breast?
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest ?

Could I embody and unbosom now, /
That which is most within me, could I wreak
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak,
All that I would have sought, and all I seek,
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe, into one word,
And that one word were lightning, I would speak ;
But as it is, I live and die unheard,
With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword.

By the power expressed in these lines I am
strongly reminded of the resemblance — to which
I have before referred — between the poet Byron
and the actor Kean.

John Taylor says : " Having given some ac-
count of the theatrical performers who have fallen
within my notice, beginning with Mr. Garrick, it
might reasonably be thought strange if I said
nothing of so very conspicuous a character in
the theatrical world as Mr. Kean. The truth is,
that I never could perceive in him those high pro-
fessional merits which the public have not only
evidently, but most fervently, acknowledged. I
was unwilling to oppose my humble opinion to
the public judgment, and, as a public critic, I
12

134 TAYLOR AND KEAN MEET.

deemed it cruelty to attack a man in his profes-
sion, even if I could possibly have persuaded
myself that my weak censure might do him an
injury. Such has been always my rule in writing
theatrical critiques, either on performers or dra-
matic authors.

"I saw Mr. Kean on his first performance in
London. The part was Shylock, and it appeared
to me to be a favorable specimen of what might
be expected from a provincial performer, but I
could not see any of those striking merits which
have since appeared to the public; and, finding
in his progress that his fame increased without
any apparent improvement in my humble judg-
ment, and, as I before observed, reluctant to op-
pose public opinion, I avoided, as much as was
consistent with the duty of a public journalist, to
notice his performances. But I hope I shall not
be accused of vanity in saying that I found my
silence in public and my observations in private
had brought upon me the imputation of being an
enemy to Mr. Kean. I should be shocked indeed
if I felt conscious that I deserved such an impu-
tation. As a proof, however, that such a suspi-
cion had gained ground, I dined once with my old
acquaintance, Mr. Pascoe Grenfell, M. P., at his
house in Spring Gardens, when Mr. and Mrs.
Kean were of the party; and I heard afterward
that Mrs. Kean — a lady by no means unwilling to
communicate her sentiments — had expressed her
surprise, either to Mr. Grenfell himself or to one
of the company, that Mr. Taylor should be in-

GARRICK SUPERIOR TO KEAN. 135

vited to the same table with Mr. Kean. I hap-
pened to sit next to Mr. Kean at dinner, and paid
him particular attention to obviate or soften any
unpleasant feeling on his part, and endeavored
to enter into conversation with him on dramatic
subjects ; but, though he conducted himself with
politeness, he seemed of a reserved and taciturn
habit, yet without the least indication that he
thought himself near a person inimical to his
fame. I have since seen Mr. Kean in most if
not all of his theatrical exhibitions, and I can
even solemnly declare that I went for the purpose
of enlightening my mind by the public judgment ;
but, unfortunately, my opinion remained precisely
the same. I say 'unfortunately,' for otherwise I
should have received from his acting the same
pleasure which the public have enjoyed.

" Perhaps it may be thought that I am biassed
by my recollection of Garrick, whom I saw in
many of his performances when I was twenty
and twenty-one years of age. If so, I cannot
but admit the charge, since I am supported by
the testimony of the best authors and critics of
his time, as well as by the opinion of all his theat-
rical contemporaries. Far from feeling a prejudice
against Mr. Kean, I should have been happy in
joining with the millions in admiration of his abil-
ities, as he is the grandson of an old and long-
esteemed friend of mine, Mr. George Saville
Carey. And here let me stop to pay a tribute of
respect to the memory of a very worthy man, and
a man of real genius.

136 HENRY AND GEORGE CAREY.

"George Saville Carey was the son of Henry
Carey, a very popular dramatic author, but more
particularly known for his fertility in song-writing.
His ' Sally of our Alley ' has been long a favorite
ballad ; he was the author of Chrononhotontholo-
gos and other dramas popular at the time, and is
mentioned in Dr. Johnson's Life of Addison as one
of Addison's most intimate friends. His son, my
old friend, labored to prove that his father was
the author of the words and music of what has
been styled the national anthem, ' God save great
George our King ! '

" Henry Carey was a musician as well as a
dramatic writer, but being, like too many of the
literary fraternity, improvident and careless of
the future, he was reduced to despair, and hang-
ed himself on the banister of the house where
he resided. A single halfpenny was all that was
found in his pocket, and it came into the posses-
sion of my father's old friend, Mr. Brooke, whom
I have before mentioned, and who kept it as a
mournful relic of departed friendship.

" George Saville Carey, I believe, had no recol-
lection of his unfortunate father, though he
cherished his memory and was well acquainted
with his works. The son, it is said, was originally
apprenticed to a printer, but he soon adopted the
theatrical profession, with, however, so little suc-
cess that he became a sort of public orator and
mimic, in which capacity I became acquainted with
him early in my life. He was chiefly a mimic of
the theatrical performers of that time, but intro-

TAYLOR ON KEAN AS AN ACTOR. 137

duced many odd characters in his miscellaneous
compositions, which he publicly recited. I remem-
ber to have heard him deliver his recitations at
Marylebone Gardens, now covered with elegant
mansions. Like his father, he was a musical per-
former, and accompanied himself with skill and
taste on the guitar.

"As the nature of his profession induced him to
lead an itinerant life, I never knew when or where
he died, but have reason to fear not in prosperous
circumstances. He wrote many songs and other
poetical productions, but as he kept them in re-
serve as instruments of his calling, I only know
them as he recited them in public or to me when
he called on me. I only knew of his death when
his daughter — whom I understood to be the
mother of Mr. Kean — called on me to sell some
musical productions of her deceased father; and
on more than one occasion that child accompanied
her who was destined to become the most popular
and attractive actor of his day.

" I have introduced these circumstances merely
to show that I had more reason to be the friend
of Mr. Kean than to be adverse to his talents.

" I will venture to say a few words respecting
Mr. Kean as an actor. He had the sagacity to
perceive that there were many points and passages
in dramatic characters which performers in general
passed negligently over in their endeavors to sup-
port the whole of the part, but which admitted of
strong expression. These points and passages
Mr. Kean seized upon, and brought forth some-
12*

KEAN AS A "SPIRIT."

times with archness, and often with a fiery emotion
which made a strong impression on the audience,
and essentially contributed to his extraordinary
success. That he performs with great energy
must be readily admitted, and it is to be- hoped
that he will inoculate some of his professional
brethren with the same fervor.

" Here I conclude my observations on Mr.
Kean, heartily rejoicing at his prosperity, as he
is the grandson of my old friend, and as he is well
known to be a liberal-minded man, and ready to
manifest a generous zeal to assist any of the the-
atrical community who fall into distress.

" It may be mentioned among the extraordinary
vicissitudes of life that when the late Mr. John
Kemble, in his almost idolatrous admiration of
Shakespeare, during his management of Drury
Lane Theatre, performed Macbeth, he introduced
the children, according to a passage in the play,

as spirits —

Black spirits and white,
Red spirits and gray,
Mingle, mingle, mingle,
You that mingle may.

Mr. Kean figured as one of those spirits, and was
afterward destined to perform the royal usurper
himself on those very boards and to draw pop-
ularity from that other great tragedian. Mr.
Kemble did not consider that his own grave taste
might on such an occasion differ from that of the
majority of the audience, to whom the comic
capering of the infantile band had a most ludi-

DR. DO RAN ON EDMUND KEAN. 139

crous appearance, as, indeed, happened to be
the case.

"At this time, Kean, being weak in his legs,
was obliged to have them supported by iron
props. My friend, George Colman the Younger,
having seen the boy in this situation, and to whose
ready wit and humor I, as well as most of his
friends, have often been a victim, said, ' Oh, I re-
member the child, and I called his legs Fetter
Lane sausages.' '

Doran says: "In Sir Giles Overreach all the
qualities of Kean's voice came out to wonderful
purpose, especially in the scene where Lovel asks
him,

Are you not moved with the sad imprecations
And curses of whole families, made wretched
By your sinister practices ?

To which Sir Giles replies,

Yes, as rocks are

When foamy billows split themselves against
Their flinty ribs ; or as the moon is moved
When wolves, with hunger pined, howl at her brightness.

I seem still to hear the words and the voice as I
pen this passage — now composed, now grand as
the foamy billows ; so flute-like on the word moon,
creating a scene with the sound ; and anon sharp,
harsh, fierce in the last line, with a look upward
from those matchless eyes that rendered the troop
visible, and their howl perceptible to the ear^— the
whole serenity of the man and* the solidity of his
temper being illustrated less by the assurance

140 THE PRESS SUBSIDIZED.

in the succeeding words than by the exquisite
music in the tone with which he uttered the word
brightness"

Mr. Frederick Reynolds, the distinguished dra-
matic author, who was well informed on all theat-
rical matters, affords us the following hint regard-
ing the pressure which was brought to bear upon
the press in the case of a star who was to be a
success in the interests of the Drury Lane man-
agement. Mr. Reynolds wrote in the capacity
of an adherent of the opposite faction, Covent
Garden :

"During the year 1814 there appeared in the
theatrical hemisphere two stars of the first mag-
nitude. ' Stars ' do I call them ? Suns, moons,
comets, displaying coruscations, scintillations, illu-
minations, and halos hitherto unseen and unknown
among the great heavenly bodies. Their names
were Kean and O'Neill. The Shylock, Richard,
and Hamlet of the former were all pronounced to
be equally celestial; and one of the most grave
idolaters of the latter demanded in print why the
actor who played Romeo to the divine Juliet did
not imbibe a portion of that angelic lady's ethereal
fluid.

" During the height of this mania one of our
young Westminster Hall orators, dining with
Kean and Lord , told this histrionic phe-
nomenon, among other compliments of a similar
stamp, that he had never seen acting until the
preceding evening.

" ' Indeed ! ' said Kean. ' Why, you must have

A DISCOMFITED TOADY. 141

seen others, sir, I should conceive, in Richard the
Third?'

"'I have,' replied the barrister — 'both Cooke
and Kemble; but they must excuse* me, Mr.
Kean, if I should turn from them and frankly
say to you, with Hamlet, " Here's metal more
attractive." '

" Kean felt highly flattered, and begged to have
the honor of drinking a glass of wine with his
great legal admirer. The conversation then turn-
ing on a curious lawsuit that had been decided
during the last western circuit (and which circuit
our barrister at that time went), Kean, after a
pause, inquired whether he had ever visited the
Exeter Theatre.

" ' Very rarely indeed,' was the reply ; ' though,
by the by, now I recollect during the last assizes
I dropped in toward the conclusion of Richard the
Third. Richmond was in the hands of a very
promising young actor, but such a Richard ! — such
a harsh, croaking barn -brawler! I forget his
name, but — '

" ' I'll tell it you,' interrupted the Drury Lane
hero, rising and tapping the great lawyer on the
shoulder — ' I'll tell it you : Kean ! '

" This naturally created a loud laugh, in which,
to his credit, Kean heartily joined, while the arch-
critic turned it off by saying, ' How much and how
rapidly you have improved ! '

" During my long theatrical experience I have
always observed that if the theatre be badly at-
tended the play is deemed bad, the actors bad,

142 A PHENOMENON DISCOVERED.

and the managers bad : ' all is out of joint/ The
house being only half filled on the night of Kean's
first appearance in Shylock, though some few
present might have thought he gave, for a young
man, rather a promising delineation of the charac-
ter, it was certainly not considered by the majority
of spectators by any means a very successful
effort. However, on the following morning, being
supported by that great engine the press (which,
combined, could prove me at this present moment
to be both young and handsome), up he mounted
to celestial heights ; and though so hoarse on the
night of his second appearance that his voice
could scarcely be heard beyond the orchestra, he
made a hit in the battle (or rather boxing- match)
with Richmond which secured to the old tragedy
of Richard the Third at least sixty repetitions to
crowded audiences.

" Sculptors, painters, and anatomists now imme-
diately discovered that, to the grace of Antinous
and the dignity of Apollo, Kean added the beauty
of Adonis ; thus equalling, if not surpassing in
exaggeration, those hyper-panegyrics which sixty
years ago were even more prodigally lavished on
that most popular hero, Wilkes, who at that time
was so courted and admired that many people
actually thought him a handsome man. A laugh-
able instance of these opinions is recorded. In a
conversation between two of his followers at Guild-
hall after two of the most effective speeches, one
said to the other, 'Tom, what a fine, handsome
fellow Master Wilkes is ! '

COOPER ON KEAN. 143

" ' Handsome ! ' rejoined Tom. ' Nay, not much
of that, for he squints most horribly.'

" ' Squints ! ' repeated the first speaker, examin-
ing Wilkes with much attention. ' Why, yes, to
be sure he squints a little, but, confound you ! not
more than a gentleman ought to do/'

COOPER AND KEAN.

One day, in a company of gentlemen (at his
residence on the banks of the Delaware, Pennsyl-
vania), where the merits of Mr. Kean's acting
were being discussed, the tragedian Thomas
Cooper suddenly exclaimed with great animation,
" Othello ! Othello ! Why, gentlemen, Kean can-
not come within a mile of Othello. His snarling,
snappish speech and his gusty flights of vehement
passion are all very striking and effective ; but,
gentlemen, they are directly opposite to the phys-
ical and intellectual forces of Othello. This is
clearly indicated by the conscious deliberation and
dignity of the language in which Shakespeare has
presented the character. Mr. Kean is not suscep-
tible of the full force of the mighty and tumult-
uous passions which stormed and seethed in the
heart of the unhappy Moor, a man whose life-
experiences were all in the camp or on the battle-
field—a mode of life which teaches men, by the
force of unyielding discipline, to control their
passions. But let the curb once snap, and the
dread gulf yawns for the victim of blind and un-
governable rage. I grant you Othello was impul-
sive, but it was the majestic passion of a roused

144 'OTHELLO'S MAJESTIC PASSION.

lion conscious of power. Shakespeare's words
tell us what kind of passion inflamed the Moor
and drove him to desperate action. There was no
petulant snap in it or snarlish irritability ; on the
contrary, it was 'as broad and general as the
casing air,' not bright and evanescent as the
forked flash. Mark the tone of these lines, and
see if you can find any resemblance in them to
the quick excitements of frenzied vehemence, or,
in short, anything to indicate littleness in mind or

person :

OTHELLO.

Oh that the slave had forty thousand lives !

One is too poor, too weak, for my revenge.

Now do I see 'tis true. Look here, lago ;

All my fond love thus I do blow to heaven ;

'Tis gone.

Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow cell !

Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearted throne

To tyrannous hate ! Swell, bosom, with thy fraught,

For 'tis of aspics' tongues !

* # # # #

IAGO.
Patience, I say ; your mind, perhaps, may change.

OTHELLO.

Never, lago. Like to the Pontic sea,
Whose icy current and compulsive course
Ne'er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on
To the Propontic and the Hellespont ;
Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace,
Shall ne'er look back, ne'er ebb to humble love,
Till that a capable and wide revenge
Swallow them up. Now, by yond marble heaven,
In the due reverence of a sacred vow
I here engage my words. — Othello, Act III. Scene iii.

CHARLES KEAN AN IMITATOR. 145

"John Kemble said of Kean's Othello, 'If the
justness of its conception had been equal to the
brilliancy of its execution, it would have been
perfect. But the whole thing is a mistake, the
fact being that the Moor was a slow man.' '

I remember something like the following,
where Shakespeare is playing upon words:

Not quickly moved to strike —
I strike quickly being moved.

This may well be said of Othello in an apt but
most terrible sense.

CHARLES KEAN.

Charles Kean was an imitator of his father's
style of acting. But to the method which made
the elder Kean famous the son added a grace
and finish that gave repose and beauty to what
would otherwise have been a mere copy, distinct
in feature, but deficient in power. Of all our
tragedians of the analytic and passionate order,
approaching the mechanical in execution, Charles
Kean may be said to have been the most finished,
and yet the most earnest. He gave point to the
precision of art, while he threw around his acting
an artistic refinement the result of intuition and
study. His attitudes were statuesque, his ges-
tures flowing, vehement, and imposing. It might
be said of his delineations, as Byron said of mod-
ern Greece,

So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.

13 K

146 CHARLES KEAN AS POSTHUMUS.

When we were very young actors I remember
to have been struck with the consummate art
with which he could husband resources by no
means powerful, and produce effects at once
startling and impressive. Upon reflection, I
came to the conclusion that the son had caught
the traditional method of the father by a disci-
plined control over the organs of speech in
abrupt and rapid utterance, and the power to
concentrate passion on special words and to hurl
them forth with surprising force of expression,
which carried his audience by storm. Thus the
son was enabled to hold up the mantle of the
father, although he might not be fitly said to
wear it.

The occasion which first called my attention to
young Kean's peculiar method was his acting of
Posthumus in the play of Cymbeline at the Arch
Street Theatre in Philadelphia about 1832. The
character is one which requires quick perception
and acute sensibility in conception and portrait-
ure, the prominent traits being scepticism on
the one hand, and obstinate adhesion to convic-
tion on the other. Throughout the play Mr. Kean
sustained his reputation for artistic excellence.
There was nothing in the performance above or
below the requirements of the language and sit-
uation until the last scene of the last act. Here
the actor sprang, as it were, from his previous
still-life with the most astounding abruptness of
vehement fury I ever remember to have seen
upon the stage. It was indeed art, but it was

IACHIMO AND POSTHUMUS. 147

the perfection of art; it was fiery passion and
melting tenderness. In that one outburst I fully
realized all that tradition had said of the father's
power. Throughout the play the fire of emotion
had been kept smouldering under restraint, in or-
der that it might burst forth in one dazzling flash,
to die out as suddenly as it had been kindled.
Had such an exhibition of force been displayed
in a character requiring a repetition of such
effects, I question whether the actor would not
have failed in attempting to meet such a demand.
I will endeavor to bring before the mental vis-
ion of my readers a bird's-eye view of the scene
to which I have referred. In Act V. Scene v. of
Cymbeline, lachimo, the villain of the play, is called
upon by Imogen to tell how he became possessed
of the ring of her husband, who is supposed to be
dead. While the repentant culprit tells his story
of cold-blooded fraud Posthumus stands hidden
behind the groups of courtiers and attendants,
listening to that "which ran like poison through
his blood." lachimo, finishing the recital of his
villainy, says, " Methinks I see him now." At
this Kean suddenly darted from his concealment,
and dashing down the stage struck his attitude
and exclaimed, with a wild outburst of passion,
sharp, harsh, and rattling in tone —

Ay, so thou dost,
Italian fiend !

As the instantaneous flash and bolt startle the
beholder, so the actor seemed to electrify his

148 THE PASSION OF POSTHUMUS.

auditors ; they broke out into the most deter-
mined and prolonged applause. Then came, in
tones of mingled rage and remorse, the choking
utterance of self-reproach :

Ay me ! most credulous fool,
Egregious murderer, thief, anything
That's due to all the villains past, in being,
To come !

Here a sudden transition brought out the next
lines in bold, ringing notes of adjuration :

Oh give me cord, or knife, or poison,
Some upright justicer !

Now the voice was changed to impetuous com-
mand, fierce and imperious denunciation, high,
strong, and full-toned:

Thou, king, send out
For torturers ingenious ; it is I
That all the abhorred things o' the earth amend
By being worse than they. I am Posthumus,
That killed thy daughter: — villain-like, I lie;
That caused a lesser villain than myself,
A sacrilegious thief, to do 't.

This was followed by a mingling of the tearful
tones of pity and pathetic admiration on the

words —

The temple
Of virtue was she ; yea, and she herself.

Choking sobs now gave way to vehement utter-
ance and piercing tones that seemed to penetrate
the brain with the wild notes of insanity:

ELLEN TREE AND MACREADY. 149

Spit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me, set
The dogs o' the street to bay me ; every villain
Be called Posthumus Leonatus.

Here the climax of passion and fury culminated,

while the words,

And
Be villainy less than 'twas,

formed a forcible cadence. Then, as if all the
elements of indignant reproach and self-condem-
nation had spent themselves, the actor poured
forth a flood of tenderness that seemed to up-
heave the very depths of his soul, exclaiming in
an ecstasy of love and grief —

O Imogen !

My queen, my life, my wife ! O Imogen,
Imogen, Imogen !

From the wonderful effect of this lava-like
flood of passion exhibited by the son I caught a
glimpse of that power which, when a mere boy,
listening to the elder Kean in Othello, over-
whelmed me with a kind of bewildering idea that
the little " black man " in the Moorish dress was
acting like a lunatic and ought to be chained up.

MISS ELLEN TREE AND MACREADY.

Miss Ellen Tree (now Mrs. Charles Kean), one
of the most finished and elegant actresses of her
day and a highly-cultivated lady, told me this very
characteristic story of Macready.

"I had been so often subjected to discomfort

13*

I5O A TOO-ENERGETIC FATHER.

in acting with Mr. Macready on account of his
abandonment to the spirit of natural acting, as
he termed it," said Miss Tree, " that I remonstrated,
telling him that when I rushed into his protecting
arms after the brutal assault in the streets of
Rome by the client of Appius Claudius, he, as
my father Virginius, clasped me to his breast
with such a ' thump ' that I involuntarily uttered
a kind of ' ugh !' which made it appear to me
quite ridiculous. And then again, I said, he spoiled
the arrangement of my hair, which it always cost
me an anxious hour with the hair-dresser to put
in shape.

" He said, laughingly, ' You should be so glad
to find yourself in the protecting arms of your
father, instead of the rude grasp of Appius Clau-
dius, that your hair would be the last thing to be
thought of.*

" * But, Mr. Macready/ I resumed, ' there is no
sense in such energetic acting, causing me to
utter involuntary exclamations by jerking me so
strongly into your arms, and, above all, hugging
my head so violently in your assumed frantic and
fatherly outbursts of affection as to rumple my
curls into frightful disorder.'

" His reply was : ' Miss Tree, I cannot abate
what I consider a proper degree of fatherly ex-
ultation at the safety of an endangered daughter,
and therefore you must submit to my professional
vehemence, which I cannot control.'

" ' Well,' I thought, ' I will find a way to make
you feel like Mr. Macready, though you may not

AN AMPLE APOLOGY. 151

at the same time be required to forget Virginius.'
And I did so in this way: I directed the hair-
dresser, in pinning on my characteristic extra
appendages, to let the points of the pins mis-
chievously, but not viciously, stick outward instead
of inward ; and that night the involuntary excla-
mation came from Mr. Macready, not from me.

" Rushing frantically on the stage, he cried out
as I sprang into his arms, ' My Virginia ! my Vir-
ginia!' But as his hands clasped my head for
the usual hug he uttered a quick cry of 'Ah!'
accompanied with rather a loud stage-whisper of
1 Good Heavens ! what have you got in your
curls?' And this assured me that the pins had
produced the unrehearsed stage-effect I had in-
tended.

"After that night," added Miss Tree, "I had
no complaint to make of an undue expression
of fatherly energy on the part of Mr. Macready."

AN AMPLE APOLOGY.

Attached to the theatres of Baltimore, Philadel-
phia, and Washington was an excellent actor and
a man of good principles, although given to occa-
sional excess in drinking; which, fortunately for
the welfare of society, is not now regarded with
so much leniency as it was forty years ago. It
was remarkable that when under the influence of
liquor this gentleman was rigidly exact and formal
in his deportment and enunciation — so much so
as to call forth the expression, " As polite, as cor-
rect, and as drunk as Charley Webb," when his

152 A "SLIGHTLY-OBLIVIOUS" ACTOR.

friends were speaking of any one in the " how-
came-you-so ?" condition.

Miss Tree was performing in the old Chestnut
Street Theatre. The play for the night was The
Gamester, Miss Tree playing the devoted wife,
Mrs. Beverly — one of those performances which
few of her admirers can ever forget. Mr. Webb
was playing Stukely, the villain, and in one of the
most interesting scenes, in consequence of having
taken too much sherry at his dinner, he was some-
what oblivious of the language of the part. Miss
Tree gave him, as it is termed, " the word " sev-
eral times, which Webb took up with so much
politeness and formality as to render the scene
ridiculous, considering the stern villainy of the
character and his hateful relation to Mrs. Bev-
erly. Finally, the audience became aware of the
true state of the case, and, as usual, in spite of
their respect for the lady, began to titter, while
some hissed.

Miss Tree was compelled at last to walk up
the stage and take a seat, with her back to Mr.
Webb. By this time Webb had begun to feel how
matters stood, and, a thoroughly polite man under
any circumstances, he was now overwhelmingly
punctilious, and with assumed sobriety of tone,
though hesitating in articulation and rather un-
steady in his walk, he approached the footlights
with a low bow and said: "Ladies and gentle-
men, I am anxious to remove from your minds
an evident misunderstanding concerning the true
situation of affairs existing on this stage. I see

A SUPERFLUOUS ASSURANCE. 153

— indeed I feel — I may say I very sensibly real-
ize— the fact that you perceive that somebody
here is intoxi-intoxica- ; that is, in plainer words,
drunk! Now, ladies and gentlemen, allow me
to say that justice compels me to assure you, for
fear your impressions should lead you to an erro-
neous conclusion — to assure you, I say, that who-
ever is guilty of the unpardonable impropriety I
have alluded to, on the honor of a gentleman
believe me the offending party is not — Miss
Ellen Tree!"

CHAPTER VIII.

SHAKESPEARE AND HIS CRITICS.

(WITH EXTRACTS FROM MAURICE MORGAN'S ESSAY.)

\\ 7 HAT we may comprehend through our feel-
* V ings rather than our understandings enters
largely into the composition of Shakespeare's cha-
racters, their motives, and their actions. It is only
through close observation and familiar intercourse
with his creations that we may discover the secret
source of their production, but we readily sympa-
thize with them, and recognize their features as
perfectly as we do those of our friends and kin-
dred. The language of the heart explains the
working of the brain, and it may be said that we
perceive the true Shakespearian meaning through
the eye of the soul before we see it through the
eye of the mind. The creations of Shakespeare
are so entirely in agreement with those of Nature
that, to use his own words in another direction,
they are " the true and perfect image of life in-
deed." The lovers of the great bard when only
the stage knew his works may have been influ-
enced by affection rather than knowledge in
awarding him their unbounded admiration ; but
their approval has since been more than endorsed

154

VARIOUS ESTIMATES OF SHAKESPEARE. 155

by men of learning and wisdom, who, in some
instances, have almost grudgingly admitted his
perfection as a poet, and pronounced him as a
dramatist beyond compare. His warm friend and
just admirer, Ben Jonson, in the severity of his
criticism said there were matters in the Shake-
spearian compositions that for the author's rep-
utation he had better have stricken out; other
writers, again, of great repute, have pronounced
it heresy to find any fault with their oracle ; while
Voltaire, who did not and could not understand
Shakespeare, affected to consider him as beneath
criticism, and charged the English people with
worshipping "a mere barbarian." Some English
critics who aspired to poetic honors themselves
have denounced our favorite bard as "a kind of
wild Proteus or madman," and would, but for a
wholesome fear of public justice, have essayed
" to knock down the Poet with the butt-end of a
critical staff; " and a writer of the last century, a
man of the world in a refined sense, and an ac-
complished scholar, takes the ground that many
blemishes exist on Shakespeare's pages for which
he could not be held originally responsible. This
writer, in an admirable essay, complains, as does
the Rev. John Upton, Prebendary of Rochester,
in a learned work on Shakespeare (1745), that the
fault-finding spirit of too many English critics dis-
abled their judgment and rendered them incapa-
ble of a just perception of the inimitable beauties
which lie thickly strewn all through the works of
the man for whom the world entertains so pro-

156 MORGAN'S "ESSAY ON SHAKESPEARE?*

found an admiration. Nearly a century ago one
of the most original and able critics of Shake-
speare, Mr. Maurice Morgan,* said that in dra-
matic composition the impression is the fact. The
extracts from his essay which compose the present
chapter cannot fail to be acceptable to the student
of Shakespeare. I have found the author's ideas
to be consonant with my own regarding the im-
pression which Shakespeare's characters make
upon the mind, irrespective of operations of the
mere understanding.

STUDIES FROM MAURICE MORGAN'S "ESSAY
ON SHAKESPEARE."

" Though there may be in the composition much
calculated to puzzle and mislead the understand-
ing with regard to the details of delineation, yet
the true conception of a character, as a whole,
may depend upon the impression it makes upon
the mind. It must be remembered that the mental
impressions are distinguished here from the un-
derstanding. I wish to avoid everything that
looks like subtlety and refinement, but this is a
distinction which we all comprehend.

* Maurice Morgan, Esq., was of an ancient and respectable family in
Wales. He served as Under-Secretary of State to the marquis of Lands-
downe, and was afterward secretary to the embassy for ratifying the peace
with America (1783). He died March 28, 1802, in the seventy-seventh
year of his age. The extracts I have quoted in these pages are from his
Essay on the Dramatic Character of Sir John Falstaff, the only work of
the kind the author ever published.

Dr. Symmons, in his Life of Milton, says of Mr. Morgan : " His re-
peated injunctions have impelled his executors to an indiscriminate destruc-
tion of his papers, some of which, in the walks of politics, metaphysics,
and criticism, would have planted a permanent laurel on his grave."

FEELINGS VS. THE UNDERSTANDING. 157

"There are none of us unconscious of certain
feelings or sensations of mind which do not seem
to have passed through the understanding — the
effect, I suppose, of some secret influences from
without acting upon a certain mental sense, and
producing feelings and passions in just corre-
spondence to the force and variety of those influ-
ences on the one hand, and to the quickness of
our sensibility on the other. Be the cause, how-
ever, what it may, the fact is undoubtedly so;
which is all I am concerned in.

"And it is equally a fact, which every man's
experience may avouch, that the understanding
and those feelings are frequently at variance.
The latter often arise from the most minute cir-
cumstances, and frequently from such as the un-
derstanding cannot estimate or even recognize ;
whereas the understanding delights in abstractions
and in general propositions, which, however true
considered as such, are very seldom — I had like to
have said never — perfectly applicable to any par-
ticular case. And hence, among other causes, it
is that we often condemn or applaud characters
and actions on the credit of some logical process,
while our hearts revolt and would fain lead us to
a very different conclusion.

"The understanding seems, for the most part,
to take cognizance of actions only, and from these
to infer motives and characters ; but the sense
we have been speaking of proceeds in a contrary
course, and determines of actions from certain
first principles of character which seem wholly

14

158 OUR FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF CHARACTER.

out of the reach of the understanding. We can-
not, indeed, do otherwise than admit that there
must be distinct principles of character in every
distinct individual ; the manifest variety, even in
the minds of infants, will oblige us to this. But
what are these first principles of character ? Not
the objects, I am persuaded, of the understanding,
and yet we take as strong impressions of them as
if we could compare and assort them in a syllo-
gism. We often love or hate at first sight, and
indeed, in general, dislike or approve by some
secret reference to these principles ; and we judge
even of conduct, not from any idea of abstract
good or evil in the nature of actions, but by refer-
ring those actions to a supposed original character
in the man himself. I do not mean that we talk
thus ; we could not indeed, if we would, explain
ourselves in detail on this head: we can neither
account for impressions and passions nor commu-
nicate them to others by words. Tones and looks
will sometimes convey the passion strangely, but
the impression is incommunicable. The same
causes may produce it, indeed, at the same time
in many, but it is the separate possession of each,
and not in its nature transferable ; it is an imper-
fect sort of instinct, and proportionably dumb.

14 We might, indeed, if we choose it, candidly con-
fess to one another that we are greatly swayed by
these feelings, and are by no means so rational in
all points as we could wish ; but this would be a
betrayal of the interests of that high faculty, the
understanding, which we so value ourselves upon,

JUDGMENT OF THE UNDERSTANDING. 159

and which we more peculiarly call our own. This,
we think, must not be, and so we huddle up the
matter, concealing it as much as possible both
from ourselves and others.

"In books, indeed, wherein character, motive,
and action are all alike subjected to the under-
standing, it is generally a very clear case, and
we make decisions compounded of them all ; and
thus we are willing to approve of Candide, though
he kills my lord the Inquisitor and runs through
the body of Baron of Thunder-ten-trouchk, the
son of his patron and the brother of his beloved
Cunegonde ; but in real life, I believe, my lords
the judges would be apt to inform the gentlemen
of the jury that my lord the Inquisitor was ill-
killed, as Candide did not proceed on the urgen-
cy of the moment, but on the speculation only
of future evil. And, indeed, this clear perception
in novels and plays of the union of character and
action not seen in Nature is the principal defect
of such compositions, and what renders them but
ill pictures of human life and wretched guides of
conduct.

" But if there was one man in the world who
could make a more perfect draught of real Nature,
and steal such impressions on his audience with-
out their special notice as should keep their hold
in .spite of any error of their understanding, and
should thereupon venture to introduce an appa-
rent incongruity of character and action suscept-
ible of explanation, such an imitation would be
worth our nicest curiosity and attention. But in

160 NATURE, MAGIC, REASON.

such a case as this the reader might expect that
he should find us all talking the language of the
understanding only ; that is, censuring the action,
with very little conscientious investigation even
of that, and transferring the censure in every
odious color to the actor himself, how much
soever our hearts and affections might secretly
revolt ; for as to the impression, we have already
observed that it has no tongue, nor are its opera-
tion and influence iikely to be made the subject
of conference and communication.

"A felt propriety or truth of art from an un-
seen though supposed adequate cause we call
Nature. A like feeling of propriety and truth,
supposed without a cause or as seeming to be
derived from causes inadequate, fantastic, and
absurd, such as wands, circles, incantations, and
so forth, we call by the general name Magic, in-
cluding all the train of superstition, witches,
ghosts, fairies, and the rest.

"Reason is confined to the line of visible ex-
istence ; our passions and our fancy extend far
beyond into the obscure ; but, however lawless
their operations may seem, the images, they so
wildly form have yet a relation to truth, and are
the shadows at least, however fantastic, of reality.

"I am not investigating, but passing, this sub-
ject, and must therefore leave behind me much
curious speculation. Of personification, however,
we should observe that those which are made out
of abstract ideas are the creatures of the under-
standing only ; thus, of the mixed modes, virtue,

PERSONIFICATION OF THE PASSIONS. l6l

beauty, wisdom, and others, what are they but
very obscure ideas of qualities considered as ab-
stracted from any subject whatever ? The mind
cannot steadily contemplate such an abstraction ;
what then does it do ? Invent or imagine a sub-
ject in order to support these qualities, and hence
we get the nymphs or goddesses of virtue, of
beauty, or of wisdom, the very obscurity of the
ideas being the cause of their conversion into
sensible objects with precision both of feature
and of form.

"But as reason has its personifications, so has
passion. Every passion has its object, though
often indistinct and obscure ; to be brought nearer,
then, and rendered more distinct, it is personified,
and Fancy fantastically decks or aggravates . the
form and adds 'a local habitation and a name.'
But passion is the dupe of its own artifice, and
realizes the image it had formed. The Grecian
theology was mixed of both these kinds of per-
sonification. Of the images produced by passion
it must be observed that they are the images, for
the most part, not of the passions themselves, but
of their remote effects. Guilt looks through the
medium, and beholds a devil ; fear, spectres of
every sort; hope, a smiling cherub; malice and
envy see hags and witches and enchanters dire ;
while the innocent and the young behold with
fearful delight the tripping fairy whose shadowy
form the moon gilds with its softest beams.

" Extravagant as all this appears in a prosaic
sense, it has its laws so precise that we are sensi-

14* L

1 62 MALICE PERSONIFIED IN CALIBAN.

ble both of a local and temporary and of a uni-
versal magic ; the first derived from the general
nature of the human mind, influenced by partic-
ular habits, institutions, and climate; and the
latter, from the same general nature, abstracted
from those considerations. Of the first sort the
machinery in Macbeth is a very striking instance
— a machinery, which, however exquisite at the
time, has already lost more than half its force,
and the gallery now laughs in some places where
it ought to shudder ; but the magic of The Temp-
est is lasting and universal.

"There is, besides, a species of writing for
which we have no term of art, and which holds
a middle place between Nature and magic. I
mean where fancy, either alone or mingled with
reason, or reason assuming the appearance of
fancy, governs some real existence ; but the
whole of this art is portrayed in a single play
— in the real madness of Lear, in the assumed
wildness of Edgar, and in the professional fan-
tasque of the Fool, — all operating to contrast
and heighten each other. There is yet another
feat of this kind which Shakespeare has per-
formed ; he has personified Malice in his Caliban
— a character kneaded up of three distinct na-
tures, the diabolical, the human, and the brute.
The rest of his preternatural beings are images
of effects only, and cannot subsist but in a sur-
rounding atmosphere of those passions from
which they are derived. Caliban is the passion
itself, or rather a compound of malice, servility,

GHOSTS IN THE DRAMA. 163

and lust substantiated, and therefore best shown
in contrast with the lightness of Ariel and the
innocence of Miranda.

" Witches are sometimes substantial existences,
supposed to be possessed by or allied to the un-
substantial ; but the witches in Macbeth are a
gross sort of shadows — 'bubbles of the earth,'
as they are finely called by Banquo. Ghosts
differ from other imaginary beings in this, that
they belong to no element, have no specific nature
or character, and are effects, however harsh the
expression, supposed without a cause ; the reason
of which is, that they are not the creation of the
poet, but the servile copies or transcripts of pop-
ular imagination connected with supposed reality
and religion. Should the poet assign the true
cause, and call them the mere painting or ' coin-
age of the brain,' he would disappoint his own
end and destroy the being he had raised. Should
he assign fictitious causes, and add a specific
nature and a local habitation, it would not be
endured, or the effect would be lost by the con-
version of one being into another. The approach
to reality in this case defeats all the arts and man-
agements of fiction.

" The whole play of The Tempest is of so high
and superior a nature that Dryden, who had
attempted to imitate in vain, might well exclaim
that

Shakespeare's magic could not copied be ;
Within that circle none durst walk but He.

1 64 NATURE OF SHAKESPEARE'S CHARACTERS.

"The reader must be sensible of something* in
the composition of Shakespeare's characters which
renders them essentially different from those
drawn by other writers.

"The characters of every drama must indeed be
grouped, but in the groups of other poets the
parts which are not seen do not in fact exist.
There is a certain roundness and integrity in the
forms of Shakespeare which give them an inde-
pendence as well as a relation, insomuch that we
often meet with passages which, though perfectly
felt, cannot be sufficiently explained in words
without unfolding the whole character of the
speaker. It may be said of the composition of
his characters in a conjectural sense that they
were the effect not so much of a minute and la-
borious attention as of a certain comprehensive
energy of mind involving within itself all the
effects of system and of labor.

" Bodies of all kinds, whether of metals, plants,
or animals, are supposed to possess certain first
principles of being, and to have an existence
independent of the accidents which form their
magnitude or growth; those accidents are sup-
posed to be drawn in from the surrounding ele-
ments, but not indiscriminately; each plant and
each animal imbibes those things only which are
proper to its own distinct nature, and which have,
besides, such a secret relation to each other as to
be capable of forming a perfect union and coales-
cence. But so variously are the surrounding ele-

THEIR VARIOUS COMPOSITION. 165

ments mingled and disposed that each particular
body, even of those under the same species, has
yet some peculiar of its own. Shakespeare ap-
pears to have considered the being and growth
of the human mind as analogous to this system ;
there are certain qualities and capacities which he
seems to have considered as first principles, the
chief of which are certain energies of courage
and activity, according to their degrees, together
with different degrees and sorts of sensibilities,
and a capacity varying likewise in the degree of
discernment and intelligence. The rest of the
composition is drawn in from an atmosphere of
surrounding things ; that is, from the various
influences of the different laws, religions, and
governments in the world, and from those of the
different ranks and inequalities in society, and
from the different professions of men, encouraging
or repressing passions of particular sorts, and
inducing different modes of thinking and habits
of life ; and he seems to have known .intuitively
what those influences in particular were which
this or that original constitution would most free-
ly imbibe, and which would most easily associate
and coalesce. But all these things being in dif-
ferent situations very differently disposed, and
those differences exactly discerned by him, he
found no difficulty in marking every individual,
even among characters of the same sort, with
something peculiar and distinct. Climate and
complexion demand their influence. ' Be thus
when thou art dead, and I will kill thee, and love

1 66 SHAKESPEARE 'S INTUITIVE COMPREHENSION.

thee after,' is a sentiment characteristic of, and
fit only to be uttered by, a Moor.

" But it was not enough for Shakespeare to
have formed his characters with the most perfect
truth and coherence ; it was further necessary
that he should possess a wonderful facility of
compressing, as it were, his own spirit into these
images, and of giving alternate animation to the
forms. This was not to be done from withoiit ;
he must have felt every varied situation, and
have spoken through the organ he had formed.

" Such an intuitive comprehension of things
and such a facility must unite to produce a
Shakespeare. The reader will not now be sur-
prised if I affirm that those characters in Shake-
speare which are seen only in part are yet
capable of being unfolded and understood in the
whole, every part being, in fact, relative, and
inferring all the rest. It is true that the point of
action or sentiment which we are most concerned
in is always held out for our special notice. But
who does not perceive that there is a peculiarity
about it which conveys a relish of the whole?
And very frequently, when no particular point
presses, he boldly makes a character act and
speak from those parts of the composition which
are inferred only and not distinctly shown. This
produces a wonderful effect ; it seems to carry us
beyond the poet to Nature itself, and gives an
integrity and truth to facts and character which
they could not otherwise obtain ; and this is, in
reality, that art in Shakespeare which, being with-

SHAKESPEARE'S FAME UNIVERSAL. 1 67

drawn from our notice, we more emphatically call
Nature.

" A felt propriety and truth from causes unseen
I take to be the highest form of poetic compo-
sition. If the characters of Shakespeare are thus
whole, and, as it were, original, while those of
almost all other writers are mere imitation, it may
be fit to consider them rather as historic than
dramatic beings, and when occasion requires to
account for their conduct from the whole of cha-
racter, from general principles, from latent mo-
tives, and from policies not avowed.

******

" When the hand of time shall have brushed
off his present editors and commentators, and
when the very name of Voltaire, and even the
memory of the language in which he has written,
shall be no more, the Appalachian Mountains, the
banks of the Ohio, and the plains of Scioto shall
resound with the accents of this barbarian ; in his
native tongue he shall roll the genuine passions
of Nature ; nor shall the griefs of Lear be allevia-
ted or the charms and wit of Rosalind be abated
by time. There is indeed nothing perishable
about him except that very learning which he is
said so much to want. He had not, it is true,
enough for the demands of the age in which he
lived, but he had perhaps too much for the reach
of his genius and the interest of his fame. Milton
and he will carry the decayed remnants and frip-
peries of ancient mythology into more distant
ages than they are, by their own force,N en titled to

1 68 SHAKESPEARE'S TRUTH TO NATURE.

extend, and the Metamorphoses of Ovid, upheld
by them, lay a new claim to unmerited immor-
tality.

"Shakespeare is a name so interesting that it
is excusable to stop a moment in any place and
at any time to pay his worth the tribute of some
admiration. He differs essentially from all other
writers ; we may profess rather to feel than to
understand him ; it is safer to say, on many occa-
sions, that we are possessed by him than that we
possess him. And no wonder: he scatters the
seeds of things, the principles of character and
action, with so cunning a hand, yet with so care-
less an air, and, master of our feelings, submits
himself so little to our judgment, that everything
seems superior. We discern not his course, we
see no connection of cause and effect; we are
rapt in ignorant admiration, and claim no kindred
with his abilities. All the incidents, all the parts,
look like chance, whilst we feel and are sensible
that the whole is design. His characters not only
act and speak in strict conformity to Nature, but
in strict relation to us ; just so much is shown as
is requisite — just so much is impressed. He com-
mends every passage to our heads and to our
hearts, and moulds us as he pleases ; and that
with so much ease that he never betrays his own
exertions. We see these characters act from the
mingled motives of passion, reason, interest, habit,
and complexion, in all their proportions, when
they are supposed to know it not themselves ;
and we are made to acknowledge that their ac-

HIS EXCELLENCE IN EVERYTHING. 169

tions and sentiments are, from these motives, the
necessary result. He at once blends and distin-
guishes everything; everything is complicated,
everything is plain.

"We restrain the further expression of our ad-
miration, lest it should not seem applicable to
man ; but it is really astonishing that a mere
human being, a part of humanity only, should so
perfectly comprehend the whole, and that he
should possess such exquisite art that, whilst
every woman and every child shall feel the
whole effect, his learned editors and commenta-
tors should yet so very frequently mistake or
seem ignorant of the cause. A sceptre or a
straw is in his hands of equal efficacy ; he needs
no selection ; he converts everything into excel-
lence ; nothing is too great, nothing is too base.
Is a character efficient, like Richard, it is every-
thing we can wish ; is it otherwise, like Harnlet, it
is productive of equal admiration ; action pro-
duces one mode of excellence, and inaction an-
other. The chronicle, the novel, or the ballad,
the king or the beggar, the hero, the madman,
the sot, or the fool, — it is all one; nothing is worse,
nothing is better ; the same genius pervades and
is equally admirable in all. Or is a character to
be shown in progressive change and the events
of years comprised within the hour; with what
a magic hand does he prepare and scatter his
spells ! The understanding must, in the first
place, be subdued, and lo ! how the rooted preju-
dices of the child spring up to confound the man !

15

I 70 SHAKESPEARE AND ARISTOTLE.

The weird sisters rise, and order is extinguished ;
the laws of Nature give way, and leave nothing in
our minds but wildness and horror. No pause is
allowed us for reflection ; horrid sentiments, furi-
ous guilt and compunction, air-drawn daggers,
murders, ghosts, and enchantment, shake and
possess us wholly. In the mean time the process
is complete. Macbeth changes under our eye ;
the milk of human kindness is converted to gall ;
he has supped full of horrors, and his May of life
is fallen into the sere, the yellow leaf; whilst we,
the fools of amazement, are insensible to the
shifting of place and the lapse of time, and till
the curtain drops never once awake to the truth
of things or recognize the laws of existence.

" On such an occasion a fellow like Rymer,
waking from his trance, shall lift up his consta-
ble's staff and charge this great magician, this
daring practiser of arts inhibited, in the name
of Aristotle to surrender; whilst Aristotle him-
self, disowning his wretched officer, would fall
prostrate at his feet and acknowledge his su-
premacy :*

*O supreme of dramatic excellence !' might he say,
' Not to me be imputed the insolence of fools.

The bards of Greece were confined within the
narrow circle of the Chorus, and hence they
found themselves constrained to practise, for the

* [It has been remarked that this apology, which Morgan assigns to
Aristotle from his name being improperly used by his wretched officers,
Rymer and other commentators, is one of the most luminous and critical
defences of Shakespeare's not being bound by the unities which perhaps
has ever been produced.] — AUTHOR.

TRUE POESY IS MAGIC. I 71

most part, the precision and copy the details of
Nature. I followed them, and knew not that a
larger circle might be drawn, and the drama ex-

o o ,

tended to the whole reach of human genius.
Convinced, I see that a more compendious Na-
ture may be obtained — a Nature of effects only,
to which neither the relations of place nor conti-
nuity of time are always essential. Nature, con-
descending to the faculties and apprehensions
of man, has drawn through human life a regular
chain of visible causes and effects ; but Poetry
delights in surprises, conceals her steps, seizes
at once upon the heart, and obtains the sublime
of things, without betraying the rounds of her
ascent; true Poesy is magic, not Nature — an
effect from causes hidden or unknown. To the
magician I prescribed no laws; his law and his
power are one ; his power is his law. Him, who
neither imitates nor is within the reach of imita-
tion, no precedent can or ought to bind, no limits
to contain. If his end is obtained, who shall
question his course? Means, whether apparent
or hidden, are justified in' Poesy by success ; but
then most perfect and most admirable when most
concealed/ "

CHAPTER IX.

BOOTH AND KEAN IN LONDON.— BOOTH IN
AMERICA. .

A T the time of Edmund Kean's appearance in
^~* London the Drury Lane Theatre was. under
the management of a committee of the stock-
holders or patentees, among whom were men of
fortune and others distinguished in literature and
the arts. As the finances of the theatre were
in a low condition, it had been found necessary
to concentrate the force of the press and certain
influences in society to produce a sensation, and
Mr. Kean was selected as the most suitable per-
son " to stir up the town." His eccentric and
dazzling style of acting was quite popular in the
provincial theatres, where he had been seen by
some of the Drury Lane committee, who had in-
vited him to the metr6polis. It was well under-
stood in managerial 'quarters that, no matter what
Kean's genius might be, he lacked a London rep-
utation, and therefore it was necessary that the-
atrical wire pulling should be set in motion to the
fullest extent, that his success might be assured
if he should exhibit genius or talent at all equal
to the necessities of the occasion.

In spite of every effort to drum up an audience
by the usual plan of distributing free tickets or

172

OVATIONS TO EDMUND KEAN. 173

orders, in consequence of disagreeable weather
the house on Kean's first night presented an
appearance by no means encouraging. The pit,
however, was " papered " with a strong array of
what were known as the " heavy swells " of the
critical world of London, who, heartily sympa-
thizing with the management, were determined
to make things lively with the public. The whole
of this well-arranged programme was carried out
by management and actor to the satisfaction of
all parties concerned. In theatrical parlance,
Kean made a " decided hit :" the machinery was
set in motion for a brilliant financial success. The
genius of the actor and the skill of the managers
produced one of those periodic dramatic fevers
to which the Londoners have been more or less
subject from the days of Garrick and Betty down
to those of the present living Sarah Bernhardt.

During the prevalence of what might be called
a continuous ovation to the genius of Edmund
Kean the English language was almost exhaust-
ed in epigrammatic forms of eulogy. Hazlitt,
Coleridge, Charles Lamb, and a host of the lumi-
naries of the critical world of London were con-
stant visitors to the theatre and contributors to
the press. Lord Byron, Sheridan, and others
of the Drury Lane committee complimented the
great tragedian with presentations, dinners, and
other public manifestations of approval. Among
the extravagances of the critics, Southey is re-
ported to have exclaimed, while gazing at Kean
in one of his terrible bursts of passion, " He

15*

I74 JUNIUS BRUTUS BOOTH.

looks like Michael Angelo's rebellious archan-
gel ;" to which a companion replied, " He looks
like the archangel himself." Another writer
affirmed that "Electricity was not more vivid
and instantaneous than Kean's acting.'' But the
" Pelion upon Ossa " of this verbal extravagance
culminated in the following brilliant effusion:
"The effect of Kean's acting is like reading
Shakespeare by flashes of lightning." This was
attributed to Coleridge, and claimed for Charles
Lamb, while others accredited it to Lord Byron,
as it was thought to bear a strong likeness to
the intensified style peculiar to that poet. Tom
Moore, with an eye to results in the ups and
downs of public opinion, said, " Kean is now in
the honeymoon of criticism, but he will soon real-
ize the difference between being written up and
being written down."

JUNIUS BRUTUS BOOTH.

In the midst of this great dramatic furore ap-
peared an actor of sterling worth but modest
character, who ventured to enter the lists as "a
free lance " and try a tilt with the successful hero
of the tournament; but, as "two stars keep not
their motion in one sphere," and as London could
not " brook the double reign " of Edmund Kean
and Junius Brutus Booth, the latter, after a short
but brilliant contest, left the field. Booth had
been fortunate enough to succeed in leading cha-
racters at Covent Garden Theatre, where he had
possession of several first-class parts in which he

BOOTH OVERSHADOWED BY KEAN. 175

was popular, and he could no doubt have gained a
fair share of the honors had he waited the issue ;
but he fell a victim to his ambition and an adroit
" trick of the trade." Allured by attractive offers,
suggested by Mr. Kean, to act equal parts in the
same plays, he went over to Drury Lane, and
the consequences were such as might have been
expected from the overwhelming odds to be en-
countered in a contest with the established favor-
ite of the town in the very heyday of his success
and on his own ground. Booth was overshad-
owed by Kean, and retired from Drury Lane,
and as a consequence met with a cool reception
on his return to Covent Garden. With his eccen-
tric character and highly-sensitive organization he
must have deeply felt the disappointment which
had crushed his aspirations and deprived him of
an honorable position ; and after playing in some
of the minor theatres he became disgusted with
English audiences and turned his face westward.
The idea of a London failure and the charge of
being a mere imitator had preceded him to Amer-
ica, where the critics, taking their cue from these
reports, influenced the public mind for a time and
prevented a correct estimate of the tragedian's
wonderful powers. But he soon struck the key-
note of popular appreciation and took a com-
manding position on the American stage.

Booth, it may be affirmed, displayed the most
wonderful combination of intellectual beauty and
force with consummate dramatic skill which was
ever exhibited in modern times. According to

176 BOOTH NOT AN IMITATOR.

our theories of dramatic art, and especially of
its vocal characteristics, he was only equalled by
Garrick himself; and had he happened to have
lived in the same period and have been surround-
ed by the same fortunate influences, he would
have proved a greater rival than we are told that
great actor found in Barry.

While producing the most brilliant and thrill-
ing effects in dramatic action, Booth seemed to
be totally ignorant or independent of mere stage-
business, and entirely regardless of the accesso-
ries of the stage — matters which modern actors
consider of paramount importance.

Booth seemed to have taken for his model the
elder Kean, and yet could not be said to have
imitated him. They were both men of the most
intense and impassioned nature, of poetic tem-
perament, and easily excited to the action of the
play, and, when fully aroused, capable of the most
fiery and vehement power of expressive utter-
ance. They were alike gifted with voices of
subtle and incisive qualities, capacious of every
form of expression, from the smothered whisper
of tremulous fear and the piercing shriek of phys-
ical suffering to the boldest volume of authorita-
tive command and the hollow, sepulchral sound
of profound awe or suppressed agony.

With regard to Kean, it may be said that he
was very prone to the use of an aspirated and
guttural quality of voice, by which unpleasing
trait the naturally sonorous character of his tones
was obscured and impaired. The same thing

BOOTH'S ELOCUTIONARY SKILL. 177

could not be said of Booth's vocal ability, for,
though using the aspirated quality with great
power and effect in the utterance of malign pas-
sions, it was never obtruded upon or mixed with
the rich effects of his tones in the expression of
the more elevated and ennobling sentiments of
his author. He certainly was the most natural
of all the actors in his delineations, while he
excelled all his contemporaries (save the elder
Kean) in the vivid intensity of his emotional ex-
pression.

The acting of Booth was characterized by a
strictly austere method, so far as it related to
the requirements of vocal delineation, to which
the mere physical qualities were always subordi-
nated. His author never suffered at his hands,
but, on the contrary, the soul of language, it
might be said, poured forth with an affluent rich-
ness, reminding one of the pictured ideal of elo-
quence expressed by the painter in ancient times,
where streams of amber were portrayed as flow-
ing from the mouth of the orator into the de-
lighted ears of the entranced listeners. The
most irregular forms of verse in obedience to

o

Booth's elocutionary skill became smooth and
musical as the hum of the bees of Hymettus.
In this respect he may be said to have been vast-
ly superior to the elder Kean, whose utterances,
aside from those of a purely pathetic nature,
were too often marked by a ruggedness of qual-
ity and an apparently intentional rapidity, more
especially in that portion of his lines which he

M

178 KEAN'S VOCAL FIREWORKS.

deemed of an unimportant character, and which
he purposely subordinated to the brilliant flashes
of an almost magical intensity in the outbursts
of favorite points.

By such prepared and masterly effects, care-
fully considered and skilfully executed, did Kean
carry the feelings of his auditors by storm, and,
as it has been said by his contemporaries, "by
volcanic eruptions of frenzied passion hold them
spellbound in rage or revenge, or overwhelmed
with floods of pathos and tenderness." After
such an histrionic triumph the impassioned actor
would subside into an almost reckless state of
slovenly indifference until again aroused to an-
other point-making effort.

From such a view of his dramatic powers it must
be acknowledged that Kean's style, while it was
calculated to dazzle the intellectual perceptions of
the beholder, certainly did not tend to illuminate
the language of Shakespeare in the integrity of
its unbroken excellence as a finished whole.

It must be conceded that the tragic power of
our "American Garrick," as Dr. Rush called
Booth, did not suffer in comparison with the
delineative "identity"* which was claimed, by

* Among English actors of the school of " identity," as it is termed,
the word " abandon " was used to express an earnest taking on of the
" spirit " of the part, after the manner of Kean. The head of an old the-
atrical family, speaking of this specialty, said, " We are all noted for our
' abandon.' My wife, as the profession knows, is remarkable for it, and
my daughter (referring to a popular actress) has it in an astonishing
degree; but then, you know, she gets her abandon naturally from her
mother." The double meaning of the word never struck the old gen-
tleman, or he would no doubt have used some other term.

ABSENCE OF TRICKERY IN BOOTH. 179

Kean's admirers, as his great and distinctive ex-
cellence. The manner of Booth was noted for
a consistent and beautifully graduated order of
vocal effects, where the most brilliant and start-
ling results were attained in a perfectly legitimate
method of treating the so-considered subordinate
parts of the language with a just regard to their
proper value, while employing them as the " sul-
len and base ground " upon which to exhibit those
sublime culminations of speech which have won
for the actor and the orator in all times the hon-
ors paid to genius and perfected art.

While possessing and wielding the greatest
intellectual power in dramatic action, there was,
as I have before said, a total absence of mere
stage-effect or professional trickery in Booth's
acting. His was " the art which concealed the
art." His acting, while exciting the most thrill-
ing sensations of sympathetic fervor and delight,
never suggested a thought of the manner in
which the actor produced them, and yet he left
the impression of artistic excellence in all the
requirements of soul and intellect.

I may here remark that Kean's was the re-
verse of this. Language was to him, in a great
measure, only a means to what he considered
the great end of stage-effect in expression, bod-
ily action, and dramatic situation.

In proof of the fact that Booth did not con-
sider himself an imitator of Kean, and also of
what I have said regarding his wonderful re-
sources of vocal variety and power, — as proof,

1 80 BOOTH'S ECCENTRIC HABITS.

I say, of these facts, Mr. Booth while acting in
the theatres of Virginia, where he made his first
engagements with American managers, used to
act Richard one night in his own style, and the
next in that of Mr. Kean ; each of which per-
formances, I have been told, was marked with
individual traits of extraordinary genius. The
perfect mastery with which he treated the
personal manner of Kean's acting, while he
exhibited his own in distinctive contrast, settled
the question (on this side of the water at least)
concerning Booth's imitation, while it established
him as the peer of Edmund Kean.

Of all the men with whom my professional
duties made me acquainted, no one perhaps im-
pressed me so strongly as the elder Booth. There
was something peculiar about him that acted like
a charm, and commanded the respect and won the
esteem of all whose advances he encouraged; but
he was, nevertheless, generally undemonstrative
and shy. Such was the impression Mr. Booth
made upon me and left in my memory, although
unable, in any respect, to approve of his eccentric
habits, which are familiar to the public.

A morbid tendency of feeling, which gave rise
to wild and defiant moods, led him, at times, to
things at variance with the conventionalities of
society and entirely opposed to his well-known
gentlemanly character; and these eccentricities
caused coldness and reserve both with himself
and his friends. But when the "cloud" passed
and his true nature asserted itself, Booth was

HIS SIR EDWARD MORTIMER. l8l

capable of winning the love of many and the
esteem of all.

His literary tastes and abilities were of a high
order, while his mental qualities were remarkable
for clearness and range. I remember the first
time I was brought into direct contact with the
magnetic influence by which he ruled the dramatic
scene and swayed his audience. I was quite a
lad, and had not been on the stage more than a
year or two, when I was selected to play Wilford
to his Sir Edward Mortimer for the first time.
Booth's face, before he met with the accident
which disfigured his nose, was of surpassing
beauty, and, speaking in the spirit of enthusiasm,
to my mind's eye it always realized the ideal
grandeur represented in Hamlet's lines :

See what a grace was seated on this brow :
Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;
An eye like Mars, to threaten and command.

Such was the impression made on my youthful
mind in gazing for the first time on Booth's fea-
tures when dressed for Sir Edward Mortimer.
The sweetness of a settled melancholy was in his
face, while his large, lustrous eye was full of
gentle tenderness. But I was destined to see
that face and eye in a different light, and to real-
ize a very different feeling from that of quiet
admiration.

On the morning of the rehearsal I found the
great tragedian pleasant and communicative, and,
as I was anxious to learn the business of the

16

1 82 MORTIMER AND WILFORD.

scene and to execute it to the satisfaction of my
superior, I was attentive and deeply interested.

My readers will call to mind the relations of
Sir Edward Mortimer and his young secretary.
The latter was taken from an inferior position in
life and elevated to the confidence and friendship
of his patron, over whom hung — that fascination
to the young — a profound mystery. With that
mystery was connected an iron chest which Sir
Edward was known to visit often, and always
alone, returning from such visits with evident
marks of the deepest agitation.

One day Wilford, being engaged in the se-
cluded apartment where the chest was kept, with
surprise observed that the key was in the lock.
After overcoming honest scruples in a long
struggle with fatal curiosity, he knelt before the
mysterious chest and turned the key ; then, hesi-
tating for a moment, he searched the apartment
in order to be satisfied that he was secure from
observation. Now the stage-business which Mr.
Booth was so particular in teaching me was this :
I was enjoined to take time, and after a careful
survey of the premises to kneel on one knee,
place my left hand on the lid of the chest, then,
gently raising it, to hold it back, and, looking
closely in, to place my right hand on the papers
which it contained, turning them over as if seek-
ing for something hidden beneath. The strictest
injunction was given to pay no attention to what
was to follow on the part of Sir Edward, no
matter how long the suspense might last, but

BOOTH'S REALITY IN ACTING. 183

when I felt his hand upon my shoulder to turn
abruptly, letting the lid of the chest fall with a
slam, and, still on my knee, hold a firm attitude
till I was warned by a sudden pressure of Mr.
Booth's hand to rise to my feet and stand before
him.

On the night of the performance I was nervous
and ill at ease from the want of a firm and as-
sured hold upon the words of my part, which I
had mastered at short notice and with more
attention to the sense than to special expression.
However, I contrived to keep up with the action
of the play. At length I found myself in the
presence of the mysterious chest. I was almost
breathless with excitement and from anxiety con-
sequent on my strong desire to execute Mr.
Booth's orders to the very letter. I had pro-
ceeded so far as to open the chest, and, stooping
over the papers, awaited trembling, on my knee,
the appointed signal for action. The time seemed
an eternity, but it came at last. The heavy hand
fell on my shoulder. I turned, and there, with
the pistol held to my head, stood Booth, glaring
like an infuriated demon. Then for the first time
I comprehended the reality of acting. The fury
of that passion-flamed face and the magnetism
of the rigid clutch upon my arm paralyzed my
muscles, while the scintillating gleam of the ter-
rible eyes, like the green and red flashes of an
enraged serpent, fascinated and fixed me spell-
bound to the spot. A sudden revulsion of feeling
caused me to spring from my knees, but, bewil-

184 THE KINDNESS OF BOOTH.

dered with fright and a choking sensation of
undefined dread, I fell heavily to the stage, trip-
ping Mr. Booth, who still clutched my shoulder.
I brought him down with me, and for a moment
we lay prostrate. But suddenly recovering him-
self, he sprang to his feet, with almost super-
human strength dragging me up, as I clung to
his arm in terror. Shaking himself free of my
grasp, I sank down again stunned and helpless.
I was aroused to consciousness, however, by a
voice calling on me, in suppressed accents, to
rise, and then became aware that Mr. Booth
was kneeling at my side. He helped me to my
feet, whispering in my ear a few encouraging
words, and then dexterously managed, in spite
of the accident and my total inability to speak,
to continue the scene to its close.

Thus was I, an unfortunate tyro, saved from
disgrace by the coolness and kindness of one
who had every reason to be moved by a very
different state of mind ; for it was evident that,
but for the actor's readiness and skill in impro-
vising the business of the stage, one of the most
important and interesting scenes of the play
would have proved a mortifying failure. The
kindness of the act was its own reward, for my
present recollection is that the audience never
evinced the slightest indication of the presence
of a disturbing element, but, on the contrary,
gave evidence of their satisfaction by applause
at the critical moment to which I have alluded.

In more than one way Booth was a true poetic

HIS ARDOR OF EXPRESSION. 185

genius and dramatic artist. He always seemed
to grasp the ideal beauty and intellectual power
of the poet's thought, and worked out, from the
author's language, the full force of the emotion
or passion which was the root of its mental
growth. Thus mastering the intent and purpose
of the words, he invested their utterance with the
graceful foliage or the more vigorous strength
of branch and limb from the power of his varied
and wonderful forms of expression. This he
seemed to do apparently with so much real en-
joyment of the poet's innermost feelings that the
fervor of a gratified sense seized upon his hear-
ers, and established a congenial and sympathetic
communion with the enthusiasm of the actor.

This peculiar kind of radiated and reflected
ardor of expression was conspicuously exempli-
fied in the glow and vigor and sonorous round-
ness of Booth's voice in his utterance of the
words of Sir Edward Mortimer in the following
scene :

Library. SIR EDWARD discovered at the writing-table.
ADAM WINTERTON attending.

SIR EDWARD.

Well bethought ; send Walter to me.
I would employ him ; he must ride for me
On business of much import.

WINTERTON.

Lackaday ! that it should- chance so ! I have sent him forth
To Winchester, to buy me flannel hose,

For winter's coming on. Good lack ! that things should fall
so crossly !

18*

1 86 SCENE FROM "THE IRON CHEST."

SIR EDWARD.

