Northwestern
University Library
Evanston,
Illinois 60201
OUE KECENT ACTOKS:
being
EECOLLECTIONS
CKITICAL, AND, IN MANY CASES, PEESONAL,
OF LATE DISTINGUISHED PEKFOEMEES
OF BOTH SEXES.
y/ITH SOME INCIDENTAL NOTICES OF
LIVING ÄCTOBS.
by
WESTLAND MAESTON.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON :
SAMPSON LOW, MAESTON, SE AELE & El VINGTON,
LIMITED,
ât. îBunstan's House,
Fetter Lane, Fleet Street, E.G.
1888.
{All righU «»ertied.]
LONDOX:
PRINTED BT TTTLLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LOTITEI».
STAMFORD STREET AND CHABING CE08S.
to
JOSEPH KNIGHT, ESQ.,
op Lincoln's inn, bareistek-at-law.
My dear Friend,
It may probably bave occurred to you, as it has done
to myself, to glance in leisure moments at the dedications
which were published a century or two ago. I confess to
having read them with considerable amusement, and,
perhaps, with a slight feeling of contempt ; for the poet's
praise of the patron was usually in such superlatives, that
he often evinced more imagination in his dedication than in
his poem. Were the patron a warrior, he was, at least, an
Achilles ; were he a poet, one would think that Homer and
Shakspere ought to hold up his train ; were he a legislator,
Solon or Lycurgus would be eclipsed ; while, in the event
of the book being inscribed to a lady, the three Goddesses
who contended for the golden apple were at once super¬
seded in their respective attributes by the modern divinity.
One naturally reproaches such clients, to use the old phrase,
with insincerity and servility.
And yet I have at length learned, from experience, some
toleration for them, for you have taught me that seeming
hyperbole may well consist with truth. Of the man whose
imaginative sympathy and refinement have not only endeared
iv
DEDICATION.
him to some of our best poets, but made him a poet himself ;
of the critic whose rare discernment has been in nothing
more conspicuous than in his quick detection of merit ; of
the friend who has rejoiced in the successes of others as if
they had been his own, while their misfortunes have called
forth his untiring devotion—" Victrix causa diis placuit,
sed victa Catoni ; "—of such a man, I draw a portrait which,
though absolutely faithful, may be regarded by those who
do not know him as purely ideal.
Accept from me these Kecollections touching an art in
which we are both deeply interested, and
Believe, dear Knight,
In the profound and grateful affection of
Yours always,
Westland Marston.
PREFACE.
It has often been asserted that the mere glamour
of youth induces playgoers to prefer their early
favourites to the actors who succeed them,
though the latter may be of equal or even of
superior merit. Were such a statement abso¬
lutely true, the writer of these pages might have
an additional reason for distrusting his fallible
judgment, especially in the cases of those bygone
performers with whom he was acquainted. It
may, nevertheless, well be that the assertion in
question, if true at all, is chiefly true with
respect to that part of the public which has laid
aside theatrical interests with youth, and which,
on occasionally repairing to the theatre in later
days, brings with it a mind which has lost its
old ardour not only by time and disuse, but by
the grave pursuits and anxieties of mature years.
With those, however, whose sympathy with
vi PEEFACE.
dramatic art has not been interrupted, the case, it
may be hoped, is different. Long experience may
possibly, in their instances, have more than
counteracted early bias and even personal regard,
while a yet warmer interest than that of youth
in theatrical representations may have been
developed by habit and opportunities of com¬
parison. In the list of these the author trusts
that he may be included. As a matter of fact,
it has happened to him, as to many old play¬
goers, to find, in numerous cases, the same enjoy¬
ment from the present race of actors as that
derived from their predecessors. In some few
cases the enjoyment has even been superior.
With the class of playgoers described, whatever
the correctness of their judgment, there is at least
a desire to judge impartially, and to estimate
each performer, in each part, according to his
individual merits. With these critics the unfor-
gotten power of Macready, in the play-scene in
" Hamlet," has not blinded them to the excellence
of Mr. Irving in the same scene ; they who most
admired the former actor can admit that Salvini
PREFACE. VÜ
surpassed him in Othello. The remembrance of
the great Eachel has not prevented them from-
seeing in Eistori, Sarah Bernhardt, and Madame
Modjeska, a tenderness in which she was often
deficient. Helen Eaucit, Ellen Tree, Charles
Kemble, have not left us insensible to the claims
of Mr. Hare, of the Bancrofts and the Kendals,
of Miss Terry, Mrs. Bernard Beere, Miss Ada
Cavendish, or Miss .Amy Eoselle. Eecollections
of Liston, Harley, Keeley, or Wrench, have not
deprived the humours of Mr. Toole, Mr. John
S. Clarke, or Mr. Thomas Thorne of their mirth-
moving power; nor have the gallantry and ardour
of Mr. James Anderson rendered us indifferent to
the same fine qualities in Mr. Henry Neville.
The " Eeeollections," whether critical or per¬
sonal, have chiefly reference to past actors. Some¬
times, however, living performers have been
commented on either when comparison between
themselves and their predecessors seemed desir¬
able, or when they have so long retired from
the stage that their career is become part of its
history, or where they have been particularly
viii PREFACE.
associated with some remarkable event—such,
for instance, as Phelps's management of Sadler's
Wells. Many names of contemporary actors are,
however, omitted, which would have high claims
to notice had the writer's main object been to
treat of the existing Stage.
In some rare cases, when the press and general
report have pronounced a performance strikingly
representative of the actor, the writer has given a
sketch of it in his own words, though he may not
have seen it. Notices of this kind have been
derived partly from consultation of journals
of authority, partly from statements of friends
—some of whom were critics of celebrity,
and minute in their information. The sketches
referred to are those of Mr. Charles Kemble
in Mark Antony (" Julius Caesar ") ; of Mr.
W. Parren in Michael Perrin ("Secret Service"),
and in Old Parr; of Mr. Phelps in Sir Pertinax
MacSycophant ; of Mr. Alfred Wigan in " Still
Waters Eun Deep ; " of Mr. Charles Mathews as
Sir Charles Coldstream in "Used Up;" and the
brief reference to Mr. Webster as Eichard Pride.
CONTENTS.
VOL. I.
PAGE
Preface ........ v
CHAPTEE I.
early acquaintance with london theatres—denvil,
vandenhoff, and other actors.
Coming to London—First visits to theatres—Sadlers'
Wells — Miss Macarthy—Mr. G. Almar — Mr.
Cobham—Mr. T. P. Cooke—Mr. T. Archer—
Anecdote of him and Macready—Covent Garden
—Manfred—Miss Ellen Tree—Mr. Denvil—Mr.
Vandenhoff—His chief performances—Anecdote
of him—Miss Vandenhoff . . . . 1
CHAPTER IT.
macready, and others of his contemporaries.
Juvenile disappointments with regard to certain actors
—Causes of this—Mr. Samuel Butler and Mrs.
Lovell—Surrey Theatre under Davidge—Butler's
extreme tallness a disadvantage—Author first sees
Macready in " Machetli " at Drury Lane—Effect
of his performance—His Hamlet—His fracas with
Bunn—His reference to it in conversation eight
years afterwards, and advice to the author—Mac-
ready in Lord Lytton's " Duchess de la Yallière,"
at Covent Garden—Helen Faucit—Macready as
Melantius in " The Bridal " — Adaptation by
VOL. I. h
X
CONTENTS.
Knowles of " The Maid's Tragedy "—Detailed
criticism of Macready's acting in this play—Criti¬
cism of his Virginius—His lesseeship of Covent
Garden—Success of " Henry the Fifth " and " The
Tempest "—His Richelieu—Account of the first
night's performance—Note—Macready somewhat
dissatisfied—Mr. Edwin Booth's Richelieu—The
author's first play^—Macready's acceptance of it
for Drury Lane, of which he was become lessee—
Visit to him at that theatre—First impression of
going behind the scenes—First interview with
Macready—His genial welcome — His personal
appearance and manner of speaking—Talk as to
my play and as to Miss Helen Faucit—As to his
own part in the piece, and his fear of being too old
to look it—His objection combated—Reference to
" The Lady of Lyons "—Its early want of attrac¬
tion and subsequent success—Charm of Macready's
manner........
CHAPTER III.
MACREADY Couclus iOTl.
Macready's friends and acquaintance—^At dinner with
him—His guests.—His first wife and his sister—
Table-talk—Browning's " Blot on the Scutcheon "
—Opera of "Acis and Galatea"—Its admirable
cast—Unprecedented beauty of its reproduction—•
Scenery by Stand eld—Invention of a stage-sea
with motion and sound—Compliment paid to Mac-
ready by a lady on the production of the opera—
Pictures and picture-dealers—Pgestum and the
Epmans—The poet Pope—Humorous remini¬
scences—Anecdote of Porson—Macready a Liberal
in politics—His objection to the phrase, "lower
classes"—An evening reception at his house—
Singing of Herr Staudigl in "Acis and Galatea "—
Assembly of celebrated authors, artists, &c.—
Macready's irritability at rehearsals, &c.—Author's
impression that this was to a great extent assumed
—His King Lear—This, in the writer's judgment,
CONTENTS,
XI
PAGE
his greatest Shaksperian performance—Detailed
account of it—Macready's motto, " Patience is
genius,'' examined—Unjust to his own spontaneity
—Walter Scott and Sheridan Knowles—Mac¬
ready's disparagement of Garrick—His theory
that goodness was essential to genius—His Mac¬
beth—Regarded by his friends as his chef d'œuvre
—Examination of his performance at length—Also
of his Hamlet—His Othello, lago, Evelyn in
" Money "—His Benedick in " Much Ado "—His
great performance of Werner—Full account of it
—Summary of his various characters—His psycho¬
logical insight and artistic power of expressing
emotion—His King John—His Shy lock—Anec¬
dote in note as to his revival of " King John " at
Drury Lane—His Grisippus—His Spinola in " Nina
Sforza "—His religious sentiment—The characters
peculiarly suited to him—His defects and pecu¬
liarities—Comparison of him with contemporary
actors—His intensity—In certain parts approach¬
ing Edmund Kean's—General estimate of his
genius—His death ...... 60
CHAPTER IV.
ME. CHARLES KEMBLE.
A summer evening at the West End, in the season of
1835—Charles Kemble's Hamlet, at the Hay-
market—Cast of the tragedy—Charles Kemble's
appearance and manner — Description of his
Hamlet—His return to the stage in 1840, by
command of Her Majesty—Account of his Mer-
cutio in " Romeo and Juliet "—His readings at
Wdlis's Rooms, in 1844—Account of his Faulcon-
bridge in " King John," and his readings of that
play generally—Presence of the Queen Dowager
—Personal acquaintance with Charles Kemble—
Various fireside readings—Shylock—Richard the
Third—His tragic recitations generally—Resolu¬
tion not to attempt John Kemble's parts, with the
exception of Hamlet, till his brother retired—
CONTENTS,
PAGE
Contrast of Charles Kemble's style with that of
Macready, and (by report) of the elder Kean—
His private readings or recitations in comedy—
A gentleman of the old school in private—Dignity
of his manner and appearance—His conversation
generally serious, with occasional passages of
humour—Anecdote of his brother John—Dispute
as to the intelligence of a popular actor—A test-
prologue written for his recitation—The prologue
in question—Mr. Kemhle's deafness and habit of
making his confidences aloud—Anecdotes illustra¬
tive of this—His Epicurean tastes—Talk on the
drama—Suggestion of plots—A domestic story—
The reign of Henry the Second—^Mr. David
Eoberts, E.A.—Mexico and Montezuma—General
estimate of him as an actor—Leigh Hunt's testi¬
mony on his retirement—His minuteness of treat¬
ment often unfavourable to passion—Mrs. Siddons
on his Jafitier—General admiration of his Mark
Antony—John Oxenfordon the consistency of his
characterization, instanced in Charles Surface—•
Charles Kemble's death, at the age of seventy-nine 109
CHAPTER V.
MR. WILLIAM FARBEN, THE ELDER.
Difficulty of replacing him in various characters—His
son heir to some of his traditions—Lord Ogleby
and Sir Peter Teazle belong to a relatively new era
in comedy—The man of fashion from the reign of
Charles the Second to that of George the Third—
Account of Farren's Sir Peter Teazle—A vein of
indulgent cynicism characteristic both of his Sir
Peter and his Lord Ogleby—Account of the latter—
His Malvolio—His Sir Anthony Absolute—Want
of robustness and heartiness— A painter of well-
bred people, with their vanities, and other foibles,
and redeeming qualities—Excellent in the pathos
attaching to mental or bodily infirmities—His best
known characters but few—His Bertrand in " The
Minister and the Mercer "—His Michael Perrin in
COîiTENTS.
PAGE
" Secret Service," in 1834—The latter piece revived
at Covent Garden, in 1840—His Michael Perrin
described—His performance at the Olympic, under
Madame Vestiis, in 1837 and 1838—His acting in
" Sons and Systems," and in " The Court of Old
Fritz "—His Old Parr at the Haymarket, in 1843
—His chief excellence in characters of mental or
bodily infirmity—A touch of the morbid necessary
to his pathos—His persuasion that he could act
tragedy—His attempt at Shylock—His fine dis¬
crimination as to expression in acting—Instance of
this—His personal appearance—His death 151
CHAPTER VI.
MK. AND MRS. KEAN.
The latter part of Charles Kean's career the most notable,
though his reappearance in Hamlet, at Drury Lane,
in 1838, a great success—Account of this per¬
formance—Charles Kean less successful in other
Shaksperian characters—Imitations of his father
adapted in 1838—Afterwards abandoned—Effect
of this change—His Macbeth in 1849—His Romeo
—His Richard the Third—This character ranked
next to his Hamlet in Shaksperian plays—Reasons
for his superiority in Hamlet—Personal acquain¬
tance with Mr. and Mrs. Charles Kean—Favourable
first impressions of them—Their generous appre¬
ciation of dramatic work—^They appear, in 1849,
at the Haymarket, in the author's tragedy entitled
" Strathmore "—Mr. Kean's performance in this
play—^Some difference of view between him and
the author—Mr. and Mrs. Charles Kean at re¬
hearsal—Her solicitude for him—Their appearance
in " The Wife's Secret "—Mr. George Lovell—
Journey of the writer and a friend with Charles
Kean to Brighton—^A delicate discussion on the
way with respect to Phelps and Sadler's Wells—
Peace secured—An amicable dinner—Change in
his style of acting soon after entering with Keeley
on management of the Princess's Theatre, in 1850
xiv
CONTENTS.
PAGE
—More original hitherto in comedy than tragedy
—His Master Ford—His Benedick—His Mephi-
stopheles in " Faust and Marguerite "—The change
in his acting foreshadowed in his comedy—First
exemplified in serious drama in " The Templar,"
by Mr. Selous —His acting in " Anne Blake "
— He appears in " Louis the Eleventh," in
" The Corsican Brothers," and in " Pauline "—
He reads to the author various scenes from
" Louis the Eleventh," some time before its pro¬
duction—Great impression produced—A triumph
confidently predicted—Account of his perform¬
ance — Rises to genius in this and other cha¬
racter parts—Account of his Louis the Eleventh
— This his greatest achievement — Mr. Henry
Irving in the same part—Charles Kean's visit to
Plessy-les-Tours—His Wolsey—His Richard the
Second—Spectacular and archieological revivals-
Danger of excess in these directions—Charles Kean
in private—His forgivable egoism—His bonhomie,
humour, love of fun, and winning avowal of his
weaknesses—His sly raillery of Mrs. Kean on her
susceptibility—Decline of taste for legitimacy—
A melancholy pledge—Quarrel with a dramatic
author—The alleged price of listening to a story—
Ex parte statement as to the way commissions
were obtained from him—Mrs. Kean's sympathy
with him—Hereditary genius—His father's fame,
in his opinion, detrimental to him—His strong
desire to find his opinions adopted and his side in
a quarrel espoused—This illustrated by his differ¬
ence with Douglas Jerrold—Causes of this—Cen¬
sure of Mrs. Kean's acting by a critic—Charles
Kean's strange method of resenting this, and an¬
noyance with the author for disapproving of his
retaliation—His avowed objection to impartial cri¬
ticism. The model of a theatrical notice—Hears
a detailed eulogy of his wife's acting in a particu¬
lar play—Demands the speaker's opinion at equal
length on his own acting—Resents the notion that
a man ought not to be praised to his face—His ex¬
pedient for meeting this objection—A last inter-
CONTENTS.
XV
PAGE
view with him—A glimpse of him, during illness,
at Scarborough—His death—Brief summary of his
claims, professional and private . . . 168
CHAPTER VII.
MRS. CHARLES KEAN.
Mrs. Charles Kean (then Ellen Tree) in "The Red
Mask," at Drury Lane, in 1834—Her acting in
"The Jewess," etc., in l^iSS—The original Cle-
manthe in Talfourd's " Ion," at Covent Garden—
She subsequently appears as Ion at the Haymarket
—Notice of her performance—Appears, in 1839,
at Covent Garden, under the management of Mr.
and Mrs. Charles Matthews, as the Countess in
Sheridan Knowles's "Love"—The run, then ex¬
traordinary, of that piece—Macready's statement
as to the then average attraction of legitimate
plays, and as to "The Lady of Lyons"—Miss
EUen Tree's acting as the Countess—As Ginevra,
in Leigh Hunt's play, " The Legend of Florence,"
at Covent Garden, 1840—Leigh Hunt's tribute to
her—Appears, same year, in Knowles's " John of
Procida," at Covent Garden—In 1842 (then Mrs.
Charles Kean) appears at the Haymarket in
Knowles's " Rose of Arragon "—Her acting in the
two plays last named—Indifferent as Juliet and
Lady Macbeth—Description of her acting in the
latter—Her Gertrude in "Hamlet," Marthe in
" Louis the Eleventh," Katherine in " Strath-
more," and Anne Blake in the play so called—
Brief summary—Personal appearance—Her death 216
CHAPTER VHI.
MB. BENJAMIN WEBSTER.
First acquaintance with Mr. Webster — "Borough
Politics "—His quarrel with Mr. and Mrs. Charles
Matthews—His habit of confiding differences to
others—Called a "good hater" — Certainly a
xvi
œNTENTS.
staunch friend—Of a sensitive disposition—His
feeling of comradeship — His resentments not
lasting—His reported challepge to Macready—
His fidelity, as manager, to the interests of his
company — Interview with him — His personal
appearance and manner—An agreement concluded
—His bandinage—His frankness and promptness
in negotiations—His acting in a little comedy by
the writer—Width of his range—His desire to
extend it—I read to him some scenes of a poetic
drama of which I desire him to play, the hero—
His pleasure at the proposal and his misgiving—
Keasons for it—Variety of his acting in dramas of
real life—Accoimt of his acting in " The Housed
Lion"—Allusion to the excellence of Mrs. Keeley
in the same drama—His acting as Squire Verdón
in " Mind Your Own Business "—His nice balance
of various features of character—This exemplified
—His Kichard Pride—His Graves in " Money,"
Triplet in " Masks and Faces "—Keuben Gwynne
in " The Pound of Wrong "—His Tartuffe—Objec¬
tions to that comedy—His Jesuit Priest in " Two
Loves and a Life "—His Robert Landry in " The
Dead Heart "—Mr. David Fisher in that drama—
Mr. Webster as Penn Holder in "One Touch of
Nature"—His faults—His Petrucchio—His Wild-
rake in "The Love Chase"—Dragging delivery in
his later years—His services as a manager—" The
Heart and the World "—Supper after a failure—
Dinner to Webster at Freemasons' Tavern—The
Shakspere Committee—Webster's institutions for
actors—His reception in Paris by Napoleon III.
—Mr. Robert Bell—Welcome to Keeley—Webster's
death—His reputation as an actor and in private .
CHAPTER IX.
MKS. GLOVER.
Mrs. Glover in early days had often appeared in tragedy
—Had performed Hamlet—First saw her as Ger¬
trude, to Charles Kemble's Hamlet—^Her eninence
CONTENTS.
xvii
PAGE
as an actress of comedy—Her truth to nature—
Her keen perception of characteristics, moderation,
and air of unconsciousness—These merits exempli¬
fied in her Mrs. Malaprop—Her performance of
the character compared with Mrs. Stirling's—Mrs.
Glover's Mrs. Candour—Her Nurse in " Romeo
and Juliet"—Her Widow Green in "The Love
Chase "—The original Lady Franklin in " Money "
—^Her Miss Tucker in "Time Works Wonders"
She appears in a comedy called "The Maiden
Aunt," by R. B. Knowles—Acts in the writer's
comedy, "Borough Politics" — Account of her
performance—Meeting with her at rehearsal—An
argument with the author—Minuteness and ful¬
ness of her observation — Her sympathy with
authors—Thackeray's tribute to her acting—
Reported connection of her family with the famous
Betterton—Her death ..... 260
CHAPTER X.
MRS. WARNER.
Mrs. Warner's rank as an actress—Performs both the
gentler and sterner characters in tragedy—At
Covent Garden and Drury Lane with Macready—
Had appeared, in 1836, as the heroine of Knowles's
" Daughter "—Her Joan of Arc, Lady Macbeth,
and Hermione—Her power in invective and in
irony — Her fine impersonations of Emilia in
" Otbello," and of Evadne in " The Maid's Tragedy "
—Account of her acting in these characters—
Evadne her chief triumph—Enthusiastic praise of
it by Dickens—After separating from Phelps, Mrs.
AVarner attempts, in 1847, to make the Marylebone
Theatre aWestem Sadler's Wells—Eventual failure
of the scheme—^During her management of the
Marylebone, Mrs. Warner appears as Hermione,
Julia, Lady Teazle, Mrs. Beverley, Mrs. Oakley,
and Lady Townley—Her want of flexibility in
comedy—Great merit, nevertheless, of her Mrs.
Oakley—The event of her first season at the
VOL. L
C
xviii
CONTENTS.
rAGE
Marylebone the magaificent and correct reproduc¬
tion of Beaumont and Fletcher's " Scornful Lady "
—Remarks on this comedy—The character of the
heroine remarkably suited to her—Mrs. Warner
in private—First meeting with her at rehearsal at
Drury Lane, in 1842—Her acute and humorous
remarks on Macready's realistic getting up of
"The Patrician's Daughter"—Anecdote told by
her of impracticable stage effects—Her easy and
genial manners in private, for the exhibition of
which her stage characters gave few opportunities
—Her last illness and death .... 274
OUE RECENT ACTORS.
CHAPTER I.
early acquaintance with london theatres—
denvil, vandenhoff, and other actors.
Coining to London—First visits to theatres—Sadler's Wells—
Miss Macarthy—Mr. G. Almar—Mr. Cobham—Mr. T. P.
Cooke—Mr. T. Archer—Anecdote of him and Macready—
Covent Garden—^Manfred—Miss Ellen Tree—Mr. Den vil
—Mr. Vandenhoff—His chief performances—Anecdote of
him—Miss VandenhoiF.
This book is, so far as it goes, an autobiography.
It is a narrative touching persons and things
seen by the writer, with the exception, in some
few cases, of matters which became known to
him on trustworthy authority. He has tried to
say as little about himself as consists with the
due setting of his various portraits. He has
vol. i. b
2 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
not forgotten, however, how much in autobio¬
graphy (witness the diaries of Pepys and Evelyn)
a touch of surrounding detail gives life to the
chief matter described. Thus in the notice of
Mr. Charles Kemble he has recalled the bright
summer weather, the brilliant whirl of London
in the height of the season, and the gay and
crowded thoroughfares of the "West End through
which he made his way to the Haymarket. Such
details, moderately used, give reality to the
pictures they frame, and bring them down from
the abstract by relating them to particular times
and circumstances.
To speak in the first person, which, spite of
its necessary egotism, is the most convenient
form of narrative, 1 came from the Lincolnshire
seaport and market-town of Great Grimsby to
London in the year 1834, having at that time
attained my fifteenth year. It had been arranged
that I should be articled to my uncle, a solicitor,
who, with his partner, had offices near Gray's
Inn. The partner's house was my first abode,
and here I found—or perhaps I should say.
OUK EECENT ACTORS.
3
took—more liberty of action during my evenings
than was quite suitable in the case of so mere
a boy.
Two years previously, on my first visit to
London, I had been arrested by the playbills
of the great patent theatres and by the magical
name—then still a sound of lingering greatness—
of Edmund Kean. " Drury Lane ! " " Covent
Garden ! " " Mr. Kean ! " Strange how these
words of romance had some way penetrated to
me through the seclusion of a " serious " home
in the country, where my excellent parents never
mentioned the stage, except to warn me, or
others, of its dangers and seductions.* Now
that at a too early age I was, in many
respects, my own master, and could indulge, if
I chose, my longing to visit a theatre, I began
to ask myself what there was in dramatic per¬
formances that should make them necessarily
objectionable. I recalled my own annual dis¬
plays when, as a lad of eleven or twelve, I had
* My father, who had seceded from the Church, was a
dissenting minister.
4 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
appeared with my schoolmates at the Theatre
Eoyal, Great Grimsby, in various dramatic cha¬
racters, at one time sustaining on "breaking-up
day " the part of Juba in " Cato," and another
that of Electra in the tragedy of " Sophocles,"
and afterwards that of Miriam (the Christian
convert) in Milman's "Jerusalem Delivered." I
remembered, too, how much my father, a zealous
lover of Sophocles, though a foe to the stage,
had praised my rendering of Electra. Was it
possible, I argued, that a mode of composition
allowable and, indeed, admirable in Greek, should
be censurable in English, or that dialogue which
was innocent when read should become injurious
when spoken in public, with dresses and scenery
to assist the impression ? If the theatre might
have its bad side, so also had literature, art,
and even trade. If no judicious parent would
put " Tom J ones " into a boy's hands, was that
a reason for withholding the novels of Scott ?
Must "Don Quixote" be forbidden because the
word " fiction " applied also to " Gil Bias " ?
With this kind of logic I extorted a reluctant
OUE EECENT ACTORS.
5
permission from my conscience for an act which,
if allowable in itself, was still one of grave
disobedience towards affectionate parents. I can
still recall the boyish sophistry which prompted
me to choose Sadler's Wells Theatre for my first
visit. It was a small theatre, and it was situated
in a suburb—facts which, as they were likely
to diminish my pleasure, seemed in the same
degree to make my transgression a slight one.
I might have gone to Covent Garden, I reasoned,
and, at that renowned theatre, have revelled in
the best acting of the day, whereas I self-
denyingly contented myself with Sadler's Wells.
On the night when I entered that (to me)
enchanted palace, I found there a new opiate
for my restless conscience. The title of the
piece represented I quite forget, but its main
situation is as fresh as ever in my memory.
A girl, deeply attached to her betrothed, learns
his life is at the mercy of a villain (of course,
an aristocrat), whom she has inspired with a
lawless passion. She implores his pity for her
lover, only to find that the sacrifice of her
6 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
honour is the price of his ransom. I remember
how my heart came into my throat and the
tears into my eyes when the noble-minded girl,
striking an attitude of overwhelming dignity,
before which the wretch naturally abased himself,
spurned his offer, and committed her cause to
that Providence which, in the good, honest melo¬
drama of that day, never delayed to vindicate
the trust reposed in it. What most comforted
me during the evening was the conviction that
my father, could he have seen the piece, would
heartily have applauded it and recanted at once
his unqualified enmity to the theatre. I fancied
how cordially, had he been behind the scenes,
he would have shaken hands with Miss Macarthy
(afterwards Mrs. E. Honner), who had no in¬
considerable skill in painting the struggles of
virtuous heroines. I might certainly, however,
have trembled for the consequences had he
encountered a certain Mr. G. Almar, who, if my
memory serves me, personated the miscreant of
the drama.
I was curious enough, even on the first night
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
7
of attending a theatre, to ask myself why Mr.
Almar made such incessant use of his arms.
Now they were antithetically extended, the one
skyward, the other earthward, like the sails of
a windmill ; now they were folded sternly across
his bosom ; now raised in denunciation ; now
clasped in entreaty, and considerately maintained
in their positions long enough to impress the
entire audience at leisure with the effect intended.