Nay, nay, do not fret ;

'Tis better that my business cool, good Adam,

Than thy old limbs.

Is Wilford waiting ?

WlNTERTON.

He is—
Here in the hall, sir.

SIR EDWARD.
Send him in.

WlNTERTON.

I shall, sir. Heaven bless you ! Heaven bless you ! \Exit.

SIR EDWARD.

Good-morning, good old heart.

This honest soul

Would fain look cheery in my house's gloom,

And, like a gay and sturdy evergreen,

Smiles in the midst of blast and desolation,

Where all around him withers.

Well! well! wither,

Perish, this frail and fickle frame, this clay,

That in its dross-like compound doth contain

The mind's pure ore and essence ! Oh that mind,

That mind of man ! that godlike spring of action !

That source whence learning, virtue, honor, flow !

Which lifts us to the stars, which carries us

O'er the swell' n waters of the angry deep,

As swallows skim the air ! — that fame's sole fountain,

That doth transmit a fair and spotless name

When the vile trunk is rotten ! Give me that !

Oh give me but to live in after age

Remembered and unsullied ! Heaven and earth !

Let my pure flame of honor shine in ^tory

When I am cold in death, and the slow fire

That wears my vitals now will no more move me

Than would a corpse within a monument !

BOOTH AS RICHARD THE THIRD. 1 87

Books ! books !

(My only commerce now) will sometimes rouse me

Beyond my nature ; I have been so warmed,

So heated, by a well-turned rhapsody,

That I have seemed the hero of the tale

So glowingly described. Draw me a man

Struggling for fame, attaining, keeping it,

Dead ages since, and the historian

Decking his memory in polished phrase,

And I can follow him through every turn,

Grow wild in his exploits, myself himself,

Until the thick pulsation of my heart

Wakes me to ponder on the thing I am.

The first time I heard him deliver this passage
I remember that he impressed me with a realiz-
ing sense of what a delightful state of unalloyed
pleasure that reader was capable of enjoying who
could in his communion with the words of the
dead past conjure up their intellectual power at
will and mingle his own senses with the very
atmosphere of mental beauty and truth.

Again, in his performance of Richard the
Third, after giving utterance to the language of
the author in tones of mingled softness and sub-
tlety, expressive of the opposite states of tender
passion and crafty cruelty, he would take a bolder
flight, and, assuming the aspect of the frowning
and fiery Mars, with his soul in arms and eager
for the fray, showed himself able to conjure up
within the deep cells of innermost feeling a true
conception and embodiment of the chivalry and
glory of the warrior-soul.

Though small in size, and never well equipped

1 88 A TRUE SHAKESPEARIAN ACTOR.

in the external vestments of royalty (for he was
what is termed in the profession "a bad dresser"),
he exhibited the true lineaments of martial valor
and majestic heroism, which were far beyond the
meretricious adornments of the costumer. It was
then that, under the inspiration of an intuitive
Shakespearian conception, he was able to infuse
into the language, not the dead form of tradi-
tional dramatic utterance, but the soul itself of
vital passion ; and the minds of the excited spec-
tators beheld not only the true semblance of a
kingly warrior, but in the play of their imagina-
tion realized the spirit, if not the bodily presence,
of embattled hosts. Though they might, outside
the magic circle, forget the illusion of the scene
and call to mind the realities of the faded tin-
sel of the stage, and look upon the pasteboard
defences of the supernumeraries rather as the fit-
ting vesture of FalstafPs ragged regiment, yet, in
spite of such belittling recollections, they could
not soon forget the startling effects of the poetry
of war as depicted by the actor and made real
by his presence and his voice.*

Some time after the performance of The Iron
Chest before referred to, in a quarrel with a
brother-performer, who under intense excitement

* Nearly a quarter of a century ago Mr. Charles Kean got up (as it is
termed) Richard the Third at a cost of some thousands of dollars at the
Park Theatre, New York. One night, while in the green-room, he said
to his wife, " My dear Ellen, these costly equipments, after all, are de-
structive of the actor's vocation ; the people are so engrossed with look-
ing at the scenery and dresses that they have no time to think of the
acting. I feel as if I had nothing to do but to walk on the stage and off
again."

VANDENHOFF THE ELDER. 189

struck him with a heavy blunt weapon, Booth's
nose (naturally prominent and exquisitely form-
ed) was broken and dreadfully disfigured, thereby
for a time materially affecting his voice in its
sonorous purity. With many, such an obstruc-
tion would have proved an impassable barrier to
further progress in the profession. But Booth,
who was as familiar with physiological as with
intellectual matters, proceeded at once to over-
come the impediment by a special discipline of
the functions of the vocal mechanism, and, finally
conquering the difficulty, restored the facial organ
to its original capacity for producing its peculiar
sounds. There was, however, in his restored vocal-
ity a more than usual nasal quality, though not
enough to mar the resonant breadth and firmness
of his voice, or the musical ring which made it in
its cadences an exposition of the pensive sounds
which Collins tells us Melancholy "poured through
the mellow horn," or those opposite tones, so
"loud and dread," blown from "the war-denoun-
cing trumpet" by the spirit of Revenge.

VANDENHOFF.

Mr. Vandenhoff the Elder (the father of George
Vandenhoff, the eminent actor and elocutionist)
was in all probability the finest tragedian of the
classic school of acting ever seen on the Amer-
ican stage. He was a scholar and a gentleman of
refined manners, as well as a great actor. I saw
him first in Coriolanus, when he impressed me as
the true ideal of the Roman character more thor-

VANDENHOFF' S IMPERSONATIONS.

oughly than any actor I had ever seen. The
proud patrician himself could not, in my mind,
have had a more lordly and warrior-like bearing
than Vandenhoff imparted to Shakespeare's Ro-
man hero. There was a sharp ring in his voice
and an incisive stroke in his utterance of com-
mand and rebuke that rung the words like a shot,
energizing every sentence, leaving nothing uncer-
tain to the understanding, the feeling, or the ear;
while in his declamatory or deeply contemplative
tones there were the stately pace of quantity and
the measured flow of rhythm, which gave to his
recitations a grace and dignity fully equal to all
the requirements of the Tragic Muse.

His Cato was a revelation to the young Amer-
ican actor of a half century ago in fine elocution
and courtly manners. If John Philip Kemble was
a more perfect Cato than Vandenhoff, then was
Kemble a greater actor than even his storied
record makes him appear. Bulwer's Richelieu,
as impersonated by Vandenhoff, was not only the
crafty statesman, but, what no other actor ever
made him, so far as my impressions are concerned,
the proud, haughty, imperious churchman. The
very impress of the Vatican marked his bearing
in both voice and action. When he drew "the
awful circle of our solemn Church," and threat-
ened even the crowned king who should violate
its sanctity with the scathing fire of Rome's dread
curse, the effect was exceedingly impressive. It
was not the too common exhibition of an actor's
personal denunciation worked to a climax of in-

A SCENE BEHIND THE CURTAIN.

tensity to produce a professional effect. In Van-
denhoff you beheld the embodiment of the power
of Rome, and in his voice of solemn earnestness
and conscious dignity you felt what would be the
fatal consequence of braving the mandates of the
supreme head of the Church.

Mr. Vandenhoff was playing an engagement
at the old Chestnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia,
about 1838, during which his performance of
Macbeth was accompanied with a scene behind
the curtain quite dramatic in its character, but
not at all in keeping with the tragedy.

The second act was on, and Mr. Vandenhoff,
after speaking the dagger soliloquy, had made
his exit to perform the deed which was " to make
the very stones prate of his whereabouts."

In the way of explanation I will here state that
when Macbeth passes through the stage-door of
the apartment of the " sleeping king " to perpe-
trate the murder, he enters a kind of corner box
in which the prompter stands. It is enclosed by
a frame on hinges, and can be enlarged at pleas-
ure. Now, in this space the "property-man," as
he is termed, places for the use of Macbeth a
small table on which are a looking-glass, lighted
candles, and a towel, together with chalk to give
a pallid hue to the face, and a pot of liquid red
coloring-matter to smear the hands and daggers
of the murderer.

Mr. Vandenhoff, as I have said, had made his
exit from the stage, and Lady Macbeth had en-
tered and was making her speech, while her con-

192 AN IMPORTUNATE VISITOR.

sort was busily employed, as is the custom, in
putting his hair in disorder and reducing the color
of his cheeks to the proper pallor before reap-
pearing on the scene. At this interesting moment
a gentleman who had insisted on seeing the tra-
gedian on important business, in spite of the
doorkeeper's efforts to restrain him, had made
his way to the box I have described, and, pushing
open the door, found himself face to face with
the murderous thane, who was holding in his
blood-stained grasp the daggers, on which, brush
in hand, an attendant was splashing the san-
guineous fluid. The reader may imagine the state
of the case as the two men stood staring at each
other in mutual surprise.

" Mr. Vandenhoff," said the bewildered visitor,
"the Sons of St. George desire — "

Here the actor, retaining his attitude and fetch-
ing his breath in gasps and sobs, so that he might
develop the • excited state of feeling proper to the
deed of blood he had just committed, exclaimed
in husky, suppressed tones, " Mr. Tarns, I am
astonished that you should — "

Here broke in the visitor with, " Mr. Vanden-
hoff, the Sons of St. George — "

Then the excited tragedian : " Sir, you must see
that I — More blood, if you please, Mr. Wards,"
holding out his daggers to the attendant.

"But," said Mr. Tarns, "you promised to re-
turn—"

Macbeth was now striking out with his daggers,
as if still stabbing the old king, and in close prox-

"/ HAVE DONE THE DEED T 1 93

imity to the person of Mr. Tams, speaking all the
time with increased vehemence, though in sup-
pressed tones : " Don't you see, sir, that I cannot,
sir—"

Just then the cue was heard, and, dashing on
the stage, Macbeth, as he struck his attitude, cried
out in all the terror of conscious guilt,

I have done the deed !
Didst thou not hear a noise ?
17 N

CHAPTER X.

MISS DECAMP.— INCIDENTS AND ANECDOTES OF
THE DECAMP AND KEMBLE FAMILIES.

HTHE London Monthly Mirror (1801) says:
-*- " There are among the profession many em-
inent characters whose private conduct reflects
honor on their public station. Of such no one
is more worthy both of praise and imitation than
the lady whose name adorns the head of this
article.

" Miss DeCamp was born at Vienna on the
1 7th of January, 1774; her father, George Louis
DeCamp, was a gentleman of considerable esti-
mation as a musician. His real name, however,
was De Fleury, and he was descended from the
younger branch of that family in France. Allured
by the prospect of patronage which had been
promised him by several English noblemen then
resident abroad, he quitted Germany for England,
where, although his great merits were acknow-
ledged, yet his modesty and unassuming diffi-
dence, too often the attendants on extraordinary
talents, were an unfortunate bar to his success.

" Miss DeCamp, at the age of six years, was
retained at the opera-house as one of the Cupid-
ons of Novarre's ballets ; from thence she trans-

194

MISS DECAMP IN THE BALLET. 195

ferred her juvenile exertions to the elegant the-
atre of Monsieur le Texier, where she performed,
at the age of only eight years, the character of
Zelie in La Comedie de la Calombe, written by
the celebrated Countess de Genlis. Here Miss
DeCamp met with particular notice and patron-
age, and from this period we may date the com-
mencement of that distinguished esteem and
patronage, from persons of the first fashion in
this country, which, to her honor, she retains to
this hour.

"The Prince of Wales, who had not unfre-
quently witnessed her youthful performances, dis-
covered her extraordinary merit, which seemed
to promise a more profitable display on a stage
of higher attraction. His Royal Highness recom-
mended our heroine to Mr. Colman, Sr., as a
young lady who might improve her own taste in
the theatre of the Haymarket, and at the same
time render a service to his management by
assisting in the ballets and other novelties that
might be produced in the course of the summer
seasons. Miss DeCamp was accordingly engaged
by that gentleman, and appeared for the first time
on that stage in a little dance under the title of
Jamie s Return, with the young D'Egville.

"At the end of the Haymarket season Mr.
King, the then acting manager of Drury Lane
Theatre, tendered her an engagement of supe-
rior advantage, both as to profit and opportunity
of appearing before the public.

" Her father's disappointments in this country

196 MISS DECAMP AS AN^ACTRESS.

had made him resolve to return to Germany ; he
had therefore neglected to instruct Miss DeCamp
in a language which he considered would never
turn to any account than as a mere accomplish-
ment ; so that when he died, leaving a wife and
several children, our heroine, the eldest, and then
only twelve years old, had not even learned to
read English, the little characters in which she had
acquired so much applause, such as the Page in
The Orphan, the Prince of Wales in Richard the
Third, etc. etc., having been taught her by mere
dint of repetition. By the death of her father
having lost all hope of support except that which
might result from her own labor, and having uni-
formly detested the idea of being anything but an
actress, she determined by industry to make up
the deficiency of an early education ; and those
advantages which were denied her by the narrow-
ness of her circumstances were amply compen-
sated by the assistance of two friends. The
Viscountess Percival taught her reading, writing,
and arithmetic ; and the accomplished Miss Bu-
channan instructed her in music, Italian, and
geography.

" Her first appearance at Drury Lane was in
Richard Cceur de Lion, in 1786, and, by her per-
formance of the part of Julie she contributed
greatly to the success and run of that elegant
entertainment.

"As Miss DeCamp increased in years she
gradually disclosed the extent of those talents
with which Nature and education have so un-

SHE APPEARS IN OPERA. 197

commonly gifted her. An ear naturally correct,
and very sedulous application to the science of
music, recommended her to a singing cast of
characters. In the summer season of 1792, Mr.
Johnstone, for his benefit reversed the characters
of the Beggar s Opera by way of procuring an
overflow to the better profit of the actor. Old
Bannister on this occasion was assigned to the
tender part of Polly, Johnstone to Lucy, and the
redoubtable Macheath was undertaken by our
heroine. The airs were given in a manner that
obtained reiterated applause, and it is but justice
to give her the praise of having executed them
with peculiar taste and science ; and as for the
acting of the character, there has been nothing
near it, by any Macheath before or since, during
the recollection of the writer of this article. Miss
DeCamp is in private life equally the object of
our commendation as in the public execution of
the duties of her profession, her filial attention
to her parent and her family, her respectful
acquiescence with their wishes, and the uniform
gentleness of her manners and disposition, have
gained her an universal reputation for amiable
and exemplary conduct.

" Complete in all the elegant accomplishments
of life, Miss DeCamp seems rather formed for
the endearing offices of domestic enjoyment than
the bustle of a profession exposed to the perpet-
ual demands of a captious public and the secret
malevolence of professional individuals."

For a period of twenty years Miss DeCamp

17 *

198 TAYLOR ON CHARLES KEMBLE.

had made her name famous in the annals of the
stage. Mr. Charles Kemble wooed and won
the lady, making her his wife in 1806.

Mrs. Charles Kemble was of exceptional ex-
cellence in sprightly parts, in chambermaids, and
all characters where pantomimic action was need-
ed. It was said her knowledge of stage-business
was perfect, while in point of industry no one ex-
ceeded her.

CHARLES KEMBLE.

Mr. Charles Kemble made his first appearance
in 1792 as Orlando in As You Like It. In 1820
he had attained the- zenith of his reputation. Mr.
John Taylor makes the following notice :

" Mr. Charles Kemble, who now appears to so
much advantage on the stage, when he was rather
a fine sturdy lad than a young man held an
appointment in a government office, but being
anxious to go upon the stage, he consulted me
on the subject. I confess that, though he was
intelligent and well-educated, there was such a
rustic plainness in his manner that I did not see
any promise of excellence in him, and therefore
advised him to keep to his situation, which was a
progressive one, from which, I told him, in due
time he would be able to retire on a comfortable
independence. He told me that his brother had
expressed the same opinion, and had given him
the same advice. Hence it appeared that Mr.
Kemble and myself were bad prophets, since his
brother Charles has displayed abilities which would

KEMBLE AS AN ACTOR. 199

have done honor to the stage at any period. It
may, however, be said that Mr. Kemble perhaps
saw his brother's talents with eyes more discern-
ing than mine, and only discouraged his theat-
rical bent from a conviction of the difficulty and
uncertainty of the profession.

" Mr. Charles Kemble was very early in life
placed for education at a college in Douay, from
which he returned with a competent knowledge of
the Latin and French languages, and since he
has been an established performer in London
he has, I understand, acquired the Italian and
German.

"As an actor he is a worthy successor to his
brother, particularly in the part of Hamlet ; and,
to say the least of his performance, in a just con-
ception of the author, in animation, variety, and
energy, he must satisfy the most rigid critic. His
deportment in general is easy and graceful, with-
out affectation, but naturally flowing from his feel-
ings. His Romeo also is an admirable specimen
of tragic skill. But, with all his merit in tragedy,
he seems to be more in his element in comic parts.
His Charles in The School for Scandal is a per-
formance of great spirit and humor, but perhaps
his young Mirabel in The Inconstant is his most
perfect personation. His Archer in the comedy
of The Beaux' Stratagem is also highly creditable
to his comic powers, and he has shown the versa-
tility of his talents by his performance of Friar
Tuck and Falstaff, though so different from his
proper cast."

200 MRS. FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.

THE DECAMP AND KEMBLE FAMILIES.

The references to her mother in Mrs. Frances
Anne Kemble's recent book, An Old Woman s
Gossip, lead to the inference that she considers
her organization to have more affinity with her
maternal than paternal ancestry. She lays much
stress upon her mother's originality, describing
her as a beautiful woman of many and rare ac-
complishments and possessed of a vivacious and
independent spirit, unwilling to submit to profes-
sional tradition or social conventionalisms when at
variance with her own sense of good taste and pro-
priety. In the picture the daughter has sketched
of the mother she has portrayed many of her own
idiosyncrasies. In summing up she affirms that in
many respects her mother had more of the savage
in her nature than of the ingredients of civiliza-
tion ; by which I infer a leaning to the picturesque
side of the gypsy disposition. I was strongly im-
pressed with the native force of character present-
ed in Mrs. Kemble's account of her family career.
It was a frank, generous avowal of her opinion
of the profession of which her parents were dis-
tinguished members, and which enabled her own
brilliant and commanding genius to attain celeb-
rity equalled only by that of the greatest actress
of the English stage — her aunt, Mrs. Siddons.

Mrs. Kemble tells us her mother was the
daughter of Captain DeCamp of the French
army — that he was a man of refined manners
and cultivated tastes and ability. His wife was

VINCENT DECAMP. 2OI

the daughter of a Swiss farmer in the neighbor-
hood of Berne. A victim of consumption, he was
compelled to retire from the army and seek a pre-
carious living as a teacher of music and draw-
ing. His life was eventful and brief: a hopeless
invalid for several years, he died in London, leav-
ing a widow with a family of three daughters and
one son. The eldest daughter, having distin-
guished herself as a child-actress, was thus pro-
vided for. But the poor mother, having no means
for educating her other children, applied to Mr.
Roger Kemble, the father of the Kemble family
and a manager of several provincial theatres, who
gave them situations in his company, where they
remained until properly prepared to assume reg-
ular positions in the profession. Mr. Frederick
F. Brown, a young actor of distinguished ability,
married one of the sisters, while a third remained
single.

VINCENT DECAMP.

Vincent DeCamp, the son, became a versatile
actor of great ability. He inherited from his
father a chivalric spirit and love of adventure,
which, joined to the sterling virtues and amiable
disposition derived from his mother, formed the
basis of his character, while hardship and the
vicissitudes of a wandering life eventually made
him an excellent and efficient manager.

Mr. DeCamp married a dowager lady of wealth
much older than himself. Gay and reckless, he
was a great favorite in the theatrical circles of

202 DECAMP* S TRAGEDY ACTING.

Bath, one of the most aristocratic and fashion-
able provincial towns of England. During his
management at Bath he was the boon- companion
of many distinguished characters of the heyday
period of the Prince Regent (afterward George
the Fourth), who was a frequent attendant at the
theatre, and to whom the elegant young actor
was not personally unknown. Disagreement be-
tween himself and wife finally resulted in a sep-
aration, and Mr. DeCamp came to the United
States and established a circuit of theatres in
Charleston and Columbia, South Carolina, and
Savannah and Augusta, Georgia. For many
years he was prosperous and highly respected.
To him I am indebted for the old-English-com-
edy training I received in the apprentice days
of my professional career.

DeCamp's tragedy acting partook of the dig-
nified tone of the Kemble style, while his com-
edy was of the courteous and sprightly kind, after
the manner of Elliston, of which it has been said
that it was neither brisk nor languid, but a happy
medium between the extremes affected by many
leading performers of his day. DeCamp was
efficient in almost every department of the drama
— could lead an orchestra or take the part in an
opera, spoke French and Italian fluently, and
danced with elegance; while in fencing he could
have maintained his guard against the foil of even
an "Admirable Crichton." In private life Mr.
DeCamp's deportment was that of a gentleman
of somewhat eccentric habits, courteous and even

MRS. FREDERICK BROWN. 203

studiously polite. In person he was above the
medium stature, well-made and erect, fine classic
features, and a good complexion ; in brief, he wore
at sixty all the healthy appearance of a man of
forty.

MRS. FREDERICK BROWN.

Mrs. Frederick Brown was, like all the DeCamp
family, a very marked character. The following
quotation from An Old Woman's Gossip applies
as well to Mrs. Brown as it does to her sister,
Mrs. Charles Kemble, for whom the writer in-
tended it : " She joined acuteness of instinct to
a general quickness and accuracy of perception
and vivid brilliancy of expression that made her
conversation delightful — a frank, fearless, gener-
ous, and an unworldly woman."

At the time f made the acquaintance of Mrs.
Frederick Brown her figure was too spare to be
considered a good one ; her bearing graceful,
though not dignified, being marked with more
sprightliness than elegance ; but for expression
of voice and eye, for unaffected action and charm-
ing gayety, I never knew one of her sex who so
entirely answered my idea of an original, pleasing,
and attractive woman. Mrs. Brown, besides being
an accomplished musician, sang the old English
opera airs in a sparkling style of exquisite gay-
ety. Later experience in the history of her family
led me to recognize in her the same professional
qualities so highly extolled in her sister, Mrs.
Charles Kemble.

204 ^ RECEPTION IN COLUMBIA, S. C.

I have stated these circumstances in order to
call attention to the fact that the two members of
the DeCamp family I have described were en-
dowed with the same brilliant organization which
Mrs. Kemble prides herself on having inherited
from her mother. There never was a greater
instance of hereditary genius or talent than that
which marks the descendants of Captain DeCamp
and his romantic Swiss wife.

A happy blending of true artistic excellence
with natural acting was strikingly apparent in the
brilliant effects of Miss Fanny Kemble's dramatic
style ; and as her mother, who held so distin-
guished a position on the London stage, was her
early instructor, it may be inferred that, although
dramatic genius can be hereditary, a high order
of success is necessarily the result of disciplined
study under the directing influence of correct
principles, and, more especially, of illustrious ex-
ample. To this happy combination of native
gifts and acquired graces Mrs. Frances Anne
Kemble owes her entire supremacy as a stage-
artist and a dramatic reader.

THE AUTHOR'S RECEPTION IN COLUMBIA, S. C.

In September, 1830, I was engaged by Mr.
John Sefton, the low comedian of Mr. Vincent
DeCamp's Southern circuit, as a "walking gen-
tleman." This term is used to- designate a cha-
racter in the drama essential to the progress and
development of the plot, but performing what
may be termed a merely mechanical part in the

AN ANSERINE ^SCORT. 205

dialogue ; that is, one not partaking of the emo-
tional characteristics of the language of the play.
For instance, Guildenstern and Rosencrantz in
Hamlet are types of this class, and in Macbeth
Donalbain and Lennox. Such parts may be called
stepping-stones to higher positions. The young
actor who wishes to become acquainted with the
details of his profession while playing such parts
has ample time to note the action and speech of
the higher personages, and their relation to the
argument of the drama. It is this kind of expe-
rience which enables the careful student to gain a
knowledge of the business of the scene and the
proper bearing in language and deportment of
the heroes of the stage.

After a tedious voyage in a coasting-schooner
from Philadelphia to Charleston, South Carolina,
and a still more tiresome journey in mail-coaches
over sandy and corduroy roads, I arrived at Co-
lumbia toward the close of the day, and found
myself standing in a crowd of idlers in front of
the stage- or post-office. In a few moments I
observed a gentleman in a suit of white drilling —
jacket and trousers — with white stockings, pumps
and ribbons, and a large Panama hat, surveying
me attentively through an eye-glass. He finally
approached me with a kindly smile, and said in a
voice of marked peculiarity, " I presume you are
my young recruit from Philadelphia?" I answered
in the affirmative, and with an assuring pressure
of my hand he bade me welcome, and, after or-
dering my baggage to a boarding-house, invited

18

2o6 DECAMP AS AN ACTOR.

me to go with him to the theatre. Stepping into
the middle of the street, he gave a few clucking
sounds, accompanied by a snapping of his fingers,
and to my astonishment a considerable number
of geese, with much flapping of their wings, cack-
ling and hissing, followed the manager and myself
up the road to the theatre, which was at least half
a mile from the centre of the town. Thus was
my entry into the capital signalized by a proces-
sion of geese. I am happy to say, however, that
none of the sounds peculiar to those birds, and
which attracted my attention on that occasion,
ever assailed my ears while in the discharge of
my professional duties during my sojourn in that
city. This phenomenal appearance of the geese
must be set down as a consequence of Mr.
DeCamp's predilection for country customs, and
his having cultivated ground and quite a snug
barn adjoining his theatre.

VINCENT DECAMP AS AN ACTOR.

Mr. DeCamp might be termed an imitator, but
he certainly was not a mimic. He had a meas-
ured, mechanical way of talking, strongly sug-
gestive of melancholy, with a kind of minor-third
tone — what might be called a complaining sort of
running accompaniment to his conversation, and
yet not a whine. The effect of his manner was
at times very laughable, especially so when the
subject-matter of his speech was of an entirely
opposite character.

THE TRAVESTY OF "HAMLET." 207

I remember his saying to me upon a certain
occasion, " Come over to my room this evening.
We will have a conversation upon some of these
points, be merry over a glass of wine and a nut
or two, and play a little vingt-et-un. There will
be Hardy, Miss Rock, and Mrs. Brown ; Essender
would come, but his feet are queer; and there
will be, too, my never-to-be-sufficiently broth-
er-in-law, Mr. Frederick Brown, who, if he is not
drunk, is very good company. Come over, and
we will have a jolly good time."

He had a remarkable dog, a kind of poodle,
whose hair was cut so as to resemble a lion's ;
that is, it was full and bushy on the shoulders,
while the flanks were shaved almost to the skin.
He was a very large specimen of the poodle
breed, and had a strangely grave, and even sad,
expression of eye and face, which was heightened
by his long shaggy brows. DeCamp would some-
times put a full-bottomed gray wig and a pair of
green spectacles on him, and Tuppence, as he was
called, would sit in a chair, looking as grave as
a judge, watching his master's motions, strongly
suggestive of the appearance of the dog on the
title-page of Punch, and yet at that period (1831)
that magazine of fun was not in existence.

One of the most enjoyable pieces of acting I
ever witnessed in the way of burlesque was the
travesty of Hamlet, as gotten up and played in
our company, with DeCamp as the Prince. I
have seen much of the same kind of acting since,
but never any so gravely funny. Everything was

208 DECAMP AS THE MELANCHOLY DANE.

done soberly, and, while exhibiting the most ridic-
ulous effects, the performers never for a moment
showed any evidence of their appreciation of the
matter from a comical standpoint. The only way
in which burlesque can be made properly effect-
ive is for the actor to be in earnest, without ap-
pearing to enjoy his own jokes. The humor must
be brought out and sustained by a grave decorum
in its presentation. DeCamp dressed Hamlet in
a black velvet full-skirted coat of Queen Anne's
time, with a broad blue ribbon worn over the
breast and the Star and Garter, black breeches,
silk stockings rolled up over the knee, shoes
and buckles, and a full curled wig with long flaps
of the time of Charles the Second. His action
in the burlesque was stilted, and his speech grand-
iloquent, the syllables keeping time, as it were, to
his stately step. With eyes lifted, arms crossed
over the breast, frequent sobs and groans, and a
constant application of his lace handkerchief to
his face, with now and then an unmistakable evi-
dence of a cold in his head, he kept the audience
in a constant laugh during his soliloquies and
dialogues.

In after years, when recalling the effect of the
grotesque extravagance of DeCamp's perform-
ance, I perceived that he had given a good idea,
judging from the criticisms of the period, of the
elder Kemble's manner of acting the melancholy
Dane. All the peculiarities of that gentleman's
voice, his mode of enunciation, and his action,
though rendered highly amusing, were not dis-

HIS MORE LEU IN " MONSIEUR TONS ON." 209

torted by bald mimicry, but sketched with the nice
touch of one master exaggerating the style of
another in a mirth-provoking but friendly spirit.

One of the most touching, and at the same
time laughable, pieces of acting I ever saw was
DeCamp's performance of Morbleu in the farce
of Monsieur Tonson. The old French gentleman
was driven from his home and possessions by the
Revolution, and compelled for a living to become
a barber and hair-dresser. This character found
in DeCamp a delineator whose nice appreciation
of its peculiar traits came from kindred sentiments
and sympathy, while his knowledge of the French
language enabled him to give a most ludicrous
turn to the inverted and perverted forms of ex-
pression in which a Frenchman, strange to our
English modes of speech, is apt to give utterance
to his thoughts. While sensitively alive to the
feelings of the old gentleman, he was brimful
of the grotesque humor and traditional fun with
which the stage-character abounds. His sister,
Mrs. Fred. Brown, played Madame Bellegarde, the
housekeeper, who had been a fashionable lady
in Paris, and became a fellow- refugee when Mor-
bleu fled for his life ; and in the farce they used
to dance the minuet de la coiir with all the grace
and elegance of French court-manners.

The dramatic style and bearing of this brother
and sister, whose lives embraced so much of ro-
mantic incident, enjoyment, and privation, were
studies for a young histrion, who could not fail to
perceive that to the most quaint, extravagant, and

18* 0

210 DECAMP AT AN AUCTION.

even rude, presentations of character their culti-
vated manners and tastes gave point and refine-
ment.

DECAMP AT AN AUCTION.

One day, while walking in the Square in Co-
lumbia with Mr. DeCamp, our attention was at-
tracted by a group of persons gathered around
an auctioneer, who was displaying a placard which
announced the sale of the wood and brick mate-
rial of an old city, building, before which he was
standing. DeCamp, struck by a reference to the
cupola of the building as a fine architectural object
for a gentleman's grounds, immediately became
interested in the matter, and the following dia-
logue occurred :

DeCamp: "Mr. Auctioneer, will you be kind
enough to inform me as to the terms and con-
ditions of this sale ? "

Auctioneer: "Certainly, Mr. DeCamp: sixty
days' time on an endorsed note, and the materials
to be removed in six days from the time of sale."

DeCamp : "Allow me to ask if the cupola is to
be sold separately ? "

Auctioneer: "Certainly, Mr. DeCamp. It has
special value as a distinct and separate part of
the building, having been but recently erected."

DeCamp: "Mr. Auctioneer, will you please in-
form me if it can be removed without injury to
the integrity of its structure?"

Auctioneer: "Certainly, Mr. DeCamp. If you
procure a careful workman it can be taken down

A POLITE BUSINESS TRANSACTION. 211

without the least damage to its beautiful propor-
tions."

DeCamp: "Thank you, sir. I will then con-
sider the propriety of becoming a bidder."

Auctioneer-. "Thank you, Mr. DeCamp. — Now,
gentlemen, as it is the crowning -point of the
building, we will begin with it and work down-
ward in the order of demolition. Gentlemen,
what am I offered for the cupola? One hundred
dollars? Not one hundred dollars? Why, I
thought I was about to start it one hundred be-
low its value ! Not one hundred dollars ? Then
say seventy-five dollars, gentlemen. — Remember,
Mr. DeCamp, it can be removed without injuring
its beauty as a picturesque object. — Seventy-five
dollars ? Not seventy-five dollars, gentlemen ?
What say you, then, to fifty dollars ? Where are
the lovers of architecture? Where are they?
Well, then, give me twenty-five dollars, and it is
positively thrown away."

DeCamp: "I will take it at twenty-five, Mr.
Auctioneer, if the weathercock goes with it."

Auctioneer: "Yes, Mr. DeCamp, the weather-
cock, lightning-rod, and cupola. — Did I hear thirty
dollars there ? Thirty dollars ? "

DeCamp: "Yes, Mr. Auctioneer, rather than
not have it I'll say thirty."

Auctioneer: "Thank you, Mr. DeCamp: the
cupola is your property, sir."

Here DeCamp's friends remarked, " Why, you
were bidding against yourself, sir ! " to which he
replied, " But, you see, the weathercock is an ob-

212 AN APPROPRIATE MEMORIAL.

ject of interest and of additional value. I intend
putting the cupola up as a monument to my dear
departed Jane, whose body reposes in the garden
of my theatre. The weathercock will serve as an
indication of the direction of the winds, and at the
same time as a reminder of the fickleness of dear
Jane's disposition and the inconstancy of the sex
in general."

In a few days the cupola was installed in the
garden at the side of the theatre, with a plaster
cast of Minerva upon a pedestal in the centre
of the circle of pillars supporting it. If my read-
ers will refer to the coat-of-arms of the State of
Georgia, a good idea may be formed of the
appearance of the memento provided by Mr.
DeCamp in honor of his dear departed Jane.

CHAPTER XI.
SKETCH OF A GALAXY OF STARS.

HPHE theatre in Savannah, Georgia, in 1831 was
•^ a very dingy building, both inside and out,
large and ill-constructed, situated in a part of the
city remote from the centre, poorly lighted, and in
a neighborhood very liable to an overflow in wet
weather, in consequence of which on rainy nights
the theatre presented a meagre account of empty
benches.

The manager, Mr. DeCamp, was very fond of
a game of cards, especially of what was called
"vingt-et-un." The playing was always for pica-
yunes, as the old six-and-a-quarter-cent pieces of
the North were called "down South," but, as cash
was more than frequently at a premium, grains of
corn were used instead, which the players always
scrupulously redeemed. DeCamp was an excel-
lent player at this game, and the consequence was
that when the weekly pay-day came round he was
generally lucky enough to hold "counters" against
" accounts current " which lightened his payments,
while at the same time the players found their
pockets somewhat lighter too. The custom, how-
ever, was one " more honored in the breach than
in the observance."

213

214 A GAME OF VINGT-ET-UN.

A SHADOWY PERFORMANCE.

I have a very distinct recollection of a remark-
able circumstance that occurred one night during
the latter part of the period' I have mentioned.
The play was George Barnwell, the London Ap-
prentice, and the title role was assigned to me.
The night in question was disagreeable and slop-
py, and when the time arrived for raising the cur-
tain the call-boy came into the green-room and
called, " First music over, everybody to begin ;"
whereupon the prompter observed to the man-
ager, "A shy domus, sir" (the technical phrase
for a bad house) — "positively empty, sir." Mr.
DeCamp replied in his usually cool and seem-
ingly indifferent manner, "Well, Mr. Hardy, let
the call-boy watch the front of the house, and
tell us when any one comes into the boxes or
pit ; and if that interesting event does occur, you
may begin the play at that point of time. In the
mean while the ladies and gentlemen can amuse
themselves with a game of vingt-et-un in the
green-room, and by way of variety I'll take a
hand myself."

As I had passed much of my early youth
among Quakers, and had never learned to play
cards, I was only a " looker-on in Vienna." The
game was not interrupted until the call-boy an-
nounced, "Time to ring curtain down on first
act, and nobody come yet." I will here state that
the prompter's book contains the time-table of
each act in every play, that he may be able to ring

THE LAST HALF OF A PLAY. 215

in the musicians for their part of the performance
between the acts, and after that is over ring up
the curtain for the next act. All this was done
while the sentry at the peephole of the prompter's
box watched for the stragglers to come in. The
card-playing went on in the green-room until the
time for the close of the second act brought down
the curtain again and the music-bell rang in the
"fiddlers" once more; after which the curtain
rose on the third act to a still empty house. By
this time everybody was inclined to disrobe and
go home, when, just about the time of the middle
of the third act, in bounced the call-boy, crying
out, "Two people in the boxes and three in the
pit!" at which a rush on our part for the stage
took place, and we began the dialogue at about
the middle of the third act, and continued the
performance through the fourth and fifth acts,
when the curtain finally fell to nearly a score of
spectators.

My old friends, the managers Sol. Smith and
Peter Logan, have related stories about acting to
a single spectator, and the following story is a
record of an incident that occurred one hundred
years ago:

A UNIQUE AUDIENCE.

Mr. Stephen Kemble used to relate the follow-
ing incident. He said that while he was manager
of a theatre at Portsmouth, which was only opened
twice or thrice in the week, a sailor applied to him

21 6 "RICHARD THE THIRD" FOR ONE.

on one of the nights when there was no perform-
ance and entreated him to open the theatre, but
was informed that, as the town had not been
apprised of the occasion, the manager could not
risk the expense. " What will it cost to open the
house to-night? for to-morrow I leave the coun-
try, and God knows if I shall ever see a play
again," said the sailor. Mr. Kemble told him
it would be five guineas. " Well," said the care-
less tar, " I will give it upon this condition — that
you will let nobody into the house but myself and
the actors." He was then asked what play he
would choose. He fixed upon Richard the Third.
The house was immediately lighted, the rest of
the performers attended, and the tar took his
station in the front row of the pit. Mr. Kemble
performed the part of Richard, the play happen-
ing to be what is styled one of the " stock-pieces "
of the company. The play was performed through-
out, the sailor was very attentive, sometimes
laughing and applauding, but frequently on the
lookout lest some other auditor might intrude
upon his enjoyment. He retired perfectly satis-
fied, and cordially thanked the manager for his
ready compliance. It may seem strange that a
sailor, who in general is reputed to be a gener-
ous character, should require so selfish an indul-
gence ; but it hardly need be observed that whims
and oddities are to be found in all classes of so
changeable a being as man.

A "DAMPER" ON THE BENEFICIARY. 21 J

A ROLAND FOR AN OLIVER.

The Savannah season, disastrous from the start,
came to a close in the following manner : The last
performance was announced as a special benefit
for the manager, the usual call for volunteers
being paraded. Some liberal patrons of the
drama came forward and made an effort to get
up a " house " in order to enable DeCamp to take
his company out of town in a reputable manner.

I have had to refer to Mr. DeCamp as a gentle-
man high-spirited and honorable in his dealings,
incapable of doing a mean act, though liable to
do foolish and inconsiderate things from a lively
disposition and a love of fun. The play selected
for the closing performance was the Hypocrite, the
manager being popular in the part of Mawworm.
The night, being a stormy one, presented a cheer-
less appearance, which damped the ardor of all
concerned, but more especially affected the size
of the long-expected audience. At the time for
raising the curtain our manager, feeling disap-
pointed at the melancholy aspect of things, sud-
denly came to the conclusion not to perform the
comedy, considering the matter as more mortify-
ing under the circumstances than a poor house
would have been in the usual run of business.
He therefore appeared before the curtain and
made his determination known, saying, in sub-
stance, that he fully appreciated the good feeling
manifested by the ladies and gentlemen present,
who had come forth in the face of a storm to take

19

2l8 AN ACCEPTABLE PROPOSITION.

the drama by the hand, but that he confessed his
feelings were hurt, inasmuch as he had not re-
ceived from the people of Savannah — for whose
entertainment he had risked his means and em-
ployed his best personal efforts — even the degree
of patronage they had extended to a lower range
of public amusement; and that under the circum-
stances he felt impelled, while returning his thanks
to those present for the kind feeling they had
shown, to return their money also, and close the
theatre. Some hissed, but the majority applauded
his speech. Before the manager left the stage,
however, a gentleman spoke from one of the
boxes, asking time for a further consideration of
the subject ; and after a brief consultation with
his friends he came behind the scenes and pro-
posed if Mr. DeCamp would proceed with the
entertainment and name a sum which he thought
would compensate him, that amount would be
paid in the morning by the gentlemen who had
got up the call for the play. This proposition
was acceded to at once, the sum named being two
hundred and fifty dollars, the average of " paying
houses" in the first week of the season, and ac-
cordingly the curtain was raised and the play went
on, so to speak, and was " played out."

During the evening my attention was attracted
by an unusual stir behind the scenes, or that part
of the stage not occupied by the performance
of the comedy. The banqueting-tables used in
Macbeth, with all the gorgeous tinsel and papier-
mache splendor of chandelier and candelabra,

A REALISTIC STAGE-BANQUET. 21 9

were brought out and ranged in order ; men car-
rying parcels, etc. were coming and going through
the back stage-door, — all evidently but quietly
engaged in preparation for something more than
usual.

Mr. DeCamp was famous for his facetious
speeches, which I have no doubt were much after
the manner of those of the great "before-the-
curtain orator," as he was termed, Mr. Elliston,
which eccentric gentleman used to deal in extra-
ordinary metaphor and a fireworks style of rhet-
oric, causing his auditors almost to explode with
laughter or moving them to mirthful tears at his
burlesque pathos. At the close of the comedy
our manager, in obedience to the applause, came
before the curtain and in an extravagant " Maw-
worm" style referred to the state of the drama,
complimenting the generosity of his patrons, who
were few but select — said that the lack of num-
bers was fully compensated for by their exceeding
liberality ; and after setting them in a roar by his
witty speech suddenly clapped his hands, at which
the curtain rose on a scene not set down in the
playbills, the above-mentioned "banquet-tables"
being set out with an elegant repast, things solid
and things liquid, to which the entire audience,
numbering about one hundred, were invited ; and,
coming round by the door communicating with
the stage, the majority (the few ladies who had
been present having retired) sat down and en-
joyed an entertainment worthy of our manager's
good taste.

220 JAMES WALLA CK, SENIOR.

I must confess to acting the churl on the occa-
sion by going home to reflect upon the fact that
I had not received a sufficient salary to keep up
with the reasonable expectations of my landlady,
who, upon hearing of what had transpired, re-
marked that " Mr. DeCamp had better thought of
his actors' board-bills before 'he threw away the
money they had earned."

It was a clear case of the " Charles Surface "
idea. When Old Rowley is about to remon-
strate with his extravagant master, that generous
profligate replies : " I know what you would say,
Rowley : ' Be just before you are generous/ Well,
so I would if I could, but I can't for the soul of
me keep pace with that old blind, hobbling, bel-
dame Justice ; and while I have, by Heaven ! I'll
give, and so ends the matter."

THE FIRST ROMANTIC ACTOR OF AMERICA.

James Wallack, Sr., was the first actor on the
American stage to exhibit great excellence in the
highest forms of the tragic and comic drama and
in modern productions of the heroic, domestic,
and romantic order. Five distinct and strongly-
marked characters — Rolla, Martin Heywood in
the Rent Day, Alessandro Mazzaroni in The Bri-
gand, Don Caesar de Bazan, and Dick Dashall in
the farce of My Aunt — found in that gentleman
a presentation of character that left nothing
wanting on the score of lifelike portraiture and
picturesque effect. That rare combination, fine

THE ROMANTIC SCHOOL OF ACTING. 221

person, handsome features, distinguished man-
ners, and thorough dramatic training based on
intellectual culture, was the pedestal on which
the elder Wallack stood, a statuesque representa-
tive of the " expressed and admirable in form and
feature " — of what Charles Dickens termed " the
romantic school of acting." It will be remem-
bered that when Charles Fechter first came to
this country publicity was given to the endorse-
ment which the great novelist gave the distin-
guished actor as the legitimate expositor of dra-
matic romance.

It must not be understood that in claiming for
Mr. Wallack the honors of the " romantic school "
I mean thereby to deny his claims to a first rank
in what is called legitimate tragedy and comedy,
in which he acted for nearly half a century,
"standing the push of all comparison ". with the
brightest of the English stars — those luminaries
which shone and vanished before his talented son,
Lester Wallack, achieved the professional honor
of perpetuating the managerial genius of his
father and maintaining the standard of dramatic
excellence that has made the name of Wallack
famous in England and America.

THE WALLACKS, OLD AND YOUNG.

There were two brothers, James and Henry
Wallack. The latter, a most excellent and popu-
lar actor, confined himself entirely to the duties
of a stage-manager and stock actor, while his

19*

222 A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY

elder brother, James, played only " star " engage-
ments.

James W. Wallack, the son of Henry, ap-
peared upon the stage during his uncle's absence
in England, and after a period of stock-acting
had won his way to a " star " position. He was
well known and deservedly popular in many cities
of the Union. In the profession he was familiar-
ly called "Jim," in order to distinguish him from
his uncle James and cousin Lester, the son of
James Wallack.

After a prolonged absence, the last-named gen-
tleman had returned to this country, and was per-
forming his usual round of engagements, in the
course of which he appeared in Philadelphia for
a few nights at the old Chestnut Street Theatre,
the scene of so many of his early triumphs. On
account of a general depression in business-mat-
ters the theatres were almost deserted, and con-
sequently Mr. Wallack's opening performance
was but poorly attended. Calling upon him in
his dressing-room, I found him much dispirited,
and I stated what I knew to be the cause of so
unsatisfactory a house. He replied, " Oh yes, oh
yes, I know that ; but, you see, when young men
of your own name come forward, the individuality
of a reputation is destroyed. The people think
it's Jim, sir, and not the Wallack !"

A short time after he laid the foundation of
his theatre in New York, where he achieved an
exceptional success as manager, while he renew-
ed his old career of professional triumphs as an

"PADDY" POWER'S ACTING. 223

actor ; all of which he lived to enjoy to a ripe old
age. His exit from the stage of life brought the
curtain down upon a career as brilliant as any
recorded in the annals of the drama.

MR. TYRONE POWER THE IRISH ACTOR, AND WIL-
LIAM E. BURTON THE ENGLISH COMEDIAN.

Without any injustice to Mr. Power, it may be
said that in genteel comedy, when representing
gentlemanly characters, he was at times some-
what exuberant in manner, if not rather too free ;
but at the same time it must be admitted that in
his portraiture of low Irish character the spirit
of the gentleman always peeped through the
well-acted roughness of the boorish parts he
performed. The same in kind, but differing in
degree (no matter what he was acting), was a
certain brusqueness in speech, a kind of jaunti-
ness in his bearing, with a quizzical cast of the
eye quite roguish in expression, but not at all
repulsive. Shakespeare makes Falstaff say of
Prince Hal that he had " a villainous trick of the
eye." Now, we must confess that although Mr.
Power was never guilty of such vulgarity as the
giving of a downright wink, still it may be affirm-
ed that, after the manner of some tragedians, he
made a very effective use of his visual organs, and
had indeed a familiar " trick of the eye." In illus-
tration of my meaning I will refer to a passage in
the writings of Charles Dickens, who says of one
of his characters, "Something remotely resem-

224 MR. WILLIAM E. BURTON.

bling a wink quivered for a moment in the right-
hand corner of his left eye."

In short, there was a peculiar archness in Mr.
Power's acting, an unaffected gayety of manner,
which arrested at once the attention of the audi-
tor and claimed his lively sympathies. In all the
parts he acted, from the gentleman down to the
smart servant, he exhibited an entire abandon-
ment to the spirit of the scene. He was always
in earnest and up to all the requirements of the
part. Of all the laughers of the stage — and there
have been many who were famous for this power,
and for the faculty of exciting laughter in others —
I have never heard one whose laugh was so nat-
ural and unaffected as his. It was the rich, joy-
ous outpouring of a mirth-loving nature. It was
not only contagious, but, better still, it never left in
the mind of the auditor the least reflection that its
indulgence had been at the expense of propriety
or good taste. Mr. Power had a keen perception
of the ridiculous, with an exquisite relish for wit
and humor. The audience fully enjoyed his jokes,
because they sympathized with the merriment of
the actor and were carried away by the irresist-
ible flow of fun.

The very opposite of this legitimate effect in
comedy acting was apparent in the broad humor
of the low comedian, Mr. William E. Burton. He
winked his eye at the audience without reserve,
and wriggled and grimaced in order to give full
force to an objectionable expression, rolling the
precious morsel under his tongue, and actually

POWER AND BURTON TOGETHER. 22$

smacking his lips, as it were, with unction at a
questionable joke, until what the author may have
barely touched with the pencil of conceit the
coarseness of the actor painted with a copious
daubing of unmistakable grossness.

The suggestive and positive qualities of these
performers in the way of giving point to the lan-
guage and situation of the scene may be illus-
trated by an incident that produced an extraor-
dinary effect during the performance of a farce
in the old Chestnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia,
in which Mr. Burton played a prominent part, and
Mr. Power was acting one of the rollicking cha-
racters in which he was remarkable for the liber-
ties he took with the text by the introduction of
his own jokes, making fun, as Hood would say,
" on his own hook." Mr. Burton on the occasion
referred to was dressed to represent a big boy
just home from school for the holidays — a hob-
ble-de-hoy sort of fellow, whom the comedian had
seen fit to " make up," after his usually extrava-
gant manner, in a suit of nankeen, jacket and
trousers, styled by the English "button-overs,"
and worn by school-boys not yet in their teens.
The nether garments were rather short and very
tightly fitted to the person, and shoes and striped
stockings, with a large straw hat, completed the
tout ensemble. Burton was jealous of Mr. Power's
great popularity, and did not like to act in his
pieces, which will account for his apparent deter-
mination to share the honors of the laugh — if not
by language an4 situation, at all events by absurd-

226 MR. WILLIAM B. WOOD.

ity in manner and dress. Power was evidently
nettled by the obtrusion of these objectionable
low-comedy features, and gave his fellow-actor a
"Roland for his Oliver" in the following manner:

Burton, as Master Tom, was frisking about the
stage with his usual wriggle, while Power — who
in his capacity of waiter, had just handed a cup
of coffee to one of the characters — was standing
by with the salver in his hand. At that moment
Burton passed in front of him, and Power, by
a back-handed blow, brought the salver with a
spanking bang across the most prominent part
of the comedian's person, accompanying the ac-
tion with, " Get tails to your coat, Tom, when
you're in company !" The smack sounded like
the explosion of a torpedo, and the astonished
comedian, uttering an exclamation, sprang after
his assailant, who, dodging behind the characters
on the stage, slipped off at the wings and left
Master Tom to make the most of the situation,
which the audience was enjoying to the full.

I question whether Burton, with all his trickery,
ever made so decided a hit as Power did in this
striking impression of stage- tactics.

THE VETERAN FAVORITE OF PHILADELPHIA.

Mr. William B. Wood was one of Philadelphia's
most esteemed and admired actors, and for years
a successful manager of " Old Drury," as the
Chestnut Street Theatre was always called by its
frequenters in the palmy days of the drama. He

POWER AND WOOD. 22 7

was a great stickler for the proprieties of the
drama and the decorum of stage-conduct, rigidly
exact in everything relating to the business of the
scene, and letter perfect in the language of his
author. At the time Mr. Power played his last
engagement in Philadelphia, Mr. Wood was about
to retire from the stage.

Belcour in the old English comedy of The West
Indian was one of his parts, and one in which he
was deservedly popular with all the old playgoers ;
and as some friends of Mr. Power had expressed
a desire to see him in the character of Major
O'Flaherty, an old-school Irish gentleman, it was
arranged that he should appear as the Major, Mr.
Wood as Belcour, and I as Charles Dudley. On
the occasion of the performance Mr. Power was
anxious to " get through," as the theatrical phrase
is, in time for an evening-party. Indeed, he was
not very fond of the part of Major OTlaherty,
as it was not the focal point of interest in the play
nor adapted to the purposes of a bright particular
" star.'* The house was not as good as usual, and
altogether matters were not very satisfactory to
actor or auditors. In fact, the audience appeared
to be waiting for Mr. Power to take possession of
the scene with his usual spirit, for the admirers of
this hilarious gentleman had become quite infatu-
ated with his sprightly wit and sparkling humor in
the busy incidents of the modern drama, petite
comedy, and rollicking farce, where the " Irish
star" so far outshone the lesser luminaries of the
stage.

228 POWER IN A HURRY.

On this occasion, it must be admitted in justice
to Mr. Power, more than usual prosiness had
made the performance somewhat dull, and there-
fore his impatient desire for its conclusion was, in
a certain sense, excusable. Mr. Wood, by reason
of not having played Belcour for many years,
was more than usually nervous, uncertain in his
words, and slow in his movements — a condition of
things which was not in any wise improved by
Major O'Flaherty, who constantly interlarded his
speeches with whispered injunctions to the play-
ers to be "lively and hurry up," which not un-
frequently reached the ear of Mr. Wood. In
the scene between Charles Dudley and Belcour
swords are drawn and an angry altercation takes
place. Here (without waiting for the dialogue),
as soon as the swords were drawn, at which a
lady screams, and while Belcour was speaking,
to the astonishment of all parties the centre doors
flew open, and in burst the irrepressible Major
with, " Death and confusion ! what's all this up-
roar for ? " Then, dashing through the scene
with a perfect rattle, he hurried Miss Dudley and
myself off the stage, leaving poor Belcour to take
care of himself.

Mr. Wood was highly indignant at the treat-
ment he had received, but Mr. Power laughed and
turned the whole matter into a joke, saying the
people in front were all going to sleep, and the
only way to wake them up was to take Young
Rapid's advice to " push along and keep moving."
"This," continued the vivacious, laughter-loving

THE OLD SCHOOL OF COMEDY. 229

Irishman, " is a stupid old play, and the sooner the
little fun in it is stirred up the better it will be for
all behind and before the curtain."

As the play went on the very spirit of unrest
and mischief seemed to have taken possession of
the volatile son of Comus, for wherever he could
dash into a scene with the slightest chance of
" cutting it short " he brought long dialogues to
a close, and anticipated matters so admirably with
an improvised speech here and there that the
performers and audience seemed to have caught
the infection, and the curtain fell in the midst of
anything but a state of somnolency, while Mr.
Wood retired to his dressing-room to mourn over
the sad fate of the old school of comedy.

The whole performance was a lamentable evi-
dence of the fact that comedy of The-School-for-
Scandal order, with its brilliant language, its wit,
repartee, and sentiment, had undergone an eclipse,
and must succumb to the powerful influence of a
dramatic style in which the author merely outlines
the subject, which the genius of the actor fills up
by subordinating the language to his powers of
expression. It may not be too much to say that
Mr. Power in his effervescing and exuberant style
of interpreting wit and humor was at once both
author and actor. Hence in the legitimate walks
of comedy, where language is of paramount im-
portance, Mr. Power could not rise to the stand-
ard he readily attained when action and situation
were independent of the merit of the language.
May not this be fairly attributable to the taste of

20

230 BURTON STEALING WRIGHT'S THUNDER.

the public, and not laid to the charge of the per-
former ?

BURTON CRITICISED BY POWER.

One night, after the play in which Mr. Power
and I had been engaged, we remained at the wing
to take a look at Burton, then acting in the farce.
Power had known our popular comedian in the
English theatres, and did not consider him an
original actor. Struck by some point, he sud-
denly exclaimed, " By George! look at that!
Why, he has stolen old Wright's thunder, and is
playing it off here as his own ! " As we turned
to leave he observed, " This man's acting is made
up of all the prominent features of our London
celebrities, and he is as much like Jack Reeves as
Jack himself." Some time after this incident Mr.
Reeves, a great London favorite, came to Amer-
ica, and was charged by our critics with imitating
Burton.

I remember that many years afterward, while
witnessing a performance at the Adelphi Theatre,
London, I was very much struck with the manner
of an actor who was performing a low-comedy
old man. I could not divest myself of the idea
that it was Burton : the figure, kind of voice, its
tricks of transition from brisk and high to heavy
and low, the mode of action, everything, was as
like our great comedian as though the actor be-
fore me was his reflex in a glass. I looked at the
bill, and lo ! there was the Mr. Wright that Power
had charged Burton with copying a score of years

A ROYAL GIFT TO THE AUTHOR. 231

before. Nobody could mistake that personality,
or fail to see the exact resemblance of it in Mr.
Burton's stage manner of voice and gesture in
his performance of certain characters.

POWER BESTOWS A MEDAL AND MAKES HIS EXIT.

I last saw Mr. Power in the stage-entrance of
the Chestnut Street Theatre. I had played with
him in the first piece, which was over, and I was
about going on the scene in the afterpiece. He
had resumed his citizen's dress, and was leaving
the theatre. The performance of the evening was
for his benefit, and he was to go to New York
the next morning. In one of the plays in which
we* acted together very often — Frederick the Great
of Prussia — in return for a gallant act by which
Major O'Shaughnessy (the part played by Power)
saves his life, the king bestows a royal medal on
his preserver. The traditional manner of Freder-
ick in bestowing the honor is quaint, quick, and
sharp : " Kneel, major ! Wear this as a token of
regard from your sovereign ;" at the same time
taking the order from his own breast, and with a
sudden snap of the fingers fastening it on the
lapel of the major's uniform. The order which in
the run of the drama was so often bestowed on
the Major (Mr. Power) was a very fine imitation
of the original decoration. As Mr. Power ap-
proached me to take his hasty leave he said,
"When this you see, remember me," pinning the
medal, with the peculiar curt manner of the old

232 POWER MAKES HIS FINAL EXIT.

king, on my breast ; then, pressing my hand
warmly and raising his hat in true military style,
he said, " Adieu, mon capitaine ! " The next
moment he was gone, and I was on the stage
engaged in the business of the scene. After a
farewell at New York the light-hearted comedian
took his departure for Liverpool on board the ill-
fated steamer President, sharing the mysterious
doom which awaited that noble ship, her passen-
gers, and her crew.

CHAPTER XII.

MISS CUSHMAN, AND HER EARLY STUDIES.

A BOUT ti835, during a period in which my
^~^- health interfered with my regular profes-
sional duties, I made a visit to New Orleans. I
had, while playing subordinate parts to Mr. James
Wallack, gained the good opinion of that highly-
accomplished actor, and received from him letters
recommending me for a position in the St. Charles
Theatre, then open for the first season under the
management of its owner, Mr. James H. Caldwell.
I found Mr. Caldwell an exceedingly polite gen-
tleman of old-school manners. He read Mr. Wai-
lack's letters, and said they were a sufficient guar-
antee of my ability to fill the position he had kept
open for me, and that my salary would be sixty
dollars per week and a half benefit. When I was
first ushered into his room I found him standing
at a buffet taking his breakfast of coffee and toast.
Our conversation did not occupy more than twen-
ty minutes ; while waiting, at his request, to take
a look at the theatre, which I had not yet seen,
a number of persons called on business apper-
taining to his official duties as mayor of the city,
president of the gas company, and officer of an

20 * 233

234 MRS. MAEDER AND MISS LANE.

extensive land company, the latter being for the
reclaiming of swampy grounds within the limits
of the city ; all of which offices he filled in addi-
tion to the management of one of the largest and
most prosperous theatres in the United States.

During my stay in New Orleans I had the pleas-
ure of performing frequently with two of the most
distinguished ladies of the profession. Mrs. James
G. Maeder (formerly Miss Clara Fisher) was one of
the bright stars of the theatrical firmament, whose
acting as a child of twelve or thirteen in Richard
the Third and as representative of various juve-
nile characters, often appearing in four to five
parts in the same piece, had brought her fame
and fortune. She was no less remarkable for
her performance in high comedy and in light
characters in English opera. The other lady to
whom I have referred was Miss Louisa Lane
(afterward Mrs. John Drew), another prodigy of
the profession, who also acted in her childhood
character parts of the same role as Miss Fisher,
and a charming actress and a great favorite.
Both these ladies have been, and continue to be,
ornaments to the profession and representative
women of the highest order.

It was during my visit to New Orleans also
that I became acquainted with Miss Charlotte
Cushman, who had made her first appearance
in Boston, her native city, in opera. She was a
pupil of my esteemed friend, Mr. James G. Mae-
der, the celebrated professor and teacher of vocal
music, and made a " hit" in her debut, and through

MISS CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 235

the influence of Mr. Maeder was engaged to lead
the opera business in the St. Charles Theatre, of
which he was musical director. I met her at the
house of Mr. Maeder, who acted as her guardian
while she pursued her musical studies, her friends
in Boston being satisfied that she would enjoy
great advantages in an association with Mrs.
Maeder, a lady of refined manners and irre-
proachable character.

Being much in the society of the Maeders, I
frequently met, and had ample opportunity for
becoming acquainted with, the young opera-
singer, and for observing her disposition both off
and on the stage. The first time I saw her pro-
fessionally was in the character of Patrick in the
operatic farce of the Poor Soldier. Miss Cushman,
in the proper costume of her sex in private life,
appeared self-reliant and of easy and agreeable
manners, but in her soldier dress on the stage
she challenged attention and asserted a power
which impressed the beholder with an idea of
fixed and determined purpose. Many years'
acquaintance with Miss Cushman in public and in
private life only confirmed the early impression
made upon me by this great American actress.

The St. Charles was one of the largest build-
ings of the kind in the United States, and the
powers of a speaker or singer were taxed to
the utmost for the production of the best vocal
effects ; and in consequence of the vigor of Miss
Cushman's efforts to carry the citadel by storm,
rather than by cautious approaches, in a short

236 A FINE VOICE DESTROYED.

time she broke down her voice and destroyed her
prospects as a singer. Her instructor had fre-
quently warned her against the folly of attempt-
ing the accomplishment of what was not with-
in the legitimate limits of her vocal powers ; he
had cautioned her against her tendency to un-
due force of expression, as calculated to produce
throaty tones injurious to the voice. " But," said
Mr. Maeder, "the young lady knew better than
her teacher; she was almost insane on the sub-
ject of display and effect, and altogether too
demonstrative in the way of commanding what
is only to be obtained slowly and patiently — ope-
ratic success." Thus Miss Cushman, disregard-
ing the injunction of an experienced and thor-
oughly-trained master of music, by her impatience
of restraint ruined a fine voice, destroying all
hope of operatic honors, and was compelled to
turn her attention to the drama.

In our company at the St. Charles was an actor
of the old school, a gentleman of excellent quali-
ties both as a scholar and tragedian. He was a
man of retiring disposition and studious habits,
well versed in the traditions of the stage, and an
admirer of the Kemble style of acting. He was
very much such an actor as Charles Young of the
London stage, who was thought by some critics
to occupy a middle place between Kemble and
Kean; with much of the excellence of both these
great performers, while others considered his
style original, natural, and artistic, and in dra-
matic power equal to either of them.

MISS CUSHMAN'S DRAMATIC INSTRUCTOR.

Mr. Barton, the gentleman to whom I allude,
was stage-manager — a position for which he was
peculiarly qualified by a familiar practical ac-
quaintance with the business of acting, and con-
sequently able to direct the action of those who
carried on the plot of the play; an accomplish-
ment, by the way, rarely to be met with in these
later days. Miss Cushman, who was now turning
her attention to the dramatic form of delineation,
found in Mr. Barton an excellent instructor, and
began a course of study to fit her for the change
she had determined to make. Her voice had
become husky and hard from overstrained efforts
in singing, and, fulfilling the prediction of Mr.
Maeder, had lost the pure quality of its tone.

The correctness of this opinion was fully sus-
tained also by subsequent events. There was
always in Miss Cushman's vocal effects a quality
of aspiration and a woody or veiled tone more
becoming the expression of wilful passion sup-
pressed and restrained than that emotion which
seeks a sympathetic recognition of outspoken vo-
cality, pure, ringing, and elastic — the former being
Nature's mode of utterance for the evil passions,
while the latter speaks of the noble, pure, and
bright. At the close of the season Mr. Barton,
observing a marked improvement in his pupil,
apparent in her expression of the parts she had
studied and sustained under his instruction, finally
cast the young actress for Lady Macbeth.

The histrionic ability of Mr. Barton, his familiar
acquaintance with the stage -manners of many

238 MACREADY AND MISS CUSHMAN.

leading actresses, and particularly with the read-
ings and business-performance of Mrs. Siddons as
the consort of the guilty thane, enabled him suc-
cessfully to prepare his pupil for her arduous
task. The tragedy was performed for the benefit
of Mr. Barton, and the result was a brilliant au-
dience and a complete triumph for Miss Cushman,
whose Lady Macbeth was pronounced a great suc-
cess. At the close of the season Miss Cushman
came North, where she gradually won her way
by unremitting toil and good management (both
within and without the theatre) to a popular po-
sition. When Mr. Macready came to this country
to perform his round of characters and take leave
of the American stage, Miss Cushman supported
him in many leading parts; and here was the turn-
ing-point of her theatrical fortunes, as well as the
culmination of her dramatic studies, for the result
of her professional relations with the tragedian led
to her English engagements, as well as to a most
determined imitation of his peculiar mode of act-
ing. Both Mr. Macready and Mr. Barton were
of the same school, as it is called, and Miss Cush-
man fell into the habits of articulation and enun-
ciation of Mr. Macready with greater readiness
because of her previous studies with Barton.
Neither of these gentlemen was remarkable for
clear vocality, but, on the contrary, spoke from
the throat more frequently than, to use a figu-
rative expression of questionable correctness, from
the forward parts of the mouth. The stage bear-
ing and action of both gentlemen were of marked

A LOVER OF POWER AND POSITION. 239

peculiarity, and it is not strange that, under the
circumstances, Miss Cushman should have fol-
lowed the style of two such distinguished exem-
plars of dramatic art. Miss Cushman was by
nature and education a lover of place and po-
sition, of " the ribbon and star." To a determined
disposition to make the most of social advantages
she added a fine tact in the management of peo-
ple whom she considered necessary to her per-
sonal interests or professional advancement. In-
deed, it may be said that, without being a female
Richelieu, she approached in a measure the quali-
ties of quick perception which enabled the wily
cardinal to bend things in the right direction, but
in no way approximated the sterner attributes of
the profound politician, who, it is said, " when the
twig would not bend, did not hesitate to lop off
the offending limb."

o

To be known in society, to possess and wield
an influence, were the constant aims of this most
ambitious and gifted actress. I remember one
day, when calling on her in New York just after
her arrival from Europe, and within a day or two
of her appearance in public, she asked me upon
whom I called in the city. I replied that I did not
make calls. She exclaimed, " Why, you astonish
me ! Look there ! " pointing to a well-filled card-
stand : " I have all those to return, though I have
been busy at it ever since my arrival. One can-
not be too careful of popular interest." Her
fondness for society was insatiable, and wealth
had no more devoted worshipper. Miss Cush-

240 MISS CUSHMAN EXTREMELY PROSAIC.

man s style of acting, while it lacked imagination,
possessed in a remarkable degree the elements
of force : she grasped the intellectual body of the
poet's conception without mastering its more
subtle spirit ; she caught the facts of a character,
but its conceits were beyond her reach. Her un-
derstanding was never at fault ; it was keen and
penetrating. But that glow of feeling which
springs from the centre of emotional elements
was not a prominent constituent of her organiza-
tion. She was intensely prosaic, definitely prac-
tical, and hence her perfect identity with what
may be termed the materialism of Lady Macbeth,
and the still more fierce personality of that dra-
matic nondescript, Meg Merrilies, neither of which
characters was of " imagination all compact," but
rather of imperious wilfulness. In relation to
this tendency in actors to make their impersona-
tions of character strictly natural, let us consider
the following lines of Lady Macbeth:

I have given suck, and know
How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me :
I would, while it was smiling in my face
Have plucked my nipple from his boneless gums,
And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you
Have done to this.

Lady Macbeth by this declaration means, in
other words, to say, " My will is so stern and
unyielding that if I had sworn to a certain deed,
no matter how much at variance with my nature,
I have the nerve at whatever sacrifice to do it."

LADY MACBETH NOT ALL UNSEXED. 241

Now, as the taking of the life of an infant by its
own mother would be the most extreme act of
cruelty a woman could be capable of performing,
the over-excited mind of Lady Macbeth uses it
as an illustration of her capacity for determined
action.

But let us look at the actual deeds of this self-
proclaimed and prospective murderess, as con-
trasted with the threatenings of the valor of her
tongue. Picture her for a moment standing by
the bedside of the sleeping Duncan with the
dagger raised to strike the deadly blow; then
behold her fleeing from the chamber, " cowed "
by "the better part" of her nature, exclaiming,
" Had he not resembled my father as he slept, I
had done it." Here is a touch of womanly cha-
racter that speaks for itself^and shows Lady
Macbeth as not all "unsexed." The poet has
drawn a towering nature elevated to the sublime
heights of a dazzling ambition — a lofty concep-
tion of wickedness plotting for the acquisition of
a crown, to be struck from the brow of a sleep-
ing king by the assassin's blow.

The grandeur of a poetic idea elevates the
deed of blood, without divesting it of its horrors,
above the repulsiveness of a commonplace mur-
der. This is the poetic license. The heroine of
the poet invokes the pall of darkness to hide the
wound made by the bloody knife, while the hero-
ine of the stage by a violent and inartistic man-
ner plucks away " the blanket of the night " to
show the dreadful deed in all its hideous deform-
21 Q

242 AN IRISHMAN'S STORY.

ity, exhibiting the coarse features and harsh voice
of the heroine of a melodrama, who stands ready
to hold the candle to the midnight murderer whose
object is the purse of a weary traveller. Thus is
one of Shakespeare's grandest dramatic concep-
tions dragged down to the lowest level of a mere
sensational exhibition.

I cannot forbear to remark upon the fact
(" more in sorrow than in anger ") that the man-
ner of the stage Lady Macbeth is frequently so
fiercely violent that it is enough to induce the
spectator to feel that Shakespeare's heroine is
not only fully capable of killing her own infant
at sight, but if occasion offered could perpetrate
by her own unaided efforts another general
"slaughter of the innocents," merely for the
gratification of an insatiate thirst for blood.

MURPHY'S STORY: DAMON AND PYTHIAS.

I will here relate one of those strange theat-
rical incidents by which both actor and auditor
are sometimes suddenly precipitated from the
very pinnacle of tragic elevation to the uttermost
depths of comic perplexity.

Many years ago in Dublin there was a musical
genius who "got up" the operas for Bunn, the
celebrated English manager. While an opera
was in course of preparation Mr. Brown (as I
shall call him), a great London star, was engaged
to play a few nights in tragedy. The manager
was in a strait for members to fill up the small

THE GREAT ACTOR FROM LONDON. 243

parts, only the principal performers coming over
from London ; and my young Irish friend, the
genius to whom I have alluded, being up to every-
thing in the way of fun, agreed to "go on," as it
is said, for some of the small characters, when
necessary, to oblige his friend Mr. Bunn ; and
now I shall proceed to tell the story as he told
it to me:

"The part in question was Lucullus, the gen-
tleman in Damon and Pythias. That's the man
that kills the horse, you know. Well, the young
gentleman who was cast for the part got sick — bad
luck to him for that same ! — and at a moment's
notice I was summoned from the music-room to
'go on' for Lucullus. Mr. Brown wasn't exactly
the man to take things aisy, he being a great gun,
and I found him roaming about at large, pretty
much as you might imagine a huge mastiff would
that had lost his bone. Well, the tragedian looked
at me and said, ' You're Mr. Murphy, are you ?' —
' Yes,' sez I, ' I am that same.' — ' You're not the
biggest man I ever saw.' — 'No, sir,' sez I, 'but,
you see, I'm an Irishman, and may make up in
pluck what I lack in flesh.' — ' Yes,' says he, ' but
the part you are to play is not a plucky one, as
you are pleased to say : Lucullus is rather a timid
gentleman, but a kind-hearted one, and, as you
are so good as to help us in this emergency,
so far the part will be suited.' — ' Thank you, sir/
sez I.

" The rehearsal went on. I read the part, and
when we came to the scene where Lucullus tells

244 AN ATHLETIC DAMON.

Damon how he killed his horse, Mr. Brown went
over the business of the scene for me ; he showed
me how I was to stand, and how I was to kneel,
and all about it, you know. Well, he picked me up
at the right time from my knees, and gently land-
ed me on the other side of the stage with a bump
that made me think all the lamps were lighted, and
a full head of gas on at that. ' I beg your par-
don,' sez he ; ' you're lighter than I thought you
were.' — ' Yes, sir,' sez I ; ' and bedad ! you are a
good deal stronger than I thought you were/ —
'Well/ sez he, 'Mr. Murphy, you will oblige me
and serve yourself if you will tie a twisted hand-
kerchief around your body just under your arms,
with the knot in front resting on your breast be-
neath the folds of your tunic.' — 'And what/ sez I,
'will I do that for?' — 'Why, sir/ sez he (and I
thought he said it with a sardonic smile) — 'why,
then, you see, when I clutch you in my fury I
shall have something to hold on to stronger than
the slight stuff of your dress ; for I have known
cases where the tunic wasn't strong, and it gave
way in my clutch, and Lucullus was somewhat
hurt/ — 'Hurt?' sez I. — 'Yes/ sez he; 'that is,
was slightly frightened, maybe, more than hurt/
"In this stage of the proceedings I made up
my mind to trust to Providence and my lucky
stars, that had often got me out of scrapes, but
with this reservation — that if I escaped death at
the hands of an infuriated tragedian this time, I
would never tempt my fate again, outside of the
dangers and perils of an opera at all events.

A FUGITIVE LUCULLUS. 245

"I went home, read over the play, and got
ready for the night. Well, seven o'clock came,
and ten o'clock came too, as it always does, no
matter what troubles or shortcomings may lie
between the rising of the curtain and its falling,
which generally makes all things even. But, be-
dad ! I don't think my score was ever settled for
that night, and if it was, the host must have paid
the reckoning himself and counted me out.

" Well, my story has an end, though you may
think as the Irishman did when he said to the
captain, after pulling a long while at the sea-line,
' Be jabers ! I think somebody must have cut off
the end of the rope.' — Well, here's the end of
my story.

"I got along pretty well till the scene where I
have to tell him about the horse, and then — holy
St. Francis ! — what did I do ? ' My horse ! my
horse !' sez he — ' where's my horse ?' — ' I have
killed him,' sez I, and then came a yell as if some-
thing hard had dropped on Damon's head. I
looked up, and such a face I never saw outside
of a menagerie. His hands were up above his
head, his mouth frothing, and his eyes rolling.
My heart was beating so thick and fast I thought
it must burst the knotted band that was tighten-
ing over my chest. ' I am standing here,' sez
Damon, ' to see if the great gods will execute my
vengeance.' I looked up at him, and felt that my
hash would soon be settled ; so, not waiting for
what I felt would be instant death, I slipped gen-
tly off the stage and ran down under it, where they
21 *

246 A DEMORALIZED PLAY.

keep the stage-properties all jumbled up in the
dark, and quietly hid myself in an old Tom-and-
Jerry watch-box that stood conveniently open.

" Well, now, I know you'll ask me how Damon
got out of the scrape I had got him into, but, as
the man says in the play, ' If you want to make
me your bosom friend don't puzzle me.' All that
I saw after that was only what I heard. First
came the prompter's voice calling out, ' Lucullus !
Lucullus !' while the people were thumping and
howling away like mad. * Lucullus ! where in the
devil's name are you ? Damon is waiting for you,
and storming like a fury.' — ' I have no doubt he
is,' sez I to myself. 'I would do just that same
thing if I was Damon and somebody else Lu-
cullus. But if I stir out of this till I'm hungry,
the devil himself may get my supper/ And I
didn't. I heard a great rumpus over my head
on the stage, but it soon died out, and I was left
in the dark.

"I leave you to imagine how that scene came
to a close. All I have to say is, that it wasn't
finished after the manner set down in the prompt-
er's book. But one thing you may depend upon :
Mr. Murphy was never called upon to 'go on'
for any parts, large or small, where Mr. Brown
or any other strong-muscled tragedian was con-
cerned."

AN "OLD KENTUCKY HOME."

In Louisville, Kentucky, about 1859, one night,
after playing Charles De Moor in The Robbers, I

A HEARTY INVITATION. 247

was passing out at the stage-door wrapped in a
heavy military mantle or cloak, which I usually
wore in De Moor, when I was accosted with, " All
right, old fellow ! You're engaged now for a per-
formance at Owl's Nest ; you're wanted, and must
come." Knowing the hearty Kentucky attributes
of my friend Richard Rousseau, a limb of the
law, whose kindly hand was on my shoulder, I felt
how impossible it would be to dissent from what
I at once perceived it was his determination to
carry out then and there — a long- threatened mid-
night raid on the inhabitants of the old-fashioned
country residence and farming establishment of
the widow of Judge Estelle, situated in a charm-
ing rural district known as "Peewee Valley,"
about sixteen or eighteen miles from Louisville.
My not very decided objections on the score of
non-preparedness, unbecoming costume, etc. were
met with, "There's a buggy, and a horse that's
not afraid of work, and can do any amount of it,
and, what's better, can see his way over the dark-
est and dirtiest roads that are to be found in
Kentucky. Now," said he, " in conclusion, and in
the words of a judge not remarkable for elegant
language, 'If this court knows herself — and she
thinks she do* — you're bound to take that seat
and the attending consequences." So saying, he
helped me up, took the reins, and off we dashed
for an owl's visit to Owl's Nest.

The horse went along at a gait which clearly
showed that he had not been doing anything to
tire him for some time. A clear star-lit midnight,

248 A MIDNIGHT SMASH-UP.

with the bracing atmosphere of a closing autumn,
together with an intelligent, good-natured friend
fond of talking " theatre," Shakespeare, and Schil-
ler, loving good things in general, and somewhat
inclined to the romantic side of life, and in ad-
dition to all these surroundings a good cigar, —
made us enjoy the ride to the " top of our bent."
We had " done up" about half our journey when,
in passing through a piece of woods, the horse,
without any apparent cause, suddenly reared and
made a leap, and lo! we found ourselves thrown
against the dasher, very much mixed up and
dreadfully shaken. The horse was on his feet,
however, and kicking furiously in the middle of a
pile of brush, the front wheels of the buggy being
on one side of the trunk of a fallen tree, while the
hind wheels were on the other. Reasons why and
wherefore as follows : The road was not a com-
mon thoroughfare, but a "short cut" through a
plantation ; the negroes had felled a tree, and, as
it was Saturday and the evening had come on
before they had finished their work, they had left
the tree where it had fallen. We soon managed
to extricate the vehicle and tie up the harness,
and after overhauling our cargo of fresh fish,
claret, champagne, and sundry other grocery
items, which we happily found in nowise injured,
we continued on our way — if not rejoicing, at
least thankful that things were no worse.

Arriving at Owl's Nest between the first and
second crow of the cock, our advent caused a
sudden rise from the horizontal to the perpendic-

AN "OLD KENTUCKY HOME." 249

ular among the servants of the family as well as
the outside workers, but the event was hailed by
all hands a "jubelification." I must state here, as
some excuse for the liberties we were taking, that
I had the pleasure of being upon intimate terms
with the family, while Massa Dick — as Mr. Rous-
seau was called by the whole working population
of Owl's Nest — was looked upon as though he
owned everything, from the front gate to the
back yard, stock, root, and branch, and the family,
white and black, included.

Early sunrise found the inmates up and moving
in the direction of a good breakfast, which was
soon served and presided over by our hostess,
from whom, in spite of our irregular proceedings,
we received a hearty welcome. After a pleasant
chat with Madam Estelle and the ladies of the
family we took a ramble over the country, which
was remarkable for its picturesque beauty in hill,
dale, wood, and water. In approaching the house
on our return through a shady avenue, one could
not but be struck with the natural beauty of
Owl's Nest. It was a wooden structure, and in
what 'Zekiel Homespun calls "a rather tumblish-
down condition." It stood in the midst of a ven-
erable grove of locust trees, whose extending
branches surrounded and swept over the roof,
breaking up the sharp angles of its gables and
dormer-windows, while the huge, unshapely mass
of bricks which " formed the chimneys, together
with much of the old weatherboarding, were hid-
den or obscured by the luxuriant growth of an

250 AN OLD-TIME HOSTESS.

immense Virginia creeper. This, with the pendent
limbs of the trees, gave to the rude aspect of
things a most striking and pleasing effect. The
large parlor or general family-room was of the
plainest form and finish, with low ceiling and a
grand old-fashioned fireplace, where, on the gro-
tesque irons, blazed a pile of cordwood logs.

Amid the simple but attractive features of life
belonging to the region I have described could be
found, not more than a quarter of a century ago,
a condition of slave-labor which seemed to bring
solid comfort, and even rustic happiness, to many
a sable tiller of the soil who by the sweat of his
brow earned the bread of the common household.
And here I cannot refrain from an expression of
the admiration I felt for the character and per-
sonal graces of Madam Estelle, or, as the dusky
members of the family in their simple familiarity
called her, "the old mistress." She was the widow
of Judge Estelle, and, like her husband, was born
in Virginia. The judge was a man of scholarly
attainments in addition to his legal knowledge ;
he resided at one time, and during the adminis-
tration of John Quincy Adams, in Washington,
D. C., where his wife was noted for her intellect-
ual culture and brilliant conversational powers,
holding a distinguished position among the ladies
who graced the circle of fashionable society in the
Capitol City. At the time of my visit she was
about sixty years of age, with regular features, a
fine fresh complexion, brilliant eyes, and a placid
smile whose sweetness won its way directly to the

A KENTUCKY DINNER. 251

heart. But the crowning point which gave to a
queenly person a matronly grace was a head of
perfectly white hair, cropped short behind, and
worn in front in the style called Pompadour. I
remember with pleasure the impression this ele-
gant lady made upon me when I first saw her sit-
ting in the dress-circle of the Louisville theatre,
where, amid a throng of the rarest of Kentucky
beauties, she was conspicuous for " inborn dignity
and native grace."

The morning walk to which I referred before
making this digression being over, a comfortable
nap put us into a good condition for the full
enjoyment of a substantial farm-dinner. The
"fatted calf" and the inevitable Southern stand-
by, jowl-and-greens, formed a solid foundation for
the more unsubstantial contents of the hamper
which my considerate companion had provided
to meet any possible deficiencies in the larder
where visitors were not expected.

Rising "like giants refreshed" from the fes-
tive board, where beauty, grace, and hospital-
ity presided, we were soon upon our " winding
way," and finally safe home at the Gait House
in Louisville.

CHAPTER XIII.

DIFFERENCES IN THE EARLY TRAINING OF TWO
GREA T TRA GEDIANS, WILLIAM MA CREAD Y AND
ED WIN FORREST.

HPHERE are few things more interesting or
-*• more instructive than the history of artistic
genius, its development, struggles, and achieve-
ments. In its application to dramatic perform-
ance it must be in a great measure moulded by
self-culture and experience, whether its professor
is so fortunate as to enjoy great advantages and
opportunities or condemned to contend with dif-
ficulties and toil on, unaided by suggestive mod-
els and inspiring occasions.

The young actor may be a metropolitan, or he
may be a provincial performer subjected to all
the privations and disadvantages to be encoun-
tered by a member of a strolling company. But
in either case to become eminent in his profession
he must be original and self-educated. He must
use his own powers, his own eyes, and his own
judgment, and he must use them, too, in select-
ing the excellences of various styles as displayed
in the manner of different performers. In either
supposed condition of the actor in the period of
professional preparation he must study the pro-

252

\
THE EARLY TRAINING OF AN ACTOR. 253

foundest forms of thought, the noblest moods of
sentiment, the most vivid emotions of the soul,
and dwell upon them until their full power and
value are deeply felt, and their intensity glows
into expression ; then by the exercise of a sound
discretion and correct taste fashion his external
manners and adapt his thoughts and feelings to
the presentation required by the poet, so that he
may recreate Hamlet, Macbeth, or Lear in living
attitude and movement, in tone and look, in very
bodily presence, as seen by the reader of Shake-
speare ; and, moreover, he must execute the
artistic feat so truly and effectively that amid
assembled multitudes each individual will in-
stantly recognize the universal burst of admira-
tion and applause with which it is acknowledged.
How different are the circumstances under
which such power is acquired ! and how varied
the self-culture by which it is matured ! Viewed
in this light, every actor becomes an instructive
study to his brother-actor, and of all living per-
formers none perhaps have taught the principles
of the art by the suggestions of example more
fully than the two most distinguished tragedians
of our own day — Macready and Forrest.

MACREADY.

The former commenced his career, as it might
be said, in the cradle of Thespis, his father hav-
ing been a respectable and successful theatrical
manager in most of the large towns of England,
22

254 MACREADY'S YOUTHFUL ARDOR.

and creditably sustaining a certain rank as an ac-
tor on the London boards, and having written at
least one successful afterpiece, which still holds
its place upon the stage. It is not, then, to be
wondered at that the young aspirant, in actual
possession of the most advantageous opportuni-
ties for studying those distinguished models of
excellence in the actor's art so accessible during
the early part of the present century, should have
been smitten with a passion for the stage.

The theatrical tyro in this instance came to
the study of dramatic art after the enjoyment of
fine opportunities for previous mental culture, his
father having designed him for the bar — a pur-
pose which he relinquished only after long-con-
tinued solicitation on the part of his son, and
with extreme reluctance.

Here, then, is an example of a debutant start-
ing up from the very theatre itself, surrounded
with every professional advantage. In these cir-
cumstances, however, he furnished the most im-
portant of all lessons to the young aspirant. He
leaned on no factitious aid, but on adopting the
profession gave himself wholly to study. Never
was there a more earnest or devoted student;
and when in a spirit of filial obedience he as-
sumed the laborious task of stage-management
for his father, he gave another practical lesson to
the histrion. The stage under his management
became, what it ought always to be, a school of
dramatic instruction. Every actor had the bene-
fit of his suggestions ; rehearsals under his direc-

HIS CAREER AS A STAGE-MANAGER. 255

tion were objects of interest to all concerned in
the business of the theatre. We are told by one
intimately acquainted with Macready, who had
watched his progress from the earliest stages of
his professional career to that point in which, leav-
ing the provincial theatres, he established a repu-
tation for himself in the great metropolis, that
he abolished all foolish fastidiousness about rank
in the greenroom, and all petty jealousy on that
account. For successive years he made it a point
to aid his father by playing everything that came
to hand in the routine of business, whether tra-
gedy, melodrama, comedy, or farce. His con-
summate skill in dramatic expression was prob-
ably largely due to the course thus pursued in
early life.

The success which followed his professional de-
votion was at one time most strikingly exhibited
during a period of his father's career as manager
in Scotland. Mr. Macready, Sr., had been in-
duced to attempt the hazardous experiment of
taking a lease of the theatre at Glasgow — a place
somewhat famous, even in Scotland, for its sanc-
timonious abhorrence of a playhouse. Fanatic
zeal had caused the burning down of more than
one theatre in that place, and several managers
in succession had ruined themselves in attempting
to meet the enormous expenses inseparable from
the arrangement of the new theatre, which, in a
fit of absurd reaction against popular bigotry, was
built of colossal dimensions and at an extravagant
cost. The utmost exertions were required on the

256 GRAVEYARD SCENE IN "HAMLET."

part of both father and son to render the house
attractive ; and the latter, by his efficient control
of the stage, as well as his own admirable playing,
then fresh with all the force of youthful genius
and natural freedom, placed his father's enterprise
on secure ground, where it was maintained for
several successive seasons. The varied and ar-
duous duties which Macready's station then im-
posed, however, were never suffered to interfere
with his personal studies, the daily ripening of his
judgment, and the progressive refinement of his
taste, which were continually evinced in the in-
creasing depth and mellowness of his style.

One apparently insignificant trait in his Hamlet
will best exhibit the self-correcting power of Ma-
cready's genius, and the fidelity to truth and
Nature which study may develop in the best-con-
stituted minds. His early manner in returning
the skull of Yorick to its earthly home was an
inadvertent act of juvenile extravagance, founded
on the merely physical aversion of the senses to
the loathsome object in his hand ; he literally
tossed it over his back to the gravedigger. But
reflection soon suggested the quiet and subdued
style of acquitting himself in this passage which
afterward formed a more consistent treatment of
the business of the scene.

The mention of this fact, familiar to those who
saw Macready in his youth, suggests, by mere
association, the manner of our own eminent tra-
gedian, Forrest, in the same passage. Paragraph-
ists too often echo each other's criticisms without

MACREADY'S IMITATION OF KEAN.

observing for themselves, and those who merely
repeated the objections to Forrest's style of act-
ing, that it was all physical force, might have de-
rived a most impressive rebuke from his manner
in this scene. He carefully handed the relic back
to the gravedigger, like one conveying a frail but
precious vessel which heedlessness might drop or
injure. The effect was touching in the extreme;
it bespoke all the gentleness and affectionate re-
gard of the prince for him who had "borne him
on his back a thousand times." One could not
help contrasting the tenderness of Hamlet as he
almost reverentially returned the skull, holding
it in both hands, with the rough, abrupt, jocular
manner of the gravedigger, who in an ebullition
of humor generally gave the skull a good-natured
slap of familiarity as he said, "A pestilence on him
for a mad rogue.! He poured a flagon of Rhenish
on my head once."

I have before referred to the fact that Macready
was introduced to the London stage at a period
when the impassioned style of Kean had given an
undue bias to public taste, and that it led him in
some respects to abandon his simplicity and truth
to Nature, and to assume a more premeditated
and intensified manner. But let critics determine
whether his example ought not to suggest to
young aspirants for professional distinction the
value of attentive and habitual study founded on
careful observation of the various elements which
make up the sum-total of the actor's art.

I am well aware that there are those who ques-

22* R

258 MACREADY'S PARTICULARITY.

tioned the power and genius of Macready, and
objected to his anxiety about details of propriety
on the part of subordinate performers. But it
should never be forgotten that in this country he
was always seen at a disadvantage, on account
of the absence of those minor appointments
which, when complete, give smoothness and finish
to the effects of the stage, and that he was seldom
sustained by persons habituated to his manner.
The case very much resembles that of an individual
accustomed to every luxury of life in its highest
perfection who is suddenly required to accommo-
date himself to a scanty supply of homely fare.
Macready's high conceptions of ideal excellence
in every point of detail, and his rigor of stage-
discipline, not to speak of the deplorable dulness
of the material he had sometimes to mould, often
created a prejudice against him, and a feeling that
he was prone to harshness. It is too apt to be
forgotten that one who has spent a life in the pro-
cess of training stage-subordinates is not likely to
excel in the good gift of patience. It would need
something more than the amount of equanimity
usually bestowed upon mere mortals to enable
a conscientious, thoroughly-trained actor, when
wound up to the highest pitch of inspiration and
effect, to bear calmly one of those ridiculous blun-
ders which draw tears of laughter instead of sor-
row from the eyes of sympathetic spectators.

The genuine humanity of Macready was attest-
ed by the kind attention and generous aid which
in his early days he bestowed upon those of his

EDWIN FORREST. 259

father's company who were afflicted by illness or
other misfortune, and his liberal contributions at
all times to charitable funds of a professional
character.

When playing on one occasion at an English
provincial theatre, the manager (who seems to
have been a judicious reformer)- deducted one
guinea, at the payment of the stipulated compen-
sation of the actor, as the established fine for the
use of a profane word at rehearsal. The trage-
dian acceded with great cheerfulness to the deduc-
tion, acknowledging its propriety, and on learn-
ing that such fines were contributions to a fund
for sick and indigent actors, he handed the man-
ager ten guineas more.

FORREST.

The name of Edwin Forrest is rendered doubly
interesting to the lovers of the drama among us
from the fact that he was the first American actor
whose performances in tragedy received a com-
plimentary recognition beyond the limits of our
country. His early histrionic life is instructive
as an instance of successful self-culture under
great disadvantages.

It is well known that Mr. Forrest, while a mere
youth, was carried by the current of circumstances
to the West, where, unaided by the sympathetic
recognition of leading actors, or indeed by any-
thing like professional training from others, with
his native vigor of mind and strength of will he

260 FORREST'S EARLY CAREER.

struggled triumphantly through all opposing cir-
cumstances, and laid the foundation of a career
as brilliant as it was successful. His experiences
at that time were undoubtedly very beneficial,
giving him that determined action and energized
expression for which he stood unrivalled. They
forced him to undertake a great variety of parts,
threw him entirely on his own resources, and
secured him against the adoption of a weak or
secondary style. Their effect was like that of the
sculptor: they marked decidedly the lines and
projecting surfaces which subsequent art was to
smooth and polish. But a broader field opened
before him when, upon his return to the sea-
board cities, working with characteristic energy
on the strong material of his own nature, he de-
veloped a style of acting which, however criti-
cised, stamped itself at once upon the hearts of
his audiences. Advancing years served to give
detail and finish to many of his prominent imper-
sonations, and every succeeding season revealed
new beauties of execution and evidences of pro-
foundest study in all that most required mental
penetration and artistic skill. The impression
which hasty and superficial criticism at one time
created, that he was suited only to parts in which
vehemence was to be expressed, afterward gave
place to the conviction that his conception of the
characters in which he appeared was studiously
complete and his representation skilfully sus-
tained. The fact that his artistic excellence was
acquired by self-cultivation as the natural result

&

•>

HENDERSON'S POWER OF MEMORY. 26l

of resolution and energy but increased the honor
of its possession.

EFFORTS OF MEMORY.

One of the many evils inseparable from the
mode of management peculiar to American thea-
tres is the necessity imposed upon the players of
overtaxing their memory by the continual study
of new parts. Professor Dugald Stewart, who
was well acquainted with Henderson, told Sir
Walter Scott that his power of memory was the
most wonderful he had ever met with. In the
philosopher's presence he took up a newspaper,
and after reading it once repeated so much of it
that Mr. Stewart considered it utterly marvel-
lous ; and when he expressed his surprise, Hen-
derson modestly replied, " If you had been obliged,
like me, to depend during many years for your
daily bread on getting words by heart, you would
not be astonished that the habit should have pro-
duced this facility."

The sufferings of the young and ambitious actor
from excessive brain-toil are such as persons out
of the profession can scarcely imagine. During
a visit of Mr. Cooper to Columbia, S. C., many
years ago, when I was playing subordinate parts
under the training of the veteran DeCamp, Mr.
Cooper had selected for his benefit at the close
of his engagement the play of King Henry the
Fourth. But on the day before the performance
a member of the company who was to play Hot-

262 A YOUNG ACTOR'S DILEMMA.

spur was taken seriously ill, and no one would
assume the part at so short a notice. Mr. Cooper
was anxious to gratify his friends in Columbia by
appearing in the character of Falstaff, and felt un-
willing to give up the arrangement. The part
allotted to the sick actor was at length proposed
to me, and I agreed to assume it, with the under-
standing that I should be allowed to read the part
if I could not commit it to memory in the short
time which remained. Accordingly, with enthusi-
asm, or rather with impulsive folly, I commenced
the study at the close of my professional duty that
evening, sat up all night, and after rehearsal be-
took myself to the retirement of the adjacent
woods for the remainder of the day with the book
and a pincushion, stinting myself to half a dozen
repetitions (each one marked by the transfer of a
pin) for every line or sentence. When the even-
ing came I swallowed a cup of tea in season to
dress, and made my appearance in due time and
place with my brain in an intense whirl. But,
nerved to the effort, it held out till the excitement
of the camp-scenes came, and then in a moment I
found myself bewildered and helpless in the midst
of an important speech. I became so utterly con-
founded that no prompting could rally me. Real-
izing the predicament in which I was placed, I
stepped forward and explained my condition, and,
throwing myself on the generosity of the audience,
expressed my willingness, if it should be desired,
to read the part. This liberty obtained, I took the
book, but after reading half a dozen lines my

MRS. SIDDONS *S FRIGHT. 263

recollection returned, and laying aside the volume
I proceeded to the close without further trouble.
Half an hour's study of physiology at that period
would have imparted, with much greater safety,
the lesson I had learned from experience.

As an illustration of the intense emotion which
the preparation of a part not unfrequently excites
I am reminded of an incident in the history of Mrs.
Siddons. Campbell states that Mrs. Siddons had
performed Lady Macbeth in the provincial theatres
many years before she attempted the character in
London. Adverting to the first time this part was
allotted to her, she said : " It was my custom to
study my characters at night, when all the domes-
tic cares and business of the day were over. On
the night preceding that in which I was to appear
in this part for the first time I shut myself up,
as usual, when all the family had retired, and
commenced my study of Lady Macbeth. As the
character is very short, I thought I should soon
accomplish it. Being then only twenty years of
age, I believed, as many others do, that little more
was necessary than to get the words into my
head ; for the necessity of discrimination and the
development of character at that time of my life
had scarcely entered into my imagination. But
to proceed : I went on with tolerable composure
in the silence of the night (a night I can never
forget) till I came to the assassination-scene, when
its horrors rose to a degree that made it impossi-
ble for me to get further. I snatched up the candle
and hurried out of the room in a paroxysm of

264 TRUE ACTING NOT MIMETIC.

terror. My dress was of silk, and the rustling of
it, as I ascended the stairs to go to bed, seemed
to my panicstruck fancy like the movement of a
spectre pursuing me. At last I reached my cham-
ber, where I found my husband fast asleep. I clap-
ped my candlestick down upon the table, without
the power of putting the candle out, and threw
myself on my bed, without daring to stay even to
take off my clothes. At peep of day I rose to re-
sume my task, but so little did I know of my part
when I appeared in it at night that my shame and
confusion cured me of procrastinating any busi-
ness for the remainder of my life."

There is no doubt much difference in the degree
of susceptibility possessed by different individuals,
and perhaps none but an experienced player can
tell how far he may be at once in the spirit of his
part and yet conscious of surrounding circum-
stances. But true acting is not that superficial
or mimetic matter which it is often thought to be.
It is to the imagination a deep reality, even when
Reason holds the balance between judgment and
feeling, and is not, as in the instance to which I
have referred, frightened for the time from her
propriety.

My friend, Mr. Edwin Thayer, who possessed
a poetic temperament, and was indeed quite a
rhymer, used to claim for me also a talent for
making verses, and to prove it frequently related
a story the substance of which was, that not long
after my first appearance on the stage, one night
at the Arch Street Theatre, Philadelphia, I was

AN IMPROMPTU POET. 26$

announced to recite a poem, then a great favor-
ite with the public, entitled "The Sailor Boy's
Dream." Fearing that the prompter, who was
old and nervous, might fail to render me such
service as I felt very sure I should require, I
asked Thayer to stand in the wing with the man-
uscript in his hand and watch the recitation word
by word. He consented, and took the prompter's
place, and I went on, made my bow, and began
the poem. I was a little flustered at first, but
soon recovered self-possession, gaining confidence
at every line and warming up as my subject was
developed. At the climax of the terrible wreck,
however, as I struck the attitude of horror, I sud-
denly felt the ground swimming under me and all
my blood seemed tending to my brain. I stole a
glance at Thayer, who was standing with his eyes
fixed on the manuscript, but he did not look at
me. Clapping my hands to my head, I started
forward with my eyes raised to heaven, and be-
gan a wild apostrophe to the dread power of the
" Storm King," altogether unconscious of what I
said, while word after word poured from my lips
in a vehement torrent, until I brought the stanza
to an end amid a burst of hearty and prolonged
applause. As my excitement subsided the miss-
ing words returned, and, wellnigh exhausted with
the conflict between memory and emotion, I fin-
ished my recitation and bowed myself off. Scarce-
ly was I out of sight of the audience when Thayer
cried out, in a tone of wonder and admiration,
" Where did you get that other verse ?" — " Why,

23

266 AN HIATUS TO FILL.

didn't you prompt me ?" said I. — " Prompt you !"
he exclaimed; "you never did better in your life.
Where did you get the new lines?" — "Why," I
replied, "I forgot the words, and in my fright I
spoke what came uppermost, and don't know
what I said." — "Neither do I," said Thayer; "but,
words or no words, accent and rhythm were
perfect, and the effect was fine. You must try and
recall those words." But I felt that they had fled
to the chaos from which they came, never to return,
unless perhaps in some recurrence of that fearful
delirium called " stage- fright," which is more apt
to paralyze the tongue than to keep it in motion.
About the year 1833, when Mr. Charles Kem-
ble and his daughter, Miss Fanny Kemble, were
acting at the Chestnut Street Theatre, Philadel-
phia, I was playing at the Arch Street in the
same city. The gentleman employed to perform
the "juvenile characters" at the former establish-
ment having retired from the stage, I was induced
to relinquish my situation and become his succes-
sor. Before I had time, however, to familiarize
myself with the manner of the distinguished per-
formers I was engaged to support, I was cast for
Leonardo in Knowles's play of The Wife. It was
the first night of the play, and my part an import-
ant one. I was therefore more than usually ner-
vous, and, striving to be correct in the delivery of
the language, may have been lacking in the fervor
of a lover. Miss Kemble rallied me on the form-
ality of my manner, saying that I treated my lady-
love as if I thought her " a widow bewitched." Im-

MRS. MARY DUFF. 267

pressed with this criticism, I determined that the
next time I should act as her lover I would not be
chargeable with insensibility. A short time there-
after I was acting in the character of Bassanio,
Miss Kemble representing that of Portia, and,
having chosen the casket, I opened it and read
the words upon the scroll, which conclude —

Then turn thee where thy lady is,
And claim her with a loving kiss;

which I instantly did, with all becoming respect,
but with such a degree of fervor that the sound
of the salute caused quite a sensation in the au-
dience. Whereat Miss Kemble was somewhat
annoyed, and took occasion to say, " It is possible
to exceed the letter of a lesson ;" by which I sup-
pose she intended to intimate that I was rather
" an apt scholar." As I did not exceed the limits
of propriety, however, in obeying the injunction
of the scroll, the fair Portia forgave my ardor,
and probably soon forgot the effect upon the
audience, which had at the moment disconcert-
ed her.

Mrs. Mary Duff, probably the most excellent
tragic actress of the old school in America, was
a woman of great amiability of disposition, but
of eccentric habits. She had an exceedingly ner-
vous temperament, and, from the suffering it in-
flicted on her, became addicted to the use of
opium.

In 1834 she played a short engagement at the
Chestnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, where, in

23*

268 SOUND, NOT SENSE.

connection with one of her performances, I have
a distinct recollection of a circumstance which led
me into a "stage-dilemma."

The old tragedy of Isabella; or. The Fatal
Marriage, was to be played. Mr. William B.
Wood was to sustain the character of Biron, and
Mrs. Duff that of Isabella, while I was to perform
the part of Villeroy. I had never seen the play,
and, from some circumstances which I cannot now
recall, the notice I had received was so very short
that I found it impossible to commit to memory
more than a portion of the words. It was sug-
gested, however, that I might " cut the part down
to lines," as it is termed, and this I determined to
do ; and, after obtaining such ideas as I could
gather from the prompter's book in relation to
the " situations " and " business " of the scenes, I
went home to commit to memory as much of the
curtailed words as I could learn in the two or
three hours that remained before the time fixed
for the performance.

There is an old professional saying which runs,
"Trust to luck to get you through, for ten o'clock
must come ;" and it was not long before I realized
the fact that seven o'clock had come. In a state
of great nervous excitement I soon found myself
participating in a dialogue of which I knew little
more than what was suggested by those portions
of it to which I was to reply, but with the aid of
the prompter and occasional hints furnished by
the other performers, I continued to keep up my
part of the action of the play. The Fatal Mar-

AN IMPROVISED SPEECH. 269

riage is an old-fashioned tragedy. Its movement
is slow, and the acting of Mr. Wood and Mrs. Duff
on this occasion was much after the conventional
style peculiar to the past century; and having
caught the undulating swing of the poetry I pro-
ceeded in deliberate and measured tones, not
unfrequently improvising whole paragraphs and
uttering sentences which savored much more of
sound than sense, thus verifying a statement made
by Dr. Rush in his Philosophy of the Voice, that " a
person with a quick poetic ear and a free com-
mand of language will find no difficulty in car-
rying on, for any duration, an extempore stress-
ful rhythmus of incoherent words or phrases."

In the third act, in the midst of the festivities
incident to his marriage, Villeroy exclaims —

My dearest Isabella, you must hear

The rapture of my friends.

Thy virtues have diffused themselves around,

And made them all as happy as myself.

Come, Isabella, let us lead the way ;

Within we'll speak our welcome to our friends,

And crown the happy festival with joy.

I have now, and I think I shall always have, a
distinct recollection of the words I delivered in-
stead of the text. They were —

Come, come, my dearest Isabella, come —
My newly-won and loving, long-sought love !
Let us within, and there, 'mid wine and song,
And hearty offerings of our happy friends,
We'll cap the climax of our doubtful joys!

270 MR. PRESTON'S STORY.

A STORY OF RICHARD M. JOHNSON.

The performer by force of imagination may
lose self-consciousness, while the auditor may be
made to forget he is sitting at a play. Of the
many striking effects of Miss Fanny Kemble's
powers in tragedy recorded in histrionic annals,
I know of none more remarkable, as having re-
sulted in the entire abstraction of an auditor,
than the following instance.

I have before referred to Hon. William C. Pres-
ton, Senator from South Carolina and president
of Columbia College, as a practical elocutionist as
well as a distinguished orator. He used to take
great pleasure in relating the following incident,
the points of which he had received from the Hon.
John Quincy Adams. " Mr. Adams was fond of the
drama, and often might be seen," said Mr. Pres-
ton, "in attendance at the Washington theatre,
where his bald head was a conspicuous object
among many other distinguished lovers of good
acting. He always preferred to occupy a com-
fortable seat in what was termed in olden time
the pit ; there he could see and hear better than
in any other part of the house, and moreover was
not liable to be disturbed by people coming and
going during the play or between the acts, the
peculiar character and arrangement of the seats
being such as to preclude the possibility of per-
sons passing readily between or over them when
occupied. One night Mr. Adams was seated in

AN ABSORBED AUDIENCE. 2/1

his favorite place in company with Hon. Richard
M. Johnson of Kentucky. The play was Fazio,
with Mr. and Miss Kemble in the principal cha-
racters. It was a benefit-night, and the house
was crowded with the most celebrated and fash-
ionable people of the Capitol City, prominent
among whom was the well-known and univer-
sally admired matronly belle or interestingly
young-old lady, Mrs. Madison. Mr. Adams was
deeply interested in the play, but found time
occasionally to observe the impression it was
making on Mr. Johnson, whose impulsive na-
ture required an admonitory hand now and then
to keep him in his seat, from which he would
occasionally start with sudden abruptness at some
unusually effective passage in the acting of Miss
Kemble, who seemed to have taken entire pos-
session of that gentleman's faculties, so thorough-
ly was he absorbed in the trials and sufferings of
the character she was representing. The last
scene of the tragedy was on, and the audience
had become completely engrossed in the contem-
plation of the lifelike acting of the heroine. It
had reached its climax: the frantic shrieks of
the heartbroken Bianca rang through the theatre,
while the curtain slowly descended and shut out
the sorrows of the mimic world. Then the peo-
ple, gradually recovering from the sad impres-
sions of the tragedy, began, as usual, to observe
the state of things in front of the curtain. ' But/
in the words of Mr. Adams, 'there sat Johnson
perfectly entranced, wholly unconscious of every-

272 A GENUINE COMPLIMENT.

thing around him, his head rigidly bent forward,
with his hands clapped down on his knees, his
hair all disordered from the previous spasmodic
clutchings of his fingers, his eyes flashing and
fixed steadily on the green curtain before him,
which a few moments before had fallen on the
frenzied and unearthly screams of the exhausted
actress, the sound of whose voice seemed still
to be ringing in his ears.' As the strange figure
was attracting the attention of the people around
him in a manner that was not pleasant to Mr.
Adams, he placed his hand on Mr. Johnson's
shoulder, and, shaking him gently, said, ' Come,
Johnson, come — the play is over.' Thus aroused,
he started abruptly to his feet and exclaimed in
an audible voice and in the most energetic man-
ner, ' By Heavens, Adams ! she's a horse ! she's
a horse !' — ' Now,' said Mr. Adams, who perfectly
understood Johnson's eccentric manners, and who
enjoyed the whole affair in his quiet way, 'those
who did not know the distinguished Kentuckian's
passionate love for horses might think this a very
rude thing to say about a lady ; but as a fine horse
to him was one of the grandest and most beau-
tiful objects on earth, the honorable gentleman,
enchanted as he was with her acting, could not,
in the excitement of the moment, have paid Miss
Kemble a more genuine compliment or express-
ed his unbounded admiration in a more natural

manner.' '

CHAPTER XIV.

y UNI US BRUTUS BOOTH AND EDWIN FORREST
AS READERS.

T HAVE been led by experience to believe that
•*• actors generally consider the study of elocu-
tion unnecessary as a preparation for the practice
of the dramatic art. This is doubtless owing to
the fact that they do not clearly understand what
is involved in the end and aim of the principles
of vocal culture. The opinion is quite prevalent
that elocution means reading by arbitrary rules
and following certain prescribed grooves ; but this
is altogether a mistake. I have before remarked
that each individual has his own characteristic way
of speaking, and this arises from his native organ-
ism and acquired habits.

There is, as before stated, a proneness in human
beings to imitate not only the sounds of Nature, to
which the origin of language can be traced, but
also to reproduce the .quality of voice and kind
of utterance peculiar to others which may have
attracted their attention as being more pleasing,
or more showy perhaps, than their own modes of
speech. A child by imitating the lisp or other
peculiarity of a playmate is liable to catch the

3 273

274 ELOCUTION AS USUALLY TAUGHT.

infection, as it does the measles. In childhood
voices in most cases show the nature and dispo-
sition of the individual, but too often advancing
life brings affectations, from the whine of the
hypocrite to the tones of assumed gayety, lev-
ity, or indifference. Such modes of speech be-
come what we call " natural," in the same man-
ner that our walk or our gestures, or even our
way of thinking, may be falsely termed our " nat-
ural " way.

But there is really more of indifference than
ignorance in the manner of disposing of this sub-
ject. It is not my intention, however, to dwell
upon the matter, and yet I cannot refrain from
saying just here that elocution, as it is imperfectly
taught, consists simply of a mechanical training
of the faculties with regard to articulation, inflec-
tion, accent, and emphasis. When the pupil has
acquired all the knowledge which the textbooks
contain, he is told that he must make the subject-
matter his own ; that is, that he must enter into
the spirit of the author and depend on feeling
to give fitting expression to his language. The
teacher is expected to enforce this instruction by
illustrating the proper method of reading or re-
cital, and then to charge the pupil to reproduce
the manner indicated in the example. How can
the object of such teaching be attained unless the
organs of articulation and vocality, by primary
discipline, are trained to acquire a correct and
easy execution of all the mechanical offices of
speech ? Thus, and thus only, can a teacher faith-

JUNIUS BRUTUS BOOTH'S READING. 275

fully and certainly impart to others the knowledge
he may himself possess.

When the human voice is cultivated on the
principles laid down by Dr. James Rush, and
those principles are reduced to rules in accordance
with the intelligence and taste of the teacher, our
young speakers will be more like themselves than,
as they so often are now, like the persons who
teach them. Let there be less prejudice and more
philosophy in our formulas concerning instruction
in speech, and we shall have in abundance what is
now so rare in its true sense — the blessed boon
of originality.

BOOTH'S READING.

Dr. Rush has made elocution a science, and has
referred to Mrs. Siddons and the elder Booth as
having exhibited that perfection in speech attain-
able by the application of principles and natural
expression to reading and dramatic and orator-
ical delivery.

I have before referred to the fact that Mr.
Booth's great charm in acting was the result of
his imaginative powers, and I will here add that
he had also a profound knowledge of the qualities
of sound and the laws of speech by which words
are made an echo of the sense or sentiment they
are used to express. He studied elocution —
whether from books or from Nature it is not
necessary to inquire, but he knew its importance
to the acquisition of a just and effective stage-

276 THE DEFICIENCIES OF YOUNG ACTORS.

delivery, and he was well acquainted with its ap-
plication to the less demonstrative attributes of
sentential enunciation, inflection, and the use of
pause and emphasis. Speaking of the lack of an
elementary knowledge of vocality, particularly on
the part of young actors, he said : " They look at
acting as a mechanical matter; they copy the
facial expression, attitude of the body, and move-
ment of the hands of some favorite actor, and try
to imitate his voice, in the lump, as it were, with-
out understanding or appreciating the value of
individual words. In fact, it never appears to
strike them that a word has, in a certain sense,
the quality of hardness or softness, roundness or
sharpness, extension or contraction — a capacity
for elevation or depression, and all the forces of
sound from the hum of a bee to the blow of a
sledge-hammer. And, more than all this," said the
poet-actor, " they forget that words are vehicles
for tones as well as thoughts, and are capable of
exhibiting in utterance all the colors of sound,
from the sombre note of the bassoon to the scar-
let tone of the trumpet, with every variety of tint
that can be produced by the violin." Such was
Mr. Booth's idea of vocal capacity and power, and
to such knowledge did he owe his masterly exe-
cution in giving form and color to syllabic sounds.
One day he happened to enter a room where
several gentlemen were finishing a bottle of sherry
after dinner, and enjoying a social smoke. They
were at the moment engaged in an earnest and
rather noisy discussion of some local political

BOOTH READING THE "ANCIENT MARINER."

question, which, after a cordial greeting to Booth,
was resumed, and, " being in the vein," he dashed
into the argument with them. Having, in the
course of his remarks, made some very original
and peculiar statements, of which an explanation
was requested, he took up a copy of Coleridge's
Ancient Mariner which happened to be lying on
the table, and said that the thoughts he had en-
deavored to express might perhaps be illustrated
by some passages in that poem. Then, in a sort
of dreamy abstraction, he began, half reading and
half reciting, the opening stanzas, until, apparently
forgetting himself and his companions (who were
quite familiar with his singular moods), he seemed
to become gradually transformed into the weird
mariner with the glittering eye. The room in
which the discussion of facts and politics had
but a few moments before exercised and sharpened
the wits of his auditors now appeared to be the
deck of the ill-fated ship, and his friends, yielding
to the overpowering influences of his magic tones,
with elbows fixed upon the table and eyes riveted
on the reader, felt themselves, in some mysterious
manner, transported to the midst of the terrible
scene so vividly portrayed. They saw the slimy
sea, and the slimy things which crawled upon its
surface ; they felt their tongues withered and their
throats parched with the burning drought ; they
heard the four times fifty men as, one by one,
each fell a lifeless lump upon the rotting deck;
and they read the horrible curse in the dead men's
stony eyes, — until at length, as he finished the

24

278 GOULD ON BOOTH'S READING.

wonderful recital and closed the book, his en-
chanted listeners slowly awoke as from a dread-
ful dream, and of each of them, as of the wedding-
guest, it might have been said,

He went like one that hath been stunned,

And is of sense forlorn ;
A sadder and a wiser man

He woke the morrow morn.

In such effects the reader and the actor prove the
influence of the imagination over the will, and that
the qualities of expressive vocality are far more
important in tragic action than grace of gesture
or personal bearing.

The pantomimic power of Garrick in deline-
ating the passions, great as we are told it was,
could not have thrilled the beholder with such
soul -stirring sensations as Booth's impassioned
vocal effects produced on his hearers when he
was glowing with the fervor of the Tragic Muse.

Mr. Thomas R. Gould, in his work called The
Tragedian, which I read with delight long after
I had written my opinion of Mr. Booth as an
actor and a man, says of him : " The airy con-
densation of his temperament found fullest ex-
pression in his voice. Sound and capacious
lungs, a vascular and fibrous throat, clearness
and amplitude in the interior mouth and nasal
passages, formed its physical basis. Words
are weak, but the truth of those we shall employ
in an endeavor to suggest that voice will be felt
by multitudes who have been thrilled by its living

BOOTH'S PECULIAR CHARM OF VOICE. 279

tones — deep, massive, resonant, many-stringed,
changeful, vast in volume, of marvellous flexibil-
ity and range, delivering with ease and power of
instant and total interchange trumpet-tones, bell-
tones, tones like the ' sound of many waters/ like
the muffled and confluent 'roar of bleak-grown
pines.' But no analogies in art or Nature, and
especially no indication of its organic structure
and physical conditions, could reveal the inner
secret of its charm. This charm lay in the mind
of which his voice was the organ — a ' most mirac-
ulous organ/ under the sway of a thoroughly in-
forming mind. The chest voice became a foun-
tain of passion and emotion. The head register
gave the ' clear, silver, icy, keen, awakening tones '
of the pure intellect. And as the imagination
stands, with its beautiful and comforting face, be-
tween heart and brain, and marries them with a
benediction, giving glow to the thoughts and form
to the emotions, so there arose in this intuitive
actor a third element of voice, hard to define, but
of a fusing, blending, kindling quality, which we
may name the imaginative, which appeared now
in some single word, now with the full diapason
of tones in some memorable sentence, and which
distinguished him as an incomparable speaker of
the English tongue. That voice was guided by
a method which defied the .set rules of elocution.
It transcended music. It ' brought airs from heav-
en and blasts from hell/ It struggled and smoth-
ered in the pent-fires of passion, or darted from
them as in tongues of flame. It was ' the earth-

280 KUSH'S ANALYSIS OF THE VOICE.

quake voice of victory.' It was, on occasion, full
of tears and heart-break. Free as a fountain,
it took the form and pressure of the conduit
thought, and, expressive beyond known parallel
in the voice of man, it suggested more than it
expressed."

Such a strong and many-sided presentation of
the quality of Booth's voice might seem almost
extravagant. But let any conscientious seeker
after truth with a taste for such a task look care-
fully into the Philosophy of the Voice, and it must
become apparent to him that the vocal organs
were intended to express every sympathy of the
soul. The physical properties of the tone-pro-
ducing mechanism are shown by the analysis of
Dr. Rush to be capable, under the sway of the
passions, of expressing every forcible, every del-
icate, tunable or untunable, sound that the won-
derful organism of the ear is susceptible of hear-
ing. That which shocks the nerve and distracts
the brain, wraps the senses in delight or swells
the soul with rapture, finds a sympathy, simple
or subtle, in the auditory nerves. When the pas-
sions are aroused and seek utterance in articu-
late or inarticulate sounds, they create discord or
harmony on the sympathetic ear. No one of all the
orators of Greece and Rome, nor any one who has
been fashioned after them in modern times, has
probably ever portrayed the beauty, truth, and
power of the human voice as they were displayed
in his best efforts by Booth. Mr. Gould, himself
an artist, and evidently of a poetic temperament,

EDWIN FORREST'S READING. 28 1

felt the irresistible something, and truly said it was
out of the reach of elocution. It was that which
is sensible to the spiritual grasp, as when the soul
is held in thrall by the subtle magic of that elec-
tric power which Puck boasted of when he said,

I'll put a girdle round about the earth
In forty minutes.

Who can give form or sound to the music of
the spheres, the roar of ocean, or Niagara's thun-
der? yet have we not within ourselves something
that interprets them through the sensitive organs
which throb and pulsate within us when under
the domination of the mighty and wonderful in
Nature?

FORREST'S READING.

In striking contrast with what has been said of
Mr. Booth were the characteristics of Mr. Edwin
Forrest. Mr. White, who first formed Forrest's
manner out of the usual schoolboy style of read-
ing, was a man of great intelligence and culture
in his art, but eccentric, enthusiastic, and very ego-
tistical. In his idea of delivery the principal thing
was emphasis, and at this he labored and pounded
with every kind and degree of pressure and force.
But this quality did not adhere to Forrest's mode
of reading after he had once tested the practical
method of dramatic action. White's influence
was, however, observable in his articulation, which
was always very distinct. He was a great admirer

24*

282 FORREST'S IMITATION OF KEAN.

of Kean, whom he had met and acted with in Al-
bany before he had won any commanding position
on the stage. There was an almost ferocious in-
tensity in Kean's articulative stress, and his deep
guttural tones seemed to struggle in the grasp
of the organs till they burst forth more like yells
of demoniac rage than human utterance ; while to
this were added the graces of a soft and almost
womanly tenderness of voice whenever he chose
to employ them as an offset to his vehement and
rapid flights of passion. These entirely new
effects were too tempting to be disregarded
by the young and ardent American actor in his
efforts to keep pace with the public demand for
novelty and improvement in dramatic art, espe-
cially as the most cultivated of the English actors
were yearly becoming candidates for American
recognition.

Thus, Forrest was almost unconsciously led to
the reception of other impressions than those
which he had no doubt received in early life from
Cooper, and gradually became a believer in Kean's
method, at least so far as to adopt his deep and
growling tones ; and with these he combined much
of the deliberate utterance of the old English
school, until toward the close of his career it was
his habit to make use of almost as many sug-
gestive pauses as marked the style of the great
classic tragedian, John Philip Kemble.

About the year 1841, while I was teaching elo-
cution in Boston, one morning Mr. Forrest dropped
into my rooms. He was returning from a rehear-

HIS READING OF WILLIS'S POEMS. 283

sal, and was somewhat fatigued. I had just been
giving a lesson, and we began a friendly chat
about reading. A copy of Willis's poems was
lying on the table, and taking it up Mr. Forrest
began to read in a delineative manner, subdued
but demonstrative and impressive. As he pro-
ceeded I could not but feel how much of his own
strong individuality colored his utterance of the
poetic thoughts, while his energized emphasis
seemed to suggest the idea that he was exhibit-
ing his peculiar powers of elocution rather than
giving form and life to the language of the au-
thor. There seemed to be too much display of
the vehicle and too little regard for its freight-
age. Shakespeare says,

Conceit, more rich in matter than in words,
Brags of its substance, not of ornament.

Parrhasius, in the dreamy atmosphere of his stu-
dio, was made by the reader to appear a material
abstraction amid artistic surroundings in the dim
poetic light of seclusion and study ; but all was too
ponderously palpable for the mental eye. As the
tragedian became absorbed in his reading the in-
tensity of his expression, aided by his fine vocal
powers, held me in a profound state of admira-
tion, and yet I felt that he was acting his subject,
and not describing it. Indeed, so apparent did
this become that I was quite conscious of seeing
and hearing more with the eye and ear of an
actor than with the organs of one who was ab-
sorbed in a poet's thoughts But when utterance

284 A PASSAGE FROM "PARRHASIUS."

was given to the following lines I became fully
assured that the reader was stirred to the inner-
most depth of an impulsive nature impatient and
rebellious against conventional dictation :

Pity thee ? So I do !
I pity the dumb victim at the altar,
But does the robed priest for his pity falter?

I'd rack thee, though I knew
A thousand lives were perishing in thine :
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine ?

Hereafter ? Ay, hereafter !
A whip to keep a coward to his track !
What gave Death ever from his kingdom back

To check the sceptic's laughter?
Come from the grave to-morrow with that story,
And I may take some softer path to glory.

No, no, old man ! We die
Even as the flowers, and-we shall breathe away
Our life upon the chance wind, even as they.

Strain well thy fainting eye,
For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er,
The light of heaven will never reach thee more.

Yet there's a deathless name,
A spirit, that this smothering vault shall spurn,
And like a steadfast planet mount and burn ;

And though its crown of flame
Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone,
By all the fiery stars I'd bind it on !

Ay, though it bid me rifle
My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst;
Though every lifestrung nerve be maddened first;

Though it should bid me stifle

THE SIGNS OF PASSION. 285

The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild.

All ! I would do it all,
Sooner than die, like a dull worm to rot,
Thrust foully into earth to be forgot !

I had known Mr. Forrest intimately for several
years prior to the period of which I have spoken,
and was quite familiar with his views of life, both
present and future ; but never did I feel so near
the inner life of the man as I did in listening to
his reading of "Parrhasius." He was evidently in
one of his strange moods and under a sombre
cloud. He was only reading a poem, but with the
peculiar tones of his voice came the impression,
" There are more things in " my friend's " heaven
and earth than are dreamt of in " my " philos-
ophy."

When men grind their teeth in speech and choke
with passions strong and deep, we may know the
brain is restless and the heart ill at ease. The
spiritual adviser, the man of law, and the deline-
ator of human passions often exhibit in the tones
of their utterance more of the state of the inner
sanctuary than at the moment they imagine or
intend. The tone of the voice is not unfrequently
the index of the heart.

ADAH ISAACS MENKEN.

I have before referred to an instance in which
Mr. Macready was placed in a distracting dilemma

286 ADAH ISAACS MENKEN.

through the blundering of an incompetent actor
at the culminating point of one of his finest situ-
ations in Macbeth. One can well imagine the
feelings of a performer who, yielding himself to
the successive development of the plot and inci-
dents of one of the grandest productions of our
greatest dramatist, and being wound up to a high
pitch of interest and effect, suddenly finds himself
utterly overthrown by the inefficiency or neglect
of other performers engaged in the same scene.
And yet from the " hand-to-mouth " mode of man-
agement prevalent all over the country the trage-
dian and his audience are constantly subjected to
such results. Of many Ceases in point which have
come under my own observation, I am reminded
of the following, in which it will be observed inor-
dinate vanity and misdirected impulses led a young
lady to attempt without preparatory study the im-
personation of one of Shakespeare's most power-
ful creations.

I was fulfilling a short engagement in Nashville,
Tenn., and the manager had made an arrangement
with Miss Adah Isaacs Menken (so famous for her
Mazeppa performances) to act the leading female
characters in my plays. I found her, however, to
be a mere novice, and not at all qualified for the
important situation to which she had aspired. But
she was anxious to improve and willing to be
taught. A woman of personal attractions, she
made herself a great favorite in Nashville. She
dashed at everything in tragedy and comedy with
a reckless disregard of consequences, until at

A TIMID TRAGEDIENNE. 287

length, with some degree of trepidation, she
paused before the character of Lady Macbeth !
I found in the first rehearsal that she had no
knowledge of the part save what she had gained
from seeing it performed by popular actresses of
the day.

Miss Menken was a woman of literary taste,
and had gained some reputation as a writer for
newspapers and magazines. She had withal a
good understanding and a quick perception of
what may be termed the more palpable significa-
tion of what was written, but could not rise to a
perfect appreciation of its highest sense. So she
came to me and frankly said, " I know nothing of
this part, and have a profound dread of it, but I
must act it, for I have told the manager that I was
up to the performance of all the leading charac-
ters."— "Why," I replied, "you don't even know
the words, and have no time to study them." — "Oh,
that's of no consequence," she replied ; " I can
commit the lines in a few hours if you will run
over them and mark the emphasis for me." — " But,"
I said, " that will not do unless you have a precon-
ceived idea of the character and an appreciation
of its purposes in relation to Macbeth. You can
give no proper expression to the emphatic words
when they are pointed out to you, for you have no
time to acquire the power to bring them into pro-
per subjection to your will as expressive agents.
All I can do under the circumstances is to read
the part to you, and leave you to your own re-
sources for the rest." I accordingly gave the lady

288 A NOVEL LADY MACBETH.

a few general ideas of the action of the part, and
finished by begging her at least to learn the words,
and for the acting trust to chance. Night came,
and with it came Miss Mepken arrayed to person-
ate the would-be queen. She grasped the letter
and read it in the approved style, holding it at
arms' length and gaspingly devouring the words
with all the intensity of ferocious desire ; then,
throwing her arms wildly over her head, she
poured out such an apostrophe to guilt, demons,
and her own dark purposes that it would have
puzzled any one acquainted with the text to guess
from what unlimited " variorum " she could have
studied the part. However, as Casca said of
Cicero, " He speaks Greek !" and Miss Menken
spoke what the people thought was " Shake-
speare," and, for aught they knew to the con-
trary, it might have been Greek too.

Flushed with her reception and the lavish ap-
plause which followed the reading of the letter, she
entered on the next scene, where Lady Macbeth
chastises the flagging will of her consort "with
the valor of her tongue," and at her sneering ref-
erence to " the poor cat i' the adage " she swept
by her liege lord as if he were a fit object for
derision and contempt; and then came another
round of applause. After Macbeth's announce-
ment that he was capable of doing " all that dare
become a man," the lady returned to the charge
with most determined scorn and denunciation, and
in tones which might have become a Xantippe ex-
claimed,

A DEMORALIZED LADY MACBETH. 289

What beast was it, then,
That made you break this enterprise to me ?
When you durst do it, then you were a man ;
And, to be more than what you were, you would
Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place
Did then adhere, and yet you would make both :
They have made themselves, and that their fitness now
Does unmake you.

Here, "taking the stage," she rushed back to
Macbeth, and laying her head on his shoulder
whispered in his ear, "I don't know the rest."
From that point Macbeth ceased to be the guilty
thane, and became a mere prompter in a Scotch-
kilt and tartans. For the rest of the scene I gave
the lady the words. Clinging to my side in a
manner very different from her former scornful
bearing, she took them line by line before she
uttered them, still, however, receiving vociferous
applause, and particularly when she spoke of
dashing out the brains of her child; until at length
poor Macbeth, who was but playing a " second fid-
dle " to his imperious consort, was glad to make
his exit from a scene where " the honors " were
certainly not " even."

Having recovered from her stage-fright, Miss
Menken, by what is termed " winging it " — that is,
by throwing down the book between the wings of
the scene when going on the stage, and taking it
up again for another reading when going off — con-
trived to get through the part

25 T

2QO THEATRICAL THUNDER AND LIGHTNING.

MR. FREDERICK BROWN.

Mr. Frederick F. Brown was the leading actor
of Mr. DeCamp's company. He was at one time
quite a favorite on the London boards both in
tragedy and comedy. When quite young he was
distinguished for his ability as a pantomimist, and
was fond of acting the hero in La Peroiise. Dur-
ing a performance of that once-popular pantomime
a most extraordinary incident occurred through a
misunderstanding on the part of the property-
man. The first scene of the piece opens with a
view of the sea and a shipwreck. In the midst
of thunder and lightning a ship is seen to sink,
and a sailor, after buffeting the waves, is finally
thrown on shore. He staggers to a bank and
throws himself down in a state of exhaustion
while the storm rages on.

In order to render the story clear to the mind
of the reader, it will be necessary to describe the
manner in which theatrical thunder and lightning
are produced. Imagine, then, a pair of ordinary
fire-bellows with a flat tin box fastened to the
nozzle, the top of the box perforated like a flour-
dredger, and in the middle a socket containing a
piece of lighted candle. This box is filled with
powdered resin, which, when the bellows are
blown, is forced out at holes surrounding the
candle, and, meeting the flame, makes a brilliant
blaze. Thus by repeated puffs of the bellows
an effect like lightning-flashes is produced. The
property-man stands between the wings of the

LUCID DIRECTIONS. 2QI

stage, out of sight of course, and puffs his bellows,
the flashes from which, reflected on the stage, make
quite a good representation of vivid lightning.
The thunder is usually made by rolling wooden
balls along troughs set above the scenes for that
purpose, or by shaking a plate of sheet iron sus-
pended by a rope over the prompter's box at the
side of the stage.