I was critical enough to ask myself whether the
more heroic attitudes of this gentleman would
not have been heightened by the contrast of
occasional repose, and whether there were, in his
opinion, any fatal incompatibility between easy
and natural gestures and effective acting. On
quitting the theatre, my inquiring mind received
some light upon these points, for in the window
of a confectioner, who was also a theatrical
printseller, my attention was arrested by coloured
portraits of local, or other stage favourites, in
their principal characters. Here figured "Mr.
Cobham, as Eichard the Third," with a frown to
spread panic through the ranks of "Shallow
8
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
Eiclimond." Here was Mr. T. P. Cooke,* as
William in " Black-eyed Susan," in that renowned
hornpipe which illustrates William's happier
days, ere Susan and he had dreams of a court-
martial. And here figured my friend of " The
Wells," Mr. G. Almar, in various characters, in
all of which the use of his arms was so remark¬
able, that it might easily be inferred he acted
less for the sake of his general audience than
for that of the artist who depicted him, and who
probably would have thought little of an actor
who did not supply liim with attitudes. I was
glad, moreover, to find from one of the prints
that Mr. Almar's arms were not always employed
to illustrate sinister characters, but that on occa¬
sions they could be virtuously engaged. In this
particular instance they represented the action of
the noble Eolia in " Pizarro," as he bears Cora's
rescued child triumphantly over the cataract.
* I met one morning this famous nautical actor, during a call
on Mr. and Mrs. Charles Kean. Mr. T. P. Cooke's thorough
heartiness, "go," and physical activity, were the grounds of
his success. In private, his manners were frank and engaging.
He was greatly respected by the members of his profession.
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
0
On my second visit to Sadler's Wells, a
drama taken from Scott's novel, " Eob Eoy," was
the leading piece. The part of the romantic
cattle-lifter was performed by a Mr. Archer,
whose demeanour in the part was singularly
haughty. The erect carriage of his head, set
upon a slender neck, Iiis scornful look and folded
arms, as he exclaimed to his captors, "Vülains
and slaves ! you have not yet subdued Eob
Eoy ! " were, to my young experience, in the
last degree imposing. This gentleman, then
fulfilling a star engagement at "The Wells," was,
I believe, a well-known actor at the West End
theatres. A droll anecdote, of which he was the
hero, was told to me by the late Mr. Bayle
Bernard. I give it pretty nearly in his own words,
the humour of which seized on my memory.
On one of the performances of "Virginius,"
Archer had to sustain the part of the wicked
Appius Claudius, to Macready's Virginius. In
the last act, where Virginius, exclaiming—
"And have I not a weapon to.requite thee ?
Ah, here are ten ! "
10 OUE RECENT ACTORS.
springs upon Appius and chokes him, Macready
was so carried away by his own intensity, that
his tight and prolonged grasp of Archer's throat
had well-nigh converted the fictitious catastrophe
into a real one. The half-suffocated repre¬
sentative of Appius bore his trial in meek
silence on the night in question. Archer, how¬
ever, who delighted in solemn fun, and who could
humorously assume the grandiose language of
the stage in private, had a lesson to read the
tragedian. When Yirginius was next performed,
Macready, on entering the Green Eoom in the
interval between the fourth and fifth acts,
discovered that the throat of Archer was encased
in a dark velvet collar, which, with its shining
points, was a strange innovation on the costume
of a Eoman Decemvir. The Virginius of the
night contemplated Appius awhile in gloomy
silence, then slowly approached him. The
shining points just mentioned were now seen
to be small steel spikes, which protruded from
the collar, and would infallibly give a rude
reeeption to any hands which might grasp the
OUR RECENT ACTORS. H
neck it encased. As it was set down in Mac-
ready's part that he should perform this very
operation, it is not surprising that he viewed
the new feature of Mr. Archer's attire with
decided disapproval. Breaking at length the
absorbed silence which he usually maintained
during his rare and brief visits to the Green
Eoom, he addressed the object of his sus¬
picion.
Macready. " Are you—are you—aware, Mr.—
Mr. Archer, that that—that peculiar ornament
round your neck is—is quite inappropriate to
your character ? "
Archer. " I admit it, sir ; but the last time I
had the honour of appearing with you in this
rather unsympathetic part, you seized and held
me with such violence that I hardly expected
to act it again ! Acting, after all, in my humble
opinion, is but feigning. I am not a gladiator
or a wrestler, sir, and I set some value upon my
windpipe."
Macready, said my informant, for a moment
put on an expression of lofty indignation, but.
12 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
whether from policy or from a sense of humour
(in which he was by no means deficient), he
quickly exchanged it for a look of amusement,
and, laying his hand familiarly on his brother
actor's shoulder—a rare condescension indeed,—
exclaimed—
" Archer, if my feelings carried me away
the other night, I apologize. I give you my
honour I will deal gently with you in future,
and that you will have no need of—of that
singular appendage by—by way of armour."
So the obnoxious collar was removed before a
summons came from the call-boy. Mr. Bernard
assured me that, in all essentials, this anecdote is
authentic.
Shortly after my second visit to Sadler's Wells,
I found myself a unit in a struggling crowd
at the pit entrance of Covent Garden. The
thought that I was soon to be within the walls
of so renowned a theatre had kept me in a
happy fever of wakefulness during the previous
night, and in the morning had possibly made
my perusal of " Chitty on Pleading," or the
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 13
last volume of " Eeports on Equity/' the most
barren of studies.
Covent Garden was at this time under the
management of Mr. Alfred Bunn, He had
recently produced there Lord Byron's drama
of " Manfred," the dramatic picture in this case
having been put upon the stage less for its own
sake than for that of its gorgeous spectacular
frame. Some histrionic ability had, however,
been enlisted for the piece. Miss Ellen Tree
(whom I then saw for the first time) declaimed
the lines allotted to the Witch of the Alps—
lines which are not only few, but almost devoid
of dramatic force, serving only to draw out
Manfred's long and gloomy retrospect. Never¬
theless, in her appearance, as she stood within
the arch of a rainbow—in her garments, which
seemed woven of aerial colours- touched by the
sun—and in her voice, the tones of which, though
sweet, were remote and passionless—she realized
all the weird charm of a genius of lake and
mountain. There was something glacial in her
unsubstantial loveliness, something that belonged
14 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
to the forms of sleep rather than those of
common day. Well, therefore, did Byron's sister
write of this performance soon after the pro¬
duction of Manfred, "Miss Ellen Tree's Witch
of the Alps I shall dream of."
The haughty and mysterious hero of the drama
was represented by Mr. Denvil, who had per¬
formed with fair success the characters of Shylock
and of Eichard the Third. The new tragedian,
though he subsequently failed in " Othello," had
some measure of poetic feeling, and considerable
power of facial expression. General praise was
accorded to his Manfred. Boy though I was
when I saw him in this part, I still remember
his pale, almost spectral face, thrown out by his
dark garb, and a haughty isolation and melan¬
choly in tone, look, and gesture that well con¬
veyed the mingled pride and remorse of one
who, though racked by the sense of a hidden
crime, has won commerce with supernatural
beings. Very impressive was his delivery of
the passage in which he recalls Astarte and
her fate, nor less so the look of self-recoil which
accompanied its close—
OUK KECÉNT ACTORS.
15
" She was like me in lineaments—her eyes,
Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone
Even of her voice, they said were like to mine ;
But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty :
She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings.
The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind
To comprehend the universe : nor these
Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine.
Pity, and smiles, and tears—which I had not ;
And tenderness—but that I had for her ;
Humility—and that I never had.
Her faults were mine—her virtues were her own—
I loved her and destroy'd her !
Witch. With thy hand?
Man. Not with my hand, but heart—which broke
her heart ;—
It gazed on mine, and withered."
The words in italics were given with an
intensity of horror and remorse that no actor
could well have surpassed. The judgment of a
lad of fifteen on this point may not be worth
much; but I find that the effect produced by
Denvil on myself was shared even by some
of those critics whose condemnation of his
subsequent performance of Othello was most
unsparing. "Why an actor should be fairly
successful in Eichard the Third and Shylock,
really fine in Manfred, and yet fail totally in
16 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
Othello, is not at once obvious. From the
attacks of his critics, however, upon this last
personation, the actor never recovered. A few
years afterwards I saw him at one of the minor
theatres as the hero of a melodrama. Possibly
from a belief that the want of physical force
was the cause of his previous defeat, Denvil had
now so exclusively cultivated this quality that
his acting had degenerated into the worst style
of provincial rant. Of the ease, refinement, and
poetic appreciation and quick insight into
character and motive which he had at times
exhibited, there was not a trace. Distorted
features, violence of gesture, and strain of lung
were all the resources left to him. Ere long he
seems to have been quite forgotten by the public.
It is said that he ultimately became check-
taker at one of the minor theatres, and died in
obscurity, in 1866. This story of self-realized
oblivion on the part of an aspirant, who at the
outset displayed some fine qualities of his art
and gained some distinction, is, surely, deeply
pathetic.
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
17
My visits to the theatre now became frequent.
I have a dim but pleasing recollection at this
time of " Man—Fred " (a capital burlesque of
Manfred "), at the Strand Theatre, in which a
comedian named Mitchell performed the principal
character. He had a feeling of genuine humour,
which restrained him from undue exaggeration
in the part, while he showed a droll likeness to
the moods of his tragic original. When the
curtain rose, and Mitchell—I think, as a working
bricklayer—inspected with gloomy dejection an
empty quart measure, there was in his first
utterance—
" The jug must be replenished ; but even then
It will not hold so much as I could drink ; "
a deep, fixed, self-absorbed despondency, which
recalled, with delightful absurdity, Denvil's tones
as Lord Byron's hero—
" The lamp must he replenished ; but even then
It will not burn so long as I must watch."
I saw and relished Mitchell in one or two
other comic characters, but soon lost sight of
him. It is on record that he achieved a marked
VOL. I. c
18 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
success at the St. James's Theatre, in 1836, in
a serious character, as the hero of a piece called
" The Medicant." I have an impression it was
shortly after this performance that he went to
America, where he died, at the age of fifty-seven,
in 1856.
About this time, too, I have recollections of
Mrs, Waylett as Apollo in " Midas." She had
a charming voice, an arch, bright expression, and
was not only a good vocalist, but fairly effective
in comedietta and farce. In these happy days
of youth I paid my first visit to the Olympic
Theatre, of which an account will be given in the
chapter on Madame Vestris. Ere long I found
myself within the walls of the Adelphi. There
I remember seeing Mrs. Honey in some farcical
piece, and Mr. John Eeeve as Cupid. The lady's
one qualification for the part seemed to be a
pretty but already worn face, and a coquettish
simper ; while the obesity of Mr. Eeeve was the
chief point of humour in his assumption of Cupid.
I had previously seen him at the Queen's Theatre,
in Tottenham Street, in " Catcliing an Heiress,"
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 19
as an ostler who absurdly counterfeits a German
baron. This performance, again, gave me no
particular idea of Eeeve's humour. The part
would have been droll in any hands if the
audience, as at " The Queen's," could once have
tolerated its extravagance. I record, however,
impressions which may have been ill-founded.
My judgment was necessarily immature, and it
is not to be denied that both Eeeve and Mrs.
Honey—the former especially—had a large circle
of admirers. At the Adelphi, also, I first saw
Mr. 0. Smith, celebrated for his delineations in
melodrama, both of villains and of supernatural
agents. That he could be very thorough in such
personations, suggesting at times by his voice,
expression, and make-up unfathomable wicked¬
ness ; and again, that he could freeze the spectator
with his weird appearance and action in appari¬
tions from another world, I can still recall. He
was, in a word, the nightmare of the stage. I saw
him seldom, however, and retain no clear remem¬
brance of any of his particular characters. A far
higher impression, though less distinct than I
20 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
could wish, is that of Mrs. Yates, wife of one of
the lessees. There flits before me the figure of
a slender, elegant woman, with a low, expressive
voice, capable of very subtle inflections. This
actress struck me as beiug eminently gifted with
quiet strength. Her power of this kind in sarcasm,
bitterness, or intense grief, was truly remarkable.
In the expression of these emotions she did not
seem to be acting ; she spoke as a lady might
have spoken in a drawing-room, and moved you
without a trace of effort. A scene at a masked
ball, to which she tracked her faithless husband
and his mistress, stands out still in my recollec¬
tion, though I have forgotten the details of that
particular scene ; and, young though I was, I felt
how widely Mrs. Yates's suggestive acting, in
which feeling and intellect happily blended,
separated her from the many actresses who
mistake restlessness for animation, and violence
for power.
On the revival of " Othello " at Covent Garden,
for Denvil, the part of lago was performed by the
elder Vandenhoff. It was in this character that
OUK EECENT ACTOES.
21
I first saw him ; and, both from the testimony
of criticism at the time, and from my own impres¬
sions, I could scarcely have seen him to better
advantage. He assumed a mask of impulsive
light-heartedness and 'bonhomie, a good-natured
pliancy which made him everywhere bon camarade.
There was at times even a sort of detestable gaiety
in his soliloquies and asides, as if the cleverness
of his wickedness and the follies of mankind
diverted him, and made it half a pastime to work
out his malignity. I am by no means asserting
that this is the highest conception of lago that
could have been formed, but it was original and
dashing; there was Italian subtlety in it, and
it gave great scope for the execution of lago's
villainous designs. The impulsiveness he so well
feigned in this part was a contrast to his usual
style of acting, which was elaborate and somewhat
heavy. He had, however, great dignity, a powerful
and melodious voice, and his means of expression
had often been so happily thought out that, in
such characters as Coriolanus, Creon, in the
memorable English reproduction of Antigone, and
22
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
Adrastus in Talfoiird's "Ion," his acting was finished
and impressive. Pathos could by no means be
called his strong point ; yet sometimes his pathetic
bursts (as in the case of Adrastus) were very
telling, partly from their contrast with the general
self-repression and dignity of his manner. He
may be said to be the last prominent tragedian of
the Kemble school, having a good deal of the
stately carriage and bold outline of his prede¬
cessors, without, I suspect, quite the same tenacity
of feeling and minuteness of suggestion which
distinguished them. In his last days his acting
became over-deliberate and tedious. In his prime,
however, he was always more than respectable.