Before appearing as the shipwrecked sailor Mr.
Brown must be understood to have given direc-
tions to the individual who makes and dispenses
the lightning. The property-man in this case was
a Frenchman of a quick, irritable temper, who did
not feel at all complimented when his English was
called into question, and was therefore very apt to
say, " Oh yez, I undare-stand — all right !" Brown
was very prosy and particular in his forms of ex-
pression, repeating himself so often as to render
what he had to say somewhat obscure : " Now,
Nick, you know, I want you, you know, to give me
half a dozen puffs" (quite natural for an actor!)
" when you see me first stagger out of the water
and throw myself down on the bank. Then run
to the right-hand side of the stage and stand in
the wings ready for me ; when I throw myself
against the wing on that side, you know, flash up
pretty brightly. Then run round, you know, to
the left-hand side, you know, and when I cross
over and lean against the wing on that side, give
it to me again. Then back to the right-hand wing,
and repeat as before ; so follow me up till I stag-
ger and fall on my face in front of the footlights ;

292 AN ORDER CAREFULLY OBEYED.

and then puff away as hard and fast as you can,
and keep it up till the applause stops." — "Yez,
sare, yez— all right!" said Nick. — "All right!" said
Brown.

The scene began and the music struck up. This
was supposed to be expressive, at one time of a
storm, and at another of the feelings of the unfor-
tunate sailor, who now appeared, and struggling
through the water, reached the land and fell upon
the bank to a well-timed "chord" from the or-
chestra, accompanied with brilliant flashes of light-
ning, and, much to the astonishment of Brown, with
unmistakable laughter from the audience. Raising
himself as the music began to change for his ac-
tion, he staggered across the stage to a pizzicato
movement, struck his attitude at the right-hand
wing with another chord, when a roar of laughter
again burst forth as the lightning flashed across
the darkened stage. Again the music changed,
and, fainter still, the poor sailor labored to reach
the opposite side and throw himself for support
against the wing, when another chord from the
orchestra and another flash of lightning, followed
by boisterous laughter, made Brown aware that
something was going wrong. But intent on keep-
ing time to the music of the scene and preserving
the consistency of action, which did not permit
him (the half-dead sailor) to look back when his
life depended on going ahead, and totally uncon-
scious of the cause of the laughter, he kept up his
feeble efforts to reach the footlights, while at each
wing at which he rested the merriment increased;

A LITERAL LIGHTNING-MAKER. 293

till at last, falling on his face with the final crash
of the music, the whole house became convulsed.
Then turning on his back, ye gods ! how was he
horrified to behold Nick immediately behind him
puffing away at the lightning-bellows, while roar
after roar of laughter burst from the audience as
well as from the actors, who had also become ac-
quainted with the situation ! Puff! puff! went the
bellows. "Get off! go away!" screamed Brown,
" go away !" But no : Nick was * all right." Was
he not ordered to puff away till the applause
stopped? So Nick kept puffing, and the audience
kept laughing and applauding, till the prompter
rang down the curtain amid screams of merriment
and thunders of applause.

Not till he had risen from the stage did Brown
learn how matters had worked up to such an ex-
traordinary climax. Nick's "All right!" had been
all wrong by his mistaking Brown's orders to fol-
low him up — which meant from wing to wing be-
hind the scenes — while Nick understood that he
was to follow the actor up in sight of the audience;
and finding he had made a "hit," he kept following
him up, fully convinced that he was " all right."

25*

CHAPTER XV.
FORREST AND HIS SOCIAL RELATIONS.

"PORREST started in professional life with an
-*- instinctive admiration for the sublime and an
ardent love of the beautiful in Nature and Art.
He threw himself heart and soul into the feelings
and passions of the author he intended to illus-
trate, without, however, possessing either the incli-
nation or ability perfectly to analyze his thoughts,
but grasping the whole with fervor and independ-
ent will. Under such influences he achieved a
success which brought him before the public as
a rising genius at an early period of life. Then
came the time in which, as I have already stated,
he met and was strongly impressed with Edmund
Kean, whose energized enunciations and startling
transitions made him the sensation of the day.
Forrest, like Macready, left the truer guide, un-
trammelled Nature and her precepts, for a school
of art which proffered a distorted, if not a pervert-
ed, imitation. In this both Macready and Forrest
followed " the fashion of the times," accepting the
declaration that

The drama's laws the drama's patrons give,
For those who live to please must please to live.

The acting of Forrest was natural, impulsive,

294

FORREST VERSUS MACREADY. 295

and ardent, because he was not so well trained
as his English rivals in what may be termed a
false refinement. True dramatic art may be said
to be the sister of Nature, but her teachings are
continually perverted by those who, following the
example of Garrick, take the liberty of interpreting
them according to their own ideas. Forrest was
not considered as polished an actor as Macready,
and was often charged with rudeness and violence
in his impersonations, and even ridiculed for muscu-
larity of manner ; and yet I never knew a tragedian
who did not use all his physical power in reaching
the climax of his most impassioned delineations.

It must be remembered that Mr. Forrest was
a strong man, and when excited his passions ap-
peared more extreme than those of one more del-
icately organized ; and unqualified condemnation
was only heard from those who were either unable
or unwilling to perceive that the traits which dis-
tinguished our then young actor, were really more
natural than the elaborate presentations and pre-
cise mannerisms of Macready. Hence \h& people
followed Forrest, and loved him, while those who
claimed to be the elite admired and applauded
Macready, who came endorsed by a metropolis
which in those days in matters of art assumed
the direction of American judgment. Now, true
dramatic excellence is believed to lie midway be-
tween Forrest and Macready, as Beatrice said in
speaking of Don John : " He were an excellent
man that were made just in the midway between
him and Benedick."

296 FORREST'S PROGRESSIVE IMPROVEMENT.

Public animadversion and private sneers fell
like coals of fire on the nature of a man who was
sensitively alive to the fact that a want of scholas-
tic education, whatever might be his natural gifts,
was, in the minds of a certain class, an evidence
of inferiority. But although Forrest in his youth
had only received what was then called a good
school-training, he furnished in his manhood an
example which might have been profitably imita-
ted by the young men of his time, who, with all
the advantages of collegiate education, failed to
exhibit the progressive intellectual improvement
which steadily marked his course from year to
year. Many who did not admire his earlier dra-
matic performances were greatly impressed with
his manner in the later part of his career, his im-
personation of Lear being generally considered
the crowning-point of his excellence.

Mr. Longfellow, who did not admire Mr. For-
rest in Jack Cade and The Gladiator, speaking
of his Lear, said it was a noble performance,
grand and pathetic, well worthy the admiration
of the lovers of good acting. Many of the culti-
vated frequenters of the theatre in Boston were
prejudiced against Mr. Forrest for what they con-
sidered an offensively independent bearing, which
at times amounted to arrogance ; but this feeling
was no doubt the result in a great measure of
stories circulated by those conversant with the
gossip of the greenroom. It is certain that Mr.
Forrest never made any effort to conciliate his
brother-performers, and over many of the subor-

HIS MANNER , TOWARD THE PUBLIC. 297

dinate wearers of the "sock and buskin" he not
unfrequently exercised such an authority as, it
must be confessed, much resembled tyranny. So
far as the public were concerned, he did not care
to change the impression entertained of his man-
ners, but rather encouraged it, as an evidence that
he considered himself in every respect equal to
those who, assuming superiority, intellectual or
otherwise, were disposed to deny his ability as
an a'ctor or his right to social equality. The
parts in which he was most popular were those
of Spartacus, Metamora, and Jack Cade, and these
characters, which owed much of their effectiveness
to personal bearing and muscular action, he con-
tinued to play more frequently than others in
which he exhibited far greater excellence, both
before and during the period of his maturity- —
not perhaps from choice, but because the man-
agers, with a regard to their pecuniary interest,
wished such performances as were likely to draw
the best houses.*

There were, however, many persons among
those to whom I have alluded who, preferring
what they esteemed more intellectual and refined
entertainment, and feeling more in sympathy with
the representations of Othello, Hamlet, and Lear,
affected a contempt for the more popular perform-
ances, and commented upon them with selfish and

* Old Mr. Burke, the father of the youthful dramatic and musical
prodigy so popular half a century ago, when he heard of Mr. Forrest
as a distinguished performer, said, " Does he draw big houses ?" and
being told that he did, he exclaimed, " Then, by the powers ! he's a
great actor!"

298 A FURIOUS TEMPEST RAISED.

unjust severity. And as this depreciation of Mr.
Forrest was accompanied with extravagant ex-
pressions of admiration for Mr. Macready, by
which he was held up as the beau-ideal of dra-
matic art, it seriously injured the reputation of
Mr. Forrest in what is termed good society.

As an illustration of Mr. Forrest's intellectual
appreciation and intense delineation of such cha-
racters as he made exclusively his own, I will here
relate a striking incident.

In the year 1831, Mr. Forrest came to Augusta,
Ga., where I was playing an engagement with Mr.
DeCamp, with the intention of introducing his
then new character of Metamora. The arrange-
ments for the play were complete, and the house
crowded to excess in every part. Everything pro-
gressed satisfactorily until the celebrated council-
scene came on. Here Metamora upbraids the
elders of the council for their unjust and cruel
treatment of his tribe, and denounces war and
vengeance upon them until the land they had
stolen from his people should blaze with their
burning dwellings and reek with the blood of their
wives and children. Then, dashing down his toma-
hawk and drawing his scalping-knife, he gives the
war-whoop and disappears in the uproar and con-
fusion of the scene. Evident dissatisfaction had
begun to find expression long before this climax
was reached, and as the chief rushed from the
stage he was followed by loud yells and a perfect
storm of hisses from the excited audience, who
seemed ready in their fury to tear everything to

AN INDIGNANT COMMUNITY. 299

pieces. Order was with difficulty restored, and
the performance continued till the curtain fell
upon the dying chief amid unqualified evidences
of disapprobation. Both actor and manager now
began to realize what had not occurred to them
before — that the sentiment of the play was a posi-
tive protest against the policy which had deprived
the Indians of Georgia of their natural rights and
driven them from their homes. The next day the
public mind was highly excited, and Mr. Forrest
openly charged with insulting the people of Au-
gusta by appearing in a character which con-
demned the course of the State in dealing with
the land-claims of the Cherokee Indians. The
citizens were all deeply interested in this question,
and in consequence felt indignant at any refer-
ence to the stealing of Indian property, and espe-
cially so at being menaced with the tomahawk and
scalping-knife of the red man's vengeance so bit-
terly threatened in the language of the play. In
the course of an angry discussion of the subject,
and in reply to a gentleman who ventured to as-
sert that an actor did not express his own senti-
ments in the language of the character he assumed,
and that, therefore, the author should be held re-
sponsible and not Mr. Forrest, an eminent lawyer,
Judge Shannon, said: "Any actor who could utter
such scathing language, and with such vehemence,
must have the whole matter at heart. Why," said
he, " his eyes shot fire and his breath was hot with
the hissing of his ferocious declamation. I insist
upon it, Forrest believes in that d— — d Indian

300 BOSTONIANS DESIRE TO MEET FORREST.

speech, and it is an insult to the whole commun-
ity." The next night Metamora was acted to
empty benches, and consequently withdrawn, and
the remaining nights of Mr. Forrest's engagement
showed, by the returns at the box-office, that the
citizens of Augusta did not relish any adverse
opinions upon the legislative decisions of the State
of Georgia.

FORREST AT A BOSTON SUPPER.

While Mr. Forrest was fulfilling an engagement
in the old Tremont Theatre, Boston, somewhere
about 1840 or '42, some of my friends — among
them the late Hon. George S. Hillard and some
of the professors at Cambridge — knowing his dis-
inclination to accept invitations to formal enter-
tainments, expressed a desire to meet and pass
an evening with him socially ; and it was sug-
gested that my house would be an appropriate
place. Knowing these gentlemen to be admirers
of the great English actor Mr. Macready, and
rather inclined to underrate Mr. Forrest's intel-
lectual qualities, I at once accepted the proposition,
and invited them to meet my friend at supper on
a Saturday evening, the custom in Boston at that
time being to have no theatrical performances on
that night. At first, Mr. Forrest positively refused
to come, declaring that he did not wish to be ex-
hibited in private for the gratification of curiosity,
and doubtless for comparison with Macready, who
was considered by a certain class of cultivated people

A REUNION AT THE "HUB:' 30 1

(laying a peculiar emphasis upon this phrase) as
his superior, both professionally and in private
life ; and, further, that he had no wish to enter
into any such competition with Mr. Macready, for
whose scholarship he had a much greater admira-
tion than for his ability as a delineator of Shake-
spearian character. To all this he added that he
was tired and out of humor, and would much pre-
fer taking his supper quietly in my cozy little home
with my wife, my children, and myself. I urged the
matter, however, on the ground that the gentle-
men I wished him to meet were not, in the light
sense of the term, fashionable people, but men
of learning, lovers of the arts, and especially of
the drama, and not actuated by any idle curiosity,
but simply by a desire to meet him as one they
had often seen and admired as an actor. So he
reconsidered the matter, and finally accepted my
invitation.

Contrary to my expectations, when the evening
arrived he was in excellent spirits, cheerful, and
even gay ; he responded willingly to the inquiries
of my friends in relation to the impressions he
had received in foreign travel, commenting with
great intelligence and discrimination upon the
habits and customs of different nations, the pecu-
liarities of their governments, describing various
scenes through which he had passed and peculiar
persons he had met with, related many anecdotes,
gave his opinion of the character and condition
of dramatic art among the French, Italians, Span-
ish, and Germans, and dwelt at length upon the

26

302 LITERARY APPRECIATION OF FORREST.

enjoyment he had derived from visiting1 the great
galleries of painting and sculpture. To say that
my friends were gratified would convey a very
faint idea of the impression made by his conver-
sation ; they were perfectly charmed, and regard-
ed him not only as a gentleman unaffected and
courteous, but possessing very remarkable qual-
ities of mind. I was also much impressed with
his manner and all that he said — I never knew
him more effective on the stage than he was that
night — but I was particularly struck with the evi-
dence that he derived so much pleasure in endea-
voring to please others. Mr. Hillard thereafter,
in referring to the occasion, expressed great sur-
prise not only at the fluency of his language, but
the variety and brilliancy of his expressive pow-
ers. He said that he had found Mr. Forrest to
differ entirely from the idea he had formed of him
from the character of his acting and from what he
knew of the public estimate of his intellect and
culture.

Within the past few years I have heard distin-
guished literary people, both ladies and gentle-
men, speak in terms quite as complimentary of
Mr. Forrest's manners and conversation. Mr.
Hawthorne remarked that he was one of the
most brilliant conversationalists he had ever met —
that he heard him talk two hours at a sitting, and
could have listened to him all night. It is much
to be regretted that a man so gifted, capable of
affording to society so much profit and pleasure,
should have retired, as it were, within himself, nar-

I

TAYLOR ON KEMBLE' S HAMLET. 303

rowing the circle of his usefulness and bestowing
his sympathies only on a favored few, who ven-
tured and were permitted to enter the limit of a
morbid seclusion.

JOHN KEMBLE AS HAMLET.

"I attended," says John Taylor, "Mr. John
Kemble's^ first appearance [as Hamlet] at Drury
Lane Theatre. It was impossible to avoid being
struck with his person and demeanor, though the
latter was in general too stately and formal ; but
perhaps it only appeared so to me, as I had seen
Garrick perform the same character several times
a few years before, and had a vivid recollection of
his excellence. There was some novelty in Mr.
Kemble's delivery of certain passages, but it
appeared to me rather the refinement of critical
research than the sympathetic ardor of congenial
feelings with the author. I sat on the third row
of the pit, close to my old friend Peregrine Phil-
lips, the father of Mrs. Crouch. Phillips was en-
thusiastic in his admiration and applause upon
every expression and attitude of Kemble, even
to a fatiguing excess. When Kemble had dis-
missed one of the court-spies sent to watch him,
and kept back the other, Phillips exclaimed, ' Oh,
fine ! fine !' — ' It may be very fine/ said I, * but
what does it mean, my friend ?' — ' Oh/ he an-
swered, ' I know not what it means, but it is fine
and grand/

"Notwithstanding the unfavorable impression

304 KEMBLE'S RECEPTIVITY OF OPINION.

he made upon me, in justice I must say that in
subsequent performances he was so much im-
proved by reflection and practice that his Ham-
let really presented a model of theatrical excel-
lence, and probably never will be exceeded in cor-
rect conception and dignified deportment. His
Coriolanus was a masterpiece. He often paid me
the compliment of consulting me on any passage
of Shakespeare that appeared doubtful, and would
listen with great attention to any opinion that dif-
fered from his own ; and I do not recollect any
occasion on which I had not reason to assent to
his explanation of the text. But I never knew
any person who was more ready to attend to the
suggestions of others. He often desired that I
would let him know where I did not approve of
his acting, and his manner was so open and sin-
cere that I did not scruple to give my opinion,
even to such a master of his art and so acute a
critic. He never spared pains to ascertain the
meaning of what he or anybody thought doubtful.
" I remember once, in compliance with his re-
quest, I told him I thought that in one passage in
Hamlet, Garrick, as well as himself and all other
actors, was wrong in delivering it. The passage
was where Horatio tells Hamlet that he came to
see his father's funeral, and Hamlet says it was
rather to see his mother's marriage, when Horatio
observes, 'It followed hard upon.' Hamlet replies —

Thrift, thrift, Horatio ; the funeral baked meats
Did coldly furnish forth the marriage-table.

WRITING OUT PARTS TO BE STUDIED. 305

I observed that this passage was always given
in anger, whereas in my opinion it ought to be
delivered with ironical praise. He immediately
took down a polyglot dictionary and examined
the derivation and accepted meaning of the word
thrift in all the languages, and, finding that it was
always given in a commendatory sense, he thanked
me, and ever after gave the passage in the man-
ner I had suggested.

"I ventured to point out other alterations in
Hamlet which it might appear vain in me to men-
tion. Suffice it to say, that in hearing them he
said, ' Now, Taylor, I have copied the part of
Hamlet forty times, and you have obliged me to
consider and copy it once more/ This is a proof
of the labor and study which he devoted to his
profession. It is but justice to the rest of his
family, as well as to himself, to say they were
all so perfect in their parts that the prompter
never was appealed to in their acting."

This habit of frequently writing out the part to
be studied was customary among many old actors.
I remember that Mr. William B. Wood, speaking
on the subject, informed me that he found frequent
copying the most effectual mode of committing
words to memory. I recently heard Mr. William
Warren — "the universal William" of Boston fame
— a most painstaking and indefatigable student,
remark that he had written and rewritten a new
part several times during a week's study prepara-
tory to rehearsal.

26*

306 REYNOLDS ON GARRICK'S BENEDICK.

GARRICK AS BENEDICK.

Reynolds relates the following : " Calling one
morning on my mother's friend, Mrs. Nuttall, in
Palace Yard, I met for the first time the late Mr.
Harris, who for nearly half a century so ably and
liberally managed Covent Garden Theatre. He
was speaking of Garrick ; and on asking Mrs.
Nuttall if she had lately seen him, she replied,
' Last night I went with this young gentleman and
saw him play Benedick.' She then introduced me
to Mr. Harris, who, taking me by the hand and
kindly shaking it, said, * Well, my young Westmins-
ter, and pray in which scene might you like Gar-
rick best?' — 'In the scene, sir,' I replied, 'where
he challenges Claudio.' — 'And why, Frederick?'
inquired Mrs. Nuttall. — ' Because, madam, he there
made me laugh more heartily than I ever did be-
fore, particularly on his exit, when, sticking on his
hat and tossing up his head, he seemed to say as
he strutted away, "Now, Beatrice, have I not cut
a figure ?" ' — ' You are right, my boy,' rejoined Mr.
Harris. 'Whilst other actors, by playing this
scene seriously, produce little or no effect, Gar-
rick, by acting as if Beatrice were watching him,
delights instead of fatiguing the audience."

(That a boy should approve of such a distorted
exhibition of stage-business seems natural enough,
but I am surprised that an experienced manager of
a theatre should make a favorable criticism there-
on ; and, more so, that Mr. Garrick should have
so misrepresented a Shakespearian character. Let

GARRICK AS HAMLET. 307

us examine the case. Benedick has his own views,
doubtless, of the accusation made against Hero by
his friend, though as yet he has expressed no opin-
ion. He listens with intense interest to the grief
and indignation of Beatrice, and says, "Think
you on your soul the count Claudio has wronged
Hero ?" To which she replies, " Yea, as sure as
I have a thought or a soul." This is solemnity in
question and asseveration — no foundation on which
to build a jest. Benedick is in earnest, " in most
profound earnest," when he promises to become
the champion of the injured lady. Therefore, a
soldier and a gentleman, he would not deliver his
challenge in a spirit of levity, nor would he after
it, in order to get up a laugh, stick his hat on, toss
up his head, and strut off the stage after the man-
ner of a peacock or frivolous coxcomb. Such con-
duct under the circumstances would have been an
insult to Beatrice, unworthy such an actor as Mr.
Garrick, and a reflection upon the genius of Shake-
speare.)

"'Such is his (Garrick's) magic power/ Mr. Har-
ris continued, ' that a few nights ago, whilst waiting
for him at the stage-door till he had concluded the
closet-scene in Hamlet, I was so awestruck by the
splendor of his talent that, though from long inti-
macy Garrick and I always addressed each other
by our Christian names, on this occasion, when he
quitted the stage and advanced to shake hands
with me, I found myself involuntarily receding,
calling him " sir," and bowing with reverence.
He stared, and expressing a doubt of my sanity,

308 A BARBER'S CLAIM TO APPLAUSE.

I explained; on which he acknowledged with a
smile of gratification ' that next to Partridge's de-
scription of him in Tom Jones, this was the most
genuine compliment he had ever received/

" As a contrast to this panegyric, and to show
that the greatest literary doctors can disagree as
positively as the medical, I will repeat the remark
that even Boswell classes amongst Dr. Johnson's
absurd and heterodox opinions. On Boswell ask-
ing him, * Would not you, sir, start as Mr. Garrick
does if you saw a ghost ?' Johnson replied, ' I hope
not ; if I did I should frighten the ghost/

" Shortly afterward I saw Garrick perform Ham-
let for the last time. On the morning of that day
Perkins, who was my father's wig-maker as well
as Garrick's, cut and trimmed my hair for the
occasion. During the operation he told me that
when I saw Garrick first behold the Ghost I should
see each individual hair of his head stand upright ;
and he concluded by hoping that, though I so much
admired the actor, I would reserve a mite of ap-
probation for him as the artist of this most inge-
nious mechanical wig — ' the real cause,' he added,
' entre nous, of his prodigious effects in that scene/

"Whether this story was related by the face-
tious perruquier to puff himself or to hoax me,
I will not pretend to decide ; but this I can say
with truth — that though I did not see Garrick's
hair rise perpendicularly, mine did when he broke
from Horatio and Marcellus, with anger flashing
from ' his two balls of fire ' (as his eyes were right-
ly called), exclaiming, 'By Heaven, I'll make a

LAST APPEARANCE OF GARRICK. 309

ghost of him that lets me !' The effect he pro-
duced in a previous scene, when he uttered the
following lines, was electric :

I will watch to-night j
Perchance 'twill walk again.

I have since heard many actors of Hamlet give
these words in a calm, considerate, and conse-
quently ineffective manner ; but Garrick, buoyant
with hope and paternal love, rushed exultingly
forward, and spoke the words with an ardor and
animation that electrified the whole audience.

Hence to thy praises, Garrick, I agree,

And, pleased with Nature, must be pleased with thee."

GARRICK' S LAST APPEARANCE.

" On the night Garrick left the stage my brother
Jack and I, after waiting two hours, succeeded at
length in entering the pit. The riot and struggle
for places can scarcely be imagined, even from the
following anecdote. Though a side-box close to
where we sat was completely filled, we beheld the
door burst open and an Irish gentleman attempt
to make entry vi et armis. * Shut the door, box-
keeper !' loudly cried some of the party. — * There's
room, by the powers !' cried the Irishman, and per-
sisted in advancing. On this a gentleman in the
second row rose and exclaimed, 'Turn out that
blackguard !' — ' Oh, and is that your mode, honey ?'
coolly retorted the Irishman. ' Come, come out,
my dear, and give me satisfaction, or I'll pull your

310 HULL THE ACTOR.

nose, faith, you coward, and shillaly you through
the lobby.' This public insult left the tenant in
possession no alternative ; so he rushed out to
accept the challenge, when, to the pit's general
amusement, the Irishman jumped into his place,
and having deliberately seated and adjusted him-
self, he turned round and cried, '/'// talk to you
after the play is over'

" The comedy of The Wonder commenced, but
I have scarcely any recollection of what passed
during its representation ; or, if I had, would it
not be tedious to repeat a ten-times-told tale ? I
only remember that Garrick and his hearers were
mutually affected by the farewell address, particu-
larly in that part where he said, ' The jingle of
rhyme and the language of fiction would but ill
suit my present feelings ;' and also when, putting
his hand to his breast, he exclaimed, 'Wherever
may be the changes of my future life, the deepest
impression of your gratitude will remain here,
fixed and unalterable.'

" Still, however, though my memory will not
allow me to dwell further on the events of the
evening, my pride will never permit me to forget
that I witnessed Garrick's dramatic death."

Speaking of Hull the actor, contemporary with
Garrick, Taylor says : " I was very intimate with
him, and held him in great respect. He was de-
servedly esteemed by the whole of the theatrical
community. He was in the medical profession
before he adopted that of an actor, but in what
rank I never knew. He was generally styled

A MODEL CONJUGAL PAIR. 311

' Doctor ' by the performers. As he had a strong
lisp, it is strange he should have ventured on the
stage, but he probably depended on his good
sense and knowledge. He was an actor of great
judgment and feeling, and his merit in Friar Law-
rence was universally acknowledged ; and in this
character his lisp was even an advantage. He
was a man of learning and possessed literary
talents. He wrote a tragedy entitled Fair Rosa-
mond and published two volumes of poems by
subscription, and I had the pleasure of being one
of his subscribers. He also published Letters to a
lady who had been his pupil, and whom he after-
ward married. This lady appeared upon the stage
in the character of Paulina in The Winter's Tale.
At the time I knew them they were advanced into
the vale of years, and were a perfect Darby and
Joan. She often came behind the scenes to ad-
mire and animate her husband long after she had
left the stage. It was gratifying to observe the
attention which they paid to each other at their
advanced period of life. This attention was often
a subject of mirth to the lively actors, but was
always respected by those of a graver kind, be-
cause it was evidently the effect of long and rooted
attachment.

"I remember one night he was just going to
take a pinch of snuff when she said, ' Try mine,
my dear.' — ' I will, my love,' he replied, and in his
manner displayed the endearment of a youthful
lover. Yet there was nothing ludicrous in the
gallantry of this aged pair.

312 THE THEATRICAL FUND.

" Mr. Hull was for a few years the stage-man-
ager of Covent Garden Theatre, and in that capa-
city, as well as for his good sense, was always
required to address the audience when anything
particular had occurred. A ludicrous circum-
stance happened during the time of certain riots
in London. A mob came before his door and
called for beer. He ordered his servant to sup-
ply them, till a barrel which he happened to have
in his house was exhausted ; and soon after an-
other mob came with the same demand, and did
not depart without doing mischief. A third mob
came and clamorously demanded the same refresh-
ment. Mr. Hull then addressed them, with theat-
rical formality, in the following terms: 'Ladies and
gentlemen, one of my barrels has been drunk out
and one has been let out ; there are no more in
the house, and therefore we hope for your usual
indulgence on these occasions.'

" Mr. Hull deserves the perpetual gratitude of
the theatrical community, as he was the original
founder of that benevolent institution 'The The-
atrical Fund,' which secures a provision for the
aged and infirm of either sex who are no longer
capable of appearing with propriety before the
public. That he was really the founder admits of
no dispute, and therefore, as I have attended many
anniversary dinners in honor of the institution, I
have been astonished that no tribute to his mem-
ory has been ever offered on the occasion.

"From respect to the memory of Mr. Hull I
wrote the following lines on his death :

FRENCH-ENGLISH ELOCUTION. 313

EPITAPH
On the late Thomas Hull, Esq., founder of The Theatrical

fund.

Hull, long respected in the scenic art,
On life's great stage sustained a virtuous part,
And, some memorial of his zeal to show
For his loved art, and shelter age from woe,
He formed that noble Fund which guards his name,
Embalmed by gratitude, enshrined by fame.

This epitaph is inscribed on his tombstone in the
Abbey churchyard, Westminster."

RICHARD THE THIRD FROM A FRENCH STAND-
POINT.

I have endeavored, at some length, to interest
my readers by describing some of the traits of
character peculiar to my professional brethren, and
now offer a sketch of a gentleman amateur who
lived in Philadelphia many years ago. His idea of
acting was founded, as he imagined, on the great
Talma, and was at variance with the English style
on the ground of a want of Nature in our acting.
However such a notion got into his head, it is not
my intention to illustrate the naturalness or un-
naturalness of his dramatic assumptions. I can
only give an idea of his French-English pronun-
ciation, of which, of course, he was not at all
aware: "You see, sare, ze English actor, he
speak his solique to ze people too much. Ze
solique is always addressed to yourself when ze
language is confident/ to the thought. For in-
stance, Hamlet say to to/self, ' To-be-or-not to

27

3H AN AMBITIOUS AMATEUR.

be — zat-is-ze-question ; wezzer it is-noblair-in-ze-
mind-to suffare-ze sling and arrow of-outnzgeous-
fortune-or to-take-arms against a-sea o/-troubet,
and by opposing end zem. To die, — to-sleep-
no-more ; and by asleep — tosay-we ^^d-ze-heart-
ache-and ze tousand nature/ shocks zat flesh is
heir to. Tis a ^wsomazion akvoutly to-^-wisht-
for. — Todietosleep — tosleepperchance to dream.
— Ah, ha ! zare is ze rub, for in zat sleep of death
what dream may come when we-have-s^/~fle-off-
this mortal coil — must give us pause. So con-
science does make cowards of us all, and enter-
prise of great pease and moment with zis re-
gard their current turns #wry, and lose ze name
of action"

Convinced of his great genius for interpreting
Shakespeare, although no one else could perceive
it in the slightest degree, our self-satisfied ama-
teur engaged the theatre for one night only. Pro-
vided with a fine dress, he "strutted his brief hour
on the stage," very much to his own gratification
and delight, and, it must be allowed, with like
results to his audience — save and except this
difference, that while his was serious and sober
satisfaction, the audience took their money's worth
in unqualified merriment and gave unbounded
applause in the spirit of fun.

This state of things went on until the French
tragedian, getting somewhat of a glimmering idea
of the true state of the case, abated his efforts,
which some of his auditors considered as depre-
ciating their estimate of the true value of his per-

A DEPRECATORY SPEECH. 315

formance, and in consequence " the goose " came
down, as stage-parlance designates the offensive
use of the sibilant element as an expression of
disapprobation. The hissing grew to a whistling,
and the whistling to a shrill and not melodious
imitation of those feline concerts of the midnight
roof where applause is generally bestowed in
boots, bootjacks, and old bottles as chance shots
warranted to hit everything except what they are
aimed at.

To make a long story short, however, the cur-
tain fell, and the discomfited Richard appeared
before it as a gentleman ; which, by the by, was
not by any means his first appearance in that
character. He soon convinced the audience that
though he might not be able to act the tyrant, he
could, at least, when not riding his unfortunate
dramatic hobby, feel the oppression of ridicule.

" Ladies and gentlemen," he said, bowing very
low and speaking in a tone that brought the house
to its senses at once, "I have pairform ze character
of Richard ze Tree times. My concepzion of ze
tyrant viz ze back and ze hump may not be vat
you understand as ze Shakespeare interpretasion,
but, ladies and gentlemen, several people look
many ways, not all ze same in one direcsion, and
particulaire at ze meaning of ze grand poet, vich I
very much love and consider vith great condescen-
sion. Therefore, as I have made ze mistake, I vill
now make ze apology by being ^j/self again, and
nevare more try to be &j0*self vonce more again,
as Shakespeare says of Richard ze Tree times.

31 6 A CORDIAL INVITATION.

Now, ladies and gentlemen, before I go away
allow me to say, If any pairson present have ze
opinion of himsetf as more Richard ze Tree times
as / have make, zat pairson is very much welcome
to vear my crown and have my dress to make ze
performance. Ladies and gentlemen, I will now
say, Your service I am nevare no more to forget.
Bon soir I"

CHAPTER XVI.

FORREST AS A YOUTHFUL AMATEUR.

night after the play, having partaken of
a light supper, and while smoking a cigar, of
which indulgence he was passionately fond, Mr.
Forrest, being in a cheerful, chatty mood, told
me the following story of his boyish experience
during the residence of his parents in South-
wark, Philadelphia.

"I was," he said, "about fourteen years of age,
and had won some honors in school-declamation,
and particularly in the recital of an epilogue by
Goldsmith called 'The Harlequinade.' My sis-
ters had made me a dress of small chequered red
and black squares, after the style usually worn
in stage-pantomime, which with a dagger of lath
and the half mask of black muslin and pasteboard,
made up quite a neat and effective costume, which
of course was greatly admired by my companions,
and I have no doubt much increased the applause
which always attended my recitation of the epi-
logue.

"In connection with the usual feats of ground

27* 317

3l8 SOUTH STREET THEATRE, PHILADELPHIA.

and lofty tumbling among the boys, they had a
custom of walking on their hands and throwing
'somersets/ which was learned from the circus-
riders and posture-makers of the times. One of
these acrobatic feats in which I had become quite
an adept was throwing side * somersets,' or trans-
forming myself into a wheel by springing from my
hands to my feet, and thus whirling sidewise round
and round. I was in the habit of introducing this
peculiar locomotion at the close of * The Harlequi-,
nade,' going once or twice round the platform and
springing off at a bound, by wrhich I invariably
' brought down the house ' with approving shouts
from my comrades.

<l Of course no boy in Southwark could possess
such accomplishments and not be the observed of
all school-boy observers. Now, in our neighbor-
hood stood the Old South Street Theatre, the first
built in Philadelphia, or rather on its outskirts,
where it was located to evade the city laws against
theatrical entertainments. In this theatre, which
was afterward turned into a whiskey-distillery or
brewery, the officers of the British army, when oc-
cupying Philadelphia under General Howe, were
in the habit of acting for their own amusement
and that of their Tory friends. The elegant and
unfortunate Major Andre was the leading spirit
of the company, being stage-manager, scene-
painter, and general actor. For many years a
scene known to have been painted by that gentle-
man was held in great estimation by the various
companies which occupied the building from time

FORRESTS FIRST ENGAGEMENT. 319

to time after the evacuation of the city by the
British troops..

"At the time alluded to a company of amateurs,
consisting of printers, apprentice-boys, and some
gay lawyers and other drama-loving individuals,
were in the habit of acting plays on Saturday
nights, charging a small fee for admittance. One
Saturday afternoon I was playing my usual game
of marbles, with my knuckles well chalked, and it
may be somewhat grimy, when a young fellow
came up and asked me if I was Ned Forrest, the
spouting school-boy. I replied that I was Ned,
and asked him what he wanted. He said if I
would come with him for a moment out of the
crowd he would tell me of a way by which I could
make a dollar or two very easily. Putting up my
store of marbles, I walked aside with him, when he
informed me that he was one of the South Street
Theatre actors, and that he wanted me to 'go on *
for a lady's part — that the lady was sick, and they
could not fill her place unless I would consent to
do it.

11 Of course I jumped at the offer, but then came
the difficulties. In the first place, I could not study
the part at so short a notice, but he said I could
read it; the lady was a captive in a Turkish pris-
on, and I could recline on a sofa and read the part.
I asked him where the dress was to come from,
and he said the lady-artist would not lend hers.
Then I told him that my sister's dresses would fit
me very well — that I had often tried them on, but
that they were rather short in the skirt. He said

320 AN IMPROVISED COSTUME.

that was of no consequence ; he was ' the manager
in distress,' and that I could cover up my feet with a
shawl, and while lying on the couch nobody would
perceive the shortness of the dress. But I asked
what I should do about my hair, and he said there
was at the theatre 'a cavalry helmet with a long
black horse-tail, which could be taken off and
parted over my head and hang down over my
shoulders. Then he added that I could get one
of my mother's window- curtains or bolster-cases,
which could be pinned around my head for a tur-
ban, and I would be all right.

" ' That's first-rate,' said I ; ' and now I am en-
gaged, and will be on hand, sure.'

" All was settled. No one was to know who the
new recruit was, so no one at home would have oc-
casion to feel compromised by my appearing on the
stage. Thus was I engaged, and within two or three
hours I was to arrive at the height of a boy's ambi-
tion— to act a part on the stage of a real theatre.

"Night came. The curtain rose and discovered
me lying on a couch, but, sad to tell, the lights
were too dim, being only tallow candles, for me to
see to read my part. It was a soliloquy, however,
and I took my time, and have no doubt that I impro-
vised additions to the text, though I am not quite
sure they were improvements. But the audience
did not seem to notice the shortcomings of the he-
roine, and I began to feel that it was all right, when
the governor or some other character came on, and
then I was compelled to look more closely to the
words. Finding it almost impossible where I sat to

THE GREAT ACTOR RECOGNIZED. 321

read the part, and observing that the lamps of the
side-scenes were considerably brighter than the
footlights, in an unlucky moment I jumped off the
couch and ran to the wings to catch the light upon
the page of my book. Under the original ar-
rangement my short dress was to be eked out
with a shawl, so I had not thought it necessary
to change my boots or my stockings, which latter
were of the kind called Germantown wool. I had
managed from my new position to get at the first
speech, which was only a line or two ; then the
other character had a long reply to make, and
while I was endeavoring to get a peep at the next
page I was suddenly aroused by a shrill voice from
the pit shouting out, 'That's Ned Forrest ; twig his
Germantown stockings and his boots. Hurrah for
Ned Forrest !' This was too much for the temper
or patience of the audience, and laughing, hissing,
and clapping of hands struggled for the mastery.

" Knowing it was all up with my part of the
performance, I threw down the book, and run-
ning to the footlights just opposite the spot from
which came the voice, saw a well-known face, red
as a beet with laughing and shouting. Shaking
my fist at the rascal, I cried, * Bill Jones, I'll lick
you like the devil the first time I catch you on
the street — remember that!'

"The audience had stopped the uproar for a
moment, but now it became a fearful storm of
applause, hisses, and cries of 'Turn him out!'
' Off! off!' while a heavy hand fell on my shoul-
der, and the next moment I was whirled off the

322 AN UNCALLED-FOR PERFORMANCE.

stage, and that part of the play came to a close.
While I was changing my female dress for my own
clothes, however, I determined upon another dem-
onstration. I knew enough about stage-matters
to calculate upon the interval between the play
and farce ; so, keeping quiet, and being for the
moment forgotten, I waited till the curtain fell on
the play. Then, watching my opportunity, I took
a survey, and, as I supposed, the stage was dark,
the music playing, and the actors all engaged in
dressing. Near the stage-door was a small beer-
shop, and, peeping in, I saw the prompter and my
friend the manager 'drinking a mug of beer. This
was my time. I ran home, got my Harlequin
dress, slipped out of the house, and returned to
the theatre. It was but the work of a few mo-
ments to re-array myself, put on my mask, seize
my sword of lath, and run down to the stage-
entrance. The prompter had not returned, the
music had stopped, and the house was quiet.

" I rang the prompter's bell ; the curtain rose ; I
ran on the stage, and began my recitation amid a
dead silence, but applause soon cheered me, in-
creasing as I proceeded ; and at the close I threw
myself on my hands and went whirling round the
boards amid shouts and hurrahs, and then sprang
off the stage, where I was received by my ungrate-
ful manager, who gave me a good shaking and
told me to quit the premises and never try that
trick again."

The following are the lines recited by Mr. For-
rest on the occasion referred to :

HARLEQUIN'S EPILOGUE. 323

/
/ EPILOGUE.

Written by Goldsmith, and originally spoken by Mr. Lee Lewis,
in the Character of Harlequin, at his Benefit.

Hold, prompter ! hold ! A word before your nonsense :
I'd speak a word or two to ease my conscience.
My pride forbids it ever should be said
My heels eclipsed the honors of my head —
That I found humor in a piebald vest,

Or ever thought that jumping was a jest. [Takes off his mask.
Whence and what art thou, visionary birth?
Nature disowns and Reason scorns thy mirth.
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps —
The joy that dimples and the woe that weeps.
How hast thou filled the scene with all thy brood
Of fools pursuing and of fools pursued,
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses,
Whose only plot it is to break our noses,
Whilst from below the trapdoor demons rise,
And from above the dangling deities !
And shall I mix in this unhallowed crew ?
May rosined lightning blast me if I do !
No, I will act — I'll vindicate the stage;
Shakespeare himself shall feel my tragic rage.
Off, off, vile trappings ! a new passion reigns ;
The maddening monarch revels in my veins.
Oh for a Richard's voice to catch the theme :
" Give me another horse ! bind up my wounds ! Soft ! 'twas
but a dream."

Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating;

If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating.

'Twas thus that ^Esop's stag, a creature blameless,

Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless,

Once on the margin of a fountain stood,

And cavilled at his image in the flood.

" The deuce confound," he cries, " these drumstick shanks !

They never have my gratitude nor thanks ;

324 FORREST'S STRENGTH OF WILL.

They're perfectly disgraceful. Strike me dead !

But for a head — Yes, yes, I have a head.

How piercing is that eye ! how sleek that brow !

My horns — I'm told horns are the fashion now."

Whilst thus he spoke, astonished to his view

Near and more near the hounds and huntsmen drew.

"Hoicks! hark forward !" came thundering from behind.

He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind ;

He quits the woods and tries the beaten ways ;

He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze.

At length his silly head, so prized before,

Is taught his former folly to deplore,

Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free,

And at one bound he saves himself — like me.

\_Taking a jump through the stage-door.

" By the performance of that night," said Mr.
Forrest, referring to the incident previously related,
" my destiny was sealed. I felt that I was to be
an actor, and that an actor I would be, come what
might."

FORREST'S LACK OF IMAGINATION.

Here was an early manifestation of that will
which no opposing power in after-life could ever
break. Poverty and toil were braved and borne
unflinchingly, and always with a hopeful if not a
cheerful heart. Boy and man, he fought on
through every difficulty, surmounting every ob-
stacle, until his dreams of histrionic honors were
realized.

Mr. Forrest's predominating characteristic was
strength, which seemed in a great measure to
tinge all the gentler qualities of his nature. In
the tragedy of Macbeth the guilty thane mani-

HIS WANT OF IMAGINATION. 325

fests the power of imagination, under the influ-
ence of which he starts at shadows, while at the
same time he compels "all causes to give way"
before his cruel purpose ; but his unimaginative
wife, " the unsexed woman," exhibits the fixed
determination of the wilful mind and scoffs at
painted fear. Had Mr. Forrest been a woman,
he could and would have played Lady Macbeth,
the woman of will, better than as a man he did
play Macbeth, whose imagination interfered with
his will. Mr. Forrest had but little imagination
In Macbeth he looked at the air-drawn dagger4
with such an intense scrutiny that one would have
supposed he deemed it a juggler's illusion, and in
a certain sense he expressed a feeling of anger
that he was not able to clutch it. His manner did
not indicate that conscience, leagued with imagina-
tion, had conjured up the fearful agent to appall
him and arrest his arm ; and the visionary dagger
was evidently less terrible to him than if it had
been a real one. In the first act Macbeth says,\

This supernatural soliciting

Cannot be ill, cannot be good : if ill,

Why hath it given me earnest of success,

Commencing in a truth ? I am thane of Cawdor :

If good, why do I yield to that suggestion

Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair

And make my seated heart knock at my ribs

Against the use of nature ? Present fears

Are less than horrible imaginings :

My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical,

Shakes so my single state of man, that function

Is smothered in surmise, and nothing is

But what is not.
28

326 KNIFE-SHARPENING SHYLOCKS.

Here Macbeth stands, as Banquo says, wrapt in
thought — " See how our partner's wrapt " — carried
from the present into the future, while every sense
is held in abeyance by the working of the mind.
The language clearly indicates this, and yet Mr.
Forrest illustrated the words,

And make my seated heart knock at my ribs
Against the use of nature,

by striking his armed breast with his truncheon,
thereby transforming what was a silent inner force
into a very noisy outward one.

When a young man acting Shylock, Mr. Forrest
was in the habit of carrying in his gaberdine a
small whetstone for sharpening the knife with
which he expected to cut the pound of flesh. This
I never saw, but I was told of it by an old actor
of the Bowery Theatre, New York, who vouched
for its truth. Here was enough of the material
for the most matter-of-fact mind, and quite as pal-
pable a misinterpretation of Shakespeare as the
action of certain other Shylocks, who whet the
knife by sweeping it in wide reaches over the
stage ; for Bassanio says,

Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly ?
Shylock replies,

To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there.
Gratiano retorts,

Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew,
Thou makest thy knife keen.

THOMAS HAMB LIN'S PROPHECY. 327

Certainly no stage -direction is needed here to
show that the sole of the shoe is indicated for the
sharpening of the knife.

The deep tones of Mr. Forrest's voice, mingled
with the peculiar huskiness which generally
marked his utterance, gave great intensity to
his expression of rage and scorn, and even in his
ordinary conversation not unfrequently suggest-
ed a degree of bitterness which he probably did
not intend. Mr. Thomas Hamblin, the tragedian,
once said to me, in reference to the sullen manner
of Mr. Forrest — which I have no doubt was the re-
sult in a great measure of his constant and wear-
ing professional labors — "Forrest is not now con-
scious of it, but he will yet realize the fact that con-
stant growling at people will cause him, in time, to
growl at himself. He is building around himself,
as I may say, a wall, which every year is increasing
in height, so that after a while no one will be able
to get a peep at him ; and he will then feel, when
it is too late, that he has shut the world out, and
cut himself off from all social intercourse save
with the petting and the petted few to whom he
extends an open sesame to his varying moods of
bitterness and mirth." This was said in 1847 or
'48. My own impression is, that before Forrest's
temper had been. entirely soured by unfortunate
circumstances he was a kind-hearted man, and
any other profession than his own might have
developed in him a humanity " as broad and gen-
eral as the casing air." He .openly avowed him-
self a good hater, and expected others to hate

328 FORREST'S POSTHUMOUS MONUMENT.

those he hated with a seventy equal to his own.
" To err is human, to forgive divine ;" but this was
not his creed. Mr. Forrest was ambitious of post-
humous honor. He worked hard long after his
profession had ceased to be a source of pleasure
to him. He continued to act merely for the ac-
cumulation of money, his sole and cherished object
being to build up a monument to his memory such
as the actor Alleyne founded in Dulwich College —
an asylum for superannuated actors — although in
his lifetime he manifested for his needy profes-
sional brethren no interest whatever. In his ex-
treme care to prevent the possibility of failure,
however, it is very doubtful whether he has not
really defeated the purpose for which he labored
so long. He laid the foundation, as it now ap-
pears, of a visionary benefaction, which is likely
to operate only in an oblique direction, and will
probably reach very few of those for whom it
was intended.

JOHN BATES AND FORREST.

In the midst of Mr. Forrest's popularity, when
making a journey from New Orleans to the East,
he was not at all in a good humor with himself,
on account of overwork and ill-health. While
stopping in Louisville to rest, his old friend, Mr.
Sarzedas, then stage- director for John Bates, the
well-known Western manager, called on him and
tendered him an engagement for twelve nights —
six in Louisville and six in Cincinnati. For the

BARGAINS CUTTING BOTH WAYS. 329

reason already mentioned, and because the season
was drawing to a close, Mr. Forrest did not wish
to act ; but as the theatre was without a star per-
former, Mr. Sarzedas urged the matter, and he at
last consented to play six nights in each city, the
terms to be half the gross receipts. The engage-
ment turned out in Louisville as Mr. Forrest
thought it would, but poorly for either star or
manager. Better for the former, of course, as he
had no company to pay, while the latter did not
receive enough to cover his expenses. Mr. For-
rest was mortified at the result in Louisville, and
wished to annul the engagement for Cincinnati,
on the original ground of overwork and ill-health.
But Manager Bates would not release him from
the contract, and insisted on its fulfilment. Mr.
Forrest stoutly objected, however, and as there
was no written agreement, he considered the
whole thing a failure and was determined to pro-
ceed on his journey to the East. Mr. Sarzedas
at this juncture suggested that Mr. Bates should
re-engage the tragedian at a certain amount per
night ; and finally the parties agreed that two hun-
dred dollars should be the payment for each per-
formance. Upon this settlement the engagement
was closed, and Mr. Forrest opened in Cincinnati
to a full house, whereupon he became disgusted,
seeing that his fixed salary would fall far short
of what his share of half the receipts would
have been. He accordingly refused to act his
most telling parts, such as Spartacus and Jack
Cade, and insisted upon performing Rolla, Vir-

28*

330 A COMPLIMENTARY EXPLANATION.

ginius, etc. ; but in the face of all this the theatre
continued to be filled to its utmost capacity.

One morning Mr. Forrest, in -company with
our mutual friend, Mr. Peter Logan, was in the
box-office, when Mr. Bates, who was " counting up
the house," as it is termed, handed a slip of paper
to Mr. Logan and said, " That's the biggest pig in
the pen yet — over one thousand dollars in the house
last night;" at which Mr. Forrest remarked, ad-
dressing himself to Mr. Logan, " It is perfectly won-
derful to see such houses ; I had no idea that the
patrons of the drama in Cincinnati were so nu-
merous." John Bates was a very practical man,
blunt at times even to rudeness, of a somewhat
taciturn disposition, cynical, dry, and very deliber-
ate in speech. He had also a strange habit of
making a kind of snipping sound with his lips, as
if he were spitting, between his sentences, which
gave* his manner an appearance of nervousness.
But there was no such weakness about Bates :
he was as cool as a cucumber, and without a par-
ticle of the greenness of that vegetable. When
Mr. Forrest expressed wonder at the multitudes
of people who came to his performances, Bates
turned and said in the driest possible way, "Why,
Mr. Forrest, maybe you don't know that Tom
Thumb is exhibiting in Cincinnati. He holds forth
only in the morning ; so the people who come to
town to see his show, having nothing better to
do at night, come to the theatre to see you act."
My old and esteemed friend, Mr. Logan, in tell-
ing the story, said that the faces of the two men

LAMB'S STORY OF BARBARA S . 331

were a perfect study after Bates had made his re-
marks— Forrest nearly choking with indignation,
and looking as if he could eat the manager with-
out "a grain of salt," while Bates continued to
count his tickets as complacently as if he had
been offering the tragedian a compliment.

BARBARA S .

The following touching incident from the pen of
Charles Lamb points in a feeling manner to the
hard lot of those who in privation and suffering
begin at the bottom of the theatrical ladder and
steadily toil upward in pursuit of daily bread and
Fortune's perspective favors :

On the noon of the i4th of November, 1743 or '44, I for-
get which — it was just as the clock had struck one — Barbara

S , with her accustomed punctuality, ascended the long,

rambling staircase, with awkward interposed landing-places,
which led to the office, or rather a sort of box with a desk in
it, whereat sat the then treasurer of (what few of our readers
may remember) the old Bath Theatre. All over the island it
was the custom — and remains so, I believe, to this day — for
the players to receive their weekly stipend on the Saturday.
It was not much that Barbara had to claim.

This little maid had just entered her eleventh year, but her
important station at the theatre, as it seemed to her, with the
benefits which she felt to accrue from her pious application of
her small earnings, had given an air of womanhood to her
steps and to her behavior. You would have taken her to be
at least five years older.

Till latterly she had merely been employed in choruses or
where children were wanted to fill up the scene. But the
manager, observing a diligence and adroitness in her above
her age, had for some few months past entrusted to her the

33 2 AN IMPOVERISHED FAMILY.

performance of whole parts. You may guess the self-conse-
quence of the promoted Barbara. She had already drawn
tears in young Arthur; had rallied Richard with infantine
petulance in the Duke of York ; and in her turn had rebuked
that petulance when she was Prince of Wales. She would
have done the elder child in Morton's pathetic afterpiece
to the life, but as yet the Children in the Wood was not.

Long after this little girl was grown an aged woman I have
seen some of these small parts, each making two or three
pages at most, copied out in the rudest hand of the then
prompter, who doubtless transcribed a little more carefully
and fairly for the grown-up tragedy-ladies of the establish-
ment. But such as they were, blotted and scrawled as for a
child's use, she kept them all, and in the zenith of her after
reputation it was a delightful sight to behold them bound up
in costliest morocco, each single, each small part, making a
book with fine clasps, gilt-splashed, etc. She had conscien-
tiously kept them as they had been delivered to her ; not a
blot had been effaced or tampered with. They were precious
to her for their affecting remembrances. They were her prin-
cipia, her rudiments, the elementary atoms — the little steps
by which she pressed forward to perfection. "What," she
would say, "could India-rubber or a pumice-stone have done
for these darlings?"

As I was about to say, at the desk of the then treasurer of
the old Bath Theatre — not Diamond's — presented herself the

little Barbara S . The parents of Barbara had been in

reputable circumstances. The father had practised, I believe,
as an apothecary in the town. But his practice — from causes
which I feel my own infirmity too sensibly that way to arraign,
or perhaps from that pure infelicity which accompanies some
people in their walk through life, and which it is impossible
to lay at the door of imprudence — was now reduced to noth-
ing. They were, in fact, in the very teeth of starvation when
the manager, who knew and respected them in better days,
took the little Barbara into his company.

At the period I commenced with her slender earnings were
the sole support of the family, including two younger sisters.

RAVENSCROFT THE TREASURER. 333

I must throw a veil over some mortifying circumstances.
Enough to say, that her Saturday's pittance was the only
chance of a Sunday's (generally their only) meal of meat.
One thing I will only mention, that in some child's part,
where in the theatrical character she was to sup off a roast
fowl (oh joy to Barbara !) some comic actor, who was the
night's caterer for this dainty, in the misguided humor of his
part threw over the dish such a quantity of salt (oh grief and
pain of heart to Barbara !) that when she crammed a portion
of it into her mouth she was obliged sputteringly to reject it ;
and, what with shame of her ill-acted part and pain of real
appetite at missing such a dainty, her little heart sobbed
almost to breaking, till a flood of tears, which the well-fed
spectators were totally unable to comprehend, mercifully re-
lieved her.

This was the little starved, meritorious maid who stood
before old Ravenscroft, the treasurer, for her Saturday's pay-
ment.

Ravenscroft was a man, I have heard many old theatrical
people besides herself say, of all men least calculated for a
treasurer. He had no head for accounts, paid away at ran-
dom, kept scarce any books, and, summing up at the week's
end, if he found himself a pound or so deficient, blessed him-
self that it was no worse. Now, Barbara's weekly stipend was
a bare half-guinea. By mistake he popped into her hand a
whole one.

Barbara tripped away. She was entirely unconscious at first
of the mistake : God knows, Ravenscroft would never have
discovered it. But when she had got down to the first of
those uncouth landing-places she became sensible of an un-
usual weight of metal pressing her little hand.

Now mark the dilemma. She was by nature a good girl.
From her parents and those about her she had imbibed no
contrary influence. But then they had taught her nothing.
Poor men's smoky cabins are not always porticos of moral
philosophy. This little maid had no instinct to evil, but then
she might be said to have no fixed principle. She had heard
honesty commended, but never dreamed of its application

334 A TEMPTATION OVERCOME.

to herself. She thought of it as something which concerned
grown-up people, men and women. She had never known
temptation, or thought of preparing resistance against it.
Her first impulse was to go back to the old treasurer and
explain to him his blunder. He was already so confused
with age, besides a natural want of punctuality, that she would
have had some difficulty in making him understand it. She
saw that in an instant. And then it was such a bit of money !
And then the image of a larger allowance of butcher's meat
on their table next day came across her, till her little eyes
glistened and her mouth moistened. But then Mr. Ravens-
croft had always been so good-natured — had stood her friend
behind the scenes, and even recommended her promotion to
some of her little parts. But, again, the old man was reputed
to be worth a world of money. He was supposed to have fifty
pounds a year clear of the theatre. And then came staring
upon her the figures of her little stockingless and shoeless
sisters. And when she looked at her own neat white cotton
stockings — which her situation at the theatre had made it indis-
pensable for her mother to provide for her with hard straining
and pinching from the family stock — and thought how glad she
should be to cover their poor feet with the same, and how then
they would accompany her to rehearsals, which they had hith-
erto been precluded from doing by reason of their unfashion-
able attire, — in these thoughts she reached the second land-
ing-place ; the second, I mean, from the top, for there was
still another left to traverse.

Now Virtue support Barbara ! And that never-failing friend
did step in, for at 'that moment a strength not her own, I have
heard say, was revealed to her — a reason above reasoning —
and without her own agency, as it seemed (for she never felt
her feet to move), she found herself transported back to the
individual desk she had just quitted, and her hand in the old
hand of Ravenscroft, who in silence took back the refunded
treasure, and who had been sitting (good man !) insensible
to the lapse of minutes which to her were anxious ages ; and
from that moment a deep peace fell upon her heart and she
knew the quality of honesty.

A TRANSFORMED ACTOR. 335

A year or two's unrepining application to her profession
brightened up the feet and the prospects of her little sisters,
set the whole family upon their legs again, and released her
from the difficulty of discussing moral dogmas upon a land-
ing-place.

I have heard her say that it was a surprise not much short of
mortification to her to see the coolness with which the old
man pocketed the difference which had caused her such mor-
tal throes.

This anecdote of herself I heard in the year 1800 from the
mouth of the late Mrs. Crawford,* then sixty-seven years of
age (she died soon after) ; and to her struggles upon this child-
ish occasion I have sometimes ventured to think her indebted
for that power of rending the heart in the representation of
conflicting emotions for which in after years she was consid-
ered as little inferior (if at all so in the part of Lady Ran-
dolph) even to Mrs. Siddons.

ANECDOTE OF A QUACK DOCTOR.

Walking about the town of Warren, Ohio, dur-
ing the early part of a day on the evening of
which I was to give a reading, my attention was
attracted by a crowd gathered around a smart
turnout consisting of a gayly-painted half carriage,
half peddler's wagon, to which were attached a
pair of dashing black horses in tawdry harness
with silver-plated mountings.

A man was addressing the crowd from the driv-
ing-box of the vehicle. He was dressed in black,
but wore a wide-brimmed white hat, from which
flowed the long ends of a broad blue ribbon. His

* The maiden name of this lady was Street, which she changed, by
successive marriages, for those of Dancer, Barry, and Crawford. She
was Mrs. Crawford, and a third time a widow, when I knew her.

33 6 A FLUENT PILL-VENDOR.

beard and hair were black, and evidently false.
Such expressions as the following struck my ear
as I stood upon the curb of the opposite pave-
ment:

" You, sir, you have a liver. You feel it, I have
no doubt, and I know, by the white of your eye
being so yellow — pardon the bull — you are bilious;
which means you have too much bile." Then came
a flood of words, in which I could distinguish now
and then "chyle — bile — gall — liver — stomach —
churning — secretions — obstructions — improper as-
similations— blood-vessels gorged — head giddy —
bad humor — quarrel with sweetheart — scold wife
— bad temper ; can't help it — send for doctor — big
bill — no cure. True remedy, this box I hold in
my hand, the poor man's friend — cure at once —
instant relief — made happy in four-and- twenty-
hours — no trouble with wife or sweetheart or
friend — shake hands with self every morning. And
only twenty-five cents!"

Then followed a roar of laughter, and hands
were extended in all directions for the magic
boxes, when the speaker wound up with, "All
gone, ladies and gentlemen — not even ' one more
left/ as the razor-man says. Go home — get more
— be back this afternoon. Grateful for favors —
public interest at heart. Till then humble servant.
Good-bye." A low bow, and off went the doctor
and his spanking blacks with the travelling pill-
shop.

As I walked home to my tavern I could not get
rid of the idea that all this adroitly-managed ex-

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE DISCOVERED. 337

hibition had a smack of the stage about it. It
brought to my memory an old farce called Roches-
ter, in which a mountebank plays just such tricks.
As I walked down the long entry-way to my room
in the tavern I observed a large poster tacked on
to a door, bearing an inscription stating that Doc-
tor Veritas was " At home to the afflicted."

Just then the door opened, several persons
passed out, and I found my hand grasped by a
man in a showy morning-gown and a black velvet
cap, who warmly greeted me with, " Mr. Murdoch,
my old friend !" I soon recognized in the quack
doctor a former actor of what is called the " heavy
business " in some of the theatres in which I had
performed.

His story was, that being out of an engagement
he had taken up with an itinerant pill-vendor who
was in a consumption and needed an apt speaker
to sell his commodities. The man soon died, and
my friend of the buskin became heir to his effects
and business, and, finding his new profession most
profitable, had continued to cry out his medical
nostrums rather than return to the spouting of
blank verse.

29 W

CHAPTER XVII.
LONDON THEATRICAL SENSATIONS.

A NEW departure from the direct line of the-
•**• atrical mannerism was exhibited in the case
of Master Betty the boy-actor. The father of
this prodigy instructed him in elocution and fen-
cing when he was only ten years old. At that age
he manifested great strength of will and decision
of character, and upon seeing Mrs. Siddons per-
form Elvira in the play of Pizarro he expressed a
determination to become an actor, affirming that
he would sooner die than not go on the stage.
His father, a man of independent circumstances,
was much surprised, but decided not to thwart his
inclination, and continued his instruction, until at
length Master Betty made his appearance at Bel-
fast, August n, 1803, being then about eleven
years old. He took the town by storm, was called
an "infant Garrick," and the Belfast ladies pro-
nounced him " a darling." He was received with
similar enthusiasm in Cork, Waterford, London-
derry, Dublin, and other cities, the houses being
crowded wherever he appeared. Fame heralded
his approach to Edinburgh and Glasgow, while
fortune continued to smile and the critics declared

338

MASTER BETTY IN LONDON. 339

that he displayed all the powers of Garrick, Cooke,
or Kemble. He came to London, and the excite-
ment was no less intense. Gentlemen were crush-
ed in the pit and ladies fainted in the boxes.

The public verdict may be summed up in the
fact that " Old Gentleman Smith," the original
Charles Surface, gave him a seal bearing the like-
ness of Garrick, which Garrick in his last illness
had charged him to keep until he should meet with
a player who acted from nature and feeling. Smith
pronounced him the proper person to receive the
precious relic. It is said that on a motion made
by Mr. Pitt the House of Commons adjourned one
night and went down to the theatre to see him act
Hamlet. He continued to play for two seasons,
and retired with a splendid fortune.

It seems as though Master Betty took posses-
sion of the stage very much as Blind Tom did of
the platform. His success was not the result of
cultivation, but a natural gift, of which the people
knew nothing save that it filled them with wonder
and delight. He seemed to have been the em-
bodiment of passion — a master of words, but not
of ideas. Instinct and ardor enabled him to take
on the semblance of feeling as the chameleon
receives the color of the object to which it clings.
He learned words as the parrot does, by rote, and
caught their meaning from the voice of his pre-
ceptor. A talent for expressive speech and grace-
ful action made him the most comprehensive and
perfect mimic of Nature that ever dazzled an au-
dience. It is said that he learned the part of

34° MASTER BETTY'S ACTING.

Hamlet in three days, and yet, though so quick at
catching words, he always dropped his tis. He
had seen but little acting before he appeared upon
the boards, but it is probable that his father knew
something of stage-business and the modes of
expressive utterance peculiar to popular actors,
and that he reproduced the intonations and inflec-
tions he caught from the recitals of his instructor.
The most attractive element, however, in Master
Betty's performance must have been the quality
and force of his vocality. He was fresh and nat-
ural, unlike all other favorites, and therefore there
could be no comparison. He was himself alone.
He had a wonderful memory, self-possession, and
elegance of manner, and it would seem that he
acted as he felt, like a boy, and with the reckless
adventure of a boy, without the fear of criticism, he
entered upon his work with a love of its excitement.
Without knowledge of the underlying principles
of dramatic action, he trusted entirely to the con-
viction that he was a law unto himself and not an-
swerable to any dictation but that of his own will.
Had he been old or artful enough to copy any ex-
isting model, he would have thereby restricted his
natural efforts and deadened his effects. As long
as the ardor of youth prompted his action, it was
brilliant and effective, but when the boy passed on
toward maturity, with a realizing sense of circum-
stances and responsibility came a diminution of
self-reliance and a restriction of impulse. As he
merely practised the functions of acting, without
studying the art or its principles, experience was

REYNOLDS'S ENCOUNTER WITH HIM. 341

of no value, and the flame of inspiration gradually
faded and at last died out.

A CONTEMPORANEOUS OPINION OF MASTER
BETTY THE BOY-ACTOR.

"Just at this time," says Reynolds, "the whole
theatrical world was in commotion at the expected
arrival of Master Betty, whose celebrity was so
excessive that, though unseen and untried on the
London stage, it was with truth averred that not
a place could be procured for his first six nights.
One evening during the run of The Blind Bargain,
whilst sitting in the first circle shortly after the
commencement of the second act, a gentleman and
a very pretty boy, apparently about eleven years
of age, entered the box and seated themselves
close to me. The former, among various other
theatrical questions, asked which was Kemble,
which was Lewis, and seemed eagerly to devour
my replies, while the boy, engaged in the more
important occupation of devouring an orange,
seemed as inattentive and indifferent to mine and
his protector's conversation as to the proceedings
on the stage. Between the inquisitiveness of the
one and the listlessness of the other, I myself was
fast approaching a torpid, ennuye state, when one
of the fruit-women entered the box and whispered
to me that I was sitting between Master and Mr.
Betty. — 'How do you know?' quoth I. — 'From the
superintendent of the free list,' she rejoined, 'to
whom they gave their names.'

29*

342 A RUSH TO SEE THE WONDER.

"Now, aware that this little phenomenon, this
small — or rather great — snowball, which had been
made at Belfast and had rolled on, attaining
through every town additional magnitude till it
reached Birmingham, was advertised to appear
on the following Monday as Achmet in Barbarossa,
I began to believe the truth of the fruit- woman's
information. Consequently, curiosity induced me
to take another peep, when at this moment the
door was burst open and hundreds, deserting their
boxes, attempted to rush into ours. The pres-
sure became so extremely formidable, that Mr.
Betty, in considerable alarm, called loudly for the
boxkeeper, who not being able to come on ac-
count of the crowd, I urgently requested the ter-
rified father and son to submit themselves to my
guidance ; and they, complying, followed me to the
box-door. The crowd, imagining that they should
have a better view of this parvus redivivus Garrick
in the lobby, made way for us right and left, when
I delivered them into the hands of Hill the box-
keeper, who opened a door leading behind the
scenes, and making them enter it the pack were
suddenly 'at fault,' and the pursued took safe
shelter in the cover of the greenroom.

" Some years after the expiration of this absurd
mania I became acquainted with Mr. Betty, and,
during a negotiation with him relative to an en-
gagement at Coven t Garden Theatre I found that
he possessed as much liberality and as little vanity
as any gentleman with whom I have had the plea-
sure to be acquainted. But, though I give this

ENTHUSIASTIC ADMIRERS. 343

suffrage to the amiable qualities of his manhood,
I cannot say as much for the histrionic qualities
of his boyhood, when, instead of joining with the
enthusiastic majority devoted to him, I openly
avowed myself one of the opposing minority, and
consequently led a life of argument and tumult.
As a specimen : During the height of the Roscius
rage, dining for the first time at Sir Frederick
Eden's house in Pall Mall, where there were as
many fine ladies as fine gentlemen, Master Betty
was naturally the leading — nay, the exclusive —
subject of conversation. An elderly lady, sighing
and throwing up her eyes toward the ceiling, ex-
claimed, 'I fear, I fear we shall soon lose him,'
evidently thinking, I presume, with Shakespeare,

So wise, so young, they say, do ne'er live long.

Another enthusiast, fanning herself, asserted with
much indignation that she had no patience with
John Kemble, for when his asthma was in its very
worst state, instead of nursing himself at home,
he came into his box, as if purposely for the chance
of coughing down his paramount opponent. A
third said to a lady near to her, 'I saw your dear
boy to-day, and how I do envy you ! Certainly he
most strongly resembles the divine Master Betty/
"I actually writhed under all this ecstatic non-
sense, and my suppressed tortures arose to an
almost ungovernable height when I heard several
of the male idolaters add encomiums of an equal-
ly extravagant nature. At length Sir Frederick
Eden said, ' Reynolds, why are you silent ? From

344 A DISSENTIENT CRITIC.

your long theatrical experience you must no
doubt have formed a good opinion on this sub-
ject/— '.Indeed ! a dramatic author in the room ?'
said an old gentleman. ' Now, ladies, we shall
have fresh beauties discovered. — Perhaps, sir, you
remember Garrick and Henderson ?' I bowed
assent. ' Now, sir, I ask you, upon your honor,
does not the boy surpass both ?' — ' Oh, certainly/
was the self-satisfied murmur through the room. —
* No, sir,' I replied, bursting with rage. ' I answer,
upon my honor, that he does not ; for, with all due
deference to what has been said, I doubt whether
he can even pronounce the very word by which
he lives/ — 'And pray, sir/ they simultaneously
demanded, ' what may that word be ?' — To which,
more and more provoked, I boldly replied, almost
at the risk of my personal safety, ' Humbug !'

" Here I was interrupted by a yell so terrific
that probably I should have been inclined to
qualify or soften this bold assertion had I not
seen, by the secret signs and encouraging nods
of my worthy host, that he completely agreed
with me ; so I continued gallantly to defend my-
self against the attacks of my numerous and
tumultuous assailants until the blue- stocking part
of this cabal sent me to Coventry. Shortly after-
ward they retired, leaving me and the male por-
tion of the company with Sir Frederick, who now
openly expressed his accordance in my opinions,
and, laughing, gave me joy and said, ' Pan quits
the plain, but Pol remains/

" However, my triumph was but temporary, for

ANOTHER FASHIONABLE FOLLY. 345

this was one of the houses to which I was never
invited a second time.

"But, to conclude this subject: to Master Betty,
as a boy and a bad actor, the whole town flocked ;
to Mister Betty, as a man and a good second-rate
actor, scarcely an individual came ; yet, for once,
the foolery of fashion had beneficial results, since
in the present case it provided for the after-life of
a most amiable young man and his family."

A DOG MANIA.

As London raved in ecstatic fervor over Garrick
and titled equipages rolled in crowds to Goodman's
Fields, so kings and royal dukes and the " quality,"
together with the critics and the " town," all flocked
to the Betty carnival. While showing their admi-
ration for all that was famous or fashionable, the
flood of the royal and popular tide set in the di-
rection of Spa Fields under the influence of the
dramatic "dog mania."

Reynolds says: "A subordinate but enterpris-
ing actor of the name of Costello collected at the
great fairs of Frankfort and Leipsic a complete
company of canine performers, and arriving with
them in England, Wroughton, then manager of
Saddler's Wells, engaged him and his wonderful
troop. They were fourteen in all, and, unlike
those straggling dancing-dogs still occasionally
seen in the streets, they all acted respondently
and conjointly with a truth that appeared almost
the effect of reason. The ' star/ the real star, of

34^ A DUBIOUS COMPLIMENT.

the company was an actor named Moustache,
and the piece produced as a vehicle for its first
appearance was called The Deserter. The night I
was present at this performance Saddler's Wells,
in point of fashion, resembled the opera-house on
a Saturday night during the height of the season ;
princes, peers, puppies, and pickpockets all crowd-
ing to see what Jack Churchill, with his accustomed
propensity to punning, used to term the illustrious
dog-stars.

" On this evening the late Duke of Gloucester
was also present. Wroughton, who at that time
frequently played at Drury Lane the parts of Lear,
Evander, and other aged characters, was now, as
manager of Saddler's Wells, dressed in court cos-
tume, and, looking his real age — about thirty-five
— lighted His Royal Highness to his box. ' Eh ?
how ?' exclaimed the duke — ' who, what are you ?'
— ' My name is Wroughton, please Your Royal
Highness/ — 'Oh! what?' rejoined the duke —
'son of old Wroughton of Drury Lane?'

"Wroughton, who told me of this whimsical
error, said that at first he knew not whether to
receive it as an affront or as a compliment ; how-
ever, affecting to consider it as the latter, he paid
the duke his acknowledgments for unconsciously
avowing that his assumption of old age was not
distinguishable from the reality.

"The curtain shortly afterward rose. I will
pass over the performance till the last scene,
merely remarking that the actors, Simpkin, Skir-
mish, and Louisa, were so well dressed and so

INFALLIBLE TEACHING FOR ACTORS. 347

much in earnest that in a slight degree they actu-
ally preserved the interest of the story and the
illusion of the scene. But Moustache as the de-
serter ! I see him now in his little uniform, mili-
tary boots, with smart musket and helmet, cheering
and inspiring his fellow- soldiers to follow him up
scaling-ladders and storm the fort. The roars,
barking, and confusion which resulted from this
attack may be better imagined than described.

"At the moment when the gallant assailants
seemed secure of victory a retreat was sounded,
and Moustache and his adherents were seen re-
ceding from the repulse, rushing down the ladders,
and then staggering toward the lamps in a state
of panic and dismay.

" ' How was this grand military manoeuvre so
well managed ?' probably asks the reader. I will
tell him. These great performers had had no food
since breakfast, and knowing that a fine hot sup-
per, unseen by the audience, was placed for them
at the top of the fort, they naturally speeded to-
ward it, all hope and exultation ; when, just as
they were about to commence operations, Costello
and his assistants commenced theirs, and by the
smacking of whips and other threats drove the
terrified combatants back in disgrace. This brings
to my recollection what old Astley, the circus-
manager, once whimsically said to the late Mr.
Harris : ' Why do my performers act so much
better than yours? Because mine know if they
don't indeed work like horses I give them no
corn ; whereas if your performers do or do not

348 A PSEUDO FORREST.

walk over the course, they have their prog just the
same/

" Wroughton frequently told me that he cleared
upward of seven thousand pounds by these four-
legged Roscii."

AUGUSTUS ADAMS THE TRAGEDIAN.

One of the many imitators of Mr. Forrest had
become so imbued with his mode of utterance
and intonation, so perfectly like him in manner,
that it was difficult to determine at an early period
in their history which was the better. And to
those who did not know their antecedents it would
have been difficult to determine which was the
original. I refer to Mr. Augustus Adams. He
began to adopt the mannerisms of Mr. Forrest at
the outset of his career, and fell into his mode so
readily that any one hearing him in ordinary con-
versation, without seeing him, could not possibly
have told whether Mr. Forrest or Mr. Adams was
the speaker.

Mr. Adams was an actor of much talent, and
had he relied on his own expressive intonation
and quality of voice, instead of moulding himself
after the fashion of another, he would have reached
a still higher degree of excellence than that which,
in the minds of many, made him a rival of Mr.
Forrest. In person he was taller than, and quite
as commanding as, Mr. Forrest, and his features
were quite as fine and imposing. But, unfortu-

PORK AND BEANS A LA FORREST. 349

nately, at an early period he fell a victim to intem-
perance.

One night, after playing Hamlet in Pittsburg,
he walked into a restaurant kept by one Mr. Beals,
a well-known wag, who was also in the habit of
imitating Mr. Forrest, but after the extravagant
manner of many who merely ridiculed his pecu-
liarities. It was his custom to have a side-table
well supplied with a collation of cold beef, tongue,
smoked codfish, and pickles, with the inevitable tin
pan of cold baked pork and beans, for the enjoy-
ment of those who dropped in to take a drink be-
fore retiring for the night. Mr. Adams was wrap-
ped in the ample folds of his Spanish cloak, and in
deep chest-tones* said, " Mr. Beals, I am rather
tired and hungry, and feel like having a taste of
your pork and beans before I take my toddy."
To which Mr. Beals, in still deeper Forrestian
tones, which seemed to issue from the very depths
of his capacious chest, replied, " Mr. Adams, I am
sorry to say that you have come too late for your
favorite dish. The beans are all gone, but here at
your service is the tin pan" at the same time hold-
ing out the empty vessel with a shake of the head
and the chin pressed down upon the breast, in
an attitude most provokingly suggestive of the

* Churchill says of an actor —

"Can none remember? — yes, I know all must —
When in the Moor he ground his teeth to dust.

* * -x- -x- *

His voice, in one dull, deep, unvaried sound,
Seems to break forth from caverns underground ;
From hollow chest the low, sepulchral note
Unwilling heaves and struggles in his throat."
30

350 KEAN'S ATTENTION TO STAGE-BUSINESS.

manner of the great actor. This was received
with laughter and applause by the spectators, and
afforded a striking exhibition of the two qualities
of imitation and mimicry.

It has been said that actors often forget them-
selves so as to lose entirely their own identity in
the part they are assuming. I do not believe, how-
ever, that such abstraction is ever so complete as
to prevent at least a mechanical observance of all
the material parts of stage-business. I remember
upon one occasion, when Mr. Charles Kean was act-
ing Hamlet and It Horatio, he made a pause in the
scene, and, although apparently deeply absorbed,
said in a stage-whisper, " Good heavens ! what
noise is that ?" I replied in an undertone, " It is
only the ticking of the greenroom clock." — " Oh
dear ! what a nuisance !" he whispered, and pro-
ceeded with his part, the audience not seeming
to have noticed the interruption or heard the side-
speeches. After some time, in the same scene, he
again paused and said in an irritable undertone,
" Can't they stop that clock ?" All this was done
without any apparent interference with his feelings
or expression.

In my own experience, while delivering the most
absorbing soliloquies, I have been compelled to
improvise " stage-business " in order to walk to a
place from which I could be heard by people who
were talking behind the scenes and hiss out be-
tween my teeth, " Stop that noise !" And yet I
have never in any such case been conscious of the
slightest interference with the state of my mind

A REHEARSAL OF "JULIUS CsESAR." 351

in relation to the part I was playing, or disturb-
ance of the drift of my voice in the utterance of
the author's language.

MR. MACREADY AT REHEARSAL.

Mr. Macready has been known to keep up what
might be called a running accompaniment of whis-
pered directions to the subordinates on the scene
and denunciations against offending parties all
through busy situations In the action of the play
requiring on his own part the utmost self-forget-
fulness and intense tragic feeling. His peculiar
manner of interlarding his speeches with muttered
interjections and other expressions quite foreign
to the language of the part was amusingly illus-
trated under the following circumstances :

One day, at the rehearsal of a new play in which
he had to deliver a long harangue to an excited
populace, who were to respond to his addresses
with approving shouts and occasional replies, Mr.
Macready came near convulsing the whole com-
pany with laughter, in spite of their respect for
the manager and the deference they usually paid
to his authoritative manner. The play was Philip
Van Artevelde, for which, however, I shall here
substitute, as more familiar, that of Julius Ccesar.
The scene presents a crowd of citizens grouped
around a platform on which the speaker stands.
Those to whom he more particularly directs his
remarks are on the orator's right hand. Conspic-
uous among these is one who has the most to

352 A VICTIM TO HAY FEVER.

say, and on this occasion he was represented by a
new member of the company, who was totally un-
accustomed to the tragedian's manner of conduct-
ing rehearsals. He was, moreover, of a nervous
temperament, and in the habit when excited of mak-
ing a gesture very suggestive, to speak plainly,
of wiping his nose in a kind of school-boy fashion,
accompanied with a snuffle. An extraordinary
effort to bring order out of the chaos of a stage-
ful of minor actors and supernumeraries had made
Mr. Macready even more impatient than usual,
and it must be borne in mind that he had fallen
into a way of giving his stage-directions and ex-
planations in a tone of voice pitched in much the
same key as that in which he delivered the lan-
guage of the character.

The extract is from Act Third, Scene Second,
of the tragedy, and commences with Mark An-
tony's reference to Qesar's will :

MARK ANTONY.

But here's a parchment with the seal of Caesar;
I found it in his closet; 'tis his will :
Let but the commons hear this testament —
Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read —
And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds,
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood ;
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,
And, dying, mention it within their wills
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy
Unto their issue.

ROMAN CITIZEN.

We'll hear the will ; read it, Mark Antony.
The will ! the will ! we will hear Caesar's will.

INTERPOLATED STAGE-DIRECTIONS. 353

MARK ANTONY.

[No, sir, no, sir, that won't do ! You must speak louder,
sir ; Roman citizens were very imperative persons when they
were getting the upper hand in public affairs.]

Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it ;
It is not meet you know how Caesar loved you ;
You are not wood, you are not stones, but men ;
And, being men, hearing the will of Caesar,
It will inflame you, it will make you mad :
'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs ;
For if you should, oh what would come of it?

ROMAN CITIZEN.

Read the will ; we will hear it, Antony :
You shall read us the will, Caesar's will.

MARK ANTONY.

[No, sir, no, you have not got it yet, sir. You were as much
too loud in your last lines as you were too low in the first speech.
There is a happy medium, sir, between extremes, sir. Try to
strike it, sir; and don't wipe your nose, for Heaven's sake !]

Will you be patient? will you stay a while?

I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it.

I fear I wrong the honorable men

Whose daggers have stabbed Caesar : I do fear it.

ROMAN CITIZEN.
They were traitors : honorable men !

MARK ANTONY.

[No, no, no — no, sir ! They could not be traitors and hon-
orable men too. You must sneer at "honorable men," sir,
and make it appear they were not "honorable men."]

ROMAN CITIZEN.

They were traitors ! not honorable men !
30* X

354 CONDUCT UNBECOMING AN ACTOR.

MARK ANTONY.

[Sir ! sir ! you misunderstand me ! And, good Heavens !
there you are wiping your nose again !]

ROMAN CITIZEN.

[I am not wiping my nose, Mr. Macready; that is, I am
not aware that I am wiping my nose. You make me so ner-
vous, sir, I don't know what I am doing.]

MARK ANTONY.

[Well, don't do it, sir — don't do it again. Where is the
other citizen? — Oh yes. Speak, sir.]

CITIZEN.
The will ! the testament !

ROMAN CITIZEN.

(Now indignantly excited, which makes him wipe his nose
more furiously than ever, and in a somewhat defiant tone of voice. ~)

They were villains, murderers : the will ! read the will !

MARK ANTONY.

[There, sir ! there, sir ! that will do, sir. — Prompter, cast
another person for this Roman Citizen — one who has not the
beastly habit of snuffling and rubbing his nose — and forfeit
the gentleman who is rehearsing the part a night's salary for
conduct unbecoming an actor.]

Here Mr. Macready came down from the stand,
bowed to the company, and disappeared into his
dressing-room, while the stage-manager dismissed
the actors and announced the rehearsal of the
tragedy for the following morning.

A QUAINT ACTOR AND AN OLD CUSTOM.
We are told of a performer of the last century
named \Vignell who was so doubly refined that he

AN IMPROMPTU PROLOGUE. 355

could not deliver an ordinary message without
trying to make blank verse of it. "Wignell,"
said Garrick, " why can't you say, * Mr. Strickland,
your coach is ready,' as an ordinary man would
say it, and 'not with the declamatory pomp of Mr.
Quin or Mr. Booth when playing tyrants?" —
" Sir," said poor Wignell, " I thought in that pas-
sage I had kept down the sentiment." That he
never 'could do; his Doctor in Macbeth was so
wonderfully solemn that his audience was always
in fits of laughter at it.

The old fashion of speaking a prologue had
been set aside. One evening at the Covent Gar-
den Theatre the curtain rose for a performance
of the tragedy of Cato, and the play began without
the usual poetic preface. The audience, jealous
of their rights, set up a shout of " Prologue ! pro-
logue !" That eccentric actor, Wignell, was then
on the stage as Portius, and in his fantastically
pompous way had pronounced the opening pas-
sage of his part —

The dawn is overcast, the morning lowers,
And heavily, with clouds, brings on the day —

when he was interrupted by renewed vociferations
for the prologue. Wignell would neither depart
from his character nor leave the audience without
satisfactory explanation, and accordingly, after the
word "day," without changing features or tone,
he solemnly went on with this interpolation :

[Ladies and gentlemen, there has not been
For years a prologue spoken to this play] —

356 FORREST AND HIS PIGMY GUARDS.

The great, the important day, big with the fate
Of Cato and of Rome.

STORIES OF SUPERNUMERARIES.

About 1835 I was a member of the company at
the Tremont Theatre, Boston, performing second-
ary characters in tragedy and comedy. There
were also two gentlemen there, Messrs. Adams
and Benson, employed in what was termed the
"utility" line of business, and who went on as
guards, citizens, or senators. Both were some-
what under middle stature — in fact, they were very
small men. They were considered regular actors,
and required to attend rehearsals, subject to the
prompter's call, but were usually detailed for the
delivery of messages, to stand as sentries, or to
arrest and carry off persons obnoxious to dramatic
authority. Mr. Forrest in many of his characters,
as my readers will remember, was subjected to
tyrannical treatment and delivered over to officers
and guards, and consequently often fell into the
hands of Messrs. Adams and Benson. One morn-
ing, while rehearsing the part of Damon in the
play of Damon and Pythias, when Dionysius the
tyrant calls upon his guards to seize the noble
Roman who is about to strike at his life, as Mr.
Forrest rushed furiously toward the tyrant with
uplifted dagger, he was ruthlessly seized by the
two myrmidons of the law, the two gentlemen to
whom I have referred, whose hands were firmly
fixed upon his wrists and shoulders, holding him
with a determined grasp. For a moment he stood

OVER-OFFICIOUS SUPERNUMERARIES. 357

gazing deliberately and alternately upon the di-
minutive obstructors of just vengeance, and then,
releasing himself, he called to the manager, Mr.
Barry, and said in measured tones of solemn re-
monstrance, " Sir, this thing is becoming supreme-
ly ridiculous, and I must protest against a repeti-
tion of such incongruity. No sooner am I ordered
into durance vile than upon all occasions these
two under-sized gentlemen — I beg their pardon —
rush forth and seize me. I say again, I must pro-
test against their performance of duties for which
their bodily proportions render them totally unfit,
turning what should be a tragic effect into a mere
farce." The effect of this harangue, delivered in
Mr. Forrest's well-known voice and manner, it is
almost impossible to describe. For a long time
these gentlemen were regarded as the only mem-
bers of the profession who had dared to "beard
the lion in his den."

Subordinate performers, however, may some-
times possess more physical power than is desi-
rable.

Mr. Augustus Adams, when performing Lear,
was once subjected to very rough treatment at
the hands of what are termed " supernumeraries."
He had instructed them to approach at a certain
part of his speech and raise him gently from his
knees, when he would throw himself into their
arms, and then, and not till then, they were to
bear him away. But in the performance of the
play, when he fell upon his knees, and before he
had more than merely commenced the utterance

358 A CAPTIVE KING LEAR.

of the curse, his over -zealous attendants ap-
proached and raised him up. The exasperated
father in an undertone exclaimed, " Go away ! let
me alone !" but, misunderstanding his order, and
only realizing that something was wrong, they
lifted him off his feet and in spite of his frantic
exclamations, struggling and kicking, they bore
him from the stage. All this time the audience
were applauding — some of them doubtless appre-
ciating the blunder, but others considering the
whole matter a new and effective point of stage-
business, while, in all probability, the attendants
received in full force the curse which was to have
been pronounced upon his daughter by the infuri-
ated king.

CHAPTER XVIII.
LONDON EXPERIENCES.

TN 1856, my health being very much impaired,
-*- I determined to take a trip to Europe, think-
ing it possible that while in England I might be
able to fulfil a long-cherished desire to appear
upon the London boards. In company with my
eldest daughter I took passage on a Cunard
steamer from Boston, and, after experiencing the
usual pleasures and discomforts incident to a sea-
voyage, we arrived in Liverpool. From thence
we started upon a tour planned from the friend-
ly suggestions of Mr. James T. Fields and the
larte Mr. George S. Hillard of Boston, whose
experience and good judgment indicated such
routes and points of interest as rendered our
travel in the British islands the perfection of
sight-seeing.

The antique walled city of Chester and "grand
old York," with its time-honored ruins and his-
toric edifices, were among the first places we vis-
ited ; we next saw the land of Scott and Burns,
the Trossachs, Loch Katrine, and watery Lom-
ond, Edinburgh, and Stirling Castle, and then
Dublin and Donnybrook Fair, an extraordinary
scene of Irish fun ; which, by the by, we were told,

359

360 AN ENGAGEMENT IN LONDON.

in consequence of the omission of some formality
which should have preceded its opening, would be
held no more. After this we went to Abbots-
ford, saw Melrose by moonlight, and finally ar-
rived at the mighty metropolis and entered upon
a course of London sight-seeing, to which I was
able to devote my entire time, for, by the advice
of Mr. Hillard, I had brought no letters of intro-
duction to social or literary celebrities. A previ-
ous acquaintance in my own country with Messrs.
Buckstone and Chippendale — the former the pro-
prietor, and the latter the stage-manager, of the
Haymarket Theatre — rendered the consummation
of my professional plans comparatively easy, and
an application for an " opening " was readily grant-
ed by Mr. Buckstone, who immediately appointed
a date and announced my early appearance " from
the theatres of the United States/' under an en-
gagement for a limited number of nights. The
company being organized especially for the pro-
duction of comedy, it was determined that I
should appear as Young Mirabel in Farquhar's
play entitled The Inconstant; or, Wine Works
Wonders, which I had arranged for modern rep-
resentation.

The success attending my first performance was
such as to authorize the management to announce
the repetition of the comedy until further notice.
After holding possession of the stage for a month,
it was withdrawn in order to introduce Wild Oats,
in which I appeared as Rover and Mr. Buckstone
as Sim.

A COMPLIMENTARY INTRODUCTION. 361

It will not be out of place here to record an
act of courtesy on the part of Mr. Chippendale,
who before the rehearsal of The Inconstant, ad-
dressing the ladies and gentlemen of the com-
pany, said: "In the arrangement of the business
of the old comedies in which Mr. Murdoch is to
appear I shall not exercise my authority in stage-
supervision, but request you to observe his direc-
tions ;" adding, " These old plays have been so long
on the shelf that their business, once quite familiar
to the profession, has been in a great degree for-
gotten ; and, having examined the prompt-books
Mr. Murdoch has furnished, I find them to be so
well marked that Mr. Buckstone and I have con-
cluded that it is merely just that our American
visitor should himself direct the situations of the
scenes in which he is particularly interested." In
consequence of this announcement, and the polite
acquiescence of the ladies and gentlemen con-
cerned, my rehearsals at the Haymarket were
productive of more real satisfaction than I had
ever before enjoyed in the discharge of the re-
sponsible duties of a stage-director. My expe-
rience under the management of Mr. DeCamp
— to which I have heretofore had occasion to
refer — had made me acquainted with the stage-
business of Messrs. Lewis and Elliston, who had
acquired celebrity in many characters under the
instruction of the authors who had originated
them. Mr. DeCamp was quite familiar with the
manner of these distinguished actors, and had fol-
lowed their example in several parts of which he

31

362 THE REHEARSAL OF "WILD OATS."

was fond, while I was performing subordinate cha-
racters ; and thus under his instruction I learned
and carefully treasured up a knowledge of prac-
tical details which was of much value, enabling
me to tread in the footsteps of bygone celebrities
without subjecting myself to the charge of imita-
tion. The critics affirmed that while I looked and
moved like many of their old favorites, my voice
and speech were entirely unlike theirs.

But, however auspicious the opening of my
London career seemed to be, an unpleasant inci-
dent that occurred soon after proved to me the
truth of the old saying that " He that plucks the
rose must feel the thorn."

At the first rehearsal of Wild Oats\ found that
Mr. Buckstone had not been in the habit of hav-
ing Sim come on in what is termed the "play-
scene." But when I informed him that I had ar-
ranged some " business " in which I had been ac-
customed to have Sim take a part, he promised
to comply with my wishes. In order to give a
correct view of the situation I will briefly state
that at the close of the fourth act Lamp the man-
ager appears on the scene, with the servants
dressed as the characters of the " play " in which
Rover has induced Lady Amaranth to take a part
for her amusement and that of her household.
Sir George Thunder, annoyed at the conduct of
his niece in introducing such abominations as the-
atricals into his house, breaks up the intended re-
hearsal with opprobrious epithets, using his cane
quite freely on the offending servants. In this

A FAILURE IN THE "BUSINESS." 363

hubbub I had arranged that Sim should appear,
dressed grotesquely in a mongrel suit of Roman
armor, and that Sir George should meet and be-
labor him with his cane, while he should defend
himself with a kitchen-spit, until he was knocked
down and beaten off after the fashion of Falstaff
in the robbery-scene. At this juncture Rover,
who is laughing and applauding the performance,
comes in the way of Sir George, who inadvert-
ently gives him a blow as he is driving Sim off
the stage.

This was the introduction Mr. Buckstone had
approved, and accordingly rehearsed. But the
matter was entirely new to him, and, as he was
very deaf, at night when the boy " called for the
scene " in the greenroom, he did not hear him,
and consequently failed to make his appearance
at the critical moment. The result was that while
Sir George was beating the servants, and I was
trying to draw the attention of the prompter to
Mr. Buckstone's absence, in the flurry of the
moment Mr. Chippendale, who personated. Sir
George, struck at me as he left the stage in such
an undemonstrative manner that I was quite un-
conscious of. having received the blow ; so that
when, in the order of the scene, I came to deliver
my exit speech, in which I expressed a determina-
tion to chastise Sir George, and which should be
uttered in great indignation, I was unable to give
it in that burst of passion which takes the hero
off with eclat and usually "brings down the
house."

364 AN UNCALLED-FOR CRITICISM.

The next day the London Times — which had
bestowed the highest praises on my manner of
resenting the insult in the bravo-scene of The
Inconstant — took me to task for tamely submit-
ting to an affront in Wild Oats, intimating that
it evinced an apparent lack of sensibility not con-
sistent with the character of a generous young
Englishman like Rover ; but the other papers, in
a proper spirit, did not notice what must have
appeared a mere accident, and therefore to be
overlooked.

Mr. Oxenford, the critic of The Times, who was
an experienced observer of dramatic effects, cer-
tainly knew that something had occurred to mar
the proper climax bf the scene, and should have
omitted any remark which could have been con-
strued to be a reflection on the personal sensi-
bility of a performer, although merely intended
as a rebuke for professional inefficiency.

Mr. Buckstone acknowledged himself to blame,
and expressed regret that Sim's negligence should
have caused his friend Rover to be subjected to
the unwarranted suspicion of having received an
affront which he " put in his pocket."

The next revival, as my performances were
styled, was of the comedy of The Dramatist,
which had not been acted for a third of a century.
Neither the actors nor the audience were familiar
with its incidents or language, and therefore the
initia^ performance was of the nature of "a first
night." Mr. Buckstone cast himself for Ennui —
a slow part, and, though quaint in character, not

THE RIVAL CHINA-SMASHERS. 365

in his peculiar line. But the comedy was a suc-
cess, from the fact that it exaggerated the follies
and foibles of a past generation. Although the
audience did not get at the pith of the matter as
readily as they had at that of the " previous come-
dies," we played The Dramatist for a week or
so, during which time I realized the true state of
affairs, which was mainly this : Mr. Buckstone did
not like Ennui, and felt that he should have acted
the part of Vapid ; which, by the by, I wondered he
had not thought of studying before I had proposed
to play it. But there was a still bigger " bee in
the bonnet" of my friend the manager, whose
buzzing more seriously disturbed his usual placid-
ity. I had observed during the run of The Dram-
atist that morning rehearsals were in progress in
which a large amount of china and other furniture
was to be demolished, and that Mr. Buckstone was
to act the part which was to do the smashing.
Now, as Vapid breaks china unlimitedly in The
Dramatist, I saw at a glance that there was trou-
ble ahead. The new entertainment was written by
Mr. Oxenford, who was urging its immediate pro-
duction on account of forthcoming novelties which
he felt would interfere with its success. It became
necessary, therefore, that my demolition of crock-
ery must cease, as the breakage in the first part
of the evening's performance would naturally in-
terfere with the' effect of repeated crashes on the
same night; and in order to prepare the public
for a withdrawal of The Dramatist, and at the
same time not to damage my attraction in the

31 *

366 AN EASY "SETTING- DOWN."

character in which I was next to appear, it was
deemed expedient to lay the blame upon the old
comedy, and not upon the new performer.

The following article, which appeared in the
London Punch, will give the reader a hint con-
cerning the many methods by which the public
are entertained, while at the same time desirable
publicity is given without an ordinary advertise-
ment. Upon an expression of my doubts as to
the animus of the article, Mr. Buckstone assured
me that it was written in the kindest spirit possi-
ble, and meant to be complimentary, and that it
was in every way calculated to advance both my
interest and his own. I afterward heard that it
had been written by Mr. Thackeray, and, as I had
through the influence of that gentleman received
the compliment of an election to an honorary
membership in the old Garrick Club, I felt that it
was intended only to be funny:

PARNASSUS POLICE-OFFICE.*

Yesterday an individual of very gentlemanly exterior, of
the name of Murdoch, was brought before the worthy mag-
istrate of this office, charged with the reproduction, from a
very musty shelf, of one Vapid, known some three-quarters
of a century ago as The Dramatist, to the great annoyance, if
not worse, of a crowd of persons in the Haymarket. Mr.
Baldwin Buckstone was also charged as an accomplice.

Mr. Brown proved the fact of the reproduction. He had
seen the Vapid as exposed at the Haymarltet Theatre. It was
a very painful exhibition. Mrs. Brown, his wife, a woman of
a very lively disposition, accompanied him, and (here the wit-
ness appeared greatly distressed) had never smiled since.
* London Punch, Nov. 8, 1856.

EVIDENCE FOR THE PROSECUTION. 367

Mr. Jones had, unfortunately for himself, been present at
the exhibition in question. He said "unfortunately," inas-
much as it had cost him a situation of fifty pounds a year.

The worthy magistrate desired the witness to explain
himself.

Mr. Jones had no objection. The fact was, he had held
the situation of clerk in a mercantile house of very severe
principles in the City. On leaving The Dramatist he felt as
though he had been drugged — "hocussed," he believed was
the word. He went to bed, and ought, as was his custom, to
have risen at seven, but was so much overpowered by what
he had swallowed at the Haymarket that it took his wife, his
mother-in-law, the housemaid, and the charwoman, all to-
gether, to wake him. He did not reach the city until an
hour after time, and the partners of the firm (they were stren-
uous hearers of Mr. Spurgeon), on becoming acquainted with
the cause of his somnolency, resolutely showed him to the
door; in fact, discharged him. He still felt very weak in-
deed from what he had taken at the Haymarket.

Mr. Robinson deposed that he had seen Vapid, and that he
thought the exhibition a very daring attempt on the prover-
bial good-nature of a British audience. In a sanitary point
of view he believed that such an exposure was attended with
the worst results, inasmuch as it tended to create depres-
sion of the spirits, a sinking of the heart, and extreme mel-
ancholy.

Mr. Murdoch, as having reproduced the object in question,
begged to be allowed to ask the witness if he could state any
one case in which Vapid had so operated.

Mr. Robinson : Certainly. A gentlewoman of my acquaint-
ance, the lady of a distinguished sheriff's officer of the He-
brew persuasion, was present on the first exhibition of The
Dramatist, and has been in a state of hysteria ever since:
even her husband couldn't arrest it.

The worthy magistrate remarked that the case wore a very
ugly aspect, and, as it then appeared to him, the accused par-
ties were liable to be punished under the Police Act. How-
ever, he would hear what they had to say for themselves ; and,

368 THE DEFENDANT EXAMINED.

warning them that what they said would be taken down and
used against them, desired Murdoch to enter upon his de-
fence. His Worship further observed that Murdoch, as an
American, might, if he chose, be examined through a sworn
interpreter.

Mr. Murdoch, with a very slight Transatlantic accent and
with a light-comedy bow, worth in itself ten pounds a week,
said he trusted that a pretty smart study of the snow-white
Swan of Avon had, he rather guessed, made him, as far as
words went, as thorough a Britisher as His Worship. He
thought that in reproducing Vapid he was proving himself a
public benefactor. He considered himself the victim of a
base conspiracy.

" Hear ! hear !" from Mr. Buckstone, who was sharply re-
minded by the officer of the court' that he was not then before
the footlights.

Mr. Murdoch continued. He believed that his Vapid was
a most lively, most soul-stirring person. He had played
Vapid at New York for his benefit, when The Dramatist was
expressly bespoken by the united body of undertakers, who,
as a further mark of respect, posted two mutes at the doors
of gallery, pit, and boxes.

Mr. Buckstone observed that undertakers were generally the
best judges of private boxes. {.Roars of laughter.)

Mr. Murdoch said he could if he liked, but wouldn't con-
descend to the act, produce several witnesses who would tes-
tify to the overpowering hilarity of his Vapid. One, how-
ever, he might name. He alluded then to the respected
matron who sold apples, oranges, a bill of the play, etc. in
the pit of the Haymarket. She was quite ready to depose
that in his great scene — His Worship would, of course, in-
stinctively know that he alluded to the china-closet scene —
his Vapid had so far warmed the woman's apple-basket that
more than two ginger-beer bottles went off in spontaneous
explosion. He thought this the purest, the highest, and the
most flattering criticism, because most involuntary and uncon-
scious on the part of the ginger-beer aforesaid.

The magistrate said he would certainly reserve the point

AN ACCOMPLICE AS A WITNESS. 369

of the ginger-beer in favor of the accused. His Worship
then desired to know what Mr. Buckstone had to say in his
defence. Vapid had been exhibited on his premises, and he
was clearly a party to the exposure.

Mr. Buckstone (amidst shouts of laughter, in* which His
Worship did not disdain to join) said the fact was he was
one of the easiest of managers. He wasn't a tragedy-man-
ager and didn't fine his cat for swearing. No; and he didn't
walk the stage at rehearsals, and cry " Silence !" when his own
boots creaked. No ; and when he played his great dagger —
he meant his great apple — scene as Sim in the Wild Oats, he
didn't make his actors and actresses wear list slippers that
they mightn't spoil his effects.

The magistrate said Mr. Buckstone was wandering from
the point.

Mr. Buckstone said he knew it: "To walk was human, to
wander was divine." He could only say that he gloried in
his art. He had refused a baronetcy and a visionary income,
because hampered with the condition of his quitting the stage.
Why should he leave the stage ? If he'd been made a baronet
without conditions, he'd have had "Bart." printed in red in
the playbills, with a bloody JB©" pointing to the dignity of —

His Worship said he must really call Mr. Buckstone to his
defence.

Mr. Buckstone : Certainly — always attend to the call. Well,
then, Murdoch said he knew there was still life in Vapid ; but
for his (Buckstone's) part, he said, and still thought, there was
more life in a blue-bottle fly that was drowned in the small
beer of George the Third. The fact was, as he'd said, he
was an easy manager; and being at the time occupied with a
new Spanish ballet —

His Worship (with evident interest} : A new Spanish ballet ?

Mr. Buckstone : Si, sefior — a new Hispaniolian ballet. I
shall be very happy to write Your Worship an order for the
first night.

His Worship (with great dignity) : Justice is blind, Mr.
Buckstone, and cannot see a ballet.

Mr. Buckstone was about to observe, when —

Y

370 WILLIAM B. WOOD'S ADVICE.

\

The worthy magistrate said he had fully considered the
case; the public must be protected from such exhibitions as
The Dramatist, and he should therefore sentence both the
prisoners to three months' hard labor (with nobody to see
them) in Cumberland's, Wheel of Fortune.

The parties, through Mr. Nebuchadnezzar of the respected
firm of Nebuchadnezzar & Grass, gave notice of appeal.

GOOD ADVICE FROM A VETERAN ACTOR.

A youth whose tastes and habits were yet un-
formed, and surrounded by influences which were
looked upon by a part of the community at least
as pernicious, I found in Mr. Wood a judicious
counsellor and an exemplary guide, while as a
good professional model in the details of stage-
action I found him of great value. He was noted
for his correct deportment in the daily business of
the theatre, and for his knowledge of the situa-
tions and effects of all the scenes in the old
dramas, where the ladies and gentlemen, as well
as the fops and flirts, of the " good society " of the
past strutted their brief hour upon the stage. It
can hardly be said that he was either elegant or
graceful, and yet his carriage displayed the un-
mistakable traits of the gentleman. He was al-
ways dignified and courteous, and his language
correct and unaffected. I entertain a grateful
recollection of his friendly advice, always freely
imparted. He kindly endeavored to impress upon
me the importance of avoiding corrupting asso-
ciations and the many temptations that beset the
path of the young actor, especially after the per-
formances of the theatre are over ; and he warned

AN APT QUOTATION FROM SHAKESPEARE. 371

me against the moral damage to be apprehended
from companionship with the frequenters of the
saloons and restaurants which surround the the-
atres, and the danger of becoming stale in the
public gaze by a too frequent and indiscriminate
appearance in familiar haunts in the leisure hours
of the day.

I have a distinct recollection of Mr. Wood's im-
pressive manner of pointing his precepts by apt
quotations, and especially of his having on one
occasion repeated the address of King Henry the
Fourth to his son:*

Had I so lavish of my presence been,

So common-hackneyed in the eyes of men,

So stale and cheap to vulgar company,

Opinion, that did help me to the crown,

Had still kept loyal to possession

And left me in reputeless banishment,

A fellow of no mark nor likelihood.

By being seldom seen, I could not stir

But, like a comet, I was wondered at ;

That men would tell their children, "This is he;"

Others would say, "Where? Which is Bolingbroke ?"

***#**
Thus did I keep my person fresh and new ;
My presence, like a robe pontifical,
Ne'er seen but wondered at ; and so my state,
Seldom but sumptuous, showed like a feast,
And won by rareness such solemnity.
The skipping king, he ambled up and down
With shallow jesters and rasji bavin wits,

******
Grew a companion to the common streets,
Enfeoffed himself to popularity;.

* First Part of King Henry the Fourth, Act III.

372 MR. WOOD'S FONDNESS FOR FLOWERS.

That, being daily swallowed by men's eyes,

They surfeited with honey, and began

To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little

More than a little is by much too much.

So, when he had occasion to be seen,

He was but as the cuckoo is in June,

Heard, not regarded.

A DIFFICULTY SOLVED.

Mr. Wood was very fond of cultivating flowers,
and especially roses in all their varieties, and he
was a great admirer of the wealth of color dis-
played by the dahlia, which was at that time a
novelty and its culture a subject of much interest
among amateurs. He had a garden of moderate
dimensions, and was devoted to its care — an oc-
cupation which, in his judgment, was calculated
to promote the. love of the bright and beautiful,
warm the imagination, and improve the taste for
the study of form and color in Nature and Art.
His friendly lessons were not lost, and under their
influence my early love for such employment was
developed and encouraged until it became a source
of enjoyment which has never failed. But thorns
will grow among the fairest flowers, and, although
our companionship was generally so pleasant, its
harmony was not entirely free from interruption.

I very well remember on one occasion Mr. May-
wood, at that time the directing manager of the
Chestnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, cut the Gor-
dian knot of a rivalry between Mr. Wood and my-
self in a very unexpected manner. The comedy
of The Belle s Stratagem was in rehearsal, and both

LUDLOWS ANECDOTE OF COOPER. 373

Mr. Wood and I, by our articles of engagement,
were entitled to the character of Doricourt. Our
respective claims were urged with so much warmth
that the "cast" was not put up in the greenroom.
But the preparations for the comedy went on, the
prompter reading the part of Doricourt, until at
last the " posted bills " announced the play, and,
lo ! there appeared a solution of the vexed ques-
tion, reading thus : " First appearance of Mr, Ab-
bott from the London theatres, who has been en-
gaged expressly to sustain the character of Dori-
court."

MUSTARD AND MUTTON-CHOPS.

Mr. Ludlow, of the old firm of Ludlow & Smith,
managers in the South and West for nearly half
a century, told me the following story of Mr.
Cooper the tragedian, with whom he was inti-
mately acquainted.

" Cooper," said he, " had played a fortnight's
engagement with us in New Orleans ; we had
settled up his account after the morning rehearsal,
and found the afternoon so far advanced as to
render the possibility of our dining at the hotel
very questionable, and, as he had some profes-
sional matters still to arrange, he suggested that
we should go to a favorite eating-house and get a
mutton-chop and some roast potatoes — a dinner
after the good old English fashion and prepared
by an English cook. We accordingly bent our
steps to the chop-house indicated, where we found
everything, as he had promised, very comfortable,

32

374 A DISGUSTED JOHNNY BULL.

with an agreeable odor of hot chops pervading
the saloon, and tidy waiters dispensing brown
stout, pale ale, and half-and-half, ' fresh from the
wood,' in glittering mugs. We sat down at a
side-table, spread our napkins, and took a refresh-
ing draught of the English malt. The chops were
brought on smoking, and, as Cooper said, 'hot
and hot,' to which he added, * You see, Ludlow, we
English always stick to the old Cockney saying,
" No matter 'ow little the dish may be, let it be
'ot." ' Meanwhile he had helped me bountifully,
and at it we went with appetite somewhat sharp-
ened by the unusual length of time which had in-
tervened between breakfast and dinner. Cooper
had just smacked his lips after the first mouthful
of his chop, when I called to the waiter for some
mustard. — ' Mustard ?' said he, holding up his fork,
upon which was impaled a morsel of mutton with-
in a few inches of his mouth. ' What, in the name
of common sense, do you want with mustard ?' —
' Why, what should I want with mustard,' said I,
taking the pot from the waiter, 'but to put it on
my meat?' — 'What!' he exclaimed, 'eat mustard
with mutton-chops? — Waiter, take it away. The
man's insane ; he does not know what he is do-
ing.'— « Not a bit of it,' said I, and proceeded to
apply the condiment, when Cooper in a tone of
disgust, with his hand extended and resting on
the table in a most emphatic manner, said, 'You
don't mean to say that you eat mustard with mut-
ton-chops ?' — ' I do,' said I, suiting the action to the
word, ' as you may perceive.' Never did Serjeant

/
COOPER'S QUALITIES OF HEART. 375

Buzfuz exclaim, ' Chops and tomato-sauce !' in a
tone of more unqualified astonishment than that
in which Cooper cried out, 'Mutton-chops and
mustard ! Great Heavens ! I have heard of
Yankee pork and molasses, but mustard and
mutton ! I can't stand that, nor will I sit at the
table and countenance such barbarity/ I thought
he was in jest, and went on munching my meal,
but soon saw it was no joke, for, to my surprise,
he rose to his feet, threw down his napkin, called
for and paid the bill, and with a low bow left me
sitting at the table, and went out of the saloon."

Cooper was hot-headed, impulsive, and some-
times overbearing, but he had many redeeming
qualities. I learned in a South Carolina city that
one day, when passing a place where they were
selling a lot of household goods on the sidewalk,
he stopped and asked some questions, by which
he found that the sale was of a widow's furniture
distrained for rent. He stopped the sale, handed
the auctioneer the amount of the landlord's claim,
with the costs, and went his way.

PICKING UP A "FLAT."

"Whilst we lived in the Adelphi," says Rey-
nolds the dramatist, " Garrick was our opposite
neighbor and my father's intimate acquaintance.
We frequently used to meet him in John street,
and join the little circle collected by his most
amusing conversational talents. One wet day I
remember Garrick overtaking my father and me

3?6 PICKED UP BY THE "FLAT."

in the most miry part of the city. After the usual
salutations he pointed to our white stockings (he
himself being booted), and asked us if we had ever
heard the story of Lord Chancellor Northington.
On our reply in the negative, he told us that
one rainy afternoon His Lordship, plainly dressed,
walking in Parliament street, picked up a hand-
some ring, which, according to custom (in past,
and I believe in present, times), was immediately
claimed* by a gentleman ring-dropper, who on re-
ceiving his lost treasure appeared so joyful and
grateful that he insisted on the unknown finder
accompanying him to an adjoining coffee-house to
crack a bottle at his (the ring gentleman's) ex-
pense.

" Being in the humor for a joke, Lord Northing-
ton acceded, and followed him to the coffee-house,
where they were shown into a private room, and
over the bottle for a time discussed indifferent
topics. At length they were joined by certain
confederates, and then, hazard being proposed,
the Chancellor heard one whisper to another,
' Damn the loaded dice ! he is not worth the trou-
ble. Pick the old flat's pocket at once!'

" On this the Lord Chancellor, discovered him-
self, and told them if they would frankly confess
why they were induced to suppose him so enor-
mous a flat he would probably forget their pres-
ent misdemeanor. Instantly, with all due respect,
they replied, ' We beg Your Lordship's pardon,
but whenever we see a gentleman in white stock-
ings on a dirty day we consider him a capital

JIMMY GREEN'S STORY. 377

pigeon, and pluck his feathers, as we hoped to
have plucked Your Lordship's.'

"'Now,' added Garrick, 'leaving you gentlemen
to deduce the application, I do myself the honor
of wishing you a very good-morning.'"

A STORY OF A HAT.

I remember a very amusing, good-natured fel-
low who had lived in New York, but at the time of
which I write was a resident of Milwaukee and in
the employ of the Adams Express Company. He
was of the New- York-fireman order, and withal a
lover of fun. One of his feats, for his own amuse-
ment and that of the good people of the com-
munity in which he lived, was to become an ama-
teur actor and perform the part of Mose at the
Milwaukee theatre, where he proved to be as ex-
pert in dramatic effects as he was known to be in
"hitting from the shoulder." Among the laugh-
ter-provoking stories for which I was indebted to
Jimmy Green (as I shall call him) was the follow-
ing, which I have no doubt will be esteemed a suit-
able companion for Garrick's story of " The White
Stockings:"

" I had determined," said Green, " to take a run
down to New York for a few days and have a
good time with * the b'hoys.' Well, just before
going to the depot I stopped to take leave of a
friend who was in the hat business, and he said
to me, * Why, look here, Jimmy : you can't do a
better thing than to buy a hat before you leave.'

32*

378 JIMMY IN NEW YORK.

He was unpacking a case marked ' Bebee's A,
No. i, Latest Style;' 'And see,' said he, holding
up a prime specimen. 'Just look at this, old boy ;
it takes the shine out of anything this side the
Lake. Put it on and take a shy in the glass.' —
1 No, no,' said I, ' Mr. Jones ; it won't do, by no
manner of means, to try to palm off a Milwaukee
castor on the New York uncles. No, no ; I know
better than that ; I've been there myself, you
know.' — ' Why, what are you talking about ?' said
my friend. ' This is a real Bebee A, No. i, straight
from New York — just out — never been on a shelf
or a head. Let me put it in a box ; carry it with
you in the cars, and when you get to New York
put it on, and I'll bet you that hat no one will come
within a hundred miles of guessing that you bought
it in Milwaukee.' Well, you see, I couldn't stand
logic like that, so he sold the hat and I paid for it.
When I arrived in the city I made up my mind not
to be of the sort who are ' taken in and done for '
by the sharp fellows who practise on flats ; so the
first thing I did, after a square meal, was to get a
full rig-out, bran-span new, and of the latest cut,
from patent leathers to neck-tie ; then, with my
fancy stick, kids, and lastly the new hat, I set out
for a walk on the Battery. No putting on airs,
nothing rustic about me ! I trotted along like a
chap that had been there before and knew the
price of tickets, and what a circus was — Barnum's
or any other man's. Well, I was beginning to
feel like an old New Yorker, and to make up my
mind which theatre I would patronize, when I felt

RUSTICITY EXPOSED BY A HAT. 379

a slight push of my elbow, and, turning round, saw
a fellow who looked just as if his landlady had told
him his room was wanted for another boarder in
case that little matter wasn't settled before night.
' Well, my man,' said I, pertly, ' what's up now ?' —
' I know,' he replied, ' you'll pardon a poor devil
for thinking that you were the kind of man to
give a helping hand to one who can't help him-
self.'— 'Ah, indeed!' said I; 'thank you for that
distinguishing mark of your keen perception/
bowing. So the fellow bowed too, and went on.
' The fact of the matter is,' said he, ' I was just on
the way to put my watch — ' ' Up the spout,'
said I, interrupting him. — 'No,' said he — 'to pawn
it.'_' Oh!' said I.— 'Yes/ he replied. 'Nothing
but ' — here he began to snuffle — ' sheer want, sick
wife, stranger in the town, doctor's bill.' Then,
suddenly changing his tone, he continued : ' Would
you give a twenty and take the watch ?' — ' My
dear fellow,' said I, ' it's no go ; you're on the
wrong beat ; but I'll give you that Mexican dol-
lar,' holding one up, ' if you'll whisper in my ear
what particular part of my " get-up " led you to
take me for a " pick-up " from the rural districts.'
Holding out his hand and pointing to my head, he
coolly replied, 'Your hat, sir.' — 'Jerusalem cher-
ries!' said I. 'My hat! and it a Bebee A, No. i,
transported from the metropolis to the provinces
and back again, before a rustic air could give it a
brush!'"

I

CHAPTER XIX.

PECULIARITIES OF SOME GREAT ACTORS.
BUCKSTONE'S MANNERISMS.

HAVE before referred to the fact that actors
are prone to copy such methods as strike
their fancy in the manner of some celebrated per-
former. It may appear strange that a comedian
should adopt the peculiarities of a tragedian, and
yet such has frequently been the case. In 1836,
when I first heard Mr. Buckstone and Mr. Keeley
("Little Bob," as he was familiarly called), I was
struck with a peculiarity in their style of speaking
and the quality of their voices that seemed to re-
call vocal effects very suggestive of Mr. Macready
and Mr. Charles Kean.

Among the Irish may be observed two remark-
able modes of utterance directly opposite to each
other. For instance, one will commence a sen-
tence with great rapidity of movement and ele-
vation of voice, gradually concluding with a slow
movement and low pitch. The answer to the fol-
lowing passage will serve as an illustration, if read
after the manner indicated : " Well, Paddy, you
sha'n't go without something to keep life in you ;
you shall have a little grog and as much provision

380

BUCKSTONE' S DELIVERY. 381

as I can spare you for your voyage." — " Och ! that
same shows there's* the good heart in you. Och,
musha ! the heavens shower blessings on you and
all that belong to you ! I pray the Virgin Mary
and twelve apostles, not forgetting St. Patrick !"

Now, let the following be read by starting at
a slow pace, with a low tone and increasing to
a run at the highest pitch, and the opposite style
will be presented : " Och ! may the angels in
heaven be kind to the like of you, and a long
life to your honor, and a light heart and a power
to your elbow, and a heavy purse for evermore !
I pray the Blessed Virgin and all the saints.
Amen."

Both these styles of utterance were percepti-
ble in Mr. Buckstone's delivery. All those abrupt
transitions, chuckles, and alternations from brisk-
ness to gravity by which his audience was kept
in a gale of merriment were among the strangest
vocal effects imaginable, and yet they were adroit-
ly-managed burlesque imitations of Kean, Ma-
cready, and Kemble. Mr. Buckstone showed in
such artificial methods his powers of analysis and
recombination, and his skill as a dramatic artist,
but confined himself within the narrow limit of a
mimetic style. The following remarks will serve
to show how apt the public are to be caught by
quaintness of outline or strongly-contrasted col-
oring. They appeared after the death of Mr.
Buckstone, which occurred recently:

"Two good things can be said of Mr. Buck-
stone that can be said of few low comedians —

382 SECRET OF BUCKSTONE' S SUCCESS.

there was no bitterness in his nature, and he never
wanted to act tragedy. On the other hand, he
was like most of his class in being both generous
and improvident. Many a poor actor and author
was the recipient of his bounty, and his never-
failing kindness of speech and manner was the
genuine reflex of an amiable and sympathetic
nature. Mr. Buckstone, strictly speaking, was
an 'eccentric' rather than a 'low' comedian. He
had little variety in style, and in truth was the
same in almost everything. But this, whether it
should have been so or not, was one secret of his
popularity. He had an extraordinary quaintness
of delivery, compounded of drawl and sudden
volubility, beginning his sentences at a slow walk,
so to speak, and bringing them up at a hand-
gallop that was extremely funny. His hold on
the London audience was something remarkable.
The house was in a titter at the mere sight of
him, and three words of the well-known voice
were enough to set the audience in a roar. Per-
haps there never was an actor whose power to
produce laughter was more spontaneous, so little
the product of art. Mr. Buckstone was nothing
if not himself, and therefore was better out of
the legitimate or Shakespearian drama than in it.
In the latter he had to respect the text, and the
grotesque liberties he was wont to take with his
words and the public — although never in a coarse
or ungentlemanlike spirit — found in these walks
no place. His deafness of late years, although
of course an impediment, sometimes led to ludi-

HIS HINTS TO AUTHORS. 383

crous effects. He would make irrelevant replies,
through not catching the cue, with an air of irre-
sistible earnestness, and throw the scene into 'ad-
mired confusion ' in a fashion that would not have
been tolerated with another performer, but which
with Buckstone was found simply delicious. His
literary talent was considerable, and he wrote many
clever plays. He had also some turn for poetry,
but this was little exercised. A man who was the
friend of Walter Scott and his contemporaries, who
had lived to know the youngest of the Victorian
poets and playwrights, who practised his art with
vigor until he was nearly an octogenarian, and who
has always been respected in one of the most try-
ing of professions, Buckstone leaves a gap which
for those who loved and admired him can never
be filled, and a name that deserves not to be for-
gotten."

Mr. Buckstone's habit of taking his cue from
the tragedian's manner of speech to illustrate his
comedy presentations recalls the saying that
"There is but one step from the sublime to the
ridiculous." It has been suggested that Mr.
Charles Dickens probably took hints from Buck-
stone's style to assist him in producing "broad
grins " in his popular readings, and it is not un-
likely that in composing his fine burlesque ballad
of " Captain Reece of the Mantelpiece," Mr. Gil-
bert had in his " mind's ear " the abrupt and un-
varying cadences of Buckstone.

384 FLECK, THE GERMAN ACTOR.

LUDWIG TIECK ON FLECK, KEAN, AND KEMBLE.

While preparing the matter for this volume my
attention was called to an admirable article in the
February number of The Nineteenth Century
(London) from the able pen of Theodore Martin,
quoting the following from Ludwig Tieck, the
celebrated German dramatic poet and critic:

"Johann Friedrich Fleck was born in 1757,
appeared on the stage in 1777, rose rapidly to the
first rank in his profession, and retained it till his
death, in 1801. He had the qualities of a fine
figure, eyes, and voice, and of an expressive face,
without which no actor of the poetic drama can be
great. Humor, that other essential of the great
actor, he seems also to have possessed in an emi-
nent degree. His distinction among the actors of
his time was the thoroughness of everything he
did. He was not fine in passages, but left upon
his audience the impression of a great whole of
characters, true and consistent as life itself.

"Fleck was slender, not tall, but of the finest
proportions ; he had brown eyes, whose fire was
softened by gentleness, finely pencilled brows, a
noble forehead and nose, and in youth his head
resembled that of Apollo. In the parts of Essex,
Tancred, Ethelwolf, he was fascinating, especially
so as the Infante Don Pedro in Inez de Castro, a
part written, like the whole piece, very feebly and
vulgarly, but every word of which, as spoken by
him, rang like the inspiration of a great poet.
His voice had the purity of a bell and was rich in

TIECK ON EDMUND KEAN. 385

full, clear tones, high as well as low, beyond what
any one could believe who had not heard them ;
for in passages of tenderness, entreaty, or devo-
tion he had a flute-like softness at command.
And, without ever falling into the grating bass,
which often strikes so unpleasantly on our ear,
his deep tones rang like metal, with a roll like
thunder in suppressed rage, and a roar as of a
lion in the unchecked tempest of passion. The
tragedian for whom Shakespeare wrote must, in
my opinion, have possessed many of the qualities
of Fleck, for those marvellous transitions, those
interjections, those pauses followed by a tempes-
tuous torrent of words, no less than those side-
strokes and touches of Nature, spontaneous,
naive, nay sometimes verging on the comic, which
he threw into his performance, were given with
such natural truth as to make us understand for
the first time all the subtlety and peculiarity of the
poet's pathos."

Tieck, writing of Edmund Kean in 1814, says:
" He is the stage-hero of the present day.
Those who are ready enough to join in the cen-
sure of Kemble and the mannerisms of his school
start with the assumption that the favorite of their
idolatry is far above criticism. Kean is a little,
slightly-built man, quick in his movements, and
with brown, clever, expressive eyes. Many who
remember Garrick maintain that Kean is like him ;
even Garrick's widow, who is still alive, is said to
concur in this opinion ; but she will hardly agree
with the many admirers of Kean, who hold that

33 Z

386 KEAN'S MANNER ON THE STAGE.

he acts in Garrick's manner, and even surpasses
him in many of his parts.

"In Hamlet all the playful, humorous speeches,
all the bitter, cutting passages, were given in the
best style of comedy. But he could not touch the
tragic side of the character. His mode of delivery
is the opposite of Kemble's. He speaks quickly,
often with a rapidity that injures the effect of what
he has to say. His pauses and excess of emphasis
are even more capricious and violent than Kem-
ble's ; added to which, by dumb show or sudden
stops, and such like artifices, he frequently imports
into the verse a meaning which, in a general way,
is not to be found in it. He stares, starts, wheels
round, drops his voice, and then raises it suddenly
to the highest pitch, goes off hurriedly, then comes
back slowly when one does not expect him ; by all
these epigrammatic surprises crowding his imper-
sonation with movement, showing an inexhausti-
ble invention, breaking up his part into a thousand
little frequent bons-mots, tragical or comic, as it
may happen ; and it is by this clever way of, as it
were, entirely recasting the characters allotted to
him that he has won the favor of the general
public, especially of the women. If he does not
weary the attention as Kemble does, one is being
constantly circumvented by him, and defrauded, as
by a skilful juggler, of the impression, the emotion,
which we have a right to expect. Now, on the
artist's part all this is done in mere caprice, with
the deliberate purpose of giving a great variety
of light and shade to his speeches, and of intro-

TIECK ON JOHN KEMBLE. 387

ducing turns and sudden alternations, of which
neither the part nor the author has for the most
part afforded the most remote suggestion. This
is, therefore, playing with playing, and more vio-
lence is done to an author — especially if that au-
thor be Shakespeare — by this mode of treatment
than by the declamatory manner of the Kembles."
The same writer says of Kemble's style :
11 On his first entrance John Kemble reminded
me, by his noble presence, his stature, and speak-
ing, expressive face, of our excellent Heinrich
Jacobi. The English themselves admit that even
when he was young the part of Posthumus was
one of his weakest ; how much more now ! His
voice is weak and tremulous, but full of expres-
sion, and there is a ring of feeling and intelligence
in every word, only much too strongly marked,
and between every second and third word there
comes a pause, and most of the verses or speeches
end in a high key. In consequence of this tedious
style of delivery the piece, even though probably
one-half of it was cut out, lasted an unusual time.
This, so to speak, musical declamation was incom-
patible with all real acting — nay, in a certain de-
gree made, it impossible — for when everything is
made to depend on little nuances of speaking, and
every monologue and every single passage is
sought to be rounded off into an artistic whole,
any delineation of character, of the ebb and flow
of passion and feeling, is out of the question.
Here and there one saw the great master; for
example, in the second act, when lachimo, after

388 KEMBLE AS HOTSPUR,

his return, tells how he has succeeded; the de-
spair, mingled with rage, the kindling of fresh
hope, and the falling back into comfortless an-
guish, were admirably given, and one could see
clearly that if Kemble had not succumbed to man-
nerism and a one-sided school he would have been
a truly great actor."

In Hotspur, " John Kemble declaimed leisurely,
intelligently, making frequent efforts at the humor
of the part, but never grasping it. Here, too, he
spoke quite as slowly as in the parts I had pre-
viously seen, made two or three considerable
pauses, now drawled (klagte), now emphasized
every second or third word, one could not say
why, and then ended so frequently in a sort of
sing-song in all that I thought I was again listen-
ing to one of those Protestant preachers whom
one used to hear twenty years ago in provincial
places indulging in this wailing, tedious tempo.
Percy's first long story to the king Kemble seem-
ed to take as serious earnest, only exaggerated by
youthful violence. To this solemn, almost tortur-
ing, slowness the ear became so accustomed that
when Percy came to the passage —

In Richard's time — what do you call the place ?
A plague upon 't ! it is in Gloucestershire —
'Twas where the madcap duke his uncle kept,

and he all at once spoke it with a quick, sharp
utterance, like a man who suddenly cannot call a
name to mind, and seeks for it with impatience,
the whole house broke out into vehement applause

AND AS PRINCE HAMLET. 389

at the sudden drop of the voice and alteration of
the tempo. It is something noticeable when a
thing of this kind — which is a mere matter of
course, and which can be easily hit off by the me-
diocre actor — is received by the public with such
marked admiration. This mannerism, which often
shows itself in Kemble, as in other actors, capri-
ciously and without cause, reminds one of the
tragic recitations of the French, who in every
scene fling out some verses at a galloping pace
in succession to passages spoken with measured
and exaggerated emphasis."

" In Hamlet what Kemble brought prominently
out was the sad, the melancholy, the nobly-suf-
fering aspect of the character. He gave way to
tears much too often, spoke many of the scenes —
that with the players, for instance — admirably, and
moved and bore himself like a man of high blood
and breeding. But, as usual, there was almost no
distinction between the lighter and heavier parts
of the play ; and then, again, the distinction be-
tween prose and verse was nowhere marked. . . .
When Hamlet, speaking of the rugged Pyrrhus,
says,

If it live in your memory, begin at this line : let me see, let

me see —

"The rugged Pyrrhus, like the Hyrcanian beast " —
'Tis not so : — it begins with " Pyrrhus " —

there was a general burst of applause throughout
the house, because this forgetfulness, this seeking
after the beginning of the verse, was expressed in

33*

390 MARTIN'S COMMENTARY ON TIECK.

such a natural way. And, indeed, when one has
been listening for a length of time to a slow, meas-
ured, wailing rhythm, regularly interrupted by con-
siderable pauses and by a succession of highly-
pitched inflections, one is quite taken by surprise
on hearing once more the tones of Nature and
the manner of every-day conversation."

Of Coriolanus, Tieck says :

" Nobler or more marked expression could not
be given to the proud nature of Coriolanus, and,
figure, look, and voice, here stood the artist in ex-
cellent stead. His heroic wrath indeed seemed
too feeble, and his fury failed altogether, because
his organ was too weak for these supreme efforts,
and the actor had to economize it for the most im-
portant passages. Greatest and most exciting of
all was the close ; without exaggeration it might
be pronounced sublime."