Neither his Macbeth nor his Othello (which latter
I saw him perform to Macready's lago) were
to be greatly praised for intensity of passion or
for the light shed upon internal conflicts ; yet his
power of facial expression, his excellent elocution,
largeness of style, and fine bearing, carried him
successfully through.
I met Mr. Vandenhofl* several times in society.
He was agreeable, well-bred, and more addicted
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
28
to humour than could have been inferred from
any of his stage characters except lago. An
amusing peculiarity of his may here be noted.
He had so great an, antipathy to the " harmless,
necessary cat " that the presence of that animal
in the room was a trial beyond his endurance.
A friend of mine, whenever Mr. Vandenhoff was
expected, was accustomed to take the strictest
precautions that pussy might neither be found
coiled in comfort before a fire, nor flitting along
hall or staircase when her visitor ascended. On
one occasion, when he chanced to be her guest,
the ingenious animal contrived to defeat all the
means used for its exclusion, and entered the
drawing-room with the usual complacent cry of
a feline pet. A shriek at once gave vent to the
panic of the dismayed tragedian, who could
scarcely have been more appalled by the appa¬
rition of Banquo's ghost than by that of this
domestic favourite.
Miss Vandenhoff, the actor's daughter, though
her appearances on the stage were not frequent,
was an actress of considerable merit. She was
24 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
the original Parthenia in " Ingomar," and the
original Margaret Aylmer in " Love's Sacrifice."
Her performance of Antigone—the character in
which Lady Martin (Miss Helen Paucit) won
so much celebrity—was deservedly praised for
its classic simplicity, its grace, and pathos. She
had, too, an agreeable voice, and many passages
of the tragedy were charmingly intoned. Miss
Vandenhoff was herself the author of a drama,
the heroine of which she performed at the Hay-
market Theatre. It contained some poetic and
telling lines. I recall one from the lips of a
blind girl, when suffering from some cruel in¬
justice—
" Only by tears I know that I have eyes."
Miss Vandenhoff died in 1860, at the age of
forty-two ; her father at that of seventy-one, in
the following year.
These preliminary recollections bring me
almost to the time when I first saw Macready.
OUE EECENT ACTOKS.
25
CHAPTEE II.
macready, and others of his contemporaries.
Juvenile disappointments with regard to certain actors—Causes
of this—Mr. Samuel Butler and Mrs. Lovell—Surrey
Theatre under Davidge—Butler's extreme tallness a dis¬
advantage—Author first sees Macready in "Macbeth" at
Drury Lane—Effect of his performance—His Hamlet—
His fracas with Bunn—His reference to it in conversation
eight years afterwards, and advice to the author—Macready
in Lord Lytton's "Duchess de la Valliere," at Covent
Garden—Helen Faucit—Macready as Melantius in " The
Bridal"—Adaptation by Knowles of "The Maid's Tragedy"
—Detailed criticism of Macready's acting in this play—
Criticism of his Virginius—His lesseeship of Covent
Garden—Success of " Henry the Fifth " and " The
Tempest"—His Richelieu—Account of the first night's
performance—Note — Macready somewhat dissatisfied—
Mr. Edwin Booth's Richelieu—The author's first play—
Macready's acceptance of it for Drury Lane, of which he
was become lessee—Visit to him at that theatre—First
impression of going behind the scenes—First interview
with Macready—His genial welcome—His personal ap¬
pearance and manner of speaking—Talk as to my play
and as to Miss Helen Faucit—As to his own part in the
piece, and his fear of being too old to look it—His objec¬
tion combated—Reference to the " Lady of Lyons "—Its
early want of attraction and subsequent success—Charm of
Macready's manner.
A boy's ideal in art is not always easy to satisfy
26
OUE EEOENT ACTOKS.
—partly, perhaps, because he has a sharp appe¬
tite for the wonderful ; partly because he is, to
a great extent, unacquainted with the subtler and
profounder emotions, and the symbols which,
represent them. Much that is really significant
may have no meaning for him ; reticence may be
mistaken for tameness, and noisy excitement for
feeling. However this may be, I had vaguely
figured to myself more intensity and grandeur
in tragic passion than I met with in the first year
of my theatrical experience, except in the per¬
formances of Mr. Samuel Butler and Mrs. Lovell,
formerly Miss Lacy, of Covent Garden. These
performers occasionally played as " stars " at the
Surrey Theatre, then under tlie management of that
seasoned comedian of the old school, Mr. Davidge.
Both of them were thoroughly in earnest, well
trained in their art, and of commanding presence.
The extreme height of Mr. Butler, indeed, was
a disadvantage to him in a small theatre. In the
capacious " Surrey," however, his uncommon
stature was less perceptible. Like his fair asso¬
ciate, he was a good elocutionist, and, like her, he
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 27
had the excellent quality of abandoning himself
to passion without self-criticism. He never
seemed to ask himself, as I have known actors
of great intelligence do, " Shall I seem stagy if
I adopt this movement ? If I give passion full
play here, shall I be accused of rant ? " but,
being already a proficient in the technical
resources of his art, he trusted himself in good
faith to the leading impulses of the character. I
do not think he was given to rant. He occasion¬
ally exploded in sudden, vehement bursts, but
they had the effect of being spontaneous—the
outcome of passion accumulated and repressed.
In the crises of feeling you saw, in him, that
passion, though sometimes intensely hushed in
white heat, darts forth at others in fiery tongues
and roars—I do not care to use a weaker phrase
—in its ascent. He was gifted, moreover, with
a powerful voice, and had no need to hide the
defects of a feeble physique by feigning that
mysterious self-control which has since been
called "repressed force." I saw little of Butler
after the time I now write of, but enough to
28 OUR RECENT ACTORS,
confirm my first impressions of him. In Shylock
I was more carried away by him, so genuine was
his passion, than by any other actor I have seen
in the part. I will not undertake to say that his
interpretations were as profound as they were
undoubtedly vivid. I do know, however, that he
was "terribly in earnest," and that he had the
power of rousing masses to enthusiasm. His
excessive height, as has been said, was a great
disadvantage, and stood in the way of his being
fully appreciated. Finally, like most tragic actors
of his time, he was overshadowed by Macready ;
but whether I owe the taste to Butler or to
nature, not, I hope, being insensible to higher
merits, I have never lost my liking for a good
physique, and, in many characters, for a good
display of it—in Othello, for instance, where
passion or intellect tell all the more if the actor
have also lungs. Mr. Butler died in 1845, at the
age of forty-eight ; Mrs. Lovell, at that of seventy-
three, in 1877.
It was in 1835 that I first saw William
Charles Macready. The play was " Macbeth," the
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
29
theatre Druiy Lane. This actor, always promi¬
nent from his first appearance in London, had,
since the death of Edmund Kean, gradually
won his way to the tragic throne.
The expectations which I had indulged as to
the first actor of his day must have been un¬
reasonably high. I remember comparing him
with my favourite, Butler, much to the advantage
of the latter. What, however, as a boy, in the
pit of Drury Lane, I missed in his Macbeth,
I still to some extent missed when, many years
later, I saw him take his final leave of the
public in the same character and at the same
house. Of his Macbeth, however, as of Ms other
characters, I shall speak afterwards in detail.
On my first acquaintance with it, spite of its
many excellences, I was disappointed in every
act except the last, in wMch the immense energy
and striking contrasts of Ms acting roused my
fervent admiration. The only other displays
by which the actor had greatly impressed his
precocious critic were his lost abstraction after
the temptation of the witches in the first act.
30 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
and his harrowing remorse after Duncan's murder,
when dragged from the stage by Lady Macbeth,
in the second act.
Hamlet was the next of his representations
at which I " assisted." In this part his
passionate and powerful acting absorbed and
delighted me. It had the free impulse and
the sense of the supernatural which I missed
in much of his Macbeth.
It was soon after this performance that
Macready, under considerable provocation, com¬
mitted an assault upon Bunn, the Drury Lane
manager. He was immediately engaged for
Covent Garden, where, on his first appearance,
the curious spectacle was exhibited of the
public applauding an actor for conduct which
he felt and confessed to be most blameworthy.
British audiences are for the most part disposed
to fairness as well as generosity. However, at
times they allow themselves to become blind
partizans, and to espouse (as they did in this
case) a side enthusiastically for the sake of a
favourite, rather than for that of justice. It is
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
31
possibly a luxury to constitute themselves a
jury, while dispensing with the judge's charge.
Bunn's conduct in calling upon Macready to
perform maimed characters was, no doubt, annoy¬
ing, but he was legally within his rights, which
the tragedian could scarcely say of his retaliation.
I allude to this well-known quarrel chiefly for
the sake of reporting Macready's own words
to me upon the subject. Conversing with him
in 1843, I happened to express some juvenile
resentment at an attack made upon my first play
by one who had previously been lavish in praise
of it. Though I had possibly expressed myself
warmly, to proceed against my assailant, "par
voie de fait " had certainly not entered my mind.
I was therefore not a little surprised to find
myself suspected by my collocutor of pugilistic
intentions. " Pass it over, pass it over, for
Heaven's sake ! " he exclaimed. " Contempt—
quiet contempt—that's the proper answer. I
have never forgotten," he continued, deepening
his tone, " how frightfully I let myself be
carried away in the case of that pitiful man.
32
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
Bunn. Though his behaviour to me was
atrocious, in what I did I lost so far the right
to self-respect. I have never forgiven myself
for my violence. Always govern your temper,
my young friend," he concluded, passing, with one
of those transitions which use had made second
nature to him, from a tone of agitation and excite¬
ment to one of calmness and paternal benignity.
I did not see the representation of Lord
Lytton's play, "The Duchess de la Valliere,"
which was performed, under Mr. Osbaldiston's
management, at Covent Garden. Though the
piece was a failure on the stage, the general
testimony was that Macready and Helen Faucit
had seldom played with more splendid effect
than in Bragelone and the Duchess.
Amongst the greatest impersonations of the
former, out of Shakspere, was his Melantius in
" The Bridal," an adaptation by Sheridan Knowles
of " The Maid's Tragedy " of Beaumont and
Fletcher. This work was produced, under Mac-
ready's auspices, at the Hay market, which had
recently passed under the control of Mr. Webster.
OUE EECENT ACTORS.
33
" The Bridal " was a great success. It in¬
creased my sense of Macready's genius, par¬
ticularly of the finely harmonious variety of his
method, which relieved and threw out the different
aspects of his characters. His Virginios was
scarcely finer than his Melantius, while in
Evadne Mrs. Warner reached the summit of
her power. The brave, loyal soldier, free and
martial in his bearing, sincere almost to bluntness,
seized the audience at once. Friendship, which
Elizabeth's writers almost deify, glowed in
Macready's bearing towards Amintor, with a
generous and tender ardour which love itself
could scarcely have surpassed. In our more
worldly days, when the relations between men
so seldom ripen beyond liking and good fellow¬
ship, the sympathizing devotion which set life
and honour at a friend's disposal seems often
mere extravagance. The old knightly sentiment,
however, kindled into a blaze at Macready's
contagious fire when he exclaimed—
" The name of friend is more than family
Or all the world beside ! "
VOL. I. D
3 i OUR RECENT ACTORS.
In the grand scene—one of the most passionate
in English drama—in the fourth act, where
Melantius forces Evadne to confession, it is hard
to conceive that even Betterton, so famous in
the part, could have been greater than the
modern actor. There was at first a grim, sardonic
air about him, suggesting a terrible mirth, in
the way that lightning mocks daylight, that
was terribly ominous of the coming outbreak;
there was a suppressed passion, a boding calm,
that held the listener in awe and apprehension,
till at last the pent-up rage crashed out with
such vehemence, it seemed as if nothing in its
path could live.
In the adaptation of "The Maid's Tragedy"
by Knowles, is a passage which, after careful
search, I have not found in the original. It
served to bring out with admirable effect one
of Macready's colloquial and natural touches.
The loyal Melantius, who has been secretly
traduced to the King by one of his creatures,
demands the name of his accuser. This is still
withheld, when a dispute arises on some point
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 35
of fact as to which one of the King's train
persistently contradicts Melantius. This man's
zeal betrays him as the author of the slander.
" Oh, then, it came from Mm I "
exclaims Melantius. Macready's quiet manner
of delivering these words to the King, without
turning to confront his accuser, whom he indi¬
cated behind him by a slight movement of the
finger, expressed such superb contempt that the
house rang with applause.
Ko feature of this actor was more specially
his own than the sudden, yet natural, infusion
into his more heroic vein of some homely touch
of truth which gave reality to the scene—an
achievement in his own art to which great poets
have furnished abundant parallels in theirs, from
Homer to Tennyson and Browning. Take a
few examples from Macready's performance in
Knowles's "Virginius;" first, the father's affec¬
tionate raillery of Virginia in the opening act,
when he discovers that, in painting Achilles, she
has unwittingly given him the features of her
lover—
36
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
" I've seen this face ; tut, tut, I know it
As well as I do my own ; but can't bethink me
"Whose face it is."
Or, again, his impatient indulgence when Virginia
clings round the neck of her betrothed, who is
about to start with Virgihius for the camp—
" I swear a battle might be lost and won
In half the time ; now, once for all, farewell 1 "
Here is an instance of a graver kind. The
free birth of Virginia has been impeached, and
she is likely to be seized as a slave by the
pander to Appius. In the midst of his rage at
the infamous accusation, Virginias is struck by
an expression on the face of his daughter—
" I never saw you look so like your mother.
In all my life."
Here Macready's transition from overmastering
wrath to tenderness was made with such nature
and force of contrast, that many of the audience
wept. Knowles gave his exponent numerous
chances for such colloquial touches. With this
dramatist, indeed, they not only relieved a loftier
style, but were often substituted for it.
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 37
One or two of the tragedian's revivals at
Covent G-arden I unfortunately missed. By all
reports, not to see him in " Henry the Fifth,"
was to miss a quite distinct phase of his power.
This privation I had somehow incurred, both
with relation to the play last mentioned and to
''The Tempest," the mere pictorial and stage
arrangements of which seem to have been so
beautiful and suggestive, as to set one of Shak-
spere's most spiritually poetic dramas in a
frame of material poetry. Of one Covent G-arden
production, however, ever afterwards closely con¬
nected with his reputation, I have still most
vivid remembrance.
In March, 1839, I fought my way with another
young enthusiast to the pit door of old Covent
Garden, on the first night of Bulwer's "Richelieu."
What a human sea it was, and how lit up by
expectation, that surged and roared for two hours
against that grim, all-ignoring barrier ! But its
stubborn resistance, and the dense pressure which,
at last, almost wedged out the breath of every
unit in the crowd, gave an almost stern delight.
38
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
a zest of contest for a prize, of which the lounger
into a reserved box or seat has no conception.
The interest connected with a new play was
increased by the fact that Bulwer was the
author, for with us young critics his epigrams,
his rhetorical flashes, and, let it be said, a vein
of aspiration and generous feeling, rarely absent
from his later works, had made him a favourite.
We had an impression, moreover, that he was
hardly dealt with by a portion of the press, on
account of his politics. The future Lord Lytton
of Lord Derby's Government was at that time
a Liberal.
To return to " Eichelieu," in which Macready
was perfection. I think I shall probably best
help my readers, not only to form an estimate
of his excellence in that play, but to gain a
general insight into his mind and method, if I
try to live over with them my old impressions
on the eventful first night of " Eichelieu," from
the rise to the fall of the curtain. This method
of criticism is far too elaborate to be generally
employed, but for once I will have recourse to
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 39
it, and fancy that I am still fresh from the scene,
while describing to the listener an event nearly
fifty years old.
Suppose, then, the thronged house hushed, the
curtain raised, the gay scene of the conspirators
and gamesters going forward beneath the roof of
Marion de L'Orme. Even amidst the interest
of this opening scene, the thought of the house
escapes to Macready. Will he be discovered
with all the insignia of his rank and power ?
Will he be closeted with Louis, or giving audience
to a spy ? Will his manner have the pride of
the churchman, or the smoothness of the diplo¬
matist ? The first scene is over, and we have
our answer.
Macready, as the Cardinal, enters, followed by
the Capuchin Joseph, and the coming revelation
—signal, and in some respects new—of the actor's
powers, is at once foreshadowed by his appear¬
ance. How full of individuality are the whitening
hair, the face sharpened to the utmost expression
of subtlety and keenness, the gait somewhat loose
with age, but now quick and impulsive, now
40 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
slow or suddenly arrested, which seems to give
a rhythm to the workings of his brain—to his
swift, contemptuous penetration of the schemes
against him, on the one hand, or, on the other,
to his suspense, his caution, or his rapid deci¬
sion, Soon followed one of those " ultra-collo¬
quialisms " which, when first reading the play,
he had thought incompatible with Eichelieu's
dignity, but which, with the dry, caustic humour
he gave them, were not only very telling, but
seemed natural reliefs to the strained mind of
the statesman. " Orleans heads the traitors,"
says Father Joseph; "A very wooden head, then!"
exclaims Eichelieu ; and, though the sarcasm was
threadbare, it had all the force of novelty and
wit. Examples of the actor's unrivalled power
in familiar touches abounded through the per¬
formance. His manner of exposing the strategy
of Baradas to De Mauprat blended with con¬
tempt an easy penetration, an amused superiority,
which was quite irresistible—
" Where was thy wit, man ? Why, these schemes are glass ;
The very sun shines through them ! "
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
41
Early in the play were encountered some of
those dazzling, but rather forced metaphors, which
the author's better judgment afterwards cancelled.
Amongst these, however, was one which, as
Macready gave it, drew great applause—
" From rank showers of blood
And the red light of blazing roofs you build
The rainbow, Glory, and to shuddering Conscience
Cry—Lo the Bridge to Heaven ! "
Soon after this example of poetic pyrotechnics,
Eichelieu charges De Mauprat with fraud. The
indignant young man advances upon his accuser
with an air and tone of menace when, it will be
remembered, Huguet, one of Eichelieu's guard,
who waits armed behind a screen to intercept
any possible violence to the Cardinal, raises his
carbine to fire. Eichelieu, with a wave of his
hand, exclaims—
" Not so quick, friend Huguet ;
The Sieur de Mauprat is a patient man,
And he can wait."
The dry, parenthetical utterance of these words,
with the careless accompanying gesture, had in
them the secret of a terrible humour and the
proud assurance of a "charmed life" that no
42 OUE EECENT AOTOES.
succeeding impersonator of Eichelieu has dis¬
covered. The whole of this first act is rich in
those contrasts of feeling and character in which
Macready delighted. The fervour with which,
after finding De Mauprat worthy of his confidence,
he asserts the justice of his rule, had in it all the
passionate earnestness and dignity of a man who,
long scornfully silent under misconception and
calumny, at last relieves his heart and vindicates
himself to an honourable judge. Soon follow the
lines in which, under pretence of dismissing De
Mauprat to death, he causes him to be conducted
to the presence of the woman for whose sake
he has braved it, this act, of course, implying
Eichelieu's consent to their union. "Huguet,"
says he,
" To the tapestry chamber
Conduct your prisoner. (To De Mauprat) You will there
behold
Your executioner. Your doom be private,
And Heaven have mercy on you."
The rapidity and sternness with which these
lines were pronounced, as if only by hurry and
a forced overdoing of severity he could prevent
OUK RECENT ACTORS. 43
himself from giving way to the benevolent enjoy¬
ment of his device, showed one of the actor's
characteristic merits—his just perception of the
right note of feeling even to a semi-tone. The
look of sly and eager anticipation with which he
followed De Mauprat, as he retired, had in it
all the bonhomie which Bulwer,* rather than
history, ascribes to the Cardinal, and the zest
with which the sceptical mind of a diplomatist
may for once taste pure pleasure in bestowing it.
In the second act, the contrast between
Eichelieu's usual scornful levity in dismissing the
schemes of his enemies, and the composed but
grave attention which denotes real peril, was
strikingly marked. With rapid step and hands
carelessly knotted behind him, he had paced to
and fro, listening to Father Joseph's rumours of
plots, either with incredulity or with smiling
* Having instinctively written the name by which the late
Lord Lytton was best known to his contemporaries, I let it
stand for the sake of remarking that, long after the celebrated
author had assumed the surname of Lytton, many of his
literary friends persisted in addressing him by that of Bulwer.
Their reluctance to forego the appellation under which he
had won so much distinction was a delicate tribute which
he doubtless appreciated.
44: OUR RECENT ACTORS.
confidence in his power to baffle them. But
when Marion de L'Orme entered with news of
the conspiracy headed by Orleans, every trace of
caustic mirth or easy, exulting contempt at once
disappeared. Of course, all actors would at this
point have made a transition of manner ; few,
indeed, would have made it with Macready's
arresting effect. He questioned Marion in tones
the lowness of which expressed the intensity of
his interest. His trust in his own resources was
still unshaken, but he felt that they might now
be taxed to the utmost. The breathless audience
listened to the words, " How there is danger," as
if each man had his personal stake in the crisis.
It was felt that if Eichelieu could apprehend
danger, there must be danger indeed. The tone
of gay fiattery to Marion de L'Orme at that
moment of peril—
" What an eye you have,
And what a smile, child, . . . 'tis well I'm old,"
and the ringing exhortation to the page François,
when sent on his critical mission—"Hever say
fail again ; that's my young hero ! " — were
OUE EECENT ACTORS.
45
brilliant examples of the actor's variety and
quick self-adaptation to his instruments. The
fascination which illustrious old age has for the
young and aspiring could never have been better
justified than by Macready's cheery laugh and
the look, full of kind encouragement, with which
he uttered these words to the page. I have
before me a copy of "Eichelieu," marked from
the tragedian's acting copy of 1843 (four years
after the production of the play), in which the
compliment to Marion de L'Orme is cut out—
a mistake, I think, for his delivery of it was
certainly one of the brilliant facets which his
genius exhibited in this manifold character.
So full of fine variety was his delineation at
the close of this second act, as almost to atone
for its want of incident. His momentary distrust
of Huguet, as he noted " he bowed too low "
(some Eichelieus have so over-emphasized this
trait of minute observation, that they should, to
be consistent, have discharged the guardsman on
the spot) ; his brief lapse into melancholy, as he
reflects on the snares that beset his bed and board,
46 OUK KECENT ACTOKS.
and his friendlessness at the height of power;
his proud rally from these thoughts to faith iu
the indomitable heart of Armand Eichelieu, and
the quaint bonhomie, strangely compounded of
archness, good-feeling, and dissimulation, with
which he addresses Joseph,—all received their
just proportion. Each trait harmonized with,
and flowed into its fellow. There was no hard
line to divide, or even to distinguish, diplomacy
from sentiment or sentiment from humour, but
a living man in whom all these qualities naturally
blended.
The third act gave scope for the excellences
already noted, and with yet higher development.
The Eichelieu who awaited, with breathless
eagerness, from François the proofs that should
convict Baradas ; the Eichelieu who, minutely
observant, even in his excitement, could pause to
note the small number of the conspirators—who,
learning that the despatch which would have
secured his triumph had been wrested from
François, one moment sternly warned him to see
his face no more till he had regained it, and
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
47
the next, relented into smiling encouragement—
" Away ! Nay, cheer thee ; thou hast not failed
yet ; there's no such word as fail ! "—was, in
these various aspects, not only the same man
but so happy in expressing them that each new
trait seemed to complete and enhance the others.
This third act contains the scene in which De
Mauprat, duped into the belief that Eichelieu
in causing him to marry, has made him a mere
pander to the King, seeks the Cardinal's life
in revenge. When Macready, personating the
old and feeble man, encountered, without
recognizing him, the armed figure whose very
vizor was closed, and learned his deadly purpose,
nothing could be more intense and life-like,
nothing freer from inflation, than the glorious
arrogance with which he exclaimed—
" Earth has no such fiend—
No—as one parricide of his fatherland,
"Who dares in Richelieu murder France ! "
It should be noticed here that Macready care¬
fully avoided the error into which some of his
successors have fallen—that of over-idealizing
48 OUK RECENT ACTORS.
Eichelieu, by delivering his patriotic speeches
in such tones of exalted devotion as might have
befitted Brutus. Macready's apostrophes to
France, on the contrary, were given with a self-
reference, sometimes fierce in its expression, that
showed her triumphs to be part of his own. Her
glory was the object of his ambition, for it made
him great, while the thought that he laboured
for her consciously ennobled his ambition. Thus
his haughty boast in the foregoing lines was no
expression of abstract and ideal patriotism (of
which the Cardinal was incapable), but of
passionate and practical sympathy. How fine,
again, when De Mauprat, still unrecognized,
betrays that the dishonour put upon him has
made him an avenger, were the sudden gleam in
the eye, and the hushed tones of relief which
showed the statesman's sleepless vigilance at
that crisis—
" I breathe—he is no hireling ! "
When, in this scene, De Mauprat reveals himself,
and Eichelieu arrests his dagger by showing the
arts that have deluded him, the actor produced
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
49
one of those massive effects which make the
fortune of a drama. His commanding air, as he
motioned the dupe to his knees ; his rapid energy,
blent with a look of lofty pity, as he proclaimed
that, instead of planning dishonour for De
Mauprat's wife, he had saved her from it ; his
indignant look as, with tottering but imperial
step, he hurried to the door, and, summoning
Julie, confronted De Mauprat with the living
proof of his truth,—all this caused an excitement
which I have rarely seen equalled. It was
surpassed, however, by that supreme moment, in
the fourth act, when the might of Eome seemed
to pass into the sick man's frame, as he sprang up,
dominant and terrible, to shield Julie from the
King with the aegis of the Church, At this point
the vast pit seemed to rock with enthusiasm, as
it volleyed its admiration in rounds of thunder.
In the final scene of the fifth act, where the
Cardinal, apparently on the verge of death,
attends the King to resign, and to " render up the
ledgers of a realm," words can but faintly hint
the excellence of the performance. How touching
VOL. I. E
50
OUR RECENT ACTORS,
was the proud humility of the weak old man as
he relinquished, seemingly for ever, the splendid
cares of State ; how arresting the sight of him
as, supported in his chair, his face now grew
vacant, as if through the feebleness of nature,
now resumed a gleam of intelligence, which at
times contracted into pain, as he gathered the
policy of his rivals—a policy fatal to Trance !
One noted the uneasy movements of the head,
tlie restless play of the wan fingers, though the
lips were silent, till at last the mind fairly
struggled awhile through its eclipse, as, in a loud
whisper, he warned the King his succours would
be wasted upon England. Then came the
moment when, recovering the despatch which
convicted his foes of treason, he caused it to be
handed to the King, and sank supine with the
effort. Slowly and intermittently consciousness
returned, as Louis thrice implored him to resume
his sway over France. So naturally marked
were the fluctuations between life and death,
so subtly graduated (though comprised within
a few moments) were the signs of his recovery,
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 51
that the house utterly forgot its almost incredible
quickness when, in answer to the King's appre¬
hensive cry as to the traitors—
" Where will they he next week ? "
Eichelieu springs up resuscitated, and exclaims—
" There, at my feet ! "
But it was not alone by acting, however fine, in
this particular situation, that his triumph over
probability was obtained. He had from the
beginning of the play so seized every opportunity
of identifying his fortunes and life with the great¬
ness of his country, that when the King besought
him to live for France, it seemed quite in the order
of nature such an adjuration should have magical
force. Who can forget the electrical rapidity and
decision with which Macready, as the revivified
minister, cut the Gordian knots of policy ? The
waiting envoys shall now have their answer.
Chavigny, halting not for sleep or food, shall
" arrest the Due de Bouillon at the head of his
armies." Baradas, who has "lost the stake,"
shall pay it and go out under guard. The barque
52
OÜE RECENT ACTORS.
of the State, hut now tossing and plunging, a waif
on the bosom of chance, has once more a helms¬
man, knows a course, and, through the sheer
waters, bears on. And interests, dear though
minor, confess the sudden change. Poor Julie,
lately trembling for her husband's life, sees in
his death writ but "parchment for battledores."