Mr. Martin makes the following judicious com-
mentary on the remarks of the German critic:

"Barren although our stage unhappily is, for
the time, of the powers, natural and acquired,
which can alone do justice to the Shakespearian
drama, Tieck's account of what he saw is not
wholly without consolation for us. All was not
so perfect in those so-called palmy days of the
stage as some would have us believe. Bad acting
was not uncommon then, any more than now — as,
indeed, how can it ever be otherwise than com-
mon, the art being so difficult as it is ? And al-
though there were actors of great natural gifts,
and who, by a lifetime of study and observation,

TRANSPOSITIONS OF LANGUAGE. 39 1

had trained themselves to grapple with the great
characters of the poetic drama, and to portray the
* high actions and high passions ' by which they
lifted delighted audiences into that ideal world
which, after all, seems to be the only real one, the
stage of that period was far behind our own in
this — that liberties of excision and addition were
taken with the text of Shakespeare which would
now be impossible, and that those accessories
which give life and variety to the action of the
scene were neglected to an extent as culpable
in one way as the excess in scenic splendor and
elaboration of costume to which we have of late
years been accustomed is objectionable in an-
other."

SOME AMUSING TRANSPOSITIONS.

A blunder committed by a supernumerary may
give an actor much annoyance, but a mistake made
by himself is even more provoking. Mr. Cooper
was once performing in the character of Virginius.
After stabbing his daughter to save her from the
polluting touch of Appius Claudius, Virginius
stands over her dead body, holding aloft the
bloody knife. Appius commands his lictors to
seize him. The frenzied father shrieks out in
tones of desperation —

If they dare

To tempt the desperate weapon that is maddened
With drinking my daughter's blood, why let them. Thus
It rushes in amongst them !
Way there ! way !

392 VIRGINIUS BEFOGGED.

Then, dashing at the advancing lictors, he cuts his
way through and escapes.

By some unacccountable freak of the tongue,
however, when he heard the command of Appius
to seize him, instead of exclaiming, "Thus it
rushes in amongst them," he yelled out in the
most intense rage, " Thus it mushes in arungst
them !" and, dashing off the stage, left the au-
dience convulsed with irrepressible laughter.

In the same play, when the female slave, insti-
gated by Appius Claudius, makes oath that she
is the mother of Virginia, Virginius brings his
daughter forward, and, appealing to the citizens
in the Forum, exclaims — •

Is this the daughter of a slave? I know
"Tis not with men as shrubs and trees, that by
The shoot you know the rank and order of
The stem ; yet who from such a stem

{pointing with scorn at the woman)
Would look for such a shoot?—

laying his hand tenderly on the head of his child.

In delivering these lines the tragedian, Mr. John
R. Scott, with great earnestness and feeling once
made the following strange transposition of the
closing words of the text:

Who from such a shoot {pointing to the woman)
Would look (taking his daughter by the hand}
For such a stem ?

Then followed a dead silence. The actor was
quite unconscious of the blunder he had made
until a slight demonstration from the audience

MACBETH ALL AT SEA. 393

gave him an impression that something had gone
awry, when the sternness of his features gradu-
ally gave way to an unmistakable smile, and the
whole house, performers and all, burst into an
uncontrollable fit of laughter.

I will venture to add yet another incident of a
somewhat similar character. In the tragedy of
Macbeth, when Malcom's army is seen approach-
ing the castle, one of the officers of the usurping
thane rushes into his presence, crying out, "There
is ten thousand — " when he is cut short by Mac-
beth's contemptuous and indignant exclamation
of " Geese, villain ?" to which the messenger re-
plies, "Soldiers, sir." Now, on the occasion al-
luded to the man came on in hot haste, and said,
" There is ten thousand — " when Macbeth, turn-
ing fiercely on him cried out, " Soldiers, villain ?"
" No," said the messenger, in a tone of bewilder-
ment— " no, no. Geese, sir." And then the two
actors stood staring at one another in blank dis-
may, while peal on peal of laughter burst from
the audience, in which the tragedian, unable to
preserve his gravity, at last, joined. Order having
been restored, an attempt was made to go on with
the scene, but the first line to be uttered by Mac-
beth being in reference to the affrighted appear-
ance of the messenger, followed by an indignant
inquiry as to who the soldiers were, it was too
much for both actor and audience ; the laugh
recommenced, and did not cease until the curtain
fell.

A comical effect was once produced by Charles

394 "STICKS" UPON THE STAGE,

Kemble (as Shylock), by transposing uncon-
sciously several letters in the phrase, "Shall I
lay perjury upon my soul?" and making of it,
" Shall I lay surgery upon my poll ? No, not
for Venice !"

As I have said before, many imperfections in
the business of the stage are attributable to the
ignorance — and, I may add, many more to the
heedlessness — of the persons to whom are en-
trusted what are considered the insignificant
parts ; but such defects may be in a great mea-
sure avoided by affording the servants, messen-
gers, and other subordinates employed on the
stage a pay sufficient to enable them to maintain
themselves creditably, and to induce them to take
enough interest in their business to perform its
duties with care. As a general rule, the profes-
sional value of the actor is estimated by the im-
portance of the part he plays or by the size of the
type in which the public sees his name printed
on the bills.

STICKS OF RED SEALING-WAX.

I remember an old-time theatre where many
hard-working actors who had become superannu-
ated were retained to play little parts, " going on "
as citizens, villagers, constables, and clerks. They
owned their own " properties," such as wigs, shoes,
tights, long stockings — which, by the by, were
always red — and lace collars of a very ample
size and positive pattern. I had nearly forgotten

AND MADAME CELESTE. 395

the inevitable black leather belt and huge bright
buckles. The wardrobe of the theatre furnished
doublets, tunics, and other more important arti-
cles of dress. As a youth I had often the ardu-
ous duty assigned to me of acting as an interpre-
ter of the pantomimic performances of the well-
known actress Madame Celeste. I remember
that one night, as I waited at the wing ready to
" go on " with her, she called my attention to four
old " citizens "'who were standing in a row before
the footlights. For some very proper reason, I
have no doubt, they were all dressed in gray
tunics, with long red stockings, black shoes and
rosettes, and as they stood in a line they pre-
sented as fine a representation of Shakespeare's
" shrunk shanks " as could be exhibited to the
public gaze. The madame touched my elbow,
and in her usually vivacious manner said, " Mis-
tare Murders" (she always would give my name
that extraordinary pronunciation) — " Mistare Mur-
ders, only look !" pointing to the four pairs of red-
stockinged legs : " did you evare see so many
sticks of red sealing-wax on the stage before ?"
It was certainly a very ridiculous spectacle, viewed
from the standpoint of Madame Celeste's profes-
sional exhibitions, especially as, in her case, what
the ladies sometimes term "limbs" were by no
means like sticks of sealing-wax, but, in the lan-
guage of Sam Weller, " on the contrary, quite the
reverse."

It was with some compunction that I laughed
at the old actors, for there was but little laughter

396 " THE EARLY VILLAGE COCK."

in them ; and besides, they always looked upon
themselves as representing the " Old-Drury " style
of acting, and spoke of their younger brethren as
" innovators and dashing fellows, without the so-
lidity and steadiness of the old style." Though
these veterans might be called " sticks " in stage-
parlance, they never " stuck " in their utterances,
nor could they be accused either of undue haste
or excitement. No ; they were of the class that
always take time, but never by the forelock : not
one of them would have rushed on the boards ex-
claiming to a horror-stricken Richard the Third,
" My lord, 'tis I, the early village cock !" and then
forget to add that the aforesaid " early bird " had
" twice done salutation to the morn." No ; my
old friends in the red stockings would have waited
for the word, and then conscientiously articulated
every syllable. If they were not great actors,
they were good men. In Europe the subordinate
parts have always careful and competent repre-
sentatives, because the public will brook no crude
effects. There disapprobation is unequivocal and
expressed by hissing, which always touches the
manager and appals the actor. But with us it is
not unfrequently manifested in derisive laughter.
I remember once playing in a theatre of the
most beautiful architecture and costly appoint-
ment, the company of which was ill-assorted and
ill-disposed, and without a "head and front" of
experienced authority. I was engaged for a fort-
night's performance of tragedy and comedy at
the beginning of the opening season. One night,

A FUDDLED HORATIO. 397

in acting Hamlet to an audience which fairly rep-
resented the intellectual and cultivated people of
the city, I was dismayed to see my Horatio walk
on the stage in the most mysterious manner, and,
confidentially laying his hand on my arm, he held
on to it with such earnestness that I quite forgot
Hamlet in the conviction that my friend was un-
mistakably drunk, and that his affectionate man-
ner was merely intended to secure his perpendic-
ularity, in illustration of the old saying, "United
we stand." The audience merely laughed at my
drunken Horatio, but they should have hissed
him.

34

CHAPTER XX.

SOME REMINISCENCES OF ACTORS, ACTRESSES,
AND MANAGERS.

THE PIONEER MANAGER OF CHICAGO.

"AN honest man's the noblest work of God ;"
•**• and among all those with whom I have
associated in a long professional career, I have
never met one who better deserved that title
than Mr. John B. Rice, the pioneer manager of
Chicago. I knew him well. He enjoyed, as he
deserved, the unlimited esteem of all with whom
he had business transactions or exchanged the
courtesies of social life.

It was his constant habit to think and do what
was right. " His heart was open as the day."
He did his duty fearlessly and without regard to
consequences. As a husband and father he was
faithful and true, and as a friend disinterested and
generous. Like Abou Ben Adhem, "he loved
his fellow-men." Like Brutus,

His life was gentle, and the elements

So mixed in him that Nature might stand up

And say to all the world, " This was a man /"

By those who were not intimately acquainted
with him he was not unfrequently esteemed a man

398

MR. JOHN B. RICE. 399

of prosaic character, and yet " castle-building "
was his favorite amusement. He loved a walk
in the country or a stroll along the shore of the
great lake, or to throw himself down beneath
some tree and lie for hours watching the passing
clouds, or in like manner at night commune with
the stars, "looking through Nature up to Nature's
God." A tendency in youth to such "mental
idling" carried him m to the stage, and made him
at first successful as a singer; but he was practi-
cal as well, and therefore became an actor of many
parts and a manager of many theatres. In early
life he married Miss Mary Ann Warren, an act-
ress, the daughter of Mr. William Warren, the
old favorite actor and highly- esteemed citizen
of Philadelphia, to whose honesty and ability in the
management of the original Chestnut Street The-
atre the dramatic profession owes its honorable
record in what has been termed " the palmy days
of Old Drury." Their children, one son and five
daughters, were reared in the very atmosphere of
the theatre, but none of them " took up the call-
ing" of their parents. Mrs. Rice was not fond
of the profession, and yet amid her maternal du-
ties and household cares she pursued it assidu-
ously until the business of her husband became
so secure as to render such labor no longer ne-
cessary, when she retired to private life, which
she still lives to adorn.

The daughters are all married, and worthily
represent the virtues of their parents. The only
son, William Rice, having finished his education.

40O WARREN, WOOD, AND JEFFERSON.

became a machinist, and had but just reached
manhood when, at the outbreak of the war of
the Rebellion, he enlisted in a company of vol-
unteers formed by his fellow-craftsmen in Chi-
cago, was elected their captain, and at the head
of his company fell, in defence of the Union, on
the battlefield of Chickamauga. The high esti-
mation in which Mr. Rice was held as a man of
probity led to his election to the mayoralty of
Chicago, and to his re-election for a second and
third term ; and his faithful discharge of the duties
of that office was acknowledged by his election
to Congress. While in Washington, however,
his health failed, and he finally died at his post —
"a good and faithful servant."

WARREN, WOOD, AND JEFFERSON.

Mr. William Warren, the father of Mrs. Rice,
for many years delighted the people of Philadel-
phia, Baltimore, and Washington in his imperso-
nations of Falstaff, Sir Peter Teazle, and many
kindred characters. Warren, Wood, and Jeffer-
son (the grandfather of our Jefferson) were ac-
tors who through good and evil report upheld the
dignity of the profession. They were the social
equals of the playgoers who at the advent of the
theatre in America represented its learned pro-
fessions and best society — to whom the drama,
as then conducted, was a means for the cultivaA
tion of taste and a source of rational and refined
enjoyment. In those days the stage presented

MRS. MAEDER— THOMAS BARRY. 401

the best features of histrionic delineation and the
purest forms of the dramatic art.

MRS. CLARA FISHER MAEDER.

Mrs. Clara Fisher Maeder, to whom I have re-
ferred in connection with the musical education
of Miss Charlotte Cushman, was in those early
days, and still is, one of the brightest ornaments
of the profession. Her children were carefully
brought up and in strict accordance with religious
principles. Her eldest daughter became the wife
of an eminent physician of Edinburgh, and is still
widely known in that city for her intelligence, re-
finement, and social accomplishments. The other
members of the family occupy honorable positions
in the profession of their mother, and share with
her general and unqualified respect.

MR. THOMAS BARRY.

The late Mr. Thomas Barry, to whom I have allu-
ded as a manager of the Tremont Theatre, Boston,
was a true gentleman of the old school, a man
of unexceptionable character, and a valuable cit-
izen. He was twice married, his first wife being
an actress of good reputation and a most excel-
lent woman. His second consort was a young
Englishwoman, also an actress and noted for her
personal charms, fine talents, and many noble
traits. Their family consisted of a son and three
daughters, and no woman can boast a brighter

34* 2 A

402 MRS. ALEXINA FISHER BAKER.

record as a wife and mother. Through her hus-
band's checkered career, in prosperity and adver-
sity, she was a loving companion and faithful help-
meet. Their home in Boston was a model of
comfort and refinement, and their children, wor-
thy of their parentage, reflected honor upon the
calling of the actor and enjoyed the highest es-
teem of the community in which they still live.
Mr. Barry died, universally respected, at a good
old age, having more than fulfilled the alloted
term of threescore years and ten.

MRS. ALEXINA FISHER BAKER.

Among our native actresses no one has a
brighter record than Mrs. Alexina Fisher Baker,
the widow of Mr. John Lewis Baker, a most ex-
cellent actor and highly-respected citizen of Phil-
adelphia. Reared from her earliest childhood
upon the stage, educated, it may be said, at the
feet of Thespis, possessing every ennobling wo-
manly virtue, by nature ardent and impulsive,
and yet sensitive and retiring, as an actress she
embodied the poetic ideal of the characters she
personated. Whatever criticism may have said
of her performances, it must be admitted that
she has ever been an earnest and faithful expos-
itor of the sentiment of the author she has illus-
trated, and has never failed to receive a sympa-
thetic response from her auditors. She enjoys,
as she merits, the unqualified admiration of the
various communities in which she has lived and

THE WOMEN OF OUR PROFESSION. 403

acted, reflecting honor upon the profession to
which she has so long devoted the labors of an
exemplary life.

I have been induced to recall these private his-
tories— not because they are unusual in the dra-
matic profession, but as affording evidence that
it is entirely consonant with a faithful discharge of
all the duties of life. Among the actors and ac-
tresses with whom I have studied and performed
I have met with society affording all the intellect-
ual and social enjoyments which can be found in
any class of cultivated people. The women of
the profession compare favorably in every respect
with the best of their sex in other vocations, and
in common with their more highly-esteemed sis-
ters have exhibited the most brilliant virtues,
which have often beamed through shadows of
detraction and neglect. My memory retains the
history of many who from youth to age have
toiled that brothers and sisters might receive
the benefits of education and that fathers and
mothers might enjoy the blessings of comfort-
able homes. Trite but true are the words of
Pope-
Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow;
The rest is all but leather or prunello ;

and, again :

Honor and shame from no condition rise ;
Act well your part, there all the honor lies.

404 "ELOQUENT FLUENCE."

A MISTAKE APPLAUDED.

On the occasion of a performance of the Honey-
moon at the Tremont Theatre, Boston, Miss Ellen
Tree was playing Julianna, and I enacting the part
of Rolando, the assumed woman-hater, when an
effect was produced which for a moment threaten-
ed my discomfiture ; but, fortunately for my rep-
utation as a correct actor, it resulted in an unex-
pected triumph. My stumbling-block will be found
in the following speech. Rolando asserts the im-
possibility of taming a woman " with the nine parts
of speech;" Montalban replies that the Duke
Aranza had the power to subdue the imperious
beauty Julianna, saying,

He has the trick to draw the serpent's fang,
And yet not spoil her beauty ;

and Rolando adds —

Could he discourse with fluent eloquence
More languages than Babel sent abroad,
The simple rhet'ric of her mother-tongue
Would pose him presently ; for woman's voice
Sounds like a fiddle in a concert — always
The shrillest, if not the loudest, instrument.

I had given the previous lines of Rolando with all
the spirit that they required and I could command,
and began the first line of the reply to Montalban
with a gayly-intoned, brisk movement ; but at the
end of the first line, instead of saying " fluent elo-
quence," I said with fearful distinctness, " eloquent
fluence," and in my attempts to correct myself got

SAMUEL K. MURDOCH. 405

my tongue and lips, as it were, mixed up in a mud-
dle of cross-purposes; at which, as might have been
expected, the audience, after trying to smother the
inclination, gave way to uncontrollable laughter.
Feeling mortified at my mistake, I set my teeth
firmly, and, taking a long breath through my nos-
trils, made a fresh start, deliberately articulating
every element in each syllable, and, as I repeated
the line, "fluent eloquence " came out with the clear
ring of the pure metal ; at which the audience, who
had stopped laughing and were as silent " as mice
in a cheese," greeted my success with hearty cheers
and round after round of applause.

AN EPISODE OF ISTHMUS TRAVEL.

My brother, Samuel K. Murdoch, now and for
many years past a professor of elocution, is, like
myself, a native of Philadelphia, and in the mem-
orable riots of 1844 commanded an artillery com-
pany and gained much distinction in efficient ser-
vice against the violators of the public peace in the
streets of Southwark. At that period and there-
after he took a deep interest in the study of med-
icine, and attended medical lectures with a view
to admission and practice as a physician. But in
1849 he was induced to accompany our youngest
brother, Edward Murdoch, on a "fortune-seeking"
expedition to California, where he spent some time
in "prospecting" for gold among the mountains,
and finally purchased a tract of land in the San
Jose Valley, and commenced its cultivation. While

406 THE AUTHOR IN CALIFORNIA.

engaged in these agricultural pursuits he also found
occasional opportunities to aid the sick and suffer-
ing in the neighborhood of his new home, for which
a natural gift, cultivated by his previous studies,
peculiarly qualified him.

At this time, however, at the suggestion of some
old friends from Philadelphia, he appeared on the
stage at San Francisco as Pierre in Venice Pre-
served, and then played Hotspur in Henry the
Fourth and several other first-class parts, closing
a week's engagement with a benefit. His success
was such as to warrant his making arrangements
for a permanent pursuit of the profession, for which,
by his studious habits, his voice, and personal ap-
pearance, he was well qualified.

In 1853, I visited California, and, as my health
was not good, he consented to accompany me as
a medical adviser in my journeys through that
region, in the course of which at times he success-
fully performed important characters in the plays
in which I appeared. But continuous exposure in
a climate to which I was unaccustomed, and con-
stant professional labor, at the close of a year's
engagements rendered my immediate return to
" the States " an imperative necessity ; and, that I
might receive proper attention on the way, he de-
termined to accompany me home. We accordingly
took passage in a steamer, the owners of which,
as we afterward learned and found occasion to
regret, had made a heavy wager with the propri-
etors of a rival vessel as to which would make
the shortest time from the Pacific to the city of

TROUBLE ON THE ISTHMUS. 407

New York. In the midst of our voyage the cap-
tain discovered that by the contrivance of inter-
ested parties in San Francisco he had received an
insufficient supply of coal, in consequence of which,
when we were within three days of Panama, it was
exhausted. After using every effort, by landing
at all available points among the islands and cut-
ting down trees for fuel, the captain was finally
obliged to depend entirely upon his sails to finish
the voyage to Panama. On arriving there it was
found that the railroad-train we expected to con-
vey us across the Isthmus had been appropriated
by the passengers of the other steamer, which
had come in twenty-four hours before us, thus
winning the race on the Pacific side. We had
therefore to await the arrival of another train,
which resulted in a detention of twenty-four hours
more, bringing the time of our departure to the
close of the following day. Haying made but
little progress, we arrived in the darkness at a
bridge which the conductor declared to be unsafe,
and we were forthwith "switched off" to a side-
track, where we passed the night in the cars,
breathing a miasmatic atmosphere pestilent to all
but the native reptiles and buzzards. At about
daybreak on the following morning our journey
was resumed, but not until after we had found
that another train on its way to the same place
had passed safely over the bridge during the
night, the passengers from which, we realized
with much indignation, would by right of prece-
dence secure all the available accommodation on

408 A MUTINY IN PROGRESS.

board of the ship about to sail for New York
before we should be able to arrive, which would
compel us to endure a still further trial of patience
by additional detention in the ill-provided and
overcrowded public-houses of Aspinwall.

We proceeded slowly, and stopped at various
points along the road, where, without any appa-
rent cause, long delays occurred, until an opinion
began to prevail that these detentions were all
preconcerted; and at one of the stopping-places
an individual suspected of being an emissary of
the rival steamship company, and who had made
himself particularly obnoxious, was seized by the
passengers, who were on the point of ducking
him in the muddy water of the swamps when the
shrill whistle of the engine caused the crowd to
drop the object of their resentment and rush for
the cars, their timely departure being evidently
made in the interest of the suspected party.

Considering the general character of the pas-
sengers and the nature of their grievances, it was
not unnatural that they should feel resentful, the
majority of them being men unaccustomed to sub-
mit to the slightest imposition or even quietly to
endure the expression of an adverse opinion. So
the spirit of mutiny at last became overwhelming,
and finally, on the stopping of the train in the
suburbs of Aspinwall, the more excitable of the
party began to lose all self-control, and threats of
vengeance previously uttered by a few were then
heard on every hand, indicating a general outbreak
of violence. Several persons while at the stations

AN ASSASSINATION PREVENTED. 409

had procured tallow candles, which they lighted,
and, holding the flames against the painted canvas,
burnt fantastic figures on the ceilings of the cars
amid laughter and applause, while the other in-
terior work was subjected to damage in various
ways.

In the midst of this scene of disorder several
persons were engaged in a violent quarrel of their
own, which soon reached a climax. Finding all
efforts to preserve order unavailing, my brother
and I were about to leave the car when we saw a
man immediately in front of us reaching for the
pistol-pocket in his pantaloons, and the next mo-
ment, as he attempted to seize his opponent by
the throat, my brother caught hold of his collar,
and, whirling him quickly round, threw him on his
back, wrenching from his grasp the revolver, which
he had already drawn, and crying out, " The man
who fires into such a crowd as this is an assassin
and a fool."

The suddenness of this act and the determined
tone of his voice brought the more reasonable of
the crowd to their senses, but before there was
time for the excitement to cool a furious fellow,
brandishing a formidable knife, cried out, "I'm not
for firing into a crowd, but I go clear in for satis-
faction on this company, which has cheated us.

Let us cut the d d cars to pieces; and here

goes for the first lick."

At the same time he raised his knife with a
sweeping motion toward the side of the car, the
body of which was partly composed of cane- or

35

410 THE EMEUTE QUIETED.

bamboo-work. Before he could make the intend-
ed slash, however, amid cries of "That's the talk !"
" That's the ticket!" "Out with your knives,
men! that's the thing to do!" I succeeded in
arresting his arm, and exclaimed, " No, no ; that's
not the thing to do.'*

" Who are you ?" said the man with the knife
as he shook off my hold — " who are you ?"

" Your friend," I replied, " and the friend of the
men you are about to injure."

"This infernal railroad company is no friend
of ours," was his retort.

" That may be," said I, " but you forget the pas-
sengers who are waiting at Aspinwall for these
very cars, the only ones they are likely to get to
take them to the steamer at Panama, by which
they are to reach California, where they expect
to find some of the same sort of yellow stuff
you are carrying home in your pockets. Just
put yourselves in the place of those poor fel-
lows, and where's the man who will strike the
first blow?"

For a moment there was a dead silence, and
then the leader cried out, "/won't, for one, old
fellow. You're right — you're right all the time!
That's the miner's stamp : Be just and defy the
devil ! Your head's level ! Bully for you i"

At which the crowd set up an approving shout
of " Hurrah for Californy and the old home
States !"

The threatened train was thus left uninjured,
while the still excited crowd gave vent to their

AN OLD STORY RETOLD. 411

feelings in yells which plainly showed that with-
out an appeal to their sympathy and common
sense they could have been fully equal to the
destruction they had deemed an act of justice.

A THRICE-TOLD TALE, WITH AN APPENDIX.

There is an old story about an actor who made
a laughable mistake in delivering the lines ad-
dressed to Richard the Third when he obstructs
the funeral procession of King Henry the Sixth :

RICHARD.

Villains, set down the corse, or, by Saint Paul,
I'll make a corse of him that disobeys.

OFFICER.
My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass.

The actor, it is said, instead of giving the words
as they stood in the quotation, cried out in the
usual tone of command,

My lord, stand back, and let the parson cough.

This story being told one night in the green-
room, it was remarked by an actor present that
any one who could commit such a blunder must be
a donkey. Another replied that it was possible for
a nervous man to make such a mistake and yet
not prove himself an ass. This led to a discus-
sion, and finally a bet was made that the objector
under similar circumstances would do the same
thing. The question was to be decided upon the
next performance of the " crooked-backed tyrant."

412 THE OBJECTOR CAUGHT.

The night came, and found our actor-officer full
of confidence in his ability correctly to deliver the
text. Some time before going on, however, he
was observed walking up and down behind the
scenes muttering to himself " and let the coffin
pass," while now and then, from the actors am-
bushed in the dusky corners, out of earshot of the
audience, came " let the parson cough," his fellow-
performers, in their love of fun, being determined
to keep alive in his memory a recollection of the
fatal transposition. The cue was given for his
entrance, and the officer took his place on the
scene, when, perceiving the actors standing in the
wings, watching his movements in expectation of
his failure, he began to be nervous, and as Rich-
ard, advancing, cried out, " I'll make a corse of
him that disobeys," down came the officer's lev-
elled pike before the tyrant's breast as he ex-
claimed, " My lord, stand back," and then, in
spite of every precaution, he blurted out the ter-
rible words, "and let the parson cough!" The
astonished Richard, hesitating in his reply, afford-
ed to the audience and the actors full opportunity
to realize and enjoy the joke, which of course was
anything but a joke to him, who not only lost his
bet, but by his own judgment was " written down
an ass," and pack-saddled with the laughter of the
whole theatre.

MR. JOHN G. GILBERT.

The professional career of Mr. John G. Gilbert
presents a remarkable instance of dramatic talent.

MR. JOHN G. GILBERT. 413

This gentleman first appeared in Boston as an
amateur in tragedy, and continued for some time
to sustain prominent parts in that line with much
success ; but it was not until the close of an ex-
tensive round of playing in a great variety of cha-
racters, under the able management of Mr. James
H. Caldwell in the South and West, that he became
distinguished for a wonderful .power in the delin-
eation of the characters of old men, for which he
has now been celebrated for nearly a half century.
Mr. Gilbert has always been noted for an exact
delivery of the text, for a just and natural expres-
sion of thought and feeling, and for a correct ob-
servance of propriety in all the details of costume.
Exact conformity to such indispensable require-
ments for the impersonation of character marks
the true artist and shows the actor's regard for
his profession. Mr. Gilbert not only stands de-
servedly conspicuous for dramatic talent, but is
no less so for unblemished character and the
possession of every gentlemanly quality.

A striking evidence of Mr. Gilbert's power as
an actor was exhibited during the engagement of
Miss Ellen Tree in Boston in 1836. In The Maid of
Milan Miss Tree performed the character of Clari
and Mr. Gilbert that of Romano, and in the impas-
sioned interview between the unhappy parent and
the«nisguided daughter the part of the father was
played with such apparent intensity of natural
feeling as to absorb performers and auditors alike,
investing the scene with all the living realities of
suffering, sorrow, and distracting passion. I have

35*

41 4 WILLIAM WARREN, JR.

never seen an audience more completely under
the sway of dramatic power than on that occasion.
For a time, with sobs and tears and other evidences
of intense emotion, they seemed to have become
actual mourners over some common affliction. In
all this remarkable exhibition the skill of the artist
was the more manifest on account of the rustic
simplicity of the scene and the absence of all
mere stage-accessories.

WILLIAM WARREN, JR.

During my first season at the Chestnut Street
Theatre, Philadelphia, in 1833, one evening, while
waiting for " my call " in the greenroom, I ob-
served a youth slight in figure and looking much
like a student of divinity at home for a vacation.
He was silent and thoughtful in expression and
very formal in manner. He was very soon pre-
sented to me as William Warren, Jr., who had
just made his first appearance at the Arch Street
Theatre in the character of Young Norval. After
some years I met him again in that professional
school for youthful Thespians, the West. In the
hard work of a hard occupation, mental and phys-
ical, studying a multitude of dry words day by
day, and striving at night to clothe them in the
fitting vesture of expressive tone, did William
Warren, Jr., acquire the profession of his father
and mother. I remember saying to him when he
told me of his intention to try Boston, " Don't do
it ; you will lose your ambition by tying yourself

STAGE-TRADITIONS ABJURED. 415

down to the slow routine of Eastern professional
life. The West has a larger field and more vital-
ity." But I was not a prophet. He went to Bos-
ton in 1846 and joined the " Museum Company,"
and, by natural ability, careful cultivation, and de-
votion to professional duty he educated his audi-
ences to an appreciation of true dramatic art.
He also inspired his fellow-actors with his own
professional spirit, and thus contributed very
largely to the successful establishment of an in-
stitution which, with the exception of Wallack's
Theatre in New York, may be pronounced the
only permanent " home of the drama " in our
country. Admired for his talents and beloved for
his personal qualities, William Warren is indeed
the " observed of all observers " in Boston and
its multitudinous environs.

ABJURATION OF STAGE-TRADITIONS.

I have heretofore referred to the advantages
which may result from a judicious observance of
such features of the technical business of the stage
as have been approved and practised by old and
distinguished actors. I wish what I have said
upon this subject, however, to be received as
merely suggestive, and as referred to the judg-
ment of the intelligent dramatic student. There
is still abundant room for professional improve-
ment, and much may yet be done for the eleva-
tion of the stage even by what may be consider-
ed irreverent innovation. The degree of regard

41 6 MRS. SID DONS AND THE CANDLE.

which is paid, not unfrequently, by great perform-
ers to traditionary stage-routine, merely because
it is traditionary, has been well illustrated by Mrs.
Siddons in an account of her first appearance as
Lady Macbeth.

Mrs. Siddons states that she had undertaken to
perform the character with great diffidence, par-
ticularly in view of the reputation which had been
acquired by Mrs. Pritchard in the same part. The
night had arrived, and, having just completed her
toilette, she was deeply absorbed in mental prepa-
ration when Mr. Sheridan knocked at the door, and,
disregarding all her entreaties that she should not
be disturbed, insisted upon being admitted, declar-
ing that he must speak to her in relation to a mat-
ter of the utmost importance and which seriously
concerned her own interest. Feeling compelled
at least to admit him, that she might be able to
dismiss him the more promptly and regain her
composure before the commencement of the play,
she was astonished to find that he wished her at
that late moment to change the mode in which
she had determined to act the " sleeping-scene."
He said that he had learned, with the greatest
surprise and concern, that she did not intend to
retain the candle in her hand ; and when she
urged the impossibility, should she do so, of
washing out the "damned spot," he insisted that
if she did put the candle out of her hand it would
be considered a presumptuous innovation, inas-
much as Mrs. Pritchard had always retained it.
It was too late, however, to reconsider her plan,

HAMLET TOO DEEP FOR YOUTH. 417

although respect for the judgment of Mr. Sheridan
would have induced her, in opposition to her own
views, to accept his had they been presented in
time, and she accordingly acted the scene as she
had intended.

The " innovation " was received with approval,
and Mr. Sheridan came to her after the play and
congratulated her upon her " obstinacy."

Before making my appearance upon the stage
I had studied the character of Hamlet ; that is, I
had committed the words to memory and learned
to recite them after the manner prescribed by my
elocutionary teacher, Mr. L. G. White, who had
pronounced me in every respect qualified to
personate the " melancholy Dane." Influenced by
this assurance, and in a spirit of reckless adven-
ture, I made the necessary arrangements, and
attempted the rehearsal, progressing satisfacto-
rily in soliloquy and dialogue until I reached the
"play-scene," when I suddenly discovered that I
was " beyond my depth." My teacher was disap-
pointed, but the manager regarded my failure with
evident satisfaction, and advised me to try the cha-
racter of Frederick in Lovers Vows, a part better
adapted to my youth and inexperience ; and I did
so with success. After ten years' service in the
ranks of the profession, with gradual promotion,
and three years' careful study of Hamlet, I once
more attempted its rehearsal, and then the " flighty
purpose" was followed by the "deed," and I found
myself elected by the popular voice to a place in
the court of Denmark.

41 8 HAMLET'S OLD-TIME PLUME DISCARDED.

My first appearance in the character of Ham-
let was in the Park Theatre, New York, in 1845,
where my friend, Mr. Thomas Barry, was the
stage-manager. Mr. Barry was of the Kemble
school, and in his own acting much given to a
stately style of speech and bearing. Hamlet, in
his mind, was not only to be dressed in black, but
" steeped to the very lips " in gloom, sombre in
mood and grave and deliberate in utterance and
gait. The even tenor of his princely demeanor
was never to be disturbed by the slightest man-
ifestation of levity, or even thoughtlessness, no
matter how much the language of the part might
suggest such departure. I remember his aston-
ishment when I told him that I did not intend to
wear a black plume, and that it reminded me of
the decoration of a hearse. " Why, my dear sir,"
said he, " had you ever seen John Philip Kemble
in that character, as he stood in the glare of the
court attired in his suit of sables, grand and
gloomy, with his noble features shaded by the
dark waving plumes of his hat, you would never
consent to trust yourself to the bald effect of an
uncovered head." I did not wear a plume, how-
ever, nor did I fail, in the face of traditionary
usage, to follow the teachings of Shakespeare by
an occasional departure from the shadow of " the
tragic pall " in the premeditated levity of manner
appropriate to Hamlet's eccentric moods, in which
he assumes what is foreign to his nature, the mask
of "an antic disposition."

EPILOGUE.

I feel unwilling to close this work without an
acknowledgment of indebtedness to my old and
esteemed friend, Mr. FERDINAND J. DREER of Phil-
adelphia, at whose suggestion I have taken these
pages from a series of my lectures entitled Rem-
iniscences of the Stage, and arranged them for pub-
lication in this form; and I trust that no disap-
pointment may result from an omission to notice
many theatrical performers distinguished for per-
sonal and professional ability, an association with
whom has been prevented by circumstances which
have placed me without the dramatic circle for
many years.

419

APPENDIX.

APPENDIX.

I.

THE following able article on the uses and abuses of the
Drama and the Theatre appeared originally as a com-
munication in the Southern Literary Messenger for March,
1841, and was handed me at the time by a friend while I
was playing an engagement at Richmond, Va. I introduce
it in this volume with feelings of peculiar gratification, under
the impression that it speaks the language of many lovers of
the drama in all parts of our country :

THE DRAMA.

NOTWITHSTANDING the manifold corruptions and abuses by
which theatrical exhibitions are now unhappily disgraced, I
cannot help retaining, I must own, my early predilection for
such entertainments. When I reflect on the great poetical
genius and deep knowledge of human nature evinced in the
composition of our best plays, the sportive wit and biting
satire with which they expose the weaknesses and vices of
men, I cannot but think that, under proper regulation, they
might be made subsidiary to the great objects of moral and
literary instruction. That there are irregularities (to use the
mildest term) in the management of the theatre which de-
mand reform, even its warmest advocates must acknowledge ;
nor should it create surprise that pious men, disgusted with
these irregularities, should denounce such amusements as per-
nicious and contaminating. I am aware that those who con-

423

424 APPENDIX.

demn the stage in all its aspects and influences constitute a
respectable and powerful body, and that they conscientiously
believe it repugnant to religion and injurious to the best inte-
rests of mankind. Far be it from me to question their sin-
cerity or insult their honest convictions. Such a course might
embitter prejudices and confirm opposition, but could never
make a single proselyte. Satire and ridicule are poisoned
weapons which ofttimes "return to plague the inventor;"
and those who employ such means in the vindication of the
theatre contrive only to render it more odious, and embolden
others, more inimical to religion and religious men than zeal-
ous for the true interests of the drama, to use the stage as a
vehicle for the most indecent aspersions on the motives and
principles of its opponents. Respect is due to the opinions of
the religious community even when unsupported by reason ;
nor can it be endured that buffoons should, with an impious
levity, make sport of things which inspire every well-regu-
lated mind with respect and reverence. When the stage, as
at present conducted, is so obviously vulnerable to the cen-
sure of the moralist, it behooves its friends to abstain from
all offensive warfare on those who undertake to criticise its
abuses — to strive rather to disarm and conciliate their antag-
onists by the suppression of those practices with which the
drama is so frequently polluted, and to introduce a purer and
more exalted standard of taste and morals into its exhibitions.
To relume its faded glories, to restore its salutary influences,
to convert it from a pander to the vilest and most grovelling
passions of our nature into the handmaid of virtue and arbiter
of taste, is a consummation only to be accomplished by the
co-operation of the wise and good. It is indeed a question
entitled to grave consideration whether the friends of virtue
do not owe it to the sacred cause they have espoused to pro-
mote a change so essential to the moral improvement of
society — whether, by withdrawing their countenance from
the theatre, they do not allow it to be perverted into an
engine of mischief, a potent instrument for the dissemina-
tion of vice.

When we review the history of the English theatre, the

APPENDIX. 425

most prominent feature that strikes our attention is its rapid
degeneracy after the restoration of Charles the Second to a
throne which he disgraced not more by his tyranny than by
his shameless debaucheries. The early and glorious dawn
of the English drama was then obscured and overcast by the
murky vapors exhaled from a court reeking with every spe-
cies of profligacy; and the immortal productions of Shake-
speare, Jonson, Massinger, Ford, Beaumont, and Fletcher
were supplanted in public favor by the loathsome though bril-
liant obscenities of Dryden, Farquhar, and Congreve. Pub-
lic opinion would now brand with infamy any man, however
great his genius and acquirements, who should venture to
utter in mixed society language offensive to decorum or
should stain his pages with indecent epithets and allusions.
Why is it that public opinion, the great arbiter of taste
and morals, has not effected the same salutary change in the
theatre which it has wrought in conversation and literature ?
It cannot be doubted that the frequent repetition of indel-
icate allusions in promiscuous crowds of men and women, by
familiarizing the young and ardent of both sexes to immodest
thoughts and images of vicious pleasure, tends to awaken the
passions and to efface those impressions of disgust and abhor-
rence which such ideas usually produce in the unsophisticated
bosom. The effect of such practices, therefore, unless dis-
couraged by timely rebuke, will be to banish modest women
from the theatre ; and to what a state of grossness and de-
pravity must our drama be reduced when the salutary restraint
imposed by the presence of respectable females is withdrawn ?
The influence of that amiable sex in refining and polishing
the manners of men is felt and admitted in the intercourse of
private society. If we observe the conduct of men in those
assemblages for amusement from which modest women are
excluded, we may form some conception of the disorder,
violence, and obscenity which would disgrace our theatres
when no longer honored by the presence of the softer sex.
Let respectable females renounce all share in dramatic enter-
tainments, let good men stigmatize them as the prolific source
of vicious dissipation, and the stage will, in truth, be trans-
36*

426 APPENDIX.

formed into a pandemonium more hideous than the heated
fancy of its bitterest adversaries has ever depicted.

It is an obvious proposition that plays and their perform-
ance must be adapted to the taste of those for whose amuse-
ment they are designed ; and if theatrical audiences are com-
posed wholly or in a great measure of men of vulgar ideas
and dissolute habits, it is certain that such spectacles will
assume a corresponding hue and character. Were the major-
ity of those who throng the avenues of the playhouse pious
and virtuous persons, resolved to visit every breach of deco-
rum, every immoral act and sentiment, with marks of decided
reprobation, the actors from motives of interest would consult
the feelings of those whose patronage and support would be
so essential to their professional fame and emoluments. Prior
to the English Commonwealth dramatic amusements were not
discountenanced by religious men. Even the stern genius of
Milton did not disdain to impart a dramatic form to the off-
spring of his muse, and the Masque of Comus, one of his
most enchanting poems, was actually submitted to private
representation. But when, in the political ferment which ter-
minated in the overthrow of the monarchy, the stern, self-
denying sectaries of that age — many of them illiterate and
unpolished men — obtained the ascendency, all harmless amuse-
ments and elegant recreations were indiscriminately pro-
scribed. To men who regarded polite literature not only
as an idle and unprofitable pursuit, but as incompatible with
the spirit of devotion, it was not surprising that the theatre
should be obnoxious. Equally averse to the mirth that cheers
and the elegancies that adorn life, these gloomy enthusiasts,
with a tyranny resembling that of Procrustes, exacted from
all orders of men a rigid conformity to their own ascetic
habits. This renunciation of the most innocent enjoyments
as dangerous and sinful, this self-infliction of pain and suffer-
ing, scarcely less severe than the penances of those anchor-
ites who were driven by a misdirected zeal to caves and des-
erts in the early ages of Christianity, was too repugnant to
human nature to be durable, and produced, in the natural
order of events, a correspondent reaction. The excesses of

APPENDIX. 427

sincere but mistaken devotion were then succeeded by a pe-
riod of unbounded license and shameless relaxation of morals ;
and the subsequent corruption of the drama was the neces-
sary result. Had the pious and uncorrupted part of the
nation, instead of resigning the control of the stage to a
party as devoid of religion as of common decency, continued
to partake of its amusements, their presence might have res-
cued the dramatic Muse from such degrading prostitution,
and checked, in some degree, the spread of that selfish prof-
ligacy which infused its poison into the pleasures as well
as the business of life. Even the worst men pay an invol-
untary homage to moral worth, and in spite of all their blus-
tering are overawed by the frown of offended virtue.

To mingle with the motley audience of a theatre, it may be
said, would sully the purity of the Christian character ; but
that argument, if pursued to its consequences, would banish
the religious man from all promiscuous assemblages not con-
vened for purposes of devotion. Is he not as likely to en-
counter in those public meetings not yet forbidden by the
most austere to which he resorts, without scruple, at the call
of interest or inclination, scenes and characters uncongenial
with his feelings, as in the purlieus of a playhouse? Are
not court-greens, muster-grounds, and elections places where
vicious men are always found, where practices are* often in-
dulged in which excite the abhorrence of a good man ? And
yet who is deterred from attending such assemblages in com-
pliance with the demands of either business or pleasure?
What form of depravity, I would ask, infests the theatre
which does not rear its brazen front in the streets of a popu-
lous city?" Do not the dissolute and profane intrude into
the haunts of traffic as well as of amusement? Are we not
jostled by the votaries of dissipation in the crowded street,
and disturbed in the public hotels by their bacchanalian rev-
elries ? Must pious men, therefore, shun all places of public
resort, and fly to solitude as their only refuge against con-
tamination ? We are told by the highest authority that they
"are the salt of the world/' and consequently they should
mingle freely with the world to purify and reform it. The

428 APPENDIX.

frivolous gayeties or the grosser excesses of fashionable life
would never seduce from the path of rectitude those whose
hearts are fortified by religious principle, whose affections are
fixed on higher objects; and such men could pass through
these allurements with as much security as the people of Israel
through the Red Sea.

But it has been alleged that theatrical exhibitions are, in
their nature, unfriendly to feelings of devotion, and engender
that levity and dissipation of mind which it is the chief de-
sign of religion to correct. May not the same thing be
affirmed of any other amusement? Have not all pleasurable
indulgences, if not judiciously restrained, the same baneful
effect on the mind ? Even that rational cheerfulness which
the most morose will not condemn constantly threatens to
betray us into the very evils so studiously eschewed by the
opponents of the theatre. Men cannot always be serious.
"The feast of reason" uncheered by "the flow of soul"
will pall upon the strongest palate. Such is the constitution
of human nature that some recreation is indispensable to di-
versify our graver occupations, to soften the toils and smooth
the asperities of life. Surely no one will maintain that all
amusement must be relinquished — that the harmless mirth
and pleasantry which embellish social intercourse must be re-
nounced, because the abuse of such things may disqualify the
mind for serious reflection. And yet if the supposed tend-
ency of theatrical diversions to indispose us for devout
meditation is a sufficient reason for abstaining from them
altogether, we should be bound, acting on the clearest anal-
ogies, to abjure in like manner amusement of every descrip-
tion.

I am not the apologist of the corruptions of the stage ; but
were those corruptions reformed, I am unable to perceive any
inherent tendencies in the drama unfavorable to the cultiva-
tion of religious sentiments. If it be not pernicious to read
a good play in one's closet, what harm can result from wit-
nessing its representation on the stage? If the affecting scenes
and noble sentiments which adorn our best plays tend, even
on a calm perusal, to purify and exalt the moral sense, would

APPENDIX. 429

not these good impressions be deepened when the witchery
of the actor gives them voice and emphasis? Should it be
said that the pleasure derived from such spectacles is prone to
be carried to excess, I ask, What is there productive of agree-
able emotion, either in body or mind, that has not the same
tendency? Are not the pleasures of taste, the amusements
of elegant literature (pleasures and amusements purely intel-
lectual), also liable to inordinate indulgence? Are not the
toils of the student, the researches of philosophy, frequently
prosecuted at the expense of health, and to the neglect of
that moral culture which, in the view of the religious world,
should be paramount to all other pursuits? And must we
abstain front all the enjoyments of sense and intellect with
which a beneficent Providence has supplied us because human
nature, from its constitution, is addicted to the intemperate use
of all things that minister to its gratification ? Such reason-
ing would consign mankind to a life of privation and self-
denial more intolerable than the most rigid austerities of
Catholic superstition. A stoic or an anchorite, by striving
to extinguish the passions, to stifle those inborn propensities,
those eager yearnings after pleasure, implanted in the human
bosom for wise purposes, counteracts the beneficence of his
Creator; but a Christian philosopher teaches a doctrine far
more practicable and more consonant with our relations to the
Supreme Being. He tells us that we are placed here to enjoy,
as well as to suffer ; that guilt and misery are the fruits, not
of the regulated indulgence, but of the excess of our passions ;
and that by the moderate use of our multiplied blessings we
best show our gratitude to the great Giver and the ascendency
of virtuous principle over brutal appetite. Religion exacts
no sacrifice of those pleasures which become sinful only from
their abuse, but has wisely hedged in our path with duties that
warn us when their gratification ceases to be blameless.

But, in truth, is not this objection to the theatre as applica-
ble to the business as to the enjoyments of life? Are not the
allurements which incite us to the pursuit of gain, of power,
and of distinction apt to terminate in excess? Do not the pas-
sions, awakened by 'objects so eagerly coveted by all classes

430 APPENDIX.

of men, too often acquire an undue predominance over our
hearts ? Are they to be condemned, therefore, as unlawful,
and shunned as fraught with the destruction of our eternal
hopes? If so, what remains within the sphere of human
action to which a pious man may safely direct his attention ?
In this enlightened age no one, I am sure, however strict in
his notions of religious duty, would be disposed to push his
principles of self-restraint to such a preposterous extreme.
All agree that the rewards of industry and talent are legit-
imate subjects of competition, and the devotee becomes a
candidate for these tempting acquisitions without incurring
reproach or imagining that the engrossing nature of the pur-
suit might shake the stability of his religious pri»ciples. But
is there not danger that, when the ordinary channels of enjoy-
ment are closed, the affections, confined within a narrower
compass, will be forced with preternatural violence through
those that are left open — that avarice and ambition will usurp
the dominion of those hearts which are denied the solace
of gratifications less sordid and unsocial? Among the thou-
sand examples of a deep insight into human motives evinced
by the writings of Shakespeare, there are few more striking
than the scene where he makes Caesar point to the sour,
austere gravity of Cassius as an evidence of the dangerous,
designing character of the future conspirator; for it is in
such natures that the gloomy, selfish passions of avarice and
ambition most readily take root.

The idea that religion demands a total estrangement of its
votaries from the world and its amusements wholly precludes
those benignant influences which the pious man would other-
wise exert on public manners and opinions. It cannot be
doubted that religion has contributed largely to implant
higher notions of duty and a purer standard of moral senti-
ment throughout the civilized world, even among those who
refuse to acknowledge its divine obligation. To the same
cause may be principally ascribed the correction of the gross-
ness and indecency with which conversation and literature
were formerly sullied. If religious men had refused to min-
gle in the social circle with those who did not subscribe to

APPENDIX. 431

their articles of faith, or if they had taken no interest in the
progress of letters, would a reformation so beneficial in its
consequences have ever been effected ? If the same inter-
dict were proclaimed against association with unbelievers and
against elegant literature which has been so sternly enforced
against the theatre, how speedily would we relapse into bar-
barism, and how soon would the evil passions of men, un-
checked by the dread of public censure, wear off that gloss
of refinement which, if it be not virtue, banishes at least the
provocatives to vice ! The reasoning which assumes that a
participation in what are called innocent amusements would
impair or destroy the feeling of devotion applies, though per-
haps in a less degree, to a familiar commerce with the uncon-
verted part of mankind. The worldliness and frivolity, not
to say impiety, which frequently disfigure the conversation
of such persons are ofttimes as incompatible with serious
reflection, as apt to awaken rebellious thoughts and impulses,
as those fashionable recreations which fill the minds of so
many worthy people with pious horror. And are these pur-
ists prepared to carry out their principles of exclusion by
imposing a perpetual quarantine on unbelievers — by insisting
on a total separation of professors from those who are still
without the pale of the Church? Such a rigid non-inter-
course, such a Chinese wall of intolerance, would assuredly
repel the intrusion of the thoughtless votaries of pleasure,
and counteract every effort to reclaim them from errors of
practice scarcely less pernicious than errors of opinion. It
is in the intercourse of society, the interchange of courtesy
and kindness, the offices of friendship and benevolence, that
piety assumes its most winning and amiable aspect. It is
there that youth, attracted by its mild and steady cheerful-
ness, ceases to be giddy and volatile, and, unscared by the
asperity of reproof, imbibes unwittingly the lessons of true
wisdom. Surely every one, however adverse to the defile-
ments of the world, must confess that the slight evil arising
from promiscuous society is more than compensated by these
advantages. If such be the moral benefits accruing from the
example of religious men in the intercourse of private life,

43 2 APPENDIX.

can any reason be assigned why their participation in the
diversions of the stage would not eventually redeem those
diversions from the opprobrium of fostering the vicious pro-
pensities of mankind ? The efficacy of their power over pub-
lic opinion was displayed in the cleansing of that moral lep-
rosy which infected the whole mass of society in the sixteenth
century ; and surely the defects of the theatre are not so in-
veterate but that in this more refined and enlightened age
they would yield to the same sanitary influence.

An objection to dramatic amusements which has operated
with as much force as any on the religious world is the loose
and dissipated habits by which actors are too frequently dis-
tinguished. It is said that to encourage theatres is, in truth,
to patronize an idle, worthless, and abandoned class of people ;
and the question is asked emphatically whether it comports
with the principles of religion to lavish upon a set of drones
and vagabonds, who are nuisances in society, those resources
which in justice should be appropriated to more meritorious
objects. It must be acknowledged that the character of the
Thespian tribe is not, in general, formed upon the most ex-
alted model of moral purity ; but their laxity of principle and
conduct may, I am persuaded, be traced to the same causes
which have occasioned the deterioration of the drama. Were
audiences more select, did they exercise a more fastidious
and discriminating taste, not only would plays be more pure
and their representation more decorous, but the improvement
would reach even the personal character of the performers.
Whatever lends dignity to the histrionic profession must
assuredly tend to elevate the character of those who embrace
it ; and when theatrical exhibitions are recognized among the
legitimate vehicles of moral instruction, the actor, no longer
a degraded minister to the diversion of the vulgar, the frivol-
ous and the dissolute, might justly aspire to a place among
those who labor to promote the best interests of mankind.
The calling of an actor would then be deemed useful and re-
spectable, and men of real worth might engage in it without
the fear of disgrace. The vacancies in our dramatic corps
would be recruited, not from the dregs of society, from out-

APPENDIX. 433

casts driven to the stage as a last resource against penury, but
from men of talents and education, who would not disdain
a pursuit which, while it afforded the means of honorable
support, might become a powerful instrument for the moral
reformation of society.

Admitting, however, that actors, from the very nature of
their occupation, have an irreclaimable proclivity to vice —
which is the most unfavorable view of the case — it does not
follow that the character of the performers furnishes a suf-
ficient reason for rejecting dramatic entertainments. Let the
solidity of this objection be tested by its application to anal-
ogous cases. Are not those concerned in the exhibition of
other public shows and spectacles exposed, by parity of reason,
to the same moral contamination ? And yet who scruples to
attend the concert of an itinerant musician or visit a mena-
gerie of wild beasts, not to mention a variety of other diver-
sions ? In such cases does any man inquire what is the moral
conduct of those who pocket his money? But if, indeed,
there be any propriety in avoiding the theatre because players
are not distinguished for sobriety of deportment, it is palpable
that the principle must reach much further. Pursuing this
idea through all its bearings on the relations of life, it would
require that we should countenance no profession having a
tendency, real or supposed, to weaken our moral and religious
principles; that we should purchase nothing of any man with-
out inquiry into his character and the character of those by
whom the article was fabricated; that, like douce Davie
Deans, we should employ neither physician nor lawyer with-
out previously ascertaining the orthodoxy of his faith and the
rectitude of his practice. For if it be wrong to patronjze
players because they are a wicked and perverse generation,
on the same ground it must be equally reprehensible to swell
by our encouragement the gains of a merchant or manufac-
turer whose conduct is open to exception. Some very worthy
people are fully persuaded that the practice of law is calcu-
lated to unsettle the religious belief and pervert the moral
perceptions of its professors. Must lawyers, therefore, be put
under the ban and driven like lepers from the bosom of so-
37 2C

434 APPENDIX.

ciety ? Again : it is confidently believed by many that the
business of retailing merchandise has a demoralizing effect
upon the characters of men, because it presents such frequent
temptations to petty fraud and deception. Must a similar
interdict, therefore, be proclaimed against merchants? Or
is any man so circumspect or scrupulous as to reject this use-
ful and profitable calling lest his moral principles should be
corrupted ? On the contrary, it is the occupation, above all
others, which in this country of trade and commerce is em-
braced with equal eagerness by saint and sinner as the cer-
tain avenue to wealth and consequence. But it were endless
to enumerate the absurdities necessarily involved in the prac-
tical application of such a principle. No man could of would
act upon it in the ordinary intercourse or business of life, be-
cause it would disturb the current of human affairs with an
eternal and unnatural warfare, and eventually dissolve the very
elements of society. But the advocates of this principle may
allege that an obvious distinction exists between pursuits es-
sential to our comfort and subsistence and those that conduce
merely to our amusement. If there be an indispensable ne-
cessity to patronize the undeserving, there would be some
force in such an idea, but are there not many cases in which
no such necessity can be pretended ? Among a multitude of
instances take the example of a worthless mechanic. What
compels us to employ him in preference to one of less skill
but of more blameless deportment? And yet in that case no
one hesitates when it suits his interest or convenience to
bestow his patronage on the least meritorious. Indeed, the
distinction referred to is never recognized in matters of busi-
ness, and rarely in matters of mere amusement. Who ever
objected to the purchase of Hume's history because the writer
was an infidel? If Walter Scott and Washington Irving were
notorious sceptics or men of profligate character, is there any
principle of ethics or religion that forbids the purchase of
their writings, supposing them to be in other respects unex-
ceptionable? No one, I am sure, would maintain the affir-
mative of such a proposition ; yet in the case stated our
countenance and support would be given to men whose con-

APPENDIX. 435

duct and principles we did not approve, not from the com-
pulsion of an overruling necessity, but simply as a matter of
personal gratification.

But it is insisted that the money bestowed on the diversions
of the theatre might be more usefully, and therefore more
commendably, employed. So, indeed, might every expendi-
ture devoted to the purchase of innocent pleasure. And will
it be argued that every application of money not of absolute
necessity or utility is criminal ? If we dedicate a portion of
our resources to the promotion of literature and the fine arts,
not to speak of various other indulgences not forbidden by
the most rigid, are we to be condemned as selfish and ex-
travagant because they might have been applied to more im-
portant purposes? As well might it be said that we should
clothe ourselves in the coarsest apparel and subsist on the
rudest fare because the money lavished on costly garments
and comfortable living might have been better expended in
the relief of the poor or the advancement of some religious
undertaking. Were such a self-denying principle adopted in
practice, all the elegancies and superfluities of life must be
abandoned, and we should exhibit the singular spectacle of
surrendering at this advanced stage of society all the benefits
of civilization.

Let me not be misunderstood. I do not justify that
exclusive selfishness which absorbs everything in the vortex
of its own gratification, nor leaves a peculium to bestow
on the great enterprises of philanthropy. But the guilt
in all such cases consists in the inordinate indulgence, and
it is a maxim undeniably true that pleasure should always
yield to the demands of duty. But, subject to this limitation
and the obligations of temperance, it is clear to my under-
standing that Providence designed us to partake of every en-
joyment not absolutely criminal in its nature. So far as this
discussion is concerned, the true question seems to be whether
any principle of morality or religion forbids dramatic repre-
sentations in the abstract as sinful and demoralizing ; for if
there be no such principle, it is- just as venial to appropriate,
within reasonable limits, our means to that recreation, when

436 APPENDIX.

properly regulated, as to any other gratification admitted to
be innocent.

The uncompromising hostility of the religious world to the
theatre would have some definite object if its total suppression
were an achievement within the range of probability ; but such
an enterprise is rendered utterly hopeless when we consider
the innate love of mankind for public spectacles and the mul-
titude remaining unconnected with the Christian churches.
Indeed, were it practicable, I question whether success would
fulfil the wishes of its most zealous promoters — whether, in
truth, the evil designed to be eradicated would not be repro-
duced in a form more deleterious than its original prototype.
If the annals of history be consulted, it will be found that
some species of public exhibition has been popular and preva-
lent among all nations, ancient and modern, barbarous and
refined. The propensity for such amusements must therefore be
deeply seated in human nature ; and the question is whether
this natural craving for shows and spectacles will not be grati-
fied in some shape in despite of all opposition. If the drama
be prohibited, is there not danger that some diversion more
pernicious in its tendency will usurp its place ? Such an ap-
prehension, authorized as it is by the original propensities of
mankind, derives additional strength from our actual experi-
ence. With what insatiable eagerness of curiosity do the
people of this country throng to the circus, the menagerie,
and every sort of public spectacle ! In these favorite pastimes
there is nothing to refine the taste, to inform the understand-
ing, to move the affections, to improve the heart. All the
evils imputed to the theatre appear there in an aggravated
form, with none of its redeeming advantages, and when they
shall have thoroughly debased the public mind the transition
will be easy to the more cruel sports of our ancestors. Shall
we be much benefited by the substitution of such vulgar shows
as these for the more intellectual diversions of the playhouse ?
We must take man as he is, and since we cannot change his
nature, it is the part of wisdom to use all the means within our
reach to cultivate and refine it.

In a political no less than a moral point of view the charac-

APPENDIX. 437

ter and tendency of public spectacles is of the utmost import-
ance to the community. It was shrewdly remarked by Fletcher
of Saltoun that had he the composition of its popular songs
and ballads he would have no difficulty in moulding to his
wishes the feelings and opinions of any nation ; but, potent
as these are in forming the popular character, they are scarcely
more influential than public shows and amusements. And,
indeed, the latter have been deemed in some countries of such
vital consequence to the well-being of the community that
they have been made the subject of legislative regulation. An
interference with such matters by the government, other than
to maintain good order and to punish flagrant outrages on
decency and morals, would be repugnant to the genius of our
institutions; and therefore no remedy remains to us for the
multiplied abuses to which such exhibitions are liable but the
corrective of an enlightened public opinion. Theatres, then,
will continue to exist, but whether for good or evil depends
upon the character of those by whom their action will be con-
trolled. If left to the exclusive government of bad men and
an undiscerning populace, they will surely degenerate into the
nurseries of vice, the organized seminaries of licentiousness,
infidelity, sedition, and violence. Is it not of the utmost con-
sequence to the peace of society, to the permanence of our
political institutions, to the interests of morality and religion,
that these pestilential consequences should be averted ? I call
upon all good men, and more especially I invoke the religious
community, to interpose a barrier to the advent of these wide-
spreading evils. If they will take a prominent part in the
applause and censure which determine the course and manner
of dramatic exhibitions, the stage will become — what it was
intended to be in its original institution — the fast friend and
faithful ally of virtue. There was a time when men distin-
guished for the strictness of their morals and their zeal in the
cause of religion esteemed it no crime to witness theatrical
entertainments — when Addison, Johnson, Moore, and a host
of literary worthies sustained the cause of the drama both by
their countenance and writings. The authority of great names,
I acknowledge, should not overrule the convictions of reason,
37*

438 APPENDIX.

but surely a diversion sanctioned by such persons as these can-
not be altogether unworthy the care of the wise and good.

But the reformation of the theatre involves other considera-
tions of great and vital importance. It is, in fact, the only
school where a numerous class of people can imbibe refined
sentiments or correct ideas of literary composition. The
bulk of those who frequent the playhouse at the present day
are composed of unlettered, unpolished men, and the drama
has consequently assumed a tone and character adapted to
their coarse and vulgar perceptions. Hence it is, as has been
already remarked, that broad farce and low comedy have pre-
dominated on the modern stage — that grimace and buffoonery
command louder applause than the most striking efforts of the
histrionic art ; and this degraded condition of the drama,
reacting on the audience, has tended still further to vitiate the
public taste. Did men of cultivated minds and a nice sense
of propriety constitute the larger portion of such assemblies,
this miserable trash would be no longer tolerated, and the
representation of the standard works of genius would soon
beget among the more ignorant spectators greater delicacy of
sentiment and juster notions of literary merit. In ancient
times the populace of Athens were remarkable for their acute-
ness and discrimination, because both in their public spectacles
and assemblies their taste was chastened and purified by the
finest specimens of poetry and eloquence that the world has
ever witnessed. It was not that the Athenians were more
enlightened than their Grecian contemporaries, or that they
derived their pre-eminence in literature and the fine arts from
any peculiarity of physical organization. So far as the diffu-
sion of knowledge is concerned, they were far inferior to the
people of Europe and America. Their acute perception of the
beauties of style and proprieties of conduct was not an innate
endowment, nor yet an indication of uncommon intellectual
development, but sprang from the constant cultivation of their
taste by the efforts of those great orators and philosophers
whose genius shed such splendor on the history of that re-
public. What a contrast to the Athenian people is presented
by the rude and ferocious rabble of Rome, who took far less

APPENDIX. 439

interest in the debates of the Forum and the Senate than in
the cruel and brutalizing exhibitions of the amphitheatre !
It is evident, then, that public diversions are a most import-
ant element in the formation of national taste and character ;
and this importance is still further enhanced by the intimate
connection subsisting between mental and moral cultivation.
Among these diversions the theatre is almost the only one
which furnishes entertainment to all classes, and which from
its nature can be made subservient to the literary improvement
'of the uneducated part of society. I conclude, therefore, that
morals, politics, and literature are alike interested in the res-
toration of the drama to its primitive purity, and that while
the pious and enlightened remain either hostile or indifferent
to this great enterprise it can never be successfully prosecuted.

D.

II.

THE following matter, selected from an old-time London
publication, will afford the reader an insight into the fluctu-
ating condition of theatrical affairs previous to the advent
of David Garrick :

At a time when many theatres were employed to divert
the public, and when none of them were in a flourishing
state, the imprudence and extravagance of a gentleman who
possessed genius, wit, and humor in a high degree obliged
him to strike out a new species of entertainment, which in
the end produced an extraordinary change in the constitu-
tion of the dramatic system. To extricate himself out of
difficulties in which he was involved, and probably to re-
venge some indignities which had been thrown upon him by
people in power, that admirable painter and accurate ob-
server of life, the late Henry Fielding, determined to amuse
the town at the expense of some persons in high rank and
of great influence in the political world. For this purpose
he got together a company of performers, who exhibited at
the theatre in the Haymarket under the whimsical title of

440 APPENDIX.

"The Great Mogul's Company of Comedians." The piece
he represented was Pasqutn, which was acted to crowded
audiences for fifty successive nights. Encouraged by the
favorable reception this performance met with, he deter-
mined to continue at the same place the next season, when
he produced several new plays, some of which were applaud-
ed and the rest condemned. As soon as the novelty of the
design was over a visible difference appeared between the
audiences of the two years. The company, which, as the
play-bills said, dropped from the clouds, was disbanded, and
the manager, not having attended to the voice of economy in
his prosperity, was left no richer nor more independent than
when he first engaged in the project.

The seventy of Mr. Fielding's satire in these pieces had
galled the minister to that degree that the impression was
not erased from his mind when the cause of it had lost all
effect. He meditated, therefore, a severe revenge on the
stage, and determined to prevent any attacks of the like kind
for the future. In the execution of this plan he steadily per-
sisted, and at last had the satisfaction of seeing the enemy
which had given him so much uneasiness effectually restrain-
ed from any power of annoying him in the public theatres.
An act of Parliament, passed in the year 1737, forbade the
representation of any performance not previously licensed
by the Lord Chamberlain, or in any place, except the city
of Westminster and the liberties thereof, where the royal fam-
ily should at any time reside. It also took from the Crown
the power of licensing any more theatres, and inflicted heavy
penalties on those who should hereafter perform in defiance
of the regulations in the statute. This unpopular act did not
pass without opposition. It called forth the eloquence of
Lord Chatham in a speech wherein all the arguments in
favor of this obnoxious law were answered, the dangers which
might ensue from it were pointed out, and the little neces-
sity for such hostilities against the stage clearly demonstrated.
It also excited an alarm in the people at large, as tending to
introduce restraints on the liberty of the press. Many pamph-
lets were published against the principle of the act, and it

APPENDIX. 441

was combated in every shape which wit, ridicule, or argu-
ment could oppose it in. All these, however, availed noth-
ing; the minister had resolved, and the Parliament was too
compliant to slight a bill which came recommended from so
powerful a quarter. It therefore passed into a law, and freed
the then and all future ministers from any apprehension of
mischief from the wit or malice of dramatic writers.

THE EARL OF CHATHAM'S SPEECH

Against the Bill entitled "An Act made to Explain and Amend so much
of an Act made in the Twelfth Year of the Reign of Queen Anne, entitled
'An Act for Reducing the Laws relating to Rogues, etc.] as relates to
common Players of Interludes"

MY LORDS : The bill now before you I apprehend to be
of a very extraordinary, a very dangerous, nature. It seems
designed not only as a restraint to the licentiousness of the
stage, but it will prove a most arbitrary restraint on the lib-
erty of the stage ; and I fear it looks yet further. I fear it
tends toward a restraint on the liberty of the press, which
will be a long stride toward the destruction of liberty itself.
It is not only a bill, my Lords, of a very extraordinary na-
ture, but has been brought in at a very extraordinary season
and pushed with most extraordinary despatch. When I con-
sidered how near it was to the end of the session, and how
long this session had been protracted beyond the usual time
of the year — when I considered that this bill passed through
the other House with so much precipitancy as even to get
the start of a bill which deserved all the respect and all the
despatch the forms of either House of Parliament could ad-
mit of — it set me upon inquiring what could be the reason of
introducing this bill at so unseasonable a time and pressing
it forward in a manner so very singular and uncommon. I
have made all possible inquiry, and as yet, I must confess, I
am at a loss to find out the great occasion. I have, 'tis true,
learned from common report without-doors that a most sedi-
tious, a most heinous, farce had been offered to one of the
theatres — a farce for which the authors ought to be punished

442 APPENDIX.

in a most exemplary manner. But what was the consequence ?
The master of that theatre behaved as he was in duty bound
and as common prudence directed : he not only refused to
bring it upon the stage, but carried it to a certain honorable
gentleman in the administration as the surest method of hav-
ing it suppressed. Could this be the occasion of introducing
such an extraordinary bill, at such an extraordinary season,
and pushing it in so extraordinary a manner? Surely no:
the dutiful behavior of the players, the prudent caution they
showed upon that occasion, can never be a reason for subject-
ing them to such an arbitrary restraint. It is an argument in
their favor, and a material one, in my opinion, against the
bill. Nay, further, if we consider all the circumstances, it is,
to me, a full proof that the laws now in being are sufficient for
punishing those players who shall venture to bring any sedi-
tious libel upon the stage, and consequently sufficient for de-
terring all players from acting anything that may have the
least tendency toward giving a reasonable offence. I do not,
my Lords, pretend to be a lawyer — I do not pretend to know
perfectly the power and extent of our laws, but I have con-
versed with those who do, and by them I have been told that
our laws are sufficient for punishing any person that shall dare
to represent upon the stage what may appear, either by the
words or representation, to be blasphemous, seditious, or im-
moral. I must own, indeed, I have observed of late a remark-
able licentiousness in the stage. There have but very lately
been two plays acted which, one would have thought, should
have given the greatest offence, and yet both were suffered to
be often represented without disturbance, without censure.*
In one the author thought fit to represent the three great pro-

* The late H. Fielding, Esq., whose licentiousness as an author chiefly
contributed toward drawing on the resentment of a minister, and thereby
occasioned the heavy hand of power to fall on the stage in general, where-
by the innocent suffered with the guilty, — this same gentleman, as a mag-
istrate, with specious and fallacious arguments (stolen from Mandeville and
others) has occasioned some laws to be made which give such unlimited
power to justices of the peace as may, by degrees, prove the entire de-
struction of our once-boasted liberty and lay the foundation of the most
tyrannic and arbitrary power.

APPENDIX. 443

fessions, religion, physic, and the law, as inconsistent with com-
mon sense; in the other, a most tragical story was brought
upon the stage, a catastrophe too recent, too melancholy, and
of too solemn a nature to be heard of anywhere but from the
pulpit. How these pieces came to pass unpunished I do not
know. If I am rightly informed, it was not for want of law,
but for want of prosecution, without which no law can be
made effectual. But if there was any neglect in this case, I
am not convinced it was not with a design to prepare the
minds of the people, and to make them think a new law
necessary.

Our stage ought certainly, my Lords, to be kept within due
bounds, but for this our laws, as they stand at present, are
sufficient. If our stage-players at any time exceed those
bounds, they ought to be prosecuted — they may be punish-
ed. We have precedents, we have examples, of persons hav-
ing been punished for things less criminal than either of the
two pieces I have just mentioned.

A new law must therefore be unnecessary, and in the pres-
ent case it cannot be unnecessary without being dangerous.
Every unnecessary restraint on licentiousness is a fetter upon
the legs, is a shackle upon the hands, of liberty. One of the
greatest blessings we enjoy — one of the greatest blessings a
people, my Lords, can enjoy — is liberty ; but every good in
this life has its alloy of evil. Licentiousness is the alloy of
liberty: it is an ebullition, an excrescence — it is a speck upon
the eye of the political body, which I can never touch but
with a gentle, with a trembling hand, lest I destroy the body,
lest I injure the eye upon which it is apt to appear. If the
stage becomes at any time licentious, if a play appears to be
a libel upon the government or upon any particular man, the
king's courts are open, the law is sufficient for punishing the
offender ; and in this case the person injured has a singular
advantage : he can be under no difficulty to prove who is the
publisher. The players themselves are the publishers, and
there can be no want of evidence to convict them.

But, my Lords, suppose it true that the laws now in being
are not sufficient for putting a check to, or preventing, the

444 APPENDIX.

licentiousness of the stage; suppose it absolutely necessary
some new law should be made for that purpose ; yet it must
be granted that such a law ought to be maturely considered,
and every clause, every sentence — nay, every word — of it
well weighed and examined, lest, under some of those meth-
ods presumed or pretended to be necessary for restraining
licentiousness a power should lie concealed which might
afterward be made use of for giving a dangerous wound to
liberty. Such a law ought not to be introduced at the close
of a session, nor ought we, in the passing of such a law, de-
part from any of the forms prescribed by our ancestors for
preventing deceit and surprise.

There is such a connection between licentiousness and lib-
erty that it is not easy to correct the one without dangerously
wounding the other. It is extremely hard to distinguish the
true limit between them. Like a changeable silk, we can
easily see there are two different colors, but we cannot easily
discover where the one ends or where the other begins. There
can be no great and immediate danger from the licentiousness
of the stage. I hope it will not be pretended that our govern-
ment may before next winter be overturned by such licen-
tiousness, even though our stage were at present under no
sort of legal control. Why, then, may we not delay till next
session passing any law against the licentiousness of the stage ?
Neither our government can be altered nor our constitution
overturned by such a delay ; but by passing a law rashly and
unadvisedly our constitution may at once be destroyed and
our government rendered arbitrary. Can we, then, put a
small, a short-lived, inconvenience in the balance with per-
petual slavery? Can it be supposed that a Parliament of
Great Britain will so much as risk the latter for the sake of
avoiding the former?

Surely, my Lords, this is not to be expected were the licen-
tiousness of the stage much greater than it is — were the insuf-
ficiency of our laws more obvious than can be pretended.
But when we complain of the licentiousness of the stage and
the insufficiency of our laws, I fear we have more reason to
complain of bad measures in our polity and a general decay

APPENDIX. 445

of virtue and morality among the people. In public as well
as private life the only way to prevent being ridiculed or cen-
sured is to avoid all ridiculous or wicked measures, and to
pursue such only as are virtuous or worthy. The people never
endeavor to ridicule those they love and esteem, nor will they
suffer them to be ridiculed : if any one attempts it, the ridicule
returns upon the author ; he makes himself only the object of
public hatred and contempt. The actions or behavior of a pri-
vate man may pass unobserved, and consequently unapplaud-
ed, uncensured, but the actions of those in high stations can pass
neither without notice nor without censure or applause ; and
therefore an administration without esteem, without authority
among the people, let their power be ever so great, let their
power be ever so arbitrary, they will be ridiculed. The seve-
rest edicts, the most terrible punishments, cannot entirely pre-
vent it. If any man, therefore, thinks he has been censured
upon any of our public theatres, let him examine his actions —
he will find the cause ; let him alter his conduct — he will find
a remedy. As no man is perfect, as no man is infallible, the
greatest may err, the most circumspect may be guilty of some
piece of ridiculous behavior. It is not licentiousness, it is a
useful liberty, always indulged the stage in a free country, that
some great men may there meet with a just reproof which none
of their friends will be free enough — or rather faithful enough —
to give them. Of this we have a famous instance in the Roman
history. The great Pompey, after the many victories he had
obtained and the great conquests he had made, had certainly a
good title to the esteem of the people of Rome ; yet that great
man by some error in his conduct became an object of general
dislike ; and therefore in the representation of an old play, when
Diphilus the actor came to repeat these words, Nostra miseria
tu es magnus, the audience immediately applied them to Pom-
pey, who at that time was as well known by the name "mag-
nus " as by the name Pompey, and were so highly pleased
with the satire that, as Cicero says, they made the actor by
their clamor repeat the words a hundred times over. An ac-
count of this was immediately sent to Pompey, who, instead
of resenting it as an injury, was so wise as to take it for a just
38

44^ APPENDIX.

reproof. He examined his conduct, he altered his measures,
he regained by degrees the esteem of the people, and then he
neither feared the wit nor felt the satire of the stage. This
is an example which ought to be followed by great men in all
countries. Such accidents will often happen in every free
country, and many such would probably have afterward hap-
pened at Rome if she had continued to enjoy her liberty.
But this sort of liberty in the stage came soon after, I suppose,
to be called licentiousness ; for we are told that Augustus,
after having established his empire, restored order in Rome by
restraining licentiousness. God forbid we should in this coun-
try have order restored or licentiousness restrained at so dear
a rate as the people of Rome paid for it to Augustus !

In the case I have mentioned, my Lords, it was not the
poet that wrote (for it was an old play), nor the players that
acted (for they only repeated the words of the play), it was
the people, who pointed the satire ; and the case will always
be the same. When a man has the misfortune to incur the
hatred and contempt of a people, when public measures are
despised, the audience will apply what never was, what could
not be, designed as a satire on the present times. Nay, even
though the people should not apply, those who are conscious of
guilt, those who are conscious of the weakness or wickedness
of their own conduct, will take to themselves what the author
never designed. A public thief is apt to take the satire, as he
is apt to take the money, which was never designed for him.
We have an instance of this in the case of a comedian of the
last age — a comedian who was not only a good poet, but an
honest man and a quiet and good subject. The famous Moliere,
when he wrote his Tartuffe — which is certainly an excellent
and a good moral comedy — did not design to satirize any
great man of that age ; yet a great man in France at that time
took it to himself, and fancied the author had taken him as a
model for one of the principal and one of the worst characters
in that comedy. By good luck, he was not the licenser; other-
wise, the kingdom of France had never had the pleasure — the
happiness, I may say — of seeing that play acted ; but when the
players first proposed to act it at Paris he had interest enough

APPENDIX. 447

to get it forbid. Moliere, who knew himself innocent of what
was laid to his charge, complained to his patron, the Prince
of Conti, that, as his play was designed only to expose hypoc-
risy and a false pretence to religion, it was very hard it should
be forbid being acted, when at the same time they were suf-
fered to expose religion itself every night publicly upon the
Italian stage; to which the prince wittily answered, " 'Tis
true, Moliere : Harlequin ridicules Heaven and exposes relig-
ion ; but you have done much worse — you have ridiculed the
first minister of religion."

I am as much for restraining the licentiousness of the stage,
and every other sort of licentiousness, as any of your Lord-
ships can be ; but, my Lords, I am, I shall always be, ex-
tremely cautious and fearful of making the least encroachment
upon liberty ; and therefore, when a new law is proposed
against licentiousness, I shall always be for considering it
maturely and deliberately before I venture to give my consent
to its being passed. This is a sufficient reason for my being
against passing this bill at so unseasonable a time and in so
extraordinary a manner ; but I have many reasons for being
against passing the bill itself, some of which I shall beg leave
to explain to your Lordships. The bill, my Lords, at first
view may seem to be designed only against the stage, but to
me it plainly appears to point somewhere else. It is an arrow
that does but glance at the stage ; the mortal wound seems
designed against the liberty of the press. By this bill you
prevent a play being acted, but you do not prevent its being
printed ; therefore, if a license should be refused for its being
acted, we may depend on it the play will be printed. It will
be printed and published, my Lords, with the refusal in capi-
tal letters on the title-page. People are always fond of what's
forbidden. Libri prohibiti are in all countries diligently and
generally sought after. It will be much easier to procure a
refusal than it ever was to procure a good house or a good sale;
therefore we may expect that plays will be written on purpose
to have a refusal ; this will certainly procure a good sale.
Thus will satires be spread and dispersed through the whole
nation, and thus every man in the kingdom may — and prob-

APPENDIX.

ably will — read for sixpence what a few only could have seen
acted, and that not under the expense of half a crown. We
shall then be told, "What ! will you allow an infamous libel
to be printed and dispersed which you would not allow to be
acted ? You have agreed to a law for preventing its being
acted ; can you refuse your assent to a law for preventing its
being printed and published?" I should really, my Lords,
be glad to hear what excuse, what reason, one could give for
being against the latter after having agreed to the former, for
I protest I cannot suggest the least shadow for an excuse. If
we agree to the bill now before us we must — perhaps next ses-
sion— agree to a bill for preventing any plays being printed
without a license. Thus, my Lords, from the precedent now
before us we shall be induced — nay, we can find no reason for
refusing — to lay the press under general license, and then we
may bid adieu to the liberties of Great Britain.

But suppose, my Lords, it were necessary to make a new
law for restraining the licentiousness of the stage — which I am
very far from granting — yet I shall never be for establishing
such a power as is proposed by this bill. If poets and players
are to be restrained, as other subjects are, by the known laws
of their country — if they offend, let them be tried, as every
Englishman ought to be, by God and their country. Do not
let us subject them to the arbitrary will and pleasure of any
one man. A power lodged in the hands of one single man to
judge and determine without limitation, without any control
or appeal, is a sort of power unknown to our laws, inconsist-
ent with our constitution ; it is a higher, a more absolute
power than we trust even to the king himself; and therefore
I must think we ought not to vest any such power in His Ma-
jesty's Lord Chamberlain. When I say this, I am sure I do
not mean to give the least, the most distant, offence to the
noble duke who now fills the post of Lord Chamberlain ; his
natural candor and love of justice would not, I know, permit
him to exercise any power but with the strictest regard to the
rules of justice and humanity. Were we sure his successors
in high office would always be persons of such distinguished
merit, even the power to be established by this bill could give

APPENDIX, 449

me no further alarm than lest it should be made a precedent
for introducing other new powers of the same nature. This,
indeed, is an alarm which cannot be prevented by any hope,
by any consideration ; it is an alarm which, I think, every
man must take who has a due regard to the constitution and
liberties of his country.

I shall admit, my Lords, that the stage ought not, upon any
occasion, to meddle with politics ; and for this very reason,
among the rest. I arn against the bill now before us. This bill
will be so far from preventing the stage's meddling with poli-
tics that I fear it will be the occasion of meddling with noth-
ing else ; but then it will be a political stage ex parte. It will
be made subservient to the politics and schemes of the court
only. The licentiousness of the stage will be encouraged in-
stead of being restrained ; but, like court journalists, it would
be licentious only against the patrons of liberty and the pro-
tectors of the people. Whatever man, whatever party, opposes
the court in any of their most destructive schemes, will upon
the stage be represented in the most ridiculous light the hire-
lings of a court can contrive. True patriotism and love of
public good will be represented as madness, or as a cloak for
envy, disappointment, and malice, whilst the most flagitious
crimes, the most extravagant vices and follies, if they are
fashionable at court, will be disguised and dressed up in the
habit of the most amiable virtues.

This has formerly been the case. In King Charles the
Second's days the playhouse was under a license ; what was
the consequence? The playhouse retailed nothing but the
politics, the vices, and the follies of a court — not to expose
them, no, but to recommend them; though it must be granted
their politics were often as bad as their vices, and much more
pernicious than their other follies. 'Tis true, the court had at
that time a great deal of wit — it was then, indeed, full of men
pf true wit and humor — but it was the more dangerous ; for
the courtiers did then, as thorough-paced courtiers always will
do : they sacrificed their honor by making their wit and humor
subservient to the court only ; and what made it still more
dangerous, no man could, appear against .them. .We know

38*

450 APPENDIX.

that Dryden, the poet-laureate of that reign, always repre-
sents the Cavaliers as honest, brave, merry fellows and fine
gentlemen. Indeed, his fine gentleman, as he generally draws
him, is an atheistical, lewd, abandoned fellow, which was at
that time, it seems, the fashionable character at court. On the
other hand, he always represents the Dissenters as hypocrit-
ical, dissembling rogues or stupid, senseless boobies. When
the court had a mind to fall out with the Dutch, he wrote his
Amboyna, in which he represents the Dutch as a pack of avari-
cious, cruel, ungrateful rascals ; and when the Exclusion Bill
was moved in Parliament, he wrote his Duke of Guise, in
which those who were for preserving, and securing the religion
of their country were exposed under the character of the
Duke of Guise and his party, who leagued together for ex-
cluding Henry the Fourth of France from the throne on ac-
count of his religion.

The city of London was made to feel the partial and mer-
cenary licentiousness of the stage at the time, for the citizens
had at that time, as well as now, a great deal of property, and
therefore they opposed some of the arbitrary measures which
were then begun, but pursued more openly in the following
reign ; for which reason they were then always represented
upon the stage as a parcel of designing knaves, dissembling
hypocrites, griping usurers, and cuckolds into the bargain.

My Lords, the proper business of the stage, and that for
which it is only useful, is to expose those vices and follies
which the laws cannot lay hold of, and to recommend those
beauties and virtues which ministers or courtiers seldom imitate
or reward. But by laying it under a license — and under an
arbitrary court license, too — you will, in my opinion, entirely
pervert its use ; for though I have the greatest esteem for
that noble duke in whose hands this power is at present
designed to fall, though I have an entire confidence in his
judgment and impartiality, yet I may suppose that a lean-
ing toward the fashions of a court is sometimes hard to be
avoided. It may be difficult to make one who is every day
at court believe that to be a vice or folly which he sees daily
practised by those he loves and esteems. By custom even

APPENDIX. 45 I

deformity itself becomes familiar, and at last agreeable. To
such a person, let his natural impartiality be ever so great,
that may appear to be a libel against the court which is only
a most just and a most necessary satire upon the fashionable
vices and follies of the court. Courtiers, my Lords, are too
polite to reprove one another; the only place where they can
meet with any just reproof is a free though not a licentious
stage ; and as every sort of folly generally, in all countries,
begins at court, and from thence spreads through the country,
by laying the stage under an arbitrary court license, instead
of leaving it what it is, and always ought to be, a gentle scourge
for the vices of great men and courtiers, you will make it a
canal for propagating and conveying their vices and follies
through the whole kingdom.

From hence, my Lords, I think it must appear that the bill
now before us cannot be so properly a bill for restraining
licentiousness, as it may be called a bill for restraining the
liberty of the stage ; and restraining it, too, in that branch
which in all countries has been the most useful ; therefore I
must look on the bill as a most dangerous encroachment upon
liberty, likewise an encroachment on property. Wit, my Lords,
is a sort of property : it is the property of those that have it,
and too often the only property they have to depend on. It
is, indeed, but a precarious dependence. Thank God ! we,
my Lords, have a dependence of another kind ; we have a
much less precarious support, and therefore cannot feel the
inconveniences of the bill now before us; but it is our duty
to encourage and protect wit, whosoever's property it may be.
Those gentlemen who have any such property are all, I hope,
our friends ; do not let us subject them to any unnecessary or
arbitrary restraint. I must own I cannot easily agree to the
laying of any tax upon wit ; but by this bill it is to be heavily
taxed ; it is to be excised, for if the bill passes it cannot be
retailed in a proper way without a permit ; and the Lord
Chamberlain is to have the honor of being chief ganger,
supervisor, commissioner, judge, and jury. But, what is still
more hard, though the poor author — the proprietor, I should
say — cannot perhaps dine till he has found out a purchaser,

452 APPENDIX.

yet before he can propose to seek for a purchaser he must pa-
tiently submit to have his goods rummaged at this new excise-
office, where they may be detained fourteen days ; and even
then he may find them returned as prohibited goods, by which
his chief and best market will be for ever shut against him ;
and that without any cause, without the least shadow of reason,
either from the laws of his country or the laws of the stage.

These hardships, this hazard, which every gentleman will
be exposed to who writes anything for the stage, must cer-
tainly prevent every man of a generous and free spirit from
attempting anything in that way ; and as the stage has always
been the proper channel for wit and humor, therefore, my
Lords, when I speak against this bill, I must think I plead the
cause of wit ; I plead the cause of humor ; I plead the cause
of the British stage and of every gentleman of taste in the
kingdom. But it is not, my Lords, for the sake of wit only ;
even for the sake of His Majesty's Lord Chamberlain I must be
against this bill. The noble duke who has now the honor to
execute that office has, I am sure, as little inclination to dis-
oblige as any man ; but if this bill passes he must disoblige ;
he may disoblige some of his most intimate friends. It is
impossible to write a play but some of the characters or some
of the satire may be interpreted to point at some person or
another, perhaps at some person in an eminent station. When
it comes to be acted the people will make the application, and
the person against whom the application is made will think
himself injured, and will, at least privately, resent it. At
present this resentment can be directed only against the au-
thor ; but when an author's play appears with my Lord Cham-
berlain's passport every such resentment will be turned from
the author and pointed directly against the Lord Chamber-
lain, who by his stamp made the piece current. What an
unthankful office are we therefore, by this bill, to put upon His
Majesty's Lord Chamberlain ! — an office which can no ways
contribute to his honor or profit, and yet such an one as must
necessarily gain him a great deal of ill-will and create him a
number of enemies.

The last reason I shall trouble your Lordships with for my

APPENDIX. 453

being against the bill is, that, in my opinion, it will no way
answer the end proposed ; I mean the end openly proposed,
and I am sure the only end which your Lordships propose. To
prevent the acting of a play that has any tendency to blas-
phemy, immorality, sedition, or private scandal can signify
nothing unless you can likewise prevent its being printed and
published. On the contrary, if you prevent its being acted,
and admit of its being printed and published, you will propa-
gate the mischief; your prohibition will prove a bellows which
will blow up the fire you intend to extinguish. This bill can
therefore be of no use for preventing either the public or the
private injury intended by such a play, and consequently can
be of no manner of use, unless it be designed as a precedent,
as a leading step, toward another for subjecting the press like-
wise to a licenser. For such a wicked purpose it may indeed
be of great use ; and in that light it may most properly be
called a step toward arbitrary power.

Let us consider, my Lords, that arbitrary power has seldom
or never been introduced into any country at once ; it must
be introduced by slow degrees; and, as it were, step by step,
lest the people should perceive its approach. The barriers
and fences of the people's liberty must be plucked up one by
one, and some plausible pretences must be found for removing
or hoodwinking one after another those sentries who are posted
by the constitution of every free country to warn the people
of their danger. When these preparatory steps are once made,
the people may then, indeed, with regret see slavery and arbi-
trary power making long strides over their land, but it will
then be too late to think of avoiding or preventing the im-
pending ruin. The stage, my Lords, and the press are two of
our out-sentries ; if we remove them, if we hoodwink them,
the enemy may surprise us. Therefore I must look upon the
bill now before us as a step — and a most necessary step, too —
for introducing arbitrary power into this kingdom. It is a step
so necessary that if ever any future ambitious king or guilty
minister should form to himself so wicked a design, he will
have reason to thank us for having done so much of the work
to his hand ; but such thanks, or thanks from such a man, I

454 APPENDIX.

am convinced every one of your Lordships would blush to
receive and scorn to deserve.
And then the bill passed!

III.

DAVID GARRICK'S FIRST APPEARANCE.

DAVID GARRICK made his first appearance at "Goodman's
Fields." That theatre did not possess a patent; therefore
the performance of Richard the Third could only be given
by introducing it as a gratuity between parts of an operatic
entertainment. The following bill of the play shows the
manner in which the theatrical law was evaded :

Oct. 19, 1741.
Goodman's Fields.

At the Theatre, Goodman's Fields, this day will be performed

A Concert of Vocal and Instrumental Music,

Divided into Two Parts.

Tickets, 35. 25. and is.

Places for the Boxes to be taken at the Fleece Tavern, near
the Theatre. N. B. Between the Two Parts of the Con-
cert will be presented an Historical Play, called
The Life and Death of King Richard the Third.

Containing the Distresses of King Henry VI.

The artful acquisition of the Crown by King Richard.

The murder of young King Edward V. and his Brother in

the Tower. The landing of the Earl of Richmond.

And the death of King Richard in the memorable battle of

Bosworth Field, being the last that was fought between

the Houses of York and Lancaster ; with many other

true Historical Passages.

The part of KING RICHARD, by a Gentleman

(who never appeared on any stage).

APPENDIX. 455

King Henry, by Mr. Giffard; Richmond, Mr. Marshall;
Prince Edward, by Miss Hippesley; Duke of York, Miss
Naylor ; Duke of Buckingham, Mr. Paterson ; Duke of Nor-
folk, Mr. Blades; Lord Stanley, Mr. Paget ; Oxford, Mr.
Vaughan ; Tressell, Mr. W. Giffard ; Catesby, Mr. Marr ;
Ratcliff, Mr. Crofts ; Blunt, Mr. Naylor ; Tyrrell, Mr. Put-
tenham ; Lord Mayor, Mr. Dunstall. The Queen, Mrs.
Steel ; Duchess of York, Mrs. Yates.

And the part of LADY ANNE, by Mrs. Giffard.

With Entertainments of Dancing,
By Monsieur Fromet, Madame Duvalt, and the two Masters

and Miss Granier.
To which will be added, a Ballad Opera, in one Act, called

The VIRGIN UNMASKED.
The part of Lucy, by Miss Hippesley.

Both of which will be performed gratis, by Persons for their
Diversion.

The Concert will begin exactly at Six o1 Clock.

IV.

THE theatrical fashion of the times has recorded every-
thing concerning the excellence of that great actor, David
Garrick, while it has been considered only something short
of heresy to republish any matter reflecting on the weak
points of his character or on the defects of his acting. When
we consider the exclusive control he exercised over the for-
tunes of actors and the drama, we are led to believe in the
old saying, "All that glitters is not gold." The history of
the stage, as well as that of politics, shows how much of tin-
sel can be palmed off for trtie metal by the glare and glitter
of sophisticated laudation. . .

Mr. Theophilus Gibber, the son of Colley Gibber, though

456 APPENDIX.

"a pestiferous fellow" and "a discontented paper," as he
was termed by the believers in Mr. Garrick's assumed dra-
matic supremacy, found among the judicious few, as well as
the unthinking many, those who were not chained to the
chariot- wheels of the "little great monarch" of the stage,
and who endorsed the honest opinions of adverse criticism
that, though a great actor, Garrick had faults which he shared
in common with all possessing qualities of true excellence.
No man was better qualified to comment on the usurpation
of "patentees" and "theatrical managers" than Theophi-
lus Gibber.

The following article will interest those who desire to
hear more than one side of this question. David Garrick
had honors enough heaped upon him to "sink a navy."
That he did not deserve them all is quite probable, and
that his merits were not, as is generally supposed, univer-
sally acknowledged, is certain. "Grey" wrote to Chute:
"Did I tell you about Garrick, that the town are 'horn
mad' after?" . . . "There are a dozen dukes of a night
sometimes at Goodman's Fields, and yet I am stiff in the
opposition." Horace Wai pole, in a letter to Sir Horace
Mann dated \ 26th May, 1742, thus reported his opinion of
Garrick at that early but brilliant period of his career : " But
all the run is now after Garrick, a wine-merchant, who is
turned player at Goodman's Fields. He plays all parts, and
is a very good mimic. His acting I have seen, and may say
to you, who will not tell it again here, I see nothing wonder-
ful in it, but it is heresy to say so ; the Duke of Argyle says
he is superior to Betterton." Criticism in favor of Garrick
and against him raged to such an extent during his career
that it was wellnigh impossible to come to any just conclu-
sion as to his merits.

APPENDIX. 457

DISSERTATIONS ON THEATRICAL SUBJECTS.
BY THEOPHILUS GIBBER, COMEDIAN (LONDON, 1759).

To come nearer our own times. Did not the truly pious
and learned Archbishop Tillotson, speaking of plays, say,
"They might be so framed and governed by such rules as
not only to be innocently diverting, but instructive and use-
ful to put some follies and vices out of countenance which
cannot perhaps be so decently reproved, nor so effectually
exposed and corrected, any other way"? Nay, that invete-
rate enemy of the stage, Collier, allows, as an undeniable
truth, "That the wit of man cannot invent anything more
conducive to virtue and destructive to vice than the drama."

From Queen Elizabeth's time to the breaking out of that
unnatural rebellion in 1641, the number of playhouses was
seldom less than eight, and sometimes double that number,
the London and Westminster were then scarcely a tenth part
so large as at present, and the frequenters of theatres are now
increased an hundred-fold.

Every theatre then had its particular patrons among the
nobility, and the stage in general was thought worthy the
encouragement of that glorious princess. This appeared in
the countenance, favor, and protection she gave to all the
sons of the Muses, especially the dramatic poets. Then a
Fletcher, Jonson, and Shakespeare arose and enriched the
stage with their admirable compositions. A queen patron-
ized them, her nobles followed the great example; a South-
ampton at one time made a present of one thousand pounds
to his honored friend Shakespeare — a gift then equal to five
times that sum now.*

* After the burning down of Covent Garden Theatre, by which Mr.
John Kemble lost his all, he met Mr. John Taylor, to whom he related
the following :

" A gentleman waited on me by desire of the duke of Northumber-
land to express His Grace's sincere concern for the melancholy event
which had occurred, and to signify that if ^"10,000 would be of use to me
in the present emergency, His Grace would order that this sum should
be advanced to me. I expressed my' gratitude as well as my surprise
at so generous an offer, but desired the gentleman to say that as it never

39

APPENDIX.

In these and some following reigns such honors were done
to dramatic compositions that the noblest personages of the
court — nay, crowned heads — have thought it no impeachment
of their honor or good sense not only to become spectators,
but were performers in many plays and masques acted at
court, to decorate which no expense was spared.

In Rhymer's Fcedera we find a copy of a license under the
privy seal granted by King James the First for the establish-
ing and supporting a company of comedians, not only in Lon-
don, but in any part of England ; which grant was made to
Cowley, Armyn, Sly, Condel, Hemings, Phillips, Burbage,
Fletcher, and the immortal Shakespeare. These were all act-
ors, and several of them poets — a sensible, honorable, and
happy junction.

During that reign, and part of King Charles the First's, the
theatres were encouraged ; then poets and actors reaped the
harvest of their own labors, till Puritanism prevailed, when,
with much zeal and little knowledge, they began their attacks
on the stage, and in a heavy load of dull abuse licentiously
libelled all the encouragers of plays of what degree soever.

Soon after the Restoration the theatres again revived, and'
two patents were granted by King Charles the Second — one
to form a company to be called "the King's," the other
"the Duke's." They were severally granted to Sir William
Davenant and Mr. Kiiligrew. But both these patentees found
it prudent to take some principal actors into shares with them.
Accordingly, Mr. Mohun, Mr. Hart, Mr. Kynaston, and other
actors became partners with Mr. Kiiligrew, as did Mr. Better-
ton, Mr. Smith, Mr. Harris, Mr. Underbill, and others with
Sir William Davenant.

could be in my power to repay His Grace, I felt myself obliged to de-
cline his noble offer. The gentleman called on me again to repeat the
offer ; and I then said I must still decline to avail myself of His Grace's
kindness, for that, so far from being able to repay the principal of so large
a sum, I did not think it would ever be in my power to discharge even
the interest. The gentleman took this message to His Grace, but called
on me a third time to tell me that His Grace made the offer as an act of
friendship, and therefore he should never require from me either interest
or principal."

APPENDIX. 459

But these patents became afterward branched out into dif-
ferent hands, and were purchased in parcels by the indolent
and ignorant, who so oppressed the actors that on their just
complaints, made to the Earl of Dorset, then Lord Chamber-
lain, he not only heard but redressed their grievances. He
took the most effectual method for their relief. The learned
of the law were advised with, who then (as many have since)
gave it as their opinion that if acting of plays were malum in
se (in itself criminal), no royal sanction ought or could pro-
tect it; but, as neither law nor common sense had ever
deemed it so, patents and licenses were thought proper
grants from the Crown, and that no patent from any former
king could tie up the hands of a succeeding prince from grant-
ing the like authorities.

On this representation King William, of glorious memory,
granted a license to Messrs. Kynaston, Betterton, Dogget, Bow-
man, Underhill, Mrs. Barry, Mrs. Bracegirdle, and others to
form a company and act for themselves.

And a voluntary subscription was soon raised to build
'em a theatre, which they opened on Easter Monday, 1695,
with that admirable comedy, then new, called Love for Love.
There they continued about ten years, till a license from Queen
Anne being granted to Sir John Vanbrugh and Mr. Congreve,
these forementioned actors were influenced by hopes of large
rewards to act under these new managers. But in two seasons
these gentlemen, the men of great parts, wit, and sense, from
their inexperience and want of knowledge in the various
branches of stage-management, soon found themselves disap-
pointed, not only in their flattering prospects of gain, but
were unable to make good their contracts.

Then the late Mr. Swinny agreed with Sir John for the use
of his house, cloaths, scenes, etc. at a certain rent. This
was no sooner effected but the actors flew from their ignorant
tyrant of Drury Lane (who had got the patents by unaccount- .
able methods into his hands) and played under Mr. Swinny,
who took Mr. Wilks, Mr. Gibber, and Mr. Dogget into the man-
agement with him. The theatre again revived, and the actors
began to know the sweets of being honestly and regularly paid

460 APPENDIX.

their due. I have heard several who acted in that company
declare they in one season received two hundred days' pay.

The royal patents, being again sold out in several parcels,
became the property of gentlemen who were too much attach-
ed to their pleasures to allow so much time and attention as
was necessary for carrying on the business of the theatre.
The patents being united, the proprietors, to save themselves
trouble, deputed an agent to act for them. He was, perhaps,
one of the most dull yet cunning mortals that ever by stupid-
ity spoiled a good project, or by craft and chicanery got the
better of unguarded men of superior parts. Mr. Gibber, ST.,
in his Apology, observes that "this good master was as sly a
tyrant as ever was at the head of a theatre, for he gave the
actors more liberty and fewer days' pay than any of his pre-
decessors. He would laugh with them over a bottle, and
bite 'em in their bargains, he kept them poor, that they
might not be able to rebel, and sometimes merry, that they
might not think of it."

This was the net the actors danced in for several years;
but no wonder the actors were dupes, while their master was
a lawyer ; and he often showed the proprietors (who entrust-
ed him with the management of their patent) that he knew
enough of the wrong side of the law to lead them a long chace
in Chancery for many years together. Thus did he perplex
and embroil their affairs till he tired 'em out and got the
power into his own hands.

There being then but one company, the actors found them-
selves all reduced in their salaries (low enough before), and an
indulto was laid of one-third of the profits of their benefits for
the use of the patentee.

These and other of his repeated acts of injustice and stupid
tyranny made the actors join in a body to appeal for redress
to the then Lord Chamberlain.

They again were heard, and again found redress. An order
came from that office to silence the patentee and to supersede
his power. The authority of the patentee no longer subsist-
ing, the confederate actors walked out of the house, to which
they never returned till they became tenants and masters of it.

APPENDIX. 461

However, this cunning shaver, having once made himself
sole monarch of the theatrical empire, at his death left the
quiet possession of that power to his son.

After the supersedeas of the patent the power of acting plays
was, by a court license and a court interest, shifted into dif-
ferent hands during the latter part of Queen Anne's reign.
But the nominal director (appointed by the court), leaving
the management thereof entirely to Messrs. Wilks, Gibber,
and Dogget, contented himself with the certainty of receiv-
ing an annual income of seven hundred pounds — no incon-
siderable stipend for doing nothing.

On the happy accession of His Majesty King George the
First to the crown of Great Britain, Sir Richard Steele ob-
tained a patent as governor of His Majesty's company of
comedians, and Messrs. Wilks, Gibber, and Booth were made
joint directors and sharers with him. During their adminis-
tration (which lasted near twenty years) the business of the
stage was so well conducted that authors, actors, and man-
agers had never enjoyed more mutual content or a more gen-
eral prosperity.

Then it was that the polite world, by their decent atten-
tion, their sensible taste, and their generous encouragement
of authors and actors, showed that the stage under a due reg-
ulation was capable of being what the wisest ages thought it
might be — the most rational scheme that human wit could
form to dissipate with innocence the cares of life ; to allure
even the turbulent or ill-disposed from worse meditations ;
and to give the leisure hours of business and virtue an instruct-
ive recreation. Then authors were treated like gentlemen,
and actors with humanity. Those managers never discharged
an actor unless his total neglect of their business compelled
them to it. The actor then who, through sickness, accident,
or age, became an invalid, still enjoyed his salary — nay, had
his benefit in turn — nor dreaded poverty being added to his
other misfortunes. Of this benevolence and generosity they
gave many instances.

The patent granted to Sir Richard Steele was for his life and
to. his assigns for. three years after. He died in the year 1729.
39*

4-62 APPENDIX.

In the year 1732 a new patent was granted to Messrs. Gibber,
Wilks and Booth ; soon after, Mr. Booth (whose unhappy ill-
ness had for some years past deprived the stage of one of its
chief ornaments) sold a moiety of his share. Not long after
the stage suffered an irreparable loss by Mr. Wilks quitting
that and life together. His widow took a nominal partner into
her share. I farmed Mr. Gibber, Sr.'s, share till he sold it.

Toward the end of that season Mr. Booth died. As the
merits of Mr. Booth and Mr. Wilks were universally admired,
no wonder their loss was universally lamented. They left
the judicious lovers of the theatre in despair of seeing their
equals.

In the month of September, in the year 1733, myself and a
large body of comedians found an asylum in the Haymarket
Theatre, protected by a generous town against the despotic
power of some petulant, capricious, unskilful, indolent, and
oppressive patentees. At that juncture a patent granted as
a reward to actors of merit by being privately stockjobbed
became the property of some who proved by the event they
had more money than knowledge of what they had trafficked
for.

The actors, who chose not such unskilful governors, and
who reasonably supposed they could guide themselves, had
taken a lease of Drury Lane Theatre, but being illegally shut
out of that by the then patentees, they were reduced to the
necessity of acting in the little theatre of the Haymarket till
by course of law they were restored to their right in the other.
'Twas here that upward of a hundred successive nights as
many crowded audiences loudly spoke in favor of our attempts.
And, to crown all, when the laws were strained to crush us, a
lord chief-justice whose memory ought ever to be adored as-
serted our liberty and defended us against the heavy hand of
power that sought to oppress us.

The endeavors of the patentees to suppress the comedians
proved ineffectual, and the haughty treatment they met with
from those patentees rendered all possibility of a reunion im-
possible. Then Mr. Fleetwood bought the patent and theatri-
cal stock at an easy pricfe; the actors returned and listed under

APPENDIX. 463

his banner on advantageous terms to both parties. For a while
the manager reaped a plenteous yearly harvest. 'Twere in-
vidious to dwell on this gentleman's errors, which threw the
stage again into confusion, and so reduced his own affairs he
found it necessary to retire to France (where he died) ; at
which time, to satisfy a mortgage by a decree in Chancery,
his patent was sold to the best bidder, and became the prop-
erty of Messrs. Green and Amber, who admitted Mr. Lacy as
a third sharer, and invested him with the whole power. The
purchasers, who were bankers, failed soon after. Then Mr.
Lacy contrived not only to purchase their shares, but had
address enough to gain a promise of a new patent, the old one
being near expiring. To this patent he admitted Mr. Garrick
as partner, who is now become sole manager, the other seem-
ing content with his share of the profit.

The characters of nations, as- well as private persons, are
best known by their pleasures. This allowed, of what conse-
quence to this island is the conduct of our theatres when we
consider what numbers of foreigners, of various countries and
different degrees of distinction, through curiosity or interest
pour into this vast metropolis, and frequently make a part of
those crowded audiences the managers of playhouses have so
happy an occasion to boast of! Does it not behoove us to
look into the conduct of those managers of playhouses who
are honored with so weighty a trust as the uncontrollable
direction of our monopolized diversions?

This, perhaps, is little considered by the greater number
of spectators, who go to the theatre merely as an idle amuse-
ment to while away the hours or dissipate the spleen, as humor,
leisure, indolence, or fashion leads them.

If we consider this general humor of dissipation in which
people go to plays, we shall no longer wonder we hear of fre-
quent loud applauses most lavishly and indiscriminately be-
stowed. If they are amused, they care not how, and seldom
stay to ask their judgments the question whether the greatest
absurdities have not met with the greatest encouragement, and
whether patentees and players have not joined in laying a
foundation for a false, disgraceful tas*te.

464 APPENDIX.

Does not this call loudly for reformation ? It rests on you,
gentlemen, who are properly called "the Town."

Wit, good sense, and politeness were always thought neces-
sary to support the character and dignity of the stage, and
that the management of it ought to be entrusted to persons
justly qualified to judge of all performances fit to be intro-
duced there, that works of genius might meet with proper
encouragement, and dulness and immorality be effectually
excluded.

Has this been the constant conduct of the present grand
director? I am about to speak but of one now : that one
will afford ample theme enough.

Let us, then, view the acting manager of Drury Lane. In
the year 1747 he opened that theatre with an excellent pro-
logue, the conclusion of which gave the town to hope it would
be their fault if, from that time, any farcical absurdity of pan-
tomime or fooleries from France were again intruded on them.

It was the town who were, from that auspicious night of
his theatrical inauguration,

To bid the reign commence of rescued Nature and 1'eviving Sense,

To change the charms of Sound and pomp of Show

For useful Mirth and salutary Woe —

Bid scenic Virtue form the rising age,

And Truth diffuse her radiance from the stage.

But has he kept his word during his successful reign ? Has
the stage been preserved in its proper purity, decency, and
dignity ? Have no good new plays been refused or neglect-
ed ? Have none but the most moral and elegant of the old
ones been revived ? Have we not had a greater number of
those unmeaning fopperies miscalled "entertainments" than
ever was known to disgrace the stage in so few years? Has
not every year produced one of these patchwork pantomimes
— these masqueing mummeries, replete with ribaldry, buffoon-
ery, and nonsense, but void of invention, connection, humor,
or instruction — these Arabian kickshaws or Chinese festivals
— these (call 'em what you please, as any one silly name
may suit them all alike)— these mockeries of sense— the^se

APPENDIX. 465

larger kind of puppet-shows — these idle amusements for chil-
dren and holiday fools, as ridiculously gaudy as the glitter-
ing pageantry of a pastry-cook's shop on a Twelfth Night?
Could he plead necessity for this introduction of theatrical
abuse, this infamy of the stage, this war upon wit in behalf
of levity and ignorance ? No. He wanted no encourage-
ment to establish the theatre on a reputable foundation with-
out these auxiliaries. His theatre was constantly crowded,
his performances applauded, nor did the spectators grudge
paying the raised prices for a play alone. If he feared this
taste for good sense would not last, it was at least worth a lit-
tle longer trial.

But avarice is ever in haste to increase its store ; it never
stays to consider what is most laudable when what may prove
most profitable is the question.

Our politic man of power, therefore, would not lose this
opportunity of being in full possession of the favor of the
town to introduce these motley mummeries, while he had it in
his power to make everything go down that he judged for his
ease or profit. In consequence whereof, what large rewards
have been given to the compiler of these interludes, stolen
from the stale night-scenes of Saddler's Wells and Bartholomew
Fair ! — such rewards as would have satisfied some authors of
merit for as many good plays.

More money is annually squandered on one of these foolish
farces than, judiciously laid out, would decorate three or four
tragedies or comedies, in the bringing forward of which the
time (lost on the other) might be more eligibly employed.

Has this little giant-queller, who stepped forth in his pro-
logue and promised the town to drive exotic monsters from the
stage — has he kept his word? On the contrary, has he not
commissioned

" Great Harlequin to lay the ghost of wit ?
Exulting Folly hails the joyful day,
And Pantomime and Song confirms her sway."

'Tis true he has given us some new plays, and we have been
constantly told that each succeeding one was to be more ex-

2E

466 APPENDIX.

cellent than the former. So pregnant of promises were our
stage-puffers, the echoes of their little monarch, to have given
them credit one must have imagined all former poets men of
little genius, compared to the all-bepraised writers for the
present stage. But, unluckily for the moderns, and happily
for the reputation of the old writers, the productions of both
are printed. Could the pen or pencil describe or delineate
the graces and excellences of some former actors, we should
not be pestered with impertinent comparisons, or a preposter-
ous preference of any living actor to a Booth or a Betterton,
as we have been with a profusion of praise equally bestowed
on a Barbarossa and the noble productions of Otway and
Shakespeare ; yet till Barbarossa was printed what a paradise
of pompous praise was lavished on it !

Unless a play comes strongly recommended from some high
interest, how difficult it is to get it read, and how much more
difficult it is even then to have it acted, is well known to
several who have gone through the ridiculous ceremony, and
to many more who scorned the attendance required by these
stage-dictators. To gain admittance to them is frequently
more difficult than to come at a prime minister.

How droll to see the mockeries of state when one of these
petty princes is surrounded by his little theatrical dependants,
watching the motion of his eye, all joyous if he deigns to
smile, as downcast if his looks are grave or fallen ! But if the
pleasant prince condescend to joke, like Sir Paul Pliant they
are prepared to laugh incontinently. They stand like An-
thony's, kings, "who, when he said the word, would all start
forth like school-boys to a muss." Thus is the little pride of
a manager puffed up by the servile adulation of his theatrical
dependants, who, poor unhappy objects of pity ! never con-
sider their abject state. Use has made their fetters easy to
'em, yet how natural is it to demand, as on the entrance of
the blacks in Oroonoko, "Are all these wretches slaves?" —
"All, all slaves — they and their posterity all slaves"!

From hence this mock prince presumes to expect such so-
licitation as gentlemen every way his superiors cannot stoop
to. Then what avails the merit of a play while such monop-

APPENDIX. 467

olizers can prevent its appearance ? What man of spirit will
undergo the ungenteel treatment he is like to meet with from
salacious triflers ? Thus many a piece is lost to the town that
perhaps had given credit to the stage.

I will venture to affirm there is now in being some dramatic
pieces (of which I have been favored with a perusal) no ways
inferior (I shall not say too much if I add of superior merit)
to most that a partial patentee, in his wantonness of power,
has thrust upon the town, and by his stage-politics has sup-
ported for an unusual number of nights. Such is the power
of our stage-dictators, who may cry out, Drawcansir-like,

" All this I do, because I dare."

The common put-off to an author when the patentee is not
inclined to serve him is, "The thing is pretty, to be sure;
there's merit in it, but it wants alteration." Yet if it was
altered they had not time ; their hands are full ; the business
of their season fully planned ; they have not a night to spare ;
and such paltry put-bys as no one believes, not even them-
selves who say 'em. Not to dwell on the indifferent plays
they have acted, or some of more merit that may have been
refused by 'em, let us inquire a little what mighty business has
so employed their time that not a few nights can be found to
give an author fair play. The present season (1776) is now
about half over, and what has been done? Why, the town
has been entertained with a frequent repetition of their old
plays and stale farces, and one farce, entitled The Fair Qua-
ker of Deal, has been palmed upon the town as a revived com-
edy, and exhibited a greater number of nights than formerly
better plays, much better acted, were ever known to reign.
As Bartholomew Fair has been some years suppressed, the
politic manager contrived to introduce drolls on the stage at
the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane. 'Twas usual with the mas-
ters of droll-booths to get some genius of a lower class to
supply 'em with scenes detached from our plays, altered and
adapted to the taste of the holiday audjences they were com-
monly performed to. This hint the manager has taken, and

468 APPENDIX.

of this gallimanfry kind was the pastoral (as he called it)
exhibited at Drury's Theatre.

The Winter1 s Tale of Shakespeare, though one of his most
irregular pieces, abounds with beautiful strokes and touching
circumstances. The very title, A Winter1 s Tale, seems fixed
on by the author as an apology for, and a bespeaking of, a
loose plan, regardless of rule as to time or place. The story
affected his mind and afforded a large field for his lively im-
agination to wander in ; and here the poet,

" Fancy's sweetest child,
Warbles his native wood-notes wild."

In the alteration many of the most interesting circumstances,
the most affecting passages, and the finest strokes in writing,
which mark the characters most strongly and are most likely
to move the heart, are entirely omitted, such as the jealousy
of Leontes, the trial of Hermione, etc. What remains is so
unconnected, is such a mixture of piecemeal, motley patch-
work, that the Winter* s Tale of Shakespeare, thus lopped,
hacked, and docked, appears without head or tail. In order
to curtail it to three acts the story of the first three acts of the
original play, and which contain some of the noblest parts,
are crowded into a dull narrative, in the delivery of which
the performer makes no happy figure. So at the beginning
of the third act the principal parts of the story, which in the
alteration we might have expected to have seen represented,
were given in two long-winded relations by two unskilled per-
formers, whose manner made 'em appear "as tedious as a
twice-told tale, vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man." And
this hasty hash or hotchpotch is called altering Shakespeare !
Whenever Shakespeare is to be cut up, let's hope some more
delicate hand and judicious head will be concerned in the
dissection.

" Let's carve him like a dish fit for the gods,
Not hew him like a carcass fit for hounds."

Were Shakespeare's ghost to rise, would he not frown in-
dignation on this pilfering peddler in poetry, who thus shame-

APPENDIX. 469

fully mangles, mutilates, and emasculates his plays ? The Mid-
summer Nigh? s Dream has been minced and fricasseed into
an indigested and unconnected thing called The Fairies ; the
Winter1 s Tale mammocked into a droll ; The Taming of the
Shrew made a farce of; and The Tempest turned into an opera.
Oh, what an agreeable lullaby might it have proved to our
beaus and belles to have heard Caliban, Sycorax, and one of
the devils trilling of trios ! And how prettily might the north
wind (like the tyrant Barbarossa) be introduced with soft
music ! To crown all, as the Chinese festival proved the
devil of a dance, how cleverly might it have been introduced
in The Tempest, new-vamped as a dance of frolicsome devils !
Yet Master Garrick would insinuate all this ill-usage of
the bard is owing, forsooth ! to his love of him — much such
a mock proof of his tender regard as the cobbler's drubbing
his wife. In the two last bellman-like nonsensical lines of
his absurd prologue to the Winter1 s Tale he tells you

" That 'tis his joy, his wish, his only plan.
To lose no drop of that immortal man !'

Why, truly, in the afore-mentioned pieces he does bottle him
up with a vengeance ! He throws away all the spirited part
of him, all that bears the highest flavor, then to some of the
dregs adds a little stuff of his own, and modestly palms it on
his customers as wine of the first growth. A pleasant bever-
age to offer gentlemen by way of bonne louche ! Did ever
tricking vintner brew so scandalously ? But thus it will be till
his playhouse-puffers are thoroughly inquired into, and that it
is publicly made known both who and what they are ; a number
of which, to the amount of some hundreds, are made free of
the house, or sent occasionally in with orders by one of his
agents, who from thence, in mockery, is not improperly called
the "orderly" sergeant. From hence the great applause that
always is lavishly bestowed on everything that is brought on
that stage. But when these placemen, as they may be literally
called, are pointed out. as little regard will be paid to the
claps of these mercenaries as to the bawling hirelings in Smith-
field, who are appointed to roar out, "Gentlemen, this is the
40

470 APPENDIX.

only booth in the fair. The wonder of the world is here,
gentlemen."

We'll now drop the patentee a while, and look into the
merits of the actor. That he often deserves all the applause a
favorable audience may bestow will not be denied; that he
always deserves it is a question ; that he is a great genius is
allowed ; but that judgment does not always direct his spirit will
not, sure, be thought too bold an assertion. Whatever wants
there may be in a performer which are the defects of Nature
cannot be too tenderly touched, but errors of the judgment
demand reproof, and wilful errors, substituted in the room of
truth, demand more : they ought to be pointed out, they ought
to be exploded. When an actor prostitutes his profession for
the vain satisfaction of a false applause, such paltry ambition
should be checked by the severest censures of the public.

The faults or affectations of the ignorant or undeserving
never fall under the cognizance of censure, being in their
nature beneath it; but the faults of men of acknowledged
merit and genius call on every lover of his country and of
taste for an antidote against the delicious poison of their
errors, which is so greedily swallowed by the young and un-
experienced. Seneca, a man of wit and learning, despairing
to rival the sober and masculine eloquence of his predecessors,
stepped aside for help to all the meretricious arts of affectation
and quaintness ; he obtained what he proposed by the tinsel
embroidery of a sparkling, flashy style, and blazed forth the
idol of the gaping multitude, while the judicious repined
in secret at the rapidity of false taste, which made gigantic
strides in the republic of letters. But, alas ! what was the
consequence? As far short as Seneca fell of those great
writers, the true reflections of Nature, so did his imitators in
regard to him ; for, being devoid of his natural capacity and
genius, they could attain nothing but his tricks of eloquence.
Hence a general depravity of taste arose ; of which the cele-
brated rhetor Quintilian, in his lessons to the youth of Rome,
most pathetically complained, and gave wholesome admoni-
tions to steer clear of the siren enchantments of Seneca's pris-
matic elocution.

APPENDIX. 471

It can be deemed no less than a compliment to any favorite
actor in being to compare him to Seneca. Permit me, then,
against a pleasing infectious example, in humble imitation of
the rhetor, to hold up the test of Nature, experience, and
taste. If this attempt may be thought worthy the attention of
disinterested judges, let slavish hirelings bark out their dislike.

About fifteen years ago, when our lively hero first started
up at Goodman's Fields, and met with that encouragement he
deserved, flushed with applause after the long successful strides
he had taken in Richard, he determined to step into tragic
characters of a different cast. Having the theatres at this
end of the town in his eye, he concluded that could he by
any artful means damn the actors then playing at the two
Theatres Royal, it would not a little contribute to his suc-
cess. He therefore, with the policy of a Frenchman and the
cunning of a Jesuit, contrived to depreciate the performance
of those players in the opinion of the town previous to his
stepping into their parts. He recollected The Rehearsal had
been revived about two years before, and acted upwards of
forty nights in one season at the Theatre Royal in Covent
Garden. The character of Bayes he thought he could per-
vert to his own use by indulging his artful spleen in mimick-
ing the actors, and by turning the force of ridicule on them
give victory and triumph to himself. On this the play was
got up there, and Garrick's Bayes. (not Buckingham's, as it
then appeared) was pushed on several nights. Thus The Re-
hearsal was no longer considered as a witty satire on the foibles
and faults of authors and a reproof of the town for their false
taste of the drama. It became a motley medley of buffoonery
to explode the actors.

But where did he attack 'em? On their weak side indeed,
where they could not be on their guard. Instead of crit-
ically pointing out their want of taste or judgment, he cruelly
turned the whole artillery of his mockery against their nat-
ural defects or such particularities of voice which did not mis-
become them; nor met with reproof till his vice of " taking-
off," as it is called, became the foolish fashion and taught
school-boys to be critics.

472 APPENDIX.

His attempt to prejudice the million against his brethren
had its desired effect : several were hurt by it. The late Mr.
Delane in particular, a man of great modesty, was so shocked
every time he came upon the stage after it that new terrors
seized him ; he could not get the better of his weakness, so
became a votary to Bacchus and sacrificed his life at that
shrine. If, poor man ! he had been master of temper and
resolution enough to have roused a proper spirit on this occa-
sion, and had sought the . improvement he was capable of in
his profession, he might still have been giving pleasure to the
town in several characters, such as Lord Hastings, Pyrrhus,
Varanes, Bajazet, Antony, Hotspur, and Alexander; to these
his power of voice, his comeliness of countenance, his grace-
ful action, and dignity of deportment rendered him more
equal than the actor who so wantonly attacked him ; in which
attack the mimic showed he could only transiently hit on some
peculiar tones of the other's voice. It had been better for
this mimic could he have equalled the actor in all his hap-
pier gifts of nature.

As this actor was thus indulged in his mimicking the de-
fects of Nature, I hope I may be allowed to point out the
less pardonable errors of judgment or more unpardonable
tricks of the player knowingly introduced against the convic-
tion of sense and judgment — those modern claptraps of the
stage where reason is sacrificed to vanity ; where vehemence
supplies the place of spirit, and Extravagances are called
beauties ; where mouthing and ranting pass for elocution, and
the voice is so injudiciously forced that the power is lost ere
half the part is played. A false jeu de theatre becomes too
often the vice of some present actors, but they are happy if
they can thereby raise a clap from the million ; no matter
whether the applause is just, so it be loud. When stage-
tricks become so frequent, may we not say,

" Nature's forsook ; our new theatric art,
Aiming to strike the eye, neglects the heart" ?

The actor I'm about to speak of has undoubtedly several
natural requisites and some acquired talents, and altogether

APPENDIX. 473

is justly deemed a good comedian. His performance of
Kitely, in Every Man in His Humor, is so excellent a piece
of Nature, so truly comic, it makes amends for all the farce
with which that indelicate piece of low humor abounds. But
is not his chief talent comedy — not of genteel cast, but of the
lower kind ? This, perhaps, by a candid examen of his abil-
ities and execution, may be made appear, as may his errors
in tragedy. Some of those errors a gentleman of wit and
great vivacity and admirable mimic has pleasantly pointed
out and humorously exploded. The correction was of use
to the actor; perhaps future remarks may be of further use
to him.

If we look into his favorite character of Ranger, shall we
not find less of the gentleman in the performance than the
author intended in -the writing? That he is exceeding lively
and entertaining is certain ; but that he is sometimes even
most absurdly rude will appear by only remarking his un-
gentlemanlike behavior in one single scene. He meets with
Frankly and Bellamy, both supposed to be gentlemen — Frankly
particularly, a man of fashion and fortune. This very gentle-
man, without any regard to decency or good manners, Ranger
makes his leaning-stock, and, lolling a considerable time on his
shoulder, indulges himself in being pleasant on Bellamy. Can
any friendship or intimacy tolerate such ill-bred freedom in a
man — to consult his own ease without feeling the pain he must
give his superior? Oh, but it's a pretty attitude, forsooth ! He
caught it, perhaps, from a French print, where a gentleman
leans against the high base af a pillar in a garden ; it took his
fancy probably, and this attitudinarian was resolved to intro-
duce it, no matter for the impropriety of making a gentleman
his lolling-post.

This is but one of the many studied absurdities. How
ridiculous might be the consequence if the person who
plays Frankly were to give him the slip and drop Master
Ranger to the ground ! Though this might become Frank-
ly as a humorous reproof of Ranger's rudeness, yet the
poor player, whom necessity has taught to prefer slavery
to the liberty of starving, must rather seem to think himself
40*

474 APPENDIX.

honored by this impertinent freedom, as it comes from the
manager.

That he displays in Archer great vivacity must be granted,
but that the gentleman appears through the footman, or that
his deportment and address are equal to the character when
he puts on the habit of the gentleman, is what I never heard
asserted. This, and the still superior characters in genteel
comedy, seem now quite lost. We have strutting flashes and
finical fribbles, pert prigs, bold bucks, and dapper smarts;
but when do we meet on the stage a general character, sup-
ported with a graceful ease and elegancy expressive of the man
of quality, or that gives any idea of a well-bred person used
to polite assemblies or the manners of a drawing-room ? Who
is there at the head of the stage to set the example? We have
seen a comedy revived and played to a surprising number of
audiences wherein the person who performed the principal
character was in an error from beginning to end, and yet the
playhouse-puffers extolled it as the master-stroke of comedy.
They rung the changes on the words "Amazing!" "Great!"
"Surprising!" "Fine!" " Immense!" "Pleasant!" "Pro-
digious!" "Inimitable!" till every ear was tired with the
sound. Any one who never saw the performance might have
concluded from report that the fulsome flattery a certain
writer bestowed on him was but truth when he said, "This
actor was not only the most excellent of his profession that
ever was, but that ever would be." I imagine ere I name
the title of this comedy most people will guess I mean The
Chances.

It has been remarked that the poet in this play, in his wan-
tonness of humor and spirit, seemed determined to declare
open war upon decency, and, scorning double entendre, speaks
plain English. The chief business of the drama is barefaced
prostitution. It was written by Fletcher, but it was so well
suited to the taste of the loose wits of King Charles the Sec-
ond's court that the witty debauchee Buckingham thought it
worth -his revisal and alteration.

Mr. Pope elegantly inveighs against plays of this cast, and
justly satirizes the taste of those times, when the obscenity

APPENDIX. 47$

of a piece was no objection if supported pleasantly. Per-
haps this play was in his thoughts when he says —

" The fair sat panting at a courtier's play,
And not a mask went unimproved away ;
The modest fan was lifted up no more,
And virgins smiled at what they blushed before.
These monsters, critics, with your darts engage —
Here point your thunder, here direct your rage."

The revival of this play undoubtedly laid the sober part of
the town under no small obligation to the immaculate manager.

But, however incorrect or loose the plan of this play appears,
the author certainly drew his characters from Nature, and sup-
ports 'em well — servetur ad unum.

I apprehend that it readily appears to any one who reads
this play that in Don John the poet meant to give us a spirited
representation of a young nobleman on his travels. How-
ever gay his youth or wild his constitution, he entertains high
notions of honor ; gallantry is but a secondary principle of his
character. He never deviates from the stately pride of a
Spaniard, though he receives a challenge and fights a duel with
a nonchalance of temper that nothing but the greatest courage
can support. To personate this noble, joyous voluptuary
there should be comeliness, grace, a spirited dignity, and ease;
he should appear the rake of quality, not a pert prig let loose
on a holiday. In his most unguarded frolics we should not
lose sight of the nobleman. In this light, I am informed, did
the character of Don John appear when the great Betterton
played it ; in this light have I beheld it when performed by
that master of genteel comedy, Mr. Wilks.

But, as my friend the doctor says, "The college have
altered all that now, and proceed upon an entire new prin-
ciple." If an actor finds himself unequal to a part, why
will he undertake a task imposed on him only by his own
vanity? But, says this arch-manager, " 'Tis the business of
comedy to make people laugh. I can fill the part with pleas-
antry, though I neglect propriety ; I have fashion on my side,
and a faction to support me : none dare dispute my taste or

476 APPENDIX.

power. And if I can't rise to Don John, I'll bring Don
John down to me." So enter Ranger in a Spanish jacket.
Had it been a harlequin jacket, it would not have misbecome
the part as it is now new modelled, where Nature is neglected,
the gentleman entirely dropt, and lively absurdities with brisk
buffooneries make up the strange melange. 'Tis no longer
the noble Don John ; 'tis a little Jack-a-dandy.

To point out particulars where the whole is absurd were
endless. One is as good as a hundred. Only think of this
young Spanish nobleman, because his ear is caught by the
sound of a fiddle from the window of a tavern, being tempt-
ed to give you a touch of a hornpipe in the middle of the
street ! Is it in Nature to suppose any gentleman in his
senses could be guilty of so ridiculous an absurdity? How
must the stage improve from these lively specimens of gen-
teel comedy ! When an actor presumes to substitute the
farcical liberties of a harlequin instead of a just representation
of Nature, what must be his ignorance or what his assur-,
ance ! What should be his reward if he thus deviates from
the unerring rule that great judge of Nature, Shakespeare, lays
down for his direction when he admonishes the player " to
o'erstep not the modesty of Nature, . . . whose end, both at
the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up
to Nature." . . . "This overdone, or come tardy off, though
it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious
grieve; the censure of which one ought to o'ersway a whole
theatre of others ' ' ?

As this genius has a knack of slicing comedies into farces
and frittering Shakespeare into drolls, pastorals, and operas,
as we have many instances of his happy talents for altering
and embellishing old plays, 'tis a pity he did not make a new
one of The Chances. Had he but given English names to the
characters and removed the scene to London, this, with the
new manner of acting, might have made it pass for a new
comedy under the well-adapted title of The Delights of Dame
Douglass ; or, The Frolics of Master jfacky in Covent Garden.

Though I have as quick a perception of the merits of this
actor as his greatest admirers, and have not less pleasure from

APPENDIX. 477

his performance when he condescends to pursue simple Na-
ture, yet I am not therefore to be blind to his studied tricks,
his over-fondness for extravagant attitudes, frequent affected
starts, convulsive twitchings, jerkings of the body, sprawling
of the fingers, slapping the breast and pockets — a set of me-
chanical motions in constant use, the caricatures of gesture
suggested by pert vivacity ; his pantomimical manner of act-
ing every word in a sentence; his unnatural pauses in the
middle of a sentence ; his forced conceits ; his wilful neglect
of harmony, even where the round period of a well-expressed
noble sentiment demands a graceful cadence in the delivery.
These, with his mistaken notions of some characters and many
other vices of the stage which his popularity has supported
him in, I shall take a proper opportunity of remarking in a
more particular manner, and laying such observation before
the superior judgment of the town.