The epicure and traitor, De Berrighen, scents
danger to his dear health in the air of Paris. On
Prançois, the page who regained the despatch,
again falls the smile that cheered and now
rewards him. " He will never say fail again ! "
Ah, Joseph, trusty Joseph, bishop to be! The
minister's policy—prompt action, daring, and
retribution—the old man's fondness, the cynic's
raillery, the patron's indulgence and humour,—
this brilliant résumé of Eichelieu throughout the
play was so given, flash after flash, that its various
effects seemed simultaneous rather than successive.
Thus it was an audience dazzled, almost bewildered
by the brilliancy of the achievement, that, on the
instant fall of the curtain, burst into a roar of
admiration that, wild, craving, unappeasable, pur-
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
53
sued, like a sea, the retreating actor, and swept
him back to the front.*
Pressing occupations and frequent absences from
town now for a time diverted my attention from
the theatres. When once more able to enjoy my
favourite recreation, I was, though but just of
age, a married man; I had published my first
* In his diary Macready speaks with some dissatisfaction of
his first night's performance of " Richelieu." But he was in the
habit, when anxious or dispirited, of underrating his work.
Thus when, after a lapse of time, he triumphantly resumed
his London representations of lago (his early appearances in
the character had not been greatly successful), he was over¬
whelmed with such a sense of failure, that his surprise next
morning to find his performance regarded as a masterpiece
must have been as great as his delight. The rapturous recep¬
tion given to his first performance of " Richelieu," and the tone
of the press on the occasion, are vividly remembered by the
writer. It may be added that in the foregoing description
of " Richelieu," he has relied not only on his first youthful
impressions, but upon confirmatory ones drawn from many
later representations.
I may perhaps here be permitted to observe, for the benefit
of younger playgoers, that one of the best " Richelieus " since
Macready's, and the one that most recalls him, is that of Mr.
Edwin Booth. He gives the character a more modern air—
a greater air of everyday realism—than did Macready, though
realism of a certain kind was one of the latter's strongest
features. That Mr. Booth, however, is not deficient in the
more heroic aspects of the character, all who remember his
splendid acting at the end of the fourth act can abundantly
testify.
54 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
tragedy, and was anticipating an interview with
Macready, to whom it had been dedicated. Ee-
ports had reached me from his friends that he
contemplated the production of my play at Drury
Lane, of which he was recently become lessee,
while his letters to me, though they did not dis¬
tinctly state such an intention, were pleasantly
consistent with it. To end suspense, I wrote to
him as to these reports, and immediately received
an answer, stating that they were well founded,
and inviting me to call upon him at the theatre.
These lines were written in October, 1885,
forty-four years after presenting myself for the
first time at Drury Lane Theatre. All the circum¬
stances of my call are, however, as freshly present
to me as if it had been made yesterday—the
taciturn janitor who had probably been apprized
of my coming, and who, I fancied, regarded the
stripling visitor with civil astonishment ; the boy
who was at once sent in with my card, and the
grave official who soon afterwards appeared from
the inner door of the theatre, and, saying in low
tones that Mr. Macready would be glad to see
OUE EECENT ACTORS.
55
the gentleman, requested me to follow him. The
vast stage—quite deserted at the time we crossed
it—lay in a mid-day twilight, through which,
nevertheless, one slanting ray of the outer sun¬
shine clove sharply, striking with Eembrandt-like
effect upon the dim and shrouded auditorium.
More than once my guide warned me of scarcely
visible obstructions, or indicated steps over which
I should else have stumbled, speaking all the while
in a tone of melancholy, mysterious dignity, as
befitted one—for ever separated from the common
herd—who, as connected with Drury Lane Theatre
and its august manager, had prematurely gained
the secret of life, and found that nothing was left
to explore. Doubtless my imagination had re¬
flected on the worthy man its own romance ; for
to me this passage in life was nothing less than
romance. I was about to see not only Melantius,
Virginius, and Eichelieu, but Hamlet and Macbeth.
It was like having an interview with Shakspere
by proxy. With such feelings I paused at the
manager's room ; the door opened, and I was in
Macready's presence. He sprang up from the
56
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
table at which he was writing, and gave me a
cordial welcome. Of the coldness and the assump¬
tion of dignity which I had heard ascribed to him
there was not a trace. Proud, no doubt, he was.
I had opportunities, later, of seeing him when some
unworthy taunt on his management or his acting
stung him more poignantly than might have been
expected, but his pride on these occasions took
the form of impetuous anger rather than of
haughtiness or contempt. But to proceed with
my impressions. His tall, imposing figure, his
expressive eye, his broad, massive brow (too
massive for beauty), might well have satisfied any
reasonable anticipation. If I felt a moment's dis¬
appointment, it must have been from some subtle
influence of association which made me seek to
identify him with his characters. I could hardly
have expected in private to see him in armour
or in a toga ; yet, absurd though the feeling was,
it seemed strange to me to find him in a frock
coat. I was immediately struck by the difference
between his voice in conversation and his clear
and musical articulation on the stage. He now
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 57
spoke in a kind of half-smothered bass, which,
like his frequent pauses and self-corrections in
talk, was too full of individuality to be unpleasing.
Our talk, of course, turned upon the play of
mine which had been the means of introducing
us. He was good enough to speak of it in very
cordial terms, and to compliment me by remark¬
ing that my heroine would give some scope to
the powers of Miss Helen Faucit, my warm admi¬
ration of whom he fully endorsed. After some
discussion of the part intended for himself, he
observed, "But, after all, your hero is young,
and I doubt whether I should have the air of
youth, especially in the dress of to-day.* How,
would you not prefer Mr. Anderson to play the
character?" I should have been a very bad diplo¬
matist had I assented to this suggestion ; but,
fortunately, I had no need of diplomacy, for my
feelings ran in the same direction as my policy.
I strongly expressed my disrelish of the proposal,
adding that my chief pleasure in the production
* "The Patrician's Daughter," the play referred to, was
one of then contemporary life.
58 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
of the piece would be gone if Mr. Macready
himself did not appear as my hero. " The very
thing to have said," observed an intimate friend
of his when I related this little passage. " How
much you would have dropped in his estimation
had you taken him at his word ! "
" Whether your piece will run," continued
Macready, " is more than I can predict. It ends
tragically ; but audiences like a happy ending.
Still, as I hope you know, this theatre is not
conducted purely on principles of gain, but with
some desire to encourage dramatic literature." On
my assent to this, he resumed—" Of the fate of
a play no amount of experience enables a man to
judge. It is not always that even happy endings
and capital construction insure success. How, I
may tell you," he said, in a confidential tone
which inspired his young listener with all the
complacent self-importance of one trusted with
a State secret—"I may tell you that I played
' The Lady of Lyons ' for a fortnight or three
weeks to a serious loss, and that nothing but my
sense of obligation to Bulwer, who had presented
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 59
the play to me in aid of the cause this theatre
supports, would have induced me to keep it in
the bills. Yet you see what a success it even¬
tually became."
These remarks were probably intended to
moderate any over-sanguine views wliich I might
have formed respecting my own piece. The con¬
versation then turned upon one or two of our
friends, and charmed with the tragedian in his
private character, and convinced that it must be
an unjust world in wliich such a man could find
detractors, I left the theatte.
60
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
CHAPTER III.
MACREADY—CONCLUSION,
Macready's friends and acquaintance—At dinner with him—
His guests—His first wife and his sister—Table-talk—
Browning's " Blot on the Scutcheon "—Opera of " Acis
and Galatea "—Its admirable cast—Unprecedented beauty
of its reproduction—Scenery by Stanfield—Invention of
a stage-sea with motion and sound—Compliment paid to
Macready by a lady on the production of the opera—
Pictures and picture-dealers—Psestum and the Romans—
The poet Pope—Humorous reminiscences—Anecdote of
Porson—Macready a Liberal in politics—His objection to
the phrase, " lower classes "—An evening reception at his
house—Singing of Herr Staudigl in " Acis and Galatea "
—Assembly of celebrated authors, artists, etc.—Macready's
irritability at rehearsals, etc.—Author's impression that
this was to a great extent assumed—His King Lear—
This, in the writer's judgment, his greatest Shaksperian
performance—Detailed account of it—Macready's motto,
" Patience is genius," examined—Unjust to his own spon¬
taneity—Walter Scott and Sheridan Knowles—Macready's
disparagement of Garriek—His theory that goodness was
essential to genius—His Macbeth—Regarded by his friends
as his chef-d'œuvre—Examination of his performance at
length—Also of his Hamlet—His Othello, lago, Evelyn in
"Money"—His Benedick in "Much Ado"—His great
performance of Werner—Full account of it—Summary of
his various characters—His psychological insight and
OUR RECENT ACTORS,
61
artistic power of expressing emotion—His King John—His
Shy lock—Anecdote in note as to his revival of "King
John" at Drury Lane—His Gisippus—His Spinola in
"Nina Sforza"—His religious sentiment—The characters
peculiarly suited to him—His defects and peculiarities—
Comparison of him with contemporary actors—His in¬
tensity—In certain parts approaching Edmund Kean's—
General estimate of his genius—His death.
The guests at Macready's table were, in many
cases, representative men and women, whose very
presence was a testimony to the intellect and
cultivation of their host. Besides being the
friend, amongst writers, of Wordsworth, Thackeray,
Dickens, Carlyle, Bui wer (the first Lord Lytton),
Browning, Tennyson, John Forster, Mrs. Gore,
Mrs. Norton, Lady Morgan ; amongst painters, of
Stanfield, Maclise, Etty, and David Eoberts, it may
be said that few had obtained any marked repu¬
tation in literature or art without making his
acquaintance. On the first day that my wife and
myself dined with him, in 1842, we met, amongst
others, Messrs. David Eoberts, E.A., Boxall, Zouch,
Troughton, author of " Nina Sforza also, though
his name is omitted in Macready's diary for the
day, John Elliotson, M.D., an able physician who
62
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
dared to think for himself, and whose treatment
was often as brilliantly successful as original,
though his advocacy of mesmerism roused much
opposition and controversy, and was looked upon
at the time as heterodox by his professional
brethren.
Here a word of pleasant recollection may be
given to the wife and sister of the tragedian.
The first Mrs. Macready, the " Kitty Atkins " of
his father's company, possessed that union of
gentleness with cordiality which is always most
winning. There was a sweetness in her counte¬
nance and a delicate grace in her manner
peculiarly feminine. I had the pleasure of taking
in Miss Macready, who showed no little observa¬
tion and genial humour. She had much of her
brother's quick perception, with a playfulness
of expression very rare with him, though very
charming when displayed.
The conversation turned very little upon the
drama or the theatre, though, in the course of
the evening, Macready adverted with emphatic
admiration to an unpublished play by Eobert
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 63
Browning, It was, I believe, " The Blot on the
Scutcheon," subsequently performed at Drury
Lane—a work which, in point of passion and that
noble utterance in which reality and imagination
blend, yields to none in the series of great plays
with which the most profound and poetical
dramatist since Shakspere has enriched our
literature. A passing reference was also made
to the late reproduction of "Acis and Galatea"
at Drury Lane. The presentation of this opera
was one of the great triumphs of Macready's
management, first, on account of its splendid
cast, which included the famous Herr StaudigL
Allen, Miss P. Horton, and Miss Eomer. As
a frame for this opera, too, Stanfield had out¬
done himself in the exquisite scenery which he
painted, in token of his admiration and friendship
for the lessee of Drury Lane. Amongst other
remarkable features was the invention of a stage-
sea, which admirably imitated a natural one, both
in sound and motion, and which, when the curtain
rose on its solitude at the opening, was ecstatically
applauded by the audience, as though it had been
64 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
a distinguished actor, Macready remarked that
he had never been more delighted than by a
compliment paid him by a lady in reference to
this production. " Now," said she, " I have seen
a poem." The talk turned, however, for the most
part upon subjects interesting to the scholar or
the virtuoso—upon the various signs by which
copies of the old masters, pretending to be
originals, might be detected, upon ancient Psestum
and its attractions as a Roman resort, upon
Pope, the poet, and his merits. These somewhat
grave topics found occasional and stül dignified
relief in anecdotes of picture-buyers, who had
either been imposed upon by fraudulent vendors,
or who had baffled them more than once, in a
humorous reminiscence of travel, and in an
anecdote of Porson, the particulars of which I
caught indistinctly ; but I believe they referred
to the singularity of a man of his pursuits and
tastes having written a farce.
During dinner a lady happened to speak of the
" lower classes "—a phrase to which Macready
excepted. " Will you let me," he said, " correct
OUB RECENT ACTORS.
65
that expression? I always like to think of our
less fortunate fellow-creatures as the poorer classes,
rather than as the lower classes." Perhaps a con¬
ventional phrase uttered by a lady at dinner
hardly needed so grave a comment, but there is
no doubt that Macready was thoroughly sincere
in making it. Those who knew him more inti¬
mately than I did have often testified to his
earnest sympathy with the people—a sympathy
which seems at first sight a little inconsistent with
his overbearing manner, at times, to his sub¬
ordinates in the theatre. About two months later
we had the pleasure of hearing Herr Staudigl in
several of the morceaux of Polyphemus, in " Acis
and Galatea." A company of celebrities was
present, amongst others, Carlyle, Browning, Procter
(Barry Cornwall), John Förster, Sir M. A. Shee,
President of the Boyal Academy, Sir Edwin
Landseer, B.A., Sir Charles and Lady Morgan,
Lady Stepney, etc.
I chanced to be present at Drury Lane on
an occasion when Macready was conducting a
rehearsal of " King John." The groupings of that
VOL. I. F
66 OUB KECENT ACTORS.
play, and the stage business in general, were
elaborate enough to account for, and almost excuse
the manager's impatience. Very striking, however,
was his sudden change from angry excitement,
when addressing his " supers," to his unruffled
courtesy of tone and look when he turned to
myself or others of his acquaintance on the stage.
It was, of course, not the fact of the change, but
its instantaneousness, that was remarkable. From
that day I conceived an impression, which still
remains, that his bursts of temper were far more
under his control than perhaps he himself sup¬
posed, and that he was sometimes inclined to
exaggerate them that they might contrast with
his after-smoothness—that he was exhibiting, in
short, his beloved stage transitions in real life.
I do not in the least mean to deny his excitable
temper, which a Drury Lane rehearsal was of all
things likely to call forth ; but to suggest that
its manifestations were less serious than they
appeared, and that he perhaps showed off its
starts and sallies to excess, that his skill in
reining it in might be the more obvious.
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
67
It is now time to revert to his performances.
His Eüng Lear, as I saw it in his later days,
when it had acquired a broader and more
masculine outline than before, was, I think,
his finest achievement in Shaksperian tragedy.
With that poetic power of symbolism which
was one of his especial gifts, there was, on his
first entrance, in his accents, sovereignly impe¬
rious, and in his free, large movements (though
the gait at times gave just a hint of age), the
outward and visible sign, not only of Lear's
strong and absolute wül, but of the primitive,
haK-savage royalty that we associate with remote
and legendary periods. He was still a hale and
zealous hunter, not unwilling, indeed, to forego
the toils of State, but bribed to do so, before
the full need came, by prodigal love for his
children. If he became, afterwards, " a very feeble,
fond old man," it was ingratitude, not the weight
of years, that had thus undone him. There were
many fine touches of nature in the first act.
One of these was especially subtle. Lear has
repudiated his once idolized Cordelia; he would
68
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
fain forget her, and speak of his future plans.
But, in striving to do this, his voice suddenly
for a moment broke, then to the end of
the sentence hardened into inflexibility. Very
striking, too, was the King's demeanour just
afterwards, when Kent remonstrates. His anger
first showed itself in an ominous tone of warning
which arrested and awed—
" The bow is bent and drawn ; make from the shaft ; "
then, as the faithful adherent persisted, it swelled
into a mingling of amazement, scorn, and con¬
vulsive rage, that would have befitted a Csesar,
flattered into the belief of his divinity, and swift
to punish opposition as impious. The curse
which ends the act struck terror by its still
intensity, and the change from wrath to agony
at the words—
" That she may feel
How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is
To have a thankless child,"
almost excused the malediction. To specify all
the striking details of this great performance
would need an entire essay. It may be said.
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
69
in brief, that as the boundless arrogance of Lear
■was the sin by which he fell, so a revelation to
the old man's heart—even through his disordered
■wits—of the common ties of our humanity was,
with Macready, the great lesson of the play.
Thus he threw into even unusual relief those
noble passages in which the poet contrasts the
lots of rich and poor, of oppressor and thrall,
or in which he shows the nothingness of mortal
man at his best, when he encounters the forces
of Nature or Circumstance. In the storm-scene,
where Lear's madness is yet incipient, and in
the still more terrible disclosure of the fourth
act, Macready was on ground (that of psychology),
where, if we except a few inspired characters of
Edmund Kean, he seemed unapproachable. His
dawning insanity gleamed out in his almost
parental tenderness to the fool, as if he felt
instinctively the bond between them. The
recurrence to a fixed idea, in his obstinate and,
at last, passionate asseveration that Edgar's
" unkind daughters " were the cause of his
affliction, might, for its air of penetration and
70 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
good faith, have been set down in the diagnosis
of a physician. When complete aberration set
in, the signs of it were astonishingly true and
various. The keen, over-eager attention, the
sudden diversion to new excitements, the light
garrulousness, the unmeaning smile, or the
abstracted silence, denoted by turns so many
shifting moods of fantasy through which one
torturing recollection, like a knell, heard in brief
lulls of winds and waters, broke ever and anon.
His gradual recognition of Cordelia, as the mists
of delusion gradually lifted and dissolved, was
a worthy climax to such a performance. Her
well-known voice, her tender words, at first fixed
him as with a sweet but vague and bewildering
consciousness :—
" You do me wrong to take me out of the grave.
Thou art a soul in bliss, but I am bound
Upon a wheel of fire.
You are a spirit, I know ; when did you die? "
Then, how fine was the struggle towards memory
and definite perception ! What effort, what
despondency in the failure !
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 71
" I should e'en die with pity
To see another thus."
And, finally, how true, how overpowering, the
expression of yearning hope which he almost
feared to test, as he sank trembling into her
embrace !—
" Do not laugh at nae,
For, as I am a man, I think this lady
To he my child, Cordelia."
It is in such a delineation as this that the
actor (precluded from any great originality in
the conception of the character laid down for
him) becomes in his turn almost creative, by
translating the poet's ideas into an appropriate
language of looks, tones, and gestures, which
make that living and incarnate which was com¬
paratively but abstract and intellectual. For
such a rendering, patient observation is no less
needed than sympathetic impulse. I have more
than once heard Macready say, " Patience is
genius"—a sentiment which, I think, originally
belongs to Montaigne. Yet patience, though a
proof of the interest and fortitude which genius
begets, can hardly be genius itself. The tra-
72 OUK EECENT ACTOES.
gedian, I sometimes thought, did some injustice
to his own spontaneity in insisting almost
exclusively upon the value of hard work. The
truth is, he found in mental activity not only
a duty but a delight. His love of painting,
his wide acquaintance with literature, the charm
which psychology had for him, as evinced not
only in his acting, where motive and character
were so finely laid bare, but in the fascination
of Browning's poetry, showed a warmth and
extent of sympathy without which patience
would have lacked its best incentive and yielded
but frigid results. He was more of an enthusiast
than he himself believed. One night the dis¬
cussion turned upon Sir Walter Scott, and his
inability as a dramatist, and why, with all his
powers of characterization and situation in narra¬
tive, he had never written a play likely to move
an audience. " I suppose he did not choose," said
one of the party. " Choose ! " broke in Macready,
warmly ; " it's no matter of choice. If he had
had the true dramatic fire, he couldn't have
suppressed it. So says Knowles, and I echo
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
73
him/' thus showing that in his deepest con¬
victions, his favourite patience, though sometimes
a sign of genius, was no substitute for it.
On the night in question, the after-dinner
talk turned upon celebrated past actors, especially
upon Garrick, of whom I thought Macready spoke
with undue severity. In doing so, he broached
a theory which will, I fancy, be generally dis¬
puted. " I will not believe," said he, " that a
man so avaricious and self-seeking* could have
been a great actor." It was contended, on the
other side, that there were abundant instances
in which the moral defects of men had not
prevented their greatness as artists. " Meanness
and selfishness," he rejoined, " must affect their
sincerity. They cannot express with full power
by mere intellect the nobler emotions with which
they have no real sympathy." Here I asked
whether, if this doctrine were true, it would
not lead also to the conclusion that a good
man must fail in the portraiture of evil, and
* Surely this is a harsher verdict upon Garrick than is
warranted by the facts known of him, viewed as a whole.
74 OUß EEOENT ACTORS.
that the actor must be morally bad who could
paint bad characters—lago, for instance, or
Eichard the Third. "No; that will not hold,"
he said. " Whoever has fine qualities can paint
the base ; " meaning, I suppose, that he could
paint them as opposites. It was, at all events,
pleasant to find Macready attaching so much
value to moral character in relation to art.
Though it is difficult to accept his view in its
full extent, there may be a measure of truth
in it. A selfish man may be very sincere in
declaiming a fine burst of feeling, or even in
portraying a fine nature generally; yet it is at
least possible that habitual loyalty to right may
give a force of conviction to the expression of
it quite beyond the reach of merely sentimental
approval.
The leading tragedies of Shakspere were then
discussed. " Macbeth," in addition to its grandeur
of imagination, was voted his most perfect
play for the stage. Various allusions to our
host's embodiment of the guilty Thane led
to the inference that it was regarded as his
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 75
chef-d'œuvre. I could not altogether subscribe
to that opinion, my reasons for which wül appear
in the account I shall now give of his perform¬
ance.
Of all Macready's representations, that of
Macbeth probably most satisfied himself. He
had performed no Shaksperian character more
frequently ; it was that, moreover, in which he
took his leave of the stage. Though it never
realized my ideal, I learned, as I grew in years,
to appreciate its many excellences. After the
departure of the witches, in the first act, the air
of brooding reverie in the soliloquy, with a
strange sense conveyed in the fixed and fateful
gaze of impending evil, the insidious encroach¬
ment of evil, spite of brief but terrible recoil,
and afterwards the overdone warmth with which
he excuses his abstraction to Eosse and Angus,
were rendered with consummate skill and effect.
In the scenes where Lady Macbeth prompts him
to the murder, his resistance seemed somewhat
too feeble for the remorse he has afterwards to
display. " One of John Kemble's most effective
76
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
passages," said that fine critic, W. J. Fox, "was
the one beginning—
•"We will proceed no further in this business,'
which he uttered with such a sigh of relief and
thankfulness, it seemed to hear away with it a
crushing load and to leave him renewed and
hopeful." The apostrophe to the " air-drawn
dagger," as given by Macready, was a triumph
of discrimination and emphasis. The transitions
from amazement and awe to reviving reason—
once more staggered by the growing force of his
terrors, and again reasserting itseK to dispel them
—could not have been more judiciously marked.
And yet—to me, at least—there seemed a want.
Eeasoning carried it over intuition ; all had been
too obviously reasoned out. The thoughts did
not sufficiently hurry upon and partly confuse
each other, as they do in real tumults of the soul.
The crouching form and stealthy, felon-like step
of the self-abased murderer, as he quitted the
scene, made, however, a picture not to be for¬
gotten. In contrast with the erect, martial figure
that entered in the first act, this change was the
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
77
moral of the play made visible. The acting of
Macready, after the murder, has been so generally
extolled, that I rather state as a personal feeling
than as a critical opinion that here again various
mental states seemed too sharply defined and sepa¬
rated. The emotions of shame, terror, remorse,
momentary despair, and selfish fear, might, I
fancied, have more often flowed into each other,
as when, in real life, some fatal act almost at the
same moment excites and yet paralyzes appre¬
hension by the sense that it is irretrievable. I
thought of Hazlitt's description of Edmund Kean
at this point. " The hesitation, the bewildered
look, the coming to himself when he sees his
hands bloody ; the manner in which his voice
clung to his throat and choked his utterance;
his agony and tears, the force of nature overcome
by passion — beggared description." Something
of this I missed in Macready, though his entire
performance was probably flner and more sugges¬
tive than that of Kean. But Macready's final
waking to the full conviction of the gulf between
the past and the present was one of his grandest
78
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
moments. I still vividly recall the terrible agony
of his cry—
" Wake Duncan with thy knocking ; I would thou couldst ! "
as, with his face averted from his wife, and his
arms outstretched, as it were, to the irrecoverable
past, she dragged him from the stage.
The entrance of Banquo's ghost in the third
act gives an opportunity to a tragic actor of
which Macready fully availed himself. His
great merit, however, in this act, was the force
with which he previously brought out the gnaw-
ings of conscience and the insecurity of ill-gotten
power. In his haggard aspect, in his restless
movements, it seemed as if the curse, " Macbeth
shall sleep no more," had taken visible effect.
What misery pierced through his hollow mirth
when he exclaimed—
" But let the frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer,
Ere we will eat our meal in fear,"
feigning so quickly followed by his tones of
hopeless yearning in the words—
" Duncan is in his grave,
After life's fitful fever he sleeps well."
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 79
When his wife questioned him as to Banquo,
the furtive look with which he turned from the
very partner of his crime bore terrible witness
to the isolation of guilt. The sinister, ill-sup¬
pressed laugh which accompanied his answer—
" Be innocent of knowledge, dearest chuck,
Till thou applaud the deed ! "
marked, I thought, a new and dreadful stage in
the usurper's experience. What a revelation in
the words, " dearest chuck " I She whose spirit
had so dominated his in the early scenes was
now his mere half-trusted accomplice. His
misery had cast off awe ; he was become
grimly familiar with her. His much applauded
transition in the last act, from the impetuous
command to Seyton, "Give me mine armour,"
to the ultra-colloquial, "How does your patient,
doctor ? " never appeared to me a beauty. It was
a telling stage-contrast, but so extreme as to be
factitious. His closing scenes could not have
been surpassed. His physical energy was terrific,
and took grandeur from the desperate mind. He
turned upon Fate and stood at bay.
80
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
Comparing his Macbeth with his Hamlet, I
retain to the last a preference for the latter,
though even at the time I first saw it he scarcely
looked the character. His tall figure, with its
large and bold outlines, his brow, almost ample
enough to be ponderous, hardly suggested the
refined, pensive prince who was yet "the glass
of fashion and the mould of form." And, indeed,
Hamlet, as interpreted by this tragedian, was less
the melancholy, musing Dane than he is generally
represented. There was more of passion than of
sentiment in the rendering. With Macready, the
credulous faith, so bitterly dispelled, of the young
optimist, was turned to gall. Thus, to the end of
the third act, a tone of glowing excitement or of
keen irony were the features of the embodiment.
Except for a touch of melancholy tenderness for
a lost ideal in Ophelia, or of the courtesy which
his princely nature prescribed to his inferiors,
Hamlet was, with him, a misanthrope. It was
only when he had long writhed under the sense
of human wrong and "the yoke of inauspicious
stars " that his mind, driven back upon its early
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
81
instinct of faith, grew patient and trustful, in
spite of experience. "We defy augury. There
is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow.
. . . The readiness is all." Conversing with a
friend, he once observed, " In the early acts of
' Hamlet ' I seek to express, among other things,
the impetuous rebellion of a generous nature
when its trust has been cruelly deceived ; in the
last act, the resignation of a generous nature when
the storm has spent itself ;—in presenting the
striking contrasts of this conception—its passion,
its imagination, its irony, its colloquial realism."
On the appearance of the Ghost, his voice and
manner so expressed a soul spellbound and set
apart from men by a supernatural visitation as
to hold the house breathless with awe. In the
celebrated scene with Ophelia, true to his theory
of the optimist turned pessimist, he was far more
bitter than Charles Kemble or Charles Kean, yet
the agony of his love pierced through the bitter¬
ness. In the closet-scene, though gentle at the
close, he was sterner to his mother than were his
stage contemporaries. His indictment of her was
VOL. I. G
82 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
delivered with an arresting concentration that
had nothing in it of violence or tumult, and with
a mien lofty and unrelenting, as if he had been
the commissioned angel of retribution. His
acting in the play scene was superb. His answers
to the King's suspicious questions, as the play
before the Court proceeds, were keen, glittering,
and venomous, like the thrusts of a poisoned
dagger. "With body prone, and head erect, and
eyes riveted on Claudius, he dragged himself
nearer and nearer to him, till the moment of Gon-
zago's murder, then sprang up to meet the con¬
victed King, with a burst of mocking exultation.
His performance abounded, moreover, with delicate
and poetic suggestions. One of these was his way
of quitting the stage at the end of the first act,
after his interview with the Ghost. About to
depart, he turned to Horatio and Marcellus, and
saying, in a tone tender and hushed, " Kay, come,
let's go together," led them off the stage. Being
at the same hotel with him in Manchester, I went
into his room one night after returning from his
performance of Hamlet. I remarked that this act
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
83
of fellowship on the part of Hamlet had greatly
struck me, as indicating the sense of brother¬
hood between man and man which the awe of a
supernatural visitation would call forth. This
comment pleased him. " It is one of those
minute touches," he replied, " that an actor
tlirows in only after long familiarity with a part.
As to Hamlet, I believe no man ever played it
with any approach to completeness until he was
too old to look it."
His Othello, though some of the details were
masterly, could not, I think, be considered a great
success. His indignant passion was- at times,
most powerful, hut it was a passion into which
the agony of deceived love too little entered. It
was rather the cry of betrayed honour than of
a tortured heart. Among his fine points was
the thrusting of his dark, despairing face through
the curtains of the bed when Emilia calls to
Mm after Desdemona's murder. The discovery
of the face alone — " the index to a tragic
volume "—was thrilling in its effect, besides
forming incidentally, in contrast with the drapery.
84
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
a marvellous piece of colour. Macready may
have had no misgivings as to the claims of
his Othello, hut I think he understood its
comparative unpopularity. One morning, after
the tragedy had been some days announced, he
said to me in the theatre, with his smile of
austere humour, " I am about to punish an
undiscerning public. They will not see my
Othello next week." A poor " let " had doubt¬
less induced him to postpone it.
His lago, on the other hand, was one of his most
famous delineations. With absorbing self-love
and the vindictiveness it engenders for its chief
motives, was combined delight in evil activity
of intellect. It was the knave's pastime with
Macready to become, in appearance, " all things to
all men "—bluntly faithful and disinterested with
Othello, genial comrade with Cassio, loose gallant
with Eoderigo, amusing cynic with Desdemona.
In some of these phases, though assumed only
to further a dark purpose, an admirable vein
of comedy was evinced.
His incidental touches of comedy in serious
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
85
characters were, indeed, very characteristic and
happy. Amongst these may be ranked, besides
the hypocritical phases of lago, his playful raillery
of the love-struck Virginia, his downright soldierly
frankness in Melantius, his easy gaiety with the
players, his courtly but incisive irony towards the
spies in Hamlet. In all characters that combined
the keen perception of human meanness and
inconsistency with social courtesy in expressing
it, he was thoroughly at home. Thus his repre¬
sentation of Evelyn, with his clever cynicism,
in Lord Lytton's "Money," was an incontestable
success. He somewhat underrated, I think, the
great opportunities which the part afforded him.
" I should never have performed Evelyn," he said,
" had it not been written by Bulwer."
In one celebrated character in Shaksperian
comedy he gained a triumph which, in its way,
might fairly rank with any that he achieved in
tragedy. The character was that of Benedick,
which he played for his benefit. In this part his
spontaneous humour, especially in the scene
where he resolves to marry, roused the house to
86 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
such shouts of mirth, one might have thought
Keeley, not Macready, was on the stage. His
Benedick differed widely from that of other
well-known actors. Whether it was the truest
rendering of the part may be doubted, but I
have seen none more effective. In the various
conflicts with Beatrice there was not that eager¬
ness of repartee, that animated enjoyment of the
wit combat, nor quite that polished address
(though Macready was both the soldier and the
gentleman) ascribed to Charles Kemble, Mac-
ready had rather a provokingly indulgent and
half-careless air towards his fair enemy. He
wore a somewhat blasé manner to her, as of one
versed in the serious business of life, and a little
cynical through experience, who, nevertheless,
good-naturedly consented to trifle and badiner
with a lady for her amusement, who sometimes
forgets his light rôle in serious thought, and then,
rousing himself, returns apologetically to his recre¬
ation. In the celebrated soliloquy in the second
act, after he has overheard in the arbour that
Beatrice loves him, the complex expression of
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87
his face as he advanced drew roars from the
house before he uttered a word. One might read
there the sense of amazement, of gratification,
and of perplexity as to the way of reconciling
his newly-revealed passion for Beatrice with his
late raillery at her and all women. His amaze¬
ment was less, even, that Beatrice loved him, than
that (his suspicion deepening to conviction as
the soliloquy went on) he responded to her love.
He evidently remembered his own recent vaunt,
" I do much wonder that one man, seeing how
much another is a fool when he dedicates his
behaviours to love, will, after he hath laughed at
such shallow follies in others, become the argu¬
ment of his own scorn by falling in love."
Accordingly, Macready, with great humour, made
Benedick, in his first wish to be consistent, put
his response to Beatrice rather upon the ground
of pity and courtesy than of his own strong
inclining ; " Love me ! why it must be requited,
I hear how I am censured "—a shallow sophism to
disguise his passion, which again called forth the
heartiest mirth. His next step in reasoning.
88 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
where lie makes a moral aphorism the pretext
for yielding to his inclinations, " Happy are
they that hear their detractions, and can put
them to mending," was not a whit less effective.
In fact, the humour of the position, from his first
surprise and timid regard for his consistency to
the defiant scorn of ridicule at the close, was
splendidly brought out. The most specious argu¬
ment acquired with him the force of reason, or,
if not, his will dispensed with it. It was an
unopposed march, in which the victor gains
audacity as he takes outwork upon outwork, until
he hoists his flag from the citadel.
The success of the tragedian in this brilliant
comedy was complete; yet he had so much
doubted of it beforehand, he said, that he had
proposed resigning Benedick to Mr. Anderson
after the first night. He had had, as we have
seen, similar misgivings with respect to lago, and,
previously to resuming the part in London, had
been wretched with the apprehension of failure.
The acclamations of the audience and the verdict
of the best critics on Benedick, which proved to
OUE EECENT ACTOES.
89
be one of his finest impersonations, came upon
him as a shock of pleasure.
Among Macready's triumphs his Werner holds
so high a place as to require some minuteness of
detail. Of all his characters out of Shakspere
(and I do not forget Virginius or Melantius),
Werner and Eichelieu are those which most often
recur to me. Amiable censors have not been
wanting to allege that his success in Werner was
chiefly due to the resemblance between the hero
of the drama and himself in point of morbid
pride and sensitiveness. This theory, however,
by no means accounts for the impressive melan¬
choly which he wore when Werner's honours
were restored, or, above all, for that display of
a father's love and agony in the fifth act, which
must be ranked amongst his supreme effects.
But to whatever cause his exMbition of pride
and bitter, querulous impatience, in the first act,
were due, it is hard to conceive of their being
more intense and incisive. The rising of the
curtain discovered the fugitive nobleman, indig¬
nant at his cruel fate, stalking to and fro like
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some captured wild animal in his cage. The
gaunt look of recent sickness was in his face, the
fretful irritability which it causes repeatedly
broke forth, spite of his affection for his wife, in
his tones and gestures ; while, through the veil
of poverty, disease, and mental suffering, gleamed
a forlorn haughtiness of bearing which bespoke
his ineradicable pride of birth. The quick appre¬
hensions and suspicions which spring from nerves
wasted alike with disease and grief were admir¬
ably conveyed, first, by his alarm when he hears
the knocking of the Intendant, and again, by the
air of feline wariness and distrust with which he
scanned Gabor on his entrance and subsequently.
At length Stralenheim enters, who seeks to usurp
Werner's domain, and, for that evil end, to secure
his person. Werner at once recognizes him, and
the former has at length a dim suspicion that the
man before him is his intended victim. When
at length Stralenheim turns to him, after con¬
versing with the Intendant and Gabor, the furtive
and apprehensive gaze with which Macready had
watched his oppressor, gave way to irrepressible
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91
hatred. Nothing could be more curtly repellant
than his tones, in answer to Stralenheim's ques¬
tions—
" Stral. Have you been here long ?
Wer, (with abrupt surprise). Long ?
Stral. I sought
An answer, not an echo.
Wer. (rapidly and morosely). You may seek
Both from the walls ; I am not used to answer
Those whom I know not."
A little later, when Stralenheim observes,
" Your language is above your station," "Werner's
answer, " Is it ? " contained a transition from
ironical humility to scorn and loathing, which
it was surprising so brief a phrase could express.
Not less striking, when he feared his passion
might betray him, was the sudden change, in
the words that follow, to rude and caustic
indifference—
" 'Tis well that it is not beneath it,
As sometimes happens to the better clad."
In the second act, it will be remembered that
Werner, made desperate by the plain suspicions
of Stralenheim, who has power to arrest and
imprison him, commits a robbery on his foe, in
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the dead of night, to gain the means of escape.
Subsequently, Werner and his wife are discovered
by their long-lost son, Ulric. The joy of the
parents has scarcely found utterance when Ulric
tells them that he had, on the previous day,
saved the life of Stralenheim, and that he is now
in quest of the villain who had robbed him. To
give any conception of Macready's acting at this
point, I must quote the dialogue—
" Wer. {agitatedly). Who
Taught you to mouth that name of ' villain ? '
TJlr. What
More noble name belongs to common thieves ?
Wer. Who taught you thus to brand an unknown being
With an infernal stigma ?
Ulr. My own feelings
Taught me to name a ruffian from his deeds.
Wer. W ho taught you, long-sought and ill-found boy ! that
It would be safe for my own son to insult me ?
Ulr. I named a villain. What is there in common
With such a being and my father?
Wer. Everything!
That ruffian is thy father.
Jos. Oh, my son !
Believe him not—and yet I (lier voice falters).
Ulr. (starts, loohs earnestly at Werner, and then says slowly).
And you avow it ?
Wer, Ulric I Before you dare despise your father,
Learn to divine and judge his actions. Young,
Rash, new to life, and reared in luxury's lap.
Is it for you to measure passion's force.
OUE EECENT ACTOES.
93
Or misery's temptation ? Wait—(not long,
It Cometh like the night, and quickly)—Wait !—
Wait till, like me, your hopes are blighted—till
Sorrow and shame are handmaids of your cabin ;
Famine and poverty your guests at table ;
Despair your bed-fellow—then rise, but not
From sleep, and judge ! Should that day e'er arrive—
Should you see then the serpent who hath coiled
Himself around all that is dear and noble
Of you and yours, lie slumbering in your path,
With but Ms folds between your steps and happiness.
When he, who lives but to tear from you name,
Lands, life itself, lies at your mercy, with
Chance your conductor ; midnight for your mantle ;
The bare knife in your hand, and earth asleep.
Even to your deadliest foe ; and he, as 'twere,
Inviting death, by looking like it, while
His death alone can save you :—Thank your God !
If then, like me, content with petty plunder,
You turn aside—I did so ! "
From the cry of remonstrance with which the
above passage opens, even to its close, what a
complexity of emotions struggling and, at the
same time, blending with each other, did Mac-
ready portray ! The strife between wrathful
pride and agony, at having to confess and
extenuate his guilt to his idolized and just-
regained son ; the increasing and, at last, breath¬
less rapidity with which he piled up the circum¬
stances of his desperate temptation and venial
94
OUE EECENT AOTOKS.
sin; till, finally, pride, self-abasement, and self-
vindication were swallowed up and swept away
by a master-touch of paternal love and anguish,
as, shaken, convulsed, with extended arms and
bowed head, ho appealed to Ulric with the words,
did so ; "—all these, with their harrowing
pathos and subduing power, live in my memory
as if they were of yesterday. More than forty
years have not weakened their effect.
The bald tale, in the third act, of Stralenheim's
murder by an unknown hand, of Werner's dread
lest he should be suspected of the crime, and of
his escape from the spot, supply little that is of
dramatic interest. The fourth act, also, which
shows Werner restored to his estates and to his
title of Count Siegendorf, moves slowly and
eventlessly, though the sense of heartsick grief
for unrequited affection could not have found
more faithful expression than in the scene where
the restored Count bewails the coldness of the
son in whom his every hope was centred. His
grief here had low and level tones, as if it had
gradually sapped and well-nigh exhausted the
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
95
active force of emotion. There was a forlornness,
a vain, wasting craving in his look, a restlessness
which his brave robes as Count seemed to in¬
tensify by contrast. The fifth act, however,
brings the great situation of the tragedy. In
his disguise as Werner, before fiying, after Stra-
lenheim's death. Count Siegendorf had, it will be
remembered, met Gabor, a Hungarian. He has
deeply suspected this man of being Stralenheim's
murderer. At the celebration of a national
festival in Prague, he has seen him in the
crowd. Soon afterwards the supposed criminal,
instead of avoiding detection, repairs to the
Count's mansion and demands to see him. He
is admitted, and answers Siegendorfs charge of
murder by accusing Ulric of it, who is present.
The Count, drawing, rushes on Gabor with fierce
indignation, then turns from him with incredulous
disdain. The latter, however, proceeds with his
story. What Macready achieved here in the way
of facial expression and symbolic gesture (for his
share in the dialogue was small), has never, I
think, under the given condition, been exceeded.
96 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
At first, with one arm thrown fondly round his
son's shoulder, he listened with light scorn to
his accuser. As the proofs thickened, the eyes,
before careless, became fixed on Gabor. This
man related particular after particular, the fearful
significance of which against his son the Count
at length recognized, while the relaxed arm which
lay on Ulric's shoulder fell heavily. As Gabor
proceeded, and with increasing stress of proof,
the Count turned and looked at his son. Shocked
by his expression, he faltered a step from him.
The tale continued, and again the stricken father
unconsciously fell back. His changes