An actor who is a thorough master of his part, not only
in point of memory, but by having clearly conceived and
entered into the spirit of the sentiment and expression, will
stand in no need of premeditated gesture or attitude; the
words and situation will of themselves suggest 'em to him,
and they will appear the more natural, and consequently have
the greater effect, for their not having the air of study and
preparation. The various inflexions of voice, the stress of
the emphasis, the just proportion of pathos, neither carried
improperly into rant nor over-tame, but governed by the
occasion, — all these will rise so naturally that the part will
seem to act the actor, instead of being acted by him. The
emotions, in short, should begin at the heart, and there's no
doubt of the voice and body receiving such right directions
from it as can never fail of making proper impressions; whilst
moving of the head, legs, and arms by rule and compass must
have comparatively a cold, insipid, and even a ridiculous effect.

Nor is this complaint a new one. Even in Aristotle's days
there was an actor called Callipides who used to prefix his
motions before he came on the stage ; the affectation of it
was so palpable that Minesius, his rival, nicknamed him "the
ape," from the disfigurement which the characters he played

APPENDIX.

received from his trickful imitation. I call it "trickful,"
because all those forelaid attitudes, or puggifications, are the
poor arts of those who are not capable of exhibiting — or,
what is still worse, are insensible of — the beauty of Nature.
Our stage in its present state affords more examples of those
who follow the manner of a Callipides than of a Betterton or
a Booth, who were not above receiving their directions from
Nature, that great guide and president over all the imitative
arts, and especially the theatre, from whence, however, she
has been so long banished.

To this extravagance of behavior in acting, and to the ap-
plause thus frequently and easily gained, is it not owing that
the epidemical distemper of "spouting" (according to the
modern phrase) has spread itself so widely ? When young
men cease to consider acting as an art — an art, too, that re-
quires perhaps more natural requisites, more acquired ones,
more time, experience, study, and knowledge, than many
others — we need not be surprised that so many candidates
for fame are so ready to expose themselves. They regard it
not in that light ; they judge, from the extraordinary exam-
ple set 'em, that a little ranting or mouthing, a start or two,
an outre attitude, and a few harlequinade tricks are all the
requisites to make a complete actor. And as managers, not
so careful of the gradual improvement of the stage as greedy
of present gain, too frequently allow raw, unexperienced men
to start out in top characters (however unequal to 'em or hope-
less of improvement), with a view that the bare novelty may
draw an audience — and as such heroes, made in a hurry, are
too ready to mistake the encouragement of an indulgent au-
dience for an applause due to their superior merit — what hope
is there of seeing a set of good actors completely and regular-
ly formed ?

Formerly, actors by degrees came forward ; they began at
the lower round of the ladder. But now they take a flying
leap to the top at once, though, indeed, they generally drop
as suddenly to the bottom. To this misconduct of the man-
agers and bad example of the performers is it not owing that
such a number of young men neglect their various professions,

APPENDIX. 479

for which their talents are more happily adapted, to follow
this ignis-fatuus of stage fame ? They think of nothing less
than to be applauded heroes on the stage, and from thence, like
their cousin Sir Francis (for they are all nearly related to the
Wrongheads), propose to indulge themselves in the easy-gained
income of a trifling thousand a year, "just to be doing with
till somewhat better falls in." Though a few, a very few, may
have succeeded, yet, alas ! what a number of young people,
disappointed of these flattering views, have in the end found
themselves literally actor-bit ! By this delusion many young
men, to the grief of their parents and friends, have been lost
to the world, who, had they followed the more eligible pro-
fessions they were designed for, might have lived to have
been a comfort to their friends, a joy to their families, an
honor to themselves, and respectable members of public
society.

I have heard of an academy intended to consist of a select
number of gentlemen eminenj for their taste in the belles let-
tres, and some whose works have the deserved estimation of
the public; on which plan it will be proposed to support
authors of merit; to give praise to the deserving and due
censure to the dull and presuming ; to show the many why
they are pleased and with what they ought to be delighted.
May that laudable scheme succeed, and prevent the depravity
we are falling into, by rescuing sound sense and morality from
the barbarous attacks of ignorance and Gothism ! I have also
heard that a weekly paper, under their inspection, will be pub-
lished, entitled The Theatre, wherein no mean arts will be used
to prejudice the public in favor of an unworthy author or actor,
nor will any writer or performer of any degree of merit be de-
preciated through the wantonness of mirth or to gratify the
vanity or spleen of another. Whenever this paper appears,

Dread it, ye dunces and dramatic drones !
Tremble, ye tyrants on theatric thrones !

Thus may the encroaching power of managers be properly
checked, and rational entertainments alone become the polite
amusement of the town ; thus may our giddy and unwary

APPENDIX.

youth be cautioned against the dangerous illusions of False-
hood, who, in her gaudy trappings, oft bewilders their im-
aginations and enchantingly entices 'em to become her ad-
mirers, while they totally neglect the simply elegant beauties
of unaffected Truth. 'Till this plan is put into execution —
and I hope the interim will be but short — permit me humbly
to propose an expedient for the immediate correction of the-
atrical misconduct.

Many public companies have proper officers appointed to
inspect their conduct — some have their governors, some their
directors — and our universities have their visitors. Since,
then, these patentee potentates, out of their immense human-
ity and goodness, will allow me time from my avocation as
an actor, what if I become the volunteer visitor of the theatres,
to look into and report their proceedings, whether worthy of
praise or censure ? This is a post to which I can appoint my-
self. And if the thought meets with the approbation of my
honored friends and patrons, I shall endeavor to discharge
that office to the best of my abilities, with impartiality, integ-
rity, and justice. Thus, in spite of their unjust oppression, I
may still continue — what I have ever thought it an honor to
be — the most obliged, devoted servant of the public. As a
theatrical visitor, then, give me leave to lay before you some
of the studied absurdities or Callipidean ape-tricks which are
often substituted instead of the instinctive, unaffected actions
which simple Nature would have directed.

Of this kind is the pantomimical acting of every word in a
sentence. When Benedict says, " If I do, hang me in a bottle
like a cat, and shoot me !" methinks this slight, short sentence
requires not such a variety of action as minutely to describe
the cat being clapped into the bottle, then being hung up,
and the further painting of the man shooting at it. But such
things we have seen — nay, sometimes seen applauded.

Observe the golden rule of not too much ; this rule every
actor should pay regard to. But how is this observed when
Richard (as I have seen it played), in his very first words,
wherein he describes his sullen mood of mind, his restlessness
of spirit unemployed in war, his conscious unfitness to join in

APPEND TX. 481

the sportive, piping, medley amusements of idle peace, ironi-
cally says,

" I have no delights to pass away my hours,
Unless to see my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity."

This idea of descanting on his own deformity is what his hurt
imagination would naturally turn to from the moment it occurs
to him. But for the sake of an attitude which is sure to be
dwelt on till the audience clap, this sentence is commonly
closed with an action of pointing to the ground and fixing
the eye thereon for some time, as if Richard had a real delight
in ruminating on his uncouth person. Again, after he has
wooed and (to his own surprise) has won the widow Anne,
can we suppose that Richard is such a fool as really to think
himself comely of person when he, exulting on his success,
in wanton pleasantry breaks out —

" My dukedom to a widow's chastity !
I do mistake my person all this while "?

Or when he says,

" I'll have my chambers lined with looking-glass,
And entertain a score or two of tailors
To study fashions to adorn my body " ?

Richard is not such a simpleton seriously to intend this — -'tis
laughter all, and mockery of the widow's weakness — yet I
have seen a Richard when he makes his exit with these lines —

" Shine out, fair sun, till I salute my glass,
That I may see my shadow as I pass," —

this rum-duke Richard has gone halting off, all the way look-
ing at and admiring his supposed shadow on the ground.

Is this being the actor ? Is it not buffoonery ? But what
shall we think of a Richard who in the last act, when he is
met by Norfolk in the field at the head of the army, instead
of assuming the air of gallantry and intrepidity which marks
the character of Richard,— what shall we think of a Richard
41 2F

482 APPENDIX.

who bounces on like a madman and bellows out, "Well, Nor-
folk, what thinkest thou now?" Might not Master Norfolk
reply, "I think you are mad, sir "? But the mouthing rant
infected the inferior performer, who in return roared out,
"That we shall conquer, sir."

Nay, to that extravagance is this mockery of spirit carried
on that Richard reads the few lines Norfolk puts into his hand
in a vociferous, angry tone, as if he knew their meaning ere
he saw them, though the very lines that follow show that Rich-
ard is unmoved by 'em and scornfully disregards 'em: "A
weak invention of the enemy!" But that cool scorn I have
heard ranted out as if poor Richard was quite out of his wits.
What consistency of character is here preserved, or what re-
gard paid to Nature? Is it not mumrnery all?

The frequent starts with which our stage-performances abound
at present are not unworthy notice. They are so common that
they sometimes tire the eye, and often so improper that they
offend the understanding. Some of this sort we have seen in
Romeo. This unhappy lover, when in the last act he is in-
formed of the death of his beloved Juliet, is at once struck
with a deep despair, and immediately determines that night
to embrace her, even in death. He coolly resolves on taking
poison, and sends a letter to inform his father of the cause of
his death. He has but little time to execute this in, the night
being far spent, yet the actor can find time, it seems, between
his quitting the apothecary and his going to the tomb, to shift
his clothes, that he may die, with the decency of a malefactor,
in a suit of black. This trick of stage-drapery puts one in
mind of Miss Notable, a young jilting coquette, who, when
she's informed that one of her young lovers is wounded in a
duel on her account, amidst her affected violent exclamations
of grief says, "I'll go and see the dear creature, but it shall
be in an undress; 'twill be proper, at least, to give my grief
the appearance of as much disorder as possible. Yes, I'll
change my dress immediately." And so she does. But what
need for Romeo to do this ? Has he leisure, or would he be-
stow a thought on such a trifle ? Well, but he's now going to
the tomb; his first thought is to despatch his servant, from

APPENDIX. 483

whom he conceals his real intent, and threatens him to pre-
sume to watch him at peril of his life. Yet on the opening
of the scene the actor with folded arms advances about three
or four steps, then jumps and starts into an attitude of surprise.
At what ? Why, at the sight of a monument he went to look
for. And there he stands till a clap from the audience relieves
him from his post. Is not this forced? Is it not misplaced?
Is it not as improper as ranting loudly those threats to his ser-
vant, which should be delivered in an under-voice expressive
of terror, but not mouthed out loud enough to alarm the
watch ?

I would also submit it to the judgment of the public whether
a favorite attitude into which Romeo throws himself on the
appearance of Paris is a beauty or an absurdity. Romeo is a
gentleman, and has a sword by his side. Education is a sec-
ond nature : may we not reasonably suppose that on his being
diverted from his purpose of opening the tomb, when called
on by Paris he would immediately drop that unwieldy instru-
ment the iron crow and have recourse to his sword ? Would
not this be the instinctive resource of the gentleman? But
then this Callipidean attitude would be lost in which Romeo
now stands long enough to give Paris time to run him through
the body, which would be justifiable when a man saw such a
weapon raised by an enemy to dash out his brains. No won--
der the generality of an audience clap, as they may well be
astonished to see my little Romeo wield this massy instrument
with such dexterity. But their admiration would cease when
let into the secret that this seeming iron crow is really but a
painted wooden one. Were it not so, it would be as impossi-
ble for the fictitious Romeo to manage it as it is improbable
the real Romeo would have made such a use of it. The
author did not intend he should, since he makes 'em both
engage with their swords, as gentlemen naturally would.
######**
During this ceremony news came from earth that the Eng-
lish opera called The Tempest was in no danger of pestering
the town many nights, notwithstanding the puffs and orders
to support it. This instance of returning taste, and the proper

484 APPENDIX.

contempt the public showed for these manglers of Shakespeare
by forbearing to attend these savage scalpers of this immortal
Bard, diffused a general joy amongst all the connoisseurs be-
low. A loud applause re-echoed through the place, and wak-
ened me. Yet, waking, I found it was not all a dream. The
public reassume their right to judge ; they no longer impli-
citly approve all the trash this crafty costardmonger would
impose on 'em, nor on his ipse dixit will accept of a green
crab in lieu of a pineapple. Even the last new tragedy,
though paraded into the world with the usual puffs of "its
excelling all that went before it," did not like its predecessors
run rapid on, but limpingly endeavored to get forward. At
length we found (as appeared by the Public Advertiser*}—

" Great Athelstan grew sick — oh fatal stroke ! —
Of empty seats and boxes unbespoke."

A fresh instance of the unbiased judgment of the public
has appeared in their candid reception of Mr. Barry in the
character of King Lear, and the universal applause they have
bestowed on his excellent performance. This high-drawn cha-
racter has been long the admiration of the public. One actor
having the sole possession of it for these fourteen years past,
and having surprised the town by his spirited and early per-
formance of it, most people were so prejudiced in his behalf
that many censured Mr. Barry for the undertaking previous to
his appearing therein ; nay, several as rashly as ungenerously
(on notice given of the intended performance) did not stick
to call it an impudent attempt. So strong is prepossession
that some good-natured persons had their doubts concerning
him, but, to do him justice, his performance has cleared 'em
all. So whimsical were some of these prejudiced persons in
their objections that they even urged he was too tall for the
part; yet I think 'tis generally allowed that the advantage of
tall stature is a beauty in Nature ; it expresses a kind of nat-
ural dignity. When we read the history of any monarch or
hero, we seldom annex the idea of a little man unless some
passage in the history particularly marks him as such. Nor

APPENDIX. 485

have I ever heard of any dramatic law or act of Parliament
to reduce our kings to the low standard in which they are
sometimes represented.

I mean no reflections hereby on any one who may be dis-
qualified, as I myself, for a grenadier, nor do I presume to
hint that a great mind may not inhabit the small body of a
man even of but five feet five inches. Long since it was re-
marked that " daring souls often dwell in little men." Not
to give praise to the little gentleman for his performance in
some parts of this character were doing him injustice ; there
is a quick-spirited manner in his execution that often sets off
many passages therein. But when we consider the chief cha-
racterisic of Lear to be pride and impatience — a kingly pride,
hitherto uncontrolled, and an impetuous temper, as soon sus-
ceptible of anger, rage, and fury as flax is ready to catch fire,
and in the expression of those passions as quick and rapid as
the lightning's flash, — if this is the case (and I have often heard
it allowed), must we not give the preference to Mr. Barry, not
only in majestic deportment and gracefulness of action, but
also in his manner of imprecating the curse this injured mon-
arch throws out against his unnatural daughter ? Can the actor
be too rapid in the delivery ? Do not long pauses damp the
fire of it, like cold water dropped thereon? "Tis hasty, rash,
and uttered in the whirlwind of his passion. Too long a
preparation for it seems not consistent with Lear's character ;
'tis here unnatural. Such long pauses give him time to re-
flect, which the hasty Lear is not apt to do till 'tis too late.
This philosophic manner would become a man who took time
to recollect, which if Lear did, would not the good king, the
o'erkind father, change this dire curse into a fervent prayer
for his child's repentance and amendment? To prepare this
curse with an overstrained look of solemn address, long dwelt
on before the curse begins, makes what the author designed
to excite pity and terror become detestable and horrible. So
dire is the curse Nature can scarce endure it unless delivered
in the rapid manner, the wild transport of the choleric king,
which sudden and unchecked passion would surely give it.
•When it appears premeditated it speaks rancor, spleen, and
41*

486 APPENDIX.

malice, a cool revenge, not a burst of passion from an o'er-
charged heart. Whether this remark is just is left to the de-
termination of the judicious public.

I have seen both these gentlemen play King Lear within
a few days of one another. I must confess I had pleasure
from the performance of the lesser monarch in several pas-
sages. My expectations had indeed been greatly raised by
the many encomiums lavished on him, but were not answered
to my wish. There was a petiteness attended the performance
which I thought not quite equal to the character — his beha-
vior often liable to censure, particularly, I thought, at the end
of those scenes where the unnatural behavior of his daughters
works him up almost to frenzy. Do not the preceding and
following parts point out to us that Lear rushes wildly from
beneath the roof where he has been so unhospitably treated ?
Why, then, is he to sink into the arms of his attendants ?
Thus helpless as he there affects to appear, though his daugh-
ters turned him out of doors, surely his attendants would have
conveyed him to some place of rest ; yet by the play we find
he roams into the wood, exposing himself unto the storm.
Besides the error of this fainting-fit, let us examine how 'tis
executed. His spirits being quite exhausted, he drops almost
lifeless into the arms of his attendants. Do they carry him
off? Why, no. Relaxed as we may suppose his whole ma-
chine is (for his head and body are both thrown extravagant-
ly behind, as if his neck and back were broke), yet his knees
(which in Nature would most likely falter first) are still so able
to support him in that odd bent condition that he walks off
with the regular stiff step of a soldier in his exercise on
the parade. Is this consistent ? is this natural ? is this charac-
ter? Does not this uncouth appearance, with his bent-back
body and drooping head, rather resemble the uncomely dis-
tortion of a posture-master when he walks the "sea-crab," as
they call it? By the introduction of such extravagances he
seems to have borrowed a hint from our brother Bayes when
he says, ''I scorn your dull fellows who borrow all they do
from Nature; I'm for fetching it out of my own fancy."
And a pretty fancy it is, truly ! I question if it would have

APPENDIX. 487

entered into the imagination of any other man. But, as Bayes
again says, "It serves to elevate and surprise." Thus the
actor is satisfied if he can gain a clap from the upper gallery,
while the pit and boxes, with a silent shrug alone, condemn
such outre behavior. Certainly, the author meant not this
fainting-fit or that Lear should stay to be held. He rather
meant the king, in hurry of his rage and grief, stung to the
heart by those unnatural hags, should fly all roofs, shun all
attendance, pomp, and ceremony — should strive in his agony
of soul to fly himself if possible.

I have been informed (I know not how true it may be,
though the story is not unlikely) that when Mr. Garrick first
undertook the part of King Lear he went to a bedlam to learn
to act a madman. It had not been a very improper school,
perhaps, had he been to have played some of the low, ridic-
ulous mad characters in The Pilgrim ; but as we do not hear
of any mad king being locked up there, I do not readily con-
ceive how his visit to those elder brothers of the sky could
answer his purpose. One might imagine his judgment (if
he has any) might have suggested to him a considerable
difference in the behavior of a real king, by great distress
driven to distraction, and the fantasque of a poor mad tailor
who in a kind of frolic delirium imagines himself a king.
Though the mockery of King Cabbage might cause a smile
with our pity, yet sure the deplorable situation of the real
monarch would rather rive the heart than excite risi-
bility.

I am at a loss to guess what end this visit to the palace in
Moor-Fields could answer. 'Tis probable the most striking
object he could fix his eye on, and the most worthy his atten-
tion, was placed over the gate to that entrance. I imagine no
one would think Shakespeare would have paid such a visit to
have learnt from the medley jargon of those unhappy maniacs
matter to have furnished out his scenes of Lear's madness.
No j his amazing genius, whose extensive imagination took in
all Nature, and with a judgment adequate arranged his ideas,
giving proper sentiment, language, and spirit to every charac-
ter, when Lear's madness struck his raptured fancy, "the

488 APPENDIX.

poet's brain, in a fine fiery fit of frenzy rolling," wanted not
such mean resources.

I have heard some persons objected that Mr. Barry would
want pleasantry in the mad-scenes of King Lear. I must con-
fess I was at a loss to know what they meant. Lear's madness
claims a serious attention — sometimes excites our admiration,
often moves our tears, and ever our pity and our terror. If a
spectator of those scenes should be inclined to laugh, might
not one suspect such spectator had no very delicate feeling, or
that there was something absurd in the actor's performance ?
It may be observed that though Lear is turned of fourscore,
yet he sinks not into the enervated or decrepit old man ; he
no more bends under age than as Nature (though in spirit and
health) will at that time of day sometimes give way to ease.
His deportment will still express the monarch.

I own I think Mr. Barry well deserved the uncommon ap-
plause he met with in this part. It may be a question whe-
ther in this character he has not shown more of the masterly
actor than in all he has done before. His voice was well man-
aged, his looks expressive, his deportment becoming the cha-
racter, his actions graceful and picturesque ; he meant well,
and executed that meaning with a becoming dignity and ease.
There appeared throughout a well-conducted variety and spirit-
ed propriety. His attitudes appeared the result of Nature, and
by a happy transition from one to another they seemed not
studied. He threw himself into 'em as if his immediate feel-
ing alone directed him to the use of 'em.

There has lately appeared in some of our public papers the
following epigram on the two Lears :

" To praise the different Lears,
To Barry they gave loud huzzas —
To Garrick only tears."

A pretty conceit, but how if it is not quite true ? For 'tis as
certain that Mr. Garrick has had other applause besides tears
as 'tis true that Mr. Barry, besides loud huzzas, has never
failed to draw tears from many of his spectators. Were it
injurious to the author of this epigram to suppose he was a

APPENDIX. 489

little hurt by Mr. Barry's success? Though it maybe diffi-
cult to say who was the author, yet to guess who was hurt most
by Mr. Barry's applause cannot be a very hard matter to guess.
Permit me, therefore, to deliver to you a reply to the fore-
mentioned epigram. I believe it may fairly stand by the
other, and is not the less poignant for its truth :

" Critics, attend, and judge the rival Lears :
Whilst each commands applause and each your tears,
Then own this truth : Well he performs his part
Who touches even Garrick to the heart."

Congreve makes Witwould say, " Contradictions beget one
another, like rabbits." The simile may hold on this occasion
in regard to epigrams. I have had two sent me on this sub-
ject, which I shall venture to repeat, though since they were
sent to me (as was the last) they have made their appearance
in some of our public papers :

" When kingly Barry acts, the boxes ring
With echoing praise : ' Ay, every inch a king !'
When Garrick dwindling whines,

Th' assenting house
Re- whispers aptly back, « A mouse ! a mouse !' "

" Shakespeare, arise, and end the warm dispute —
Bid malice cease to sneer, and wits be mute.
If both the Lears have merit in thy eyes,
On both smile gracious, and divide the prize.
Of future worth let candor be the test :
Who envies most shall be but second best"

Will it not be a matter of some surprise to the public that
an actor of such improving talents and happy abilities as Mr.
Barry is avowedly possessed of should be rejected by any
manager of a theatre ? Should any personal pique or preju-
dice prevent the director adding to the strength of his com-
pany or to the variety of the town's entertainment? Is any
of our theatres so rich in actors as not to need any performer
who has stood the trial and passed the public approbation ?
But perhaps the great vanity and -little fears of the player got
the better even of the avarice of the manager, and rather than

490 APPENDIX.

have so powerful a competitor (in tragedy especially) under
the same roof, he chose to forego (heart-breaking thought!)
even the lucre that must have accrued to the manager from
such an actor's performance. Yet that this stage-director
might have had this actor in his company is a truth the pat-
entee can scarcely be hardy enough to deny while Mr. Barry
is living to assert it. In my view of the two Lears I have
rather chosen to dwell longer on the excellences of one actor
than on a closer observation of the defects of the other; for,
though, as the Duke of Buckingham observes,

"'Tis great delight to laugh at some men's ways,
Yet 'tis much greater to give merit praise."

V.

STRICTURES UPON THE ACTING AND PERSONAL
TRAITS OF DAVID GARRICK.

THE opinions of the writer of the following article (pub-
lished in the Mirror of Taste, Philadelphia, about 1811)
were evidently formed on critical remarks upon the same
subject published in the London Monthly Mirror of 1801.
I submit them to the reader with no other comment but
that they will be found to run on the same lines with what
I have hitherto said regarding favorable and adverse criti-
cism on the merits of the English Roscius :

That Mr. Garrick was the greatest actor of his time is so
universally admitted that, if there were any one now disin-
clined to believe it, prudence would forbid him to avow his
incredulity. Against the voice of nations and the opinions
of most of the enlightened critics of his time it would be
presumptuous, and no less vain than presumptuous, to set up
a different opinion at this time ; but that much of the extrav-
agant eulogies we now read, and many of the strange stories
we hear recounted of his powers, are the offspring of that

APPENDIX. 491

warm enthusiasm which sees everything in superlative excess
may be reasonably believed, and indeed is more likely, and
seems much more conformable to plain truth and common
sense. We never find in real life such prodigies as those we
read of; and it seems more probable that the judgment of his
extreme admirers was blinded by wonder and betrayed into
an exaggerated notion of his talents than that an individual
should be so much more than human as Garrick must have
been if some things recounted of him were true. It has
been frequently related, and by many a person of good sense
believed, that at one time, for the purpose of instructing a
painter, he, merely by the force of imagination, went through
the whole process of declension from ruddy health to actual
death ; that he first glowed with feverish heat, then grew lan-
guid, pale, and helpless ; sank on a couch ; his breath became
hard and quick ; a cadaverous ghastliness succeeded ; his eyes
rolled, their pupils were almost hidden, while the lids lay
open ; and he expired in a manner so natural as to startle the
spectators. Now, though it is highly probable — I would say
certain — that this story was a mere fabrication, yet the fact of
its being thought of, and still more its being believed, is a sat-
isfactory demonstration that the public mind respecting this ex-
traordinary man was wound up to a pitch of rapturous enthu-
siasm, such almost as Johnson, in his metaphorical language,
would have called a " calenture of the brain." I myself have
many times heard it repeated by men of sense and credibility,
and swallowed as if it were truth by the gaping listeners — nay,
I remember the time when I should have thought him an infidel
who doubted it. But experience has cooled my credulity, and
as I have since had occasion to observe that spells little less
potent have been raised by talents very inferior to some of
Garrick' s contemporaries of whom nothing of the kind was
ever imagined, my mind is made up on the subject, and,
though believing him to be the greatest actor of his day, I
still think that much of what has been said of him is mere
hyperbolical nonsense.

It is pretty evident that variety and comprehensiveness were
the characteristics of Mr. Garrick' s talents. He could on the

492 APPENDIX.

same night display great tragic and great comic powers — ap-
pall the heart with fear in Macbeth and shake the house with
laughter in Sharp. But the generally-received opinion, that
in all the intermediate parts between these extremes he was
equally great, is unwarranted by fact. A fond and amiable
friend, Sir Joshua Reynolds, has placed him in his celebrated
picture as standing equally between Tragedy and Comedy, but
there is more of fine poetical imagination than of truth in the
worthy knight's opinion. A friend of Garrick's, of superior
intellectual powers to Sir Joshua, thought that Mr. Garrick's
tragedy scarcely bore any comparison with his comedy; in
the former he had successful rivals, while in the latter it is
probable he never had an equal in the world. A critic and
poet now living, who carried his admiration of Garrick as
near to enthusiasm as a fine and accurate discriminating judg-
ment would allow, and who was personally partial to him,
maintained the superiority of Barry in many parts. Mossop,
who was at the time alluded to a perfect stranger in London,
an adventurer little known, and who labored under the disad-
vantage (at that time no slight one) of being an Irishman, so
successfully rivalled the English Roscius in some of his own
characters that the latter ungenerously and unjustly conspired
to remove him in order to be relieved from what he felt to be
superiority. Henderson, too, wanting many natural requi-
sites which Garrick enjoyed to perfection, though he died at
an early age, held in many characters, comic as well as tragic,
a very reputable rank of competition with him, in the opin-
ions of the most judicious. His affectionate friend and pre-
ceptor, Dr. Johnson, derided not only the public opinion
respecting him, but laughed at his own pretensions ("Punch
cannot feel," said the doctor), and gravely declared that there
was not a man in Drury Lane Theatre who could not pro-
nounce the soliloquy of Hamlet, beginning "To be or not
to be," as well. In his comedy, too, the doctor's discerning
eye perceived faults where the public could see none ; and he
particularly censured him in the character of Archer for not
letting the gentleman shine through the footman. His warm-
est panegyrist, the Dramatic Censor, in some sort agrees with

APPENDIX. 493

the doctor (" nor attains to what is called the fine gentleman"),
but this he smooths over with the very unphilosophical reason
that it was too languid for his great powers. In the character
of Hamlet the late Mr. Sheridan (he whose son has eclipsed
all moderns as a dramatic poet, and been surpassed by few as
an orator and statesman) held a competition with Mr. Gar-
rick which excited his jealousy ; and indeed he in some cha-
racters so far outshone him as to render a total resignation of
the characters advisable on the part of the latter ; but those
were chiefly declamatory characters, such as Cato, Brutus,
etc. ; in King John and the Roman Father he was allowed
to take the lead.

Though the revolution which Mr. Garrick effected in the
system of acting has brought the stage nearer to Nature than
it was when he first appeared, it is the opinion of many lumi-
nous critics that he injured by it the art of reading poetry.
Sir Brooke Boothby says that, " Willing to depreciate a talent
which he did not possess, Garrick contrived to bring meas-
ured and harmonious recitation into disrepute." A critic of
a later day, adverting to that opinion, says that " With all his
skill, and the wonderful effects ascribed to that gentleman's
acting, he was by constitution or a natural deficiency of
voice unable to acquire reputation as a declaimer." And
here again we find the opinions of his idolatrous panegyr-
ist, the Dramatic Censor, come in confirmation of those re-
marks. "Though generally correct in modulation," says
that critic, "and almost invariably so in expressing the
sense of his author, there is a respirative drag, as if to catch
the breath;" and further on : " Our English Roscius I never
could admire in declamation; indeed, he has kept pretty
clear of it."

The innovation of Mr. Garrick, however, was certainly a
happy one for the drama ; but it must be understood as not at
all reflecting upon his gigantic predecessor, Betterton. For
the fact is, that elocution had, from the time of the latter, been
on the decline, and when Garrick appeared had begun to
assume a pompousness or unnatural-sort of strut adapted rather
to the termination of the .lines than to the sense and spirit of
42

494 APPENDIX.

the subject or the joint harmony of the thoughts and num-
bers.*

This afforded a broad mark for a man of genius to aim at,
and yielded an easy victory to such popular talents as those
of Garrick — the more easy because his talents as a wit and a
poet supplied him with weapons which he did not fail to em-
ploy, and which enabled him to accomplish his triumph over
the exploded system by overcharged caricature and ludicrous
imitation. Besides this, he stands accused — and that by no
mean judges, either — of having bounded from that which he
threw into contempt to an opposite extreme, and given his
principal attention to manner. and gesture; for, as a respect-
able writer says, " In his gravest and most tragical parts he
had recourse to trick, in consequence of which those actors
who merely copied him were execrable."

Nevertheless, he was certainly a wonderful actor. He had
an admirable stage-face, with an eye quick, piercing, and
almost miraculously expressive. He had uncommon spirit,
vast discernment, and that admirable requisite, a mind formed
by Nature for discriminating characters, with physical organs
little less powerful in exhibiting, in all their symptoms and
phenomena, the lively, ardent, and impetuous passions ; looks
and gestures which were often more impressive and intelligi-
ble than the words of his author ; and tones of voice which
thrilled to the inmost recesses of the heart and forced the
stoutest nerves to vibrate in unison with them. It was by
these instruments that he was able to wind up the public feel-
ings to his will, and make the world believe, contrary to fact
and truth, that he was as great in tragedy as in comedy, and
therefore that he was more universal than he really was.

The fame of Mr. Garrick as an actor was not, like those
of most other performers, borne up by his professional tal-
ents alone ; he had other advantages, of which he made the
best use possible in swelling the amount of his reputation.

* The stage in England and America is sadly degenerated again in this
way, particularly among the females. This is a deformity to which the
greatest industry and attention should be opposed, because it seerns to be
a natural tendency.

APPENDIX. 495

His wit, his humor, and mimicry, his happy talent for small
versification, and the great powers he possessed of rendering
himself agreeable as a companion, extended his acquaintance
to an immense circle. Prudence, of which he possessed a
larger share than is often found united with genius, directed
him to select his companions from the highest order he could
reach at, and those he justly considered not only as the safest,
but as the most likely to promote the interest of any man they
admit to their intimacy, and at the same time the least waste-
ful to the purse. From among the opulent, the learned, and
the powerful he chose his associates, and those he cultivated
with all the address of which he was master, carrying on a
large traffic of flattery, of which he was no niggard either to
them or to himself: as Goldsmith says, he was "be-Rosciused,
and they were be-praised." He puffed them up with adula-
tion, dexterously administered to each through the medium
of the others. They pledged themselves that he was the most
extraordinary man in the world, and thought themselves bound
to redeem their pledge ; and thus was he so effectually ensured
against all competition that an actor of equal talents would
have had no chance of success in a struggle with him.

That he really believed himself to be so very superior as
his panegyrists described and his admirers thought him — and
his panegyrists and admirers were almost a whole nation —
may well be doubted, as envy of the most painful kind and
jealousy amounting to panic continually harassed him. He
never failed to betray emotions of discontent whenever the
conversation turned upon the merits of great performers ; and
this unhappy feeling so tyrannically overruled reason, candor,
and liberality in his heart that he became jealous of those who
could not be his rivals, and actually sickened at the praises of
eminent actresses. Mrs. Pritchard's fame greatly embittered
his life. Dr. Beattie, speaking of Mrs. Siddons in a letter to
Sir William Forbes, says: "I asked Tom Davies (the author
of Garrick's Life) whether he could account for Garrick's
neglect, or rather discouragement, of her. He imputed it to
jealousy. 'How is it possible,' said I, 'that Garrick could
be jealous of a woman?' — 'He would have been jealous of a

496 APPENDIX.

child,' answered he, 'if that child had been a favorite of the
public; to my certain knowledge he would.' " Yet the doc-
tor was a great admirer of Garrick, as appears from several
passages in his letters ; he says that that great actor had once,
in playing Macbeth, nearly made him throw himself over the
front of the two-shilling gallery. And in another letter he
says: "I thought my old friend Garrick fell little or noth-
ing short of theatrical perfection, and I have seen him in his
prime and in his highest characters ; but Garrick never affect-
ed me half so much as Mrs. Siddons has done." Had Gar-
rick lived to hear this from such a person as Dr. Beattie it
would have killed him; but the doctor had in him as large a
share of prudent suavity as Mr. Garrick himself, and would
not probably have hurt the feelings of Roscius by the avowal
of such an opinion if he were alive.

From Garrick' s excessive and irrational jealousy arose a
number of foibles, and, I am sorry to say it, one vice worse
than all. It rendered him sometimes unjust to the merit of
others, and sometimes betrayed him into little acts of dupli-
city. His conduct to Mr. Mossop is one of the many instances
which appear in the history of the stage to establish this charge
against him. Tate Wilkinson, who has indulged as freely as
any one in jesting upon the singularities of that excellent
actor, Mossop, speaking of his leaving Drury Lane, says :
"It was occasioned by an affront he took from Mr. Gar-
rick's appointing him to act Richard, as we will suppose,
this night, and his first and best character,* which stood well
against Mr. Garrick's, though not so artfully discriminated,
while at the same time the manager (Garrick) had secured a
command from the Prince of Wales for the night following ;
so that when Mossop had finished his Richard with remark-
able credit, to his astonishment the Mr. Palmer of that age
stepped forward and said, ' To-morrow night, by command of
His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales (George the Third,
then a youth), King Richard the Third — King Richard by Mr.
Garrick ' — it gave a great damp to what Mr. Mossop had just
done. It was certainly galling, and proved duplicity and ill-
* No ; not by many — not by a great deal !

APPENDIX. 497

nature as well as envy." Nothing that can be advanced on
this transaction could convey a more adequate idea of Mr.
Garrick's motives than the simple recital of the transaction
itself. It was decisive as to the fate of Mossop, who was too
proud to remain any longer at Drury Lane, and too dignified
to complain of the insult to any one but Mr. Garrick himself.
In disgust, therefore, he left him for ever, and, engaging with
Barry and Woodward at Crow Street, Dublin, incurred that
series of losses and woes which at last brought him to the
grave.

Though Mr. Sheridan was a much less formidable rival
than Mossop, Mr. Garrick was tortured with jealousy of him
too ; and his feelings were raised to an unreasonable degree
of painfulness at Sheridan's success in King John, especially
when he was told that the king was uncommonly pleased with
that actor's representation of the part. " To make the draught
still more unpalatable," says the recorder of these facts, " upon
his (Garrick's) asking whether His Majesty approved his play-
ing the Bastard, he was told, without the least compliment
paid to his acting, it was imagined that the king thought that
the character was rather too bold in the drawing and that the
coloring was overcharged and glaring. Mr. Garrick, who had
been so accustomed to applause, and who, of all men living,
most sensibly felt the neglect of it, was greatly struck with a
preference given to another, and which left him out of all con-
sideration ; and, though the boxes were taken for King John
several nights successively, he would never after permit the
play to be acted."

These are proofs of a most unpardonable invidiousness of
nature. They are absolute — not in the least doubtful or capa-
ble of palliation, for of Mossop or Sheridan he was not called
upon to give an opinion : the stamp of public opinion had
been long impressed upon them. But in the case of Hender-
son a pretext may be set up that his opposition to that admi-
rable actor was an error of judgment. Yet his many en-
deavors to depreciate and his perseverance in undervaluing
Henderson after the talents of the latter had gone through
the mint, assayed to high value, show that our hero was gov-
42* 2 G

498 APPENDIX.

erned, in that case at least, by the same envious spirit which
moved him in the cases of Sheridan and Mossop. After Hen-
derson had at Bath obtained the name of " The Bath Roscius,"
and at Dublin was placed in the same rank with their favored
Mossops, Sheridans, and Barrys, and, what was much more,
after he had received the most unequivocal approbation from
no less a man than Richard Brinsley Sheridan, Mr. Garrick
being prevailed upon to go to the Haymarket to see him play
Shylock, in which he excelled, and being asked by the friend
who brought him, "Well, Mr. Garrick, speak candidly ; did
not Shylock please you?" — "Oh yes, oh yes," replied Gar-
rick, "and so did Tubal."

Without meaning anything like offence to the profession,
we are firmly persuaded that there are many good actors who
are far from being competent judges of the merits of others.
We have been accustomed from infancy to hear it remarked,
and long observation has confirmed us in the opinion. We
think it not difficult to account for it, either. Old Charles
Macklin, who never saw real merit that he did not endeavor
to bring it forward — of which there are many living exam-
ples— and the venerable Mr. Hull of Covent Garden Theatre,
were excellent judges, and no doubt others are to be found ;
but we speak generally. Even old Sheridan, who, so far from
having any of Garrick' s envy, always erred on the other side,
and who was a gentleman of most uncommon powers of mind
and refined taste, was deficient in judgment upon the talents
of players ; of which we cannot give a stronger proof than
what Dr. Beattie relates of him. In a letter to Sir William
Forbes the doctor says that "Sheridan assured him that in
every comic character, from Lady Townly to Nell, Mrs. Sid-
dons was as great and as original as in tragedy;" which was
downright rhodomontade. In reviewing the history of the
stage we find Mr. Garrick, with a perversion of judgment
truly astonishing, the opposer of candidates of talent and the
promoter of men of incapacity. He discouraged the after-
celebrated Tom King, and kept him in the shade till Mr.
Sheridan took him to Dublin, where he first received the just
reward of his rare powers. He refused Miss Brent, though

APPENDIX. 499

urged by Dr. Arne to secure her to his theatre , and he en-
tirely overlooked Miss Younge for two seasons, during which
she played inferior parts under him at Drury Lane Theatre.
That this was owing to mere defect of judgment, not jealousy,
appears from his subsequent conduct ; for as soon as he heard
that she succeeded in Dublin he actually despatched Moody
the player after her to offer her a carte blanche ; in conse-
quence of which she played the first characters at Drury Lane
'for eight years, and would have continued to do so longer if
Mr. Harris had not bought her off by terms which Mr. Gar-
rick would not agree to. To the repeated offers of the cele-
brated John Palmer, and after various probationary rehearsals,
he gave a positive refusal, still assuring him that "he never
would do;" and he uniformly undervalued the imperial mis-
tress of the stage, Mrs. Siddons ; while, on the other hand,
he admired more than any one Tate Wilkinson, one of the
worst actors in the world. And why? Why, truly, because
he was a mimic. These are all facts, to find which we can
direct any reader to the books and pages where they are re-
corded ; and we think it is not going too far to conclude from
these instances of his want of judgment or of candor in the case
of persons of conspicuity that numbers who might have been
ornaments to the stage were pushed off from it in the course
of his long theatrical reign, and were left to languish away
life unknown, perhaps in obscurity and want.

Lively as was his genius and irritable as were his feelings,
his conduct was still kept under the steady, unrelaxed rein of
worldly prudence and discretion. Like most other actors, he
frequently mistook the bent of his talents, and often found
that his inclinations and his professional powers were at vari-
ance. Very different from them, however, he never persisted
in putting his conceits into practice, but as soon as he found
that the public differed from his expectation in his perform-
ance of a character he wisely abandoned the attempt. Fal-
staff, Shylock, the Bastard in King John, King John himself,
Marplot, and a long et csetera, he attempted because he liked
them, and left them because the .public did not; for it is a
mistaken idea, universally though it prevailed, that he could

500 APPENDIX.

play everything better than all other actors. His superiority
consisted really in this, .that he was unrivalled in a greater
number and greater variety of characters than any other per-
former. To say that in wit he was inferior to Foote is to say
no more of him than may be asserted of any of the most bril-
liant of their contemporaries. That Garrick had occasionally
sallies of true wit is unquestionable, but they were only occa-
sional, not frequent; nor were they, as Foote's were, contin-
ually and instantly at his command. I have often heard the
question discussed whether Garrick' s claim to the title of a
wit was perfectly clear. He had, however, in abundance that
which often passes current for wit — a vigorous and lively im-
agination, aided by a considerable share of knowledge of
books and much knowledge of mankind, together with a keen
perception of the ludicrous. Along with these he had extra-
ordinary talents for mimicry, and an excellent memory, which,
from a large store of experience and observation, furnished
him with boundless materials for conversation, of which he
generally made the most, expatiating upon them in a very fas-
cinating manner ; but from his dilatations, if they were pre-
sented in writing and not witnessed personally, any man who
knew him could tell what the sort of company was in which
he uttered them. In the presence of superiors in rank and
condition his fancy seemed to be lowered down to a reveren-
tial decorum, and in the presence of Foote his wit was sub-
dued, as it is said Antony's spirit was by Caesar. It was not
in the pleasant warfare of wit, nor in the quick reply or re-
tort, nor in the vivid reciprocation of dialogue, he shone, but
in the happy relation of humorous stories and pleasant anec-
dotes. In these he had a peculiar felicity, and was almost
unrivalled. The superiority of Barry in the telling of an
Irish story, however — but in none other — he acknowledged.
Yet with all these gifts there is reason to believe that Gold-
smith's character of him in the little poem of "Retaliation "
was perfectly correct. With his opinion,

" It is only that when he is off he is acting,"
Lord Oxford's (Walpole) exactly corresponded. "I dined

APPENDIX.

501

to-day at Garrick's," says his lordship. "There were the
Duke of Grafton, Lady Rochfort, Lady Holderness, the
crooked Moyston, and Dabren, the Spanish minister; two
regents, of which one is Lord Chamberlain and the other
Groom of the Stole; and the wife of a. Secretary of State.
This is being sur un assez bon ton for a player ! Don't you
want to ask me how I like him? Do want, and I will tell
you. I like her exceedingly; she is all sense, and all sweet-
ness too. I don't know how, but he does not improve so
fast upon me. There is a great deal of parts, vivacity, and
variety, but there is a great deal, too, of mimicry and burlesque.
I am very ungrateful, for he flatters me abundantly, but, un-
luckily, I know it. I was accustomed to it enough when my
father was First Minister; on his fall I lost it all at once."
"Garrick," says another elegant writer, "was all submission
in the presence of a peer or a poet, equally loath to offend the
dignity of the one or provoke the irritability of the other;
hence he was at all times too methodical in his conversation
to admit of his mixing in the feast of reason and the flow of
soul. To his dependants and inferior players, however, he
was indeed King David, except when he had a mind to mor-
tify them by means of one another. On such occasions he
generally took some of the lowest among them, whom he
not only cast in the same scenes with himself, but frequently
walked arm-and-arm with them in the greenroom, and some-
times in his morning ramble about the streets."

By all his imitators his ordinary deportment and speech in
private life have been described as very singular. We have
heard him mimicked by Henderson, whose imitation was said
to be frightfully perfect ; by Brush Collins ; by Tate Wilkin-
son; by a celebrated public mimic in London whose name
we now forget. Their imitations all partook, no doubt, of
the exaggeration inseparable from mimicry, but they all so
exactly resembled each other that it was impossible to resist
the persuasion that they were all good caricature pictures of
the same person. Henderson's was comparatively chaste, and
was said by some of Garrick's intimates to be very little over-
charged. Taking this for granted, I conceive Wilkinson's

502 APPENDIX.

account of Garrick's conversation to come as near to the thing
as it was possible for writing to bring it. Of this a single
specimen will answer as well as a thousand. It seems that,
owing to the departure of Mossop, Garrick was at a loss for a
Bajazet, and, perhaps to mortify Mossop, he selected Wilkin-
son to perform that great character. A private rehearsal of
the part was ordered in Mr. Garrick's dressing-room and in
his presence, for the benefit of his corrections. Mr. Cross, the
prompter, was ordered to attend with the play, and also Mr.
Holland, who was to perform Tamerlane. Mr. Garrick was
in high humor, and Wilkinson, who says so, details the con-
versation thus: "'Well, now, Cross, hey! Why, now, this
will be too much for my exotic ! Hey, Cross ? I must do it
myself; what say you? Hey, now, Cross?' — Cross replied,
' I am afraid not this year, sir, as the time is drawing near,
and Bajazet is long, and the play must be done next Monday.'
— 'Well, now, hey, Cross ! Why, that is true, but don't you
think my brow and eye in Bajazet? How do you think I
should play it?' — 'Oh, sir,' said Cross, 'like everything else
you do, your Bajazet would be incomparable.' To which we
all bowed and assented. He then acted a speech or two in
the first scene, and his look was truly inimitable."

From the life of Mr. Garrick some most useful lessons of
prudential and moral conduct may be deduced. One of these
— and perhaps the most valuable, because it concerns our duty
toward our neighbor — is to be cautious how we form opinions
upon the characters of our fellow- creatures on the illusory
grounds of public report; for it is not more impossible for a
thing to be at once black and white, light and dark, good and
bad, than for David Garrick to be such as he has been de-
scribed. It may serve to check any overweening fondness for
public opinion, inspired by pride and vanity, to see how inef-
ficacious to the obtaining of unsullied reputation, or even fair
play, are the most strenuous efforts of the finest talents. To
us it, seems impossible to find two men more different than
the Garrick of his admirers and the Garrick of his adver-
saries.

As specimens of the pro and con. on this subject the reader

APPENDIX. 503

will peruse, no doubt with surprise, the following characters.
The following is taken from the European Magazine :

"He was too cunning and too selfish to be loved or re-
spected, and so immoderately fond of money and praise that
he expected you should cram him with flattery. He was a
kind of spoiled child whom you must humor in all his ways and
follies. He was often in extremes of civility and sly imper-
tinence, provoking and timid by turns. If he handed you a
teacup or a glass, you must take it as a great condescension ;
and he often called to you in the street to tell you in a loud
voice and at some distance that he intended you the honor of
a visit. This some wag termed ' a visit in perspective. ' He
was sore and waspish to a degree of folly, and had creatures
about him who were stationed spies, and gave him intelligence
of every idle word that was said of him ; at the same time
they misrepresented or exaggerated what passed, in order to
gratify him. He was very entertaining, and could tell a story
with great humor ; but he was generally posting to his inter-
est, and so taken up with his own concerns that he seldom was
a pleasant companion. He was stiff and strained, and more
an actor in company than on the stage, as Goldsmith has de-
scribed him. In short, he was an unhappy man with all his
success and fame, and wore himself out in fretting and solici-
tude about his worldly affairs and in theatrical squabbles and
altercations. Though he loved money, he has been friendly
on some occasions, and liberal to persons in distress; but he
had the knack of making his acquaintance useful and subser-
vient to him, and always had his interest in view. His levees
put you in mind of a court, where you might see mean adula-
tion, insincerity, pride, and vanity, and the little man in
ecstasy at hearing himself applauded by a set of toad-eaters
and hungry poets."

"As an author he was not without merit, having written
some smart epigrams, prologues, epilogues, and farces; and,
to do him justice, he was not very vain of his writings.

"To conclude of him as an actor,

« Take him for all in all,
I ne'er shall see his like again.'

504 APPENDIX.

t( As a man he had failings, for which we must make allow-
ance when we consider that he was intoxicated, and even
corrupted, by the great incense and court paid to him by his
admirers."

INDEX.

" ABANDON," a theatrical term, 178.

Acting, theory of, 29; not mere
declaiming, 30; object to hit off
life, 31 ; dramatic expression, 31 ;
tricks of personal habit, 32; mel-
odramatic style of, 33 ; Shake-
speare's ideal of, 34; discards
mannerisms of self, 38; contrast-
ed with reading, 39; stage-habit
of imitation, 43 ; stage-traditions
of, 44 ; the stage-voice, 45 ; old-
time mannerisms, 47 ; " teapot
style" of, 49; a hundred years
ago, 59; romantic school of, 251.

Actor, the, genius and work of, 27;
art of, 28; danger of erring, 30;
Hamlet's advice to, 36; as Mac-
beth, 38; old English intonation
of, 48; anecdotes of, 87-109;
early training of, 252; mechan-
ical manners of young actors,
276; author's testimony to esti-
mable lives of, 403.

Adams, Augustus, imitation of For-
rest, 348; his curse in Lear in-
terrupted, 357.

Adams's, John Quincy, anecdote of
R. M. Johnson, 270.

Ancient Mariner, elder Booth's read-
ing of, 277.

Andre, Major, acting at South Street
Theatre, Philadelphia, 318.

Aristotle and Shakespeare, 170.
Astley's training of circus-horses,

347-
Asylum for actors, Forrest's, 328.

B.

BAKER, Mrs. Alexina Fisher, 402.
Banquet, DeCamp's realistic stage,

219.
Barbara S , anecdote by Chas.

Lamb, 331.
Barry, Thomas, 401.
Bates, John, bargains with Forrest,

329-

Beggar's Opera, Miss DeCamp in,
197.

Betty, Master, in London, 338 ; Rey-
nolds's opinion of, 341 ; furore for,
341 ; forsaken in manhood, 345.

Booth, Edwin, as Lear, 81.

Booth, Junius Brutus, 174; not an
imitator, 176; elocutionary skill
of, 177; absence of trickery in,
179; eccentric habits of, 180; as
Sir Edward Mortimer, 181 ; as
Richard the Third, 187; as a
reader, 275 ; analysis of his read-
ing by T. R. Gould, 278.

Brown, Frederick F., 290; Mrs. F.
F. Brown, 203.

Buckstone the comedian, 78 ; at
the Haymarket with Murdoch,
360; mannerisms of, 380; secret
of success of, 382.

505

506

INDEX.

Burton, William E., 223; charged
as imitator by Tyrone Power, 230.

C.

CALDWELL, JAMES H., manager at
St. Charles Theatre, New Orleans,

233.

Caliban, personification of malice,
162.

Carey, George S. and Henry, Tay-
lor's praise of, 136.

Cato, impromptu prologue to, 353.

Celeste, Madame, joke of, on " sticks
of red sealing-wax," 395.

Chestnut Street Theatre, Philadel-
delphia, "Old Drury," 399.

Chicago, its pioneer manager, 398.

Childe Harold, passion in, 132.

Churchill's Rosciad, 59.

Cicero and Roscius, contest between,
26.

Claude's idea of Nature, 33.

Commons, House of, adjourned to
see Master Betty, 339.

Cooke, George Frederick, 79; con-
trasted with Kemble, 80; with
Jefferson and Booth, 81 ; as lago,
82 ; in Richard the Third, 85.

Cooper, Thomas, in Venice Preserved,
88; a daughter at the White
House, 90; joke of, in court-
room, 91; and Kean, 143; af-
fronted at " mutton - chops and
mustard," 374; a blunder of, as
Virginius, 391.

Coriolanus, Kemble's personation of,
304.

Cushman, Miss Charlotte, at New
Orleans, 234; musical voice
broken, 236; trained for Lady
Macbeth, 237 ; her support of
Macready, 238; faulty vocaliza-
tion of, 238; social ambition of,
239; prosaic style of, 240.

Cymbeline, Charles Kean in, 147.

D.

DAMON AND PYTHIAS, 243 ; an ath-
letic tragedian foiled in, by Irish
sub, 245.

DeCamp, Miss, in the ballet, 194;
as an actress, 196; in opera, 197;
as Mrs. Charles Kemble, 198.

DeCamp, Vincent, career of, 201 ;
on the stage, 206; purchases a
cupola for a monument, 210.

Dickens, Charles, his readings and
Buckstone's delivery, 383.

Disguises on the stage, no.

Dog-mania in London, 345.

Doran on Kean, 139.

Dr. C , of Philadelphia, 53.

Dramatic expression, 31 ; excellence
of, lies between Forrest and Mac-
ready, 295.

Dramatist, The, Murdoch's revival
of, at London, 365.

Dreer, P'erdinand J., 419.

Drew, Mrs. John, 234.

Drunken actor, a, 397.

E.

ELOCUTION, changes of fashion in,
43; as usually taught, 274.

Emphasis, Professor White's stress
on, 282.

English affectation in speech, 97. ,

Estelle, Madame, Murdoch's visit to,
250.

Everett, Edward, articulation of, 76.

F.

FIELD, Mrs. J. M., as Juliet at Lan-
caster, Pa., 124.

Fisher, Miss Clara, 234; as Mrs.
Maeder, 401.

Fleck, Johann F., mention of, by
Tieck, 384.

Forrest, Edwin, intonation of, 46 ; con-
trasted with Macready on Yorick,
256 ; early career of, 259 ; later ar.

INDEX.

507

tistic excellence of, 260; as a reader
281; early imitation of Kean, 282;
Murdoch's critique on early read-
ing by, 283 ; fervor of, outstripped
analytic ability, 294 ; versus Mac-
ready, 294; strong physique and
passions of, 295 ; progressive im-
provement of, 296 ; his spectacular
parts, 297 ; at Augusta, Ga., as
Metamora, 298 ; at a Boston sup-
per, 300 ; a brilliant conversation-
alist, 302 ; as a youthful amateur,
317; debut of, on the stage, 320;
lack of imagination, 324; moody
spirit of, 327 ; miscarriage of his
asylum for actors, 328; his bar
gain with Bates, 329 ; aversion to
puny guards, 357.

Frenchman's, a, rendering of Ham-
let's soliloquy, 313; and of Rich-
ard the Third, 314.

G.

GARRICK, DAVID, Dr. Johnson's crit-
icism of, 30; as a manager, 61; as
an actor, 63 ; a fable by, 65 ; Gold-
smith's portrait of, 65 ; his reading
of Hamlet, 67 ; vocal expression of,
74 ; command of the passions, 75 ;
affectation of, in speech, 98 ; as Ben-
edick, 305; last appearance of, 309 ;
his story of "the white stocking,"
376 ; Gibber's critique of, 462-486.

George JSarnwell, a shadowy per-
formance of, 215.

George the Third's habits of speech,
97 ; perpetuated by the actors, 98.

Ghosts in the drama, 163.

Gilbert, John G., 413.

Goldsmith and Garrick, 64.

Gould's, Thomas R., opinion of the
elder Booth, 278.

H.

HABIT, tricks of personal, 32.

Hamblin's prediction about Forrest's
moodiness, 327.

Hamlet's advice to the players, 36;
reading of, by Garrick, 67 ; Mac-
ready as, 115; a democratic king
in, 123; travesty of, by De Camp,
207 ; right reading of " the fune-
ral baked meats," 304; Kemble's
labor as, 305 ; Garrick's power in,
307; a Frenchman's failure in,
313 ; too deep for amateurs, 417;
Kemble's black plumes in, 418.

Harlequin, epilogue of, 323.

Harris, Garrick commended by, 307.

Hat, Green's story of a, 377.

Henderson's efforts at memorizing,
261.

Holland the player, 62.

Hull the actor, 310; author of Fair
Rosamond, 311; founder of the
" Theatrical Fund," 312 ; Taylor's
verses on, 313.

I.

Imitation and mimicry, 42, 50; im-
itation on the stage, 43 ; personal
faults and traits easily caught, 51.

Iron Chest, The, 185.

J.

Jefferson's Rip Van Winkle, 81.
Johnson, Dr., his criticism of Garrick

as Richard, 29 ; and as Hamlet, 308.
Johnson, Richard M., his compliment

to Miss Fanny Kemble's acting,

270.
Jupiter and Mercury, a Fable, by

Garrick, 65.

K.

KEAN, CHARLES, imitates his father,
77, 145; as Posthumus, 146; at-
tention of, to stage-business, 350.

[Cean, Edmund, hints on articulation
of, 75 ; Punch's criticism of, 79 ;

508

INDEX.

as Richard the Third, 86 ; and his
critics, 129; Taylor's critique on,
133 ; Dr. Doran's opinion of, 139;
debut of, in London, 172; his
vocal fireworks, 178; Tieck's crit-
icism of, 385.

Kemble, Charles, Taylor's notice of,
198; his blunder as Shylock, 394.

Kemble, Mrs. Frances Ann, An Old
Woman's Gossipy 200; as an ac-
tress, 204.

Kemble, John Philip, 72; his recita-
tions grave and sombre, 73; con-
trasted with Cooke, 80, 83; mis-
taken ambition of, for comedy,
107 ; Reynolds's anecdote of, 108;
his criticism of Kean as Shylock,
130; first London appearance as
Hamlet, 303; his faithful studies
of Hamlet, 305 ; his loss by the
burning of the Covent Garden
Theatre, 485 ; Tieck's criticism of,
387 ; as Hotspur, 388 ; as Hamlet,
389 ; as Coriolanus, 390.

Kiss, a too fervid, 269.

L.

LADY MACBETH, personality of, 241 ;
unsexed by Miss Cushman's act-

^ ing, 241 ; Miss Menken as, 287.

La Perouse, a sensation at the play
of, 290.

Lear's bewildered frenzy, 131 ; For-
rest's triumph in, and Longfellow's
commendation of, 296; Augustus
Adams interrupted in the curse of,

357-

London, theatrical sensations in, 338;
Murdoch's experiences at, 358.

M.

MACBETH, delineation of, 38 ; a blun-
der in, 393.

MacdufPs petrified grief, 132.
Macready, William, midnight re-

hearsal by, 94; his peculiarity of
voice, 96; anecdote of, 100; at
Macbeth's rehearsal, 101 ; inability
of, to improvise, 103; art of, too
elaborate, 114; youthful natural-
ness of, 116; his interpretation of
obscure readings, 118; as Werner,
120; cough of, in Richelieu, 122;
playing with Miss Ellen Tree,
149 ; early training and career of,
253; on Yorick in Hamlet, 256;
and Forrest's rendering, 257 ;
Macready's particularity, 258; just
spirit of, 259 ; compared with For-
rest, 295 ; at rehearsal with a snuf-
fling actor, 352.

Maeder, James E., 234.

Man, Shakespeare's idea of, 34.

Mannerism, tricks of, 32, 38; of old
times, 47.

Martin, Theodore, criticism of, on
the English stage, 390.

Mathews the Elder, as a mimic, 52;
irritability of, 55.

Meg Merrilies, personality of, 240.

Melodramatic acting, 33.

Memory, efforts of, 261.

Menken, Adah Isaacs, as Lady Mac-
beth, 287.

Metamora, Forrest as, at Augusta,
Ga., 298.

Monboddo on Steele's notation, 70.

Monsieur Tonson, DeCamp in, 209.

Morgan, Maurice, essay by, on
Shakespeare, 156.

Mossop the tragedian, 68.

Mouthing, 68.

Murdoch, James E., notices English
intonation during Southern ap-
prenticeship, 48 ; anecdote of Ma-
th ews's irritability, 55 ; imitates
Kemble's rendering of Hamlet's
soliloquy, 72; appearance in Wild
Oats at London, 78; his retire-
ment from the stage, 99; a varia-

INDEX.

509

tion in Romeo and Juliet at Lan
caster, 124; playing with the elder
Booth in The Iron Chest, 182; as
" a walking gentleman " at Co-
lumbia, S. C., 204; at a singular
performance of George Barnwell,
215 ; receives a medal from Ty-
rone Power, 231 ; his intercourse
with Miss Cushman, 234 ; his visit
to an old Kentucky home, 247 ;
memorizes the part of Hotspur too
hastily, 202 ; appears as an im-
promptu poet, 265 ; his improvi-
sations in The Fatal Marriage,
267; a too fervid kiss, 269; crit
ique on Forrest's early reading,
283 ; critique on Garrick as Ben-
edick, 306; London experiences
of, 358 ; another's blunder in Wild
Oats, 363 ; Thackeray's article on,
in Punch, 366 ; advice to, from
Mr. Wood, 370; rivalry with the
latter for " a cast," 372 ; a mis-
take of, redeemed, 404; his ex-
perience on the Isthmus, 407 ;
his first attempt to play Hamlet,
417.

Murdoch, Samuel K., 405.

Murphy's story, 242.

N.
NATURE, a true idea of, 33.

O.

O'NEILL and Kean, 140.
Othello's majestic passion, 142.
Oxenford, Mr., the Times critic, 364.

P.

PARRHASIUS, Forrest's reading of,

284.
Passion exhibited in Lear, Macduff,

and Childe Harold, 131.
Portia, her femininity, ill.

Power, Tyrone, the Irish actor, 223 ;

mirth-loving nature of, 224; his

practical joke on Burton, 226;

how he cut The West Indian, 228 ;

his final exit, 232.
Preston, William C., anecdote of

Macready, 93.

Q-

QUACK DOCTOR, anecdote of, 335.

READING and acting compared, 39.

Realism of Shakespeare, 113.

Reynolds on Garrick's Benedick, 306.

Richard the Third, Charles Kean's
elaborate production of, 1 88; play-
ed for one auditor, 215 ; a French-
man's performance of, 315; »a
stage-blunder in, 411.

Rice, John B., 49 ; pioneer manager
at Chicago, 398.

Richelieu, Macready's cough in, 122.

" Roland for an Oliver," a, 217.

Romantic school of acting, 211.

Romeo and Juliet, the dying-scene
a resurrection, 127.

Rosalind in As You Like It, 112.

Rush, Dr. James, on the elder Booth,
178; his principles of vocal cul-
ture, 275; his Philosophy of the
Voice, 280.

Rymer and Shakespeare, 170.

S.

" SAILOR BOY'S DREAM," 265.

School for Scandal, waning influ-
ence of, 229.

Scott, John R., blunder of, as Vir-
ginius, 393.

Shakespeare, attributes of his cha-
racter, 29; his idea of a man, 34;
• his ideal of dramatic action, 34;
sure foundations of his fame, 40;
illustrations of dramatic art by,

INDEX.

109; realism of, 113; and his

critics, 154; Morgan's essay on,

IS6.
Shylock, the knife-sharpening by,

326; Charles Kemble's blunder

as, 394.
Siddons, Mrs., voice of, 48; her first

study for Lady Macbeth, 263 ; Dr.

Rush's testimony to her perfection

of speech, 275 ; her innovation in

the " candle-scene," 416.
Southey on Edmund Kean, 173.
South Street Theatre, Philadelphia,

318.
Stage, the voice, 45 ; to be a school

of dramatic instruction, 254.
Steele's Measure and Melody of

Speech, 66.
Supernumeraries, stories of, 356.

T.

TAYLOR, JOHN, and Kemble, 106,
303 ; his critique of Kean, 133 ;
an epitaph by, on the actor Hull,

SIS-

"Teapot style of acting," 49.

Thackeray's Punch article on Mur-
doch, 366.

Thayer, Edwin, the comedian, 91.

Theatrical Fund, the founder of the
312.

Thunder and lightning, theatrical,
the process of, 290; a ludicrous
blunder in, 291.

Tieck, Ludwig, on Fleck, Kean, and
Kemble, 384.

Tom Thumb and Forrest at Cincin-
nati, 330.

Traditions of the stage, 44.

Tragedian, relation of the, to the

poet, 25.
Tree, Ellen, and Macready, 149-

and with Charles Webb, 151.
Troilus and Cressida, 34.

V.

VANDENHOFF THE ELDER, 189; as
a classic tragedian, 190; an anec-
dote of, as Macbeth, 191.

Virginius, actors' blunders in, 391.

Vocal imitation, 46.

Voice, the stage, 45 ; of Puritans
and Cavaliers, 47 ; of Mrs. Sid-
dons, 48 ; scientific culture of,
275; Dr. Rush's Philosophy of
the, 280.

W.

WALLACK, JAMES, SR., the first ro-
mantic actor, 220; a case of mis-
taken identity, 222.

Wallack, Lester, 221.

Warren, William, manager of " Old
Drury," Philadelphia, 399.

Warren, William, Jr., of Boston Mu-
seum, 414.

Werner, Macready as, 120.

White, Professor, Forrest's vocal
training by, 281.

Wignell's pompous delivery, 354 ;
his prologue to Cato, 355.

Wild Oats, Murdoch's rehearsal of,
at London, 362.

" Winging it," the art of, 289.

Wood, William B., a favorite of Phil-
adelphia, 226; Tyrone Power's
joke on, 228; his fatherly advice
to young Murdoch, 370.

Writing out of parts, the, 305.

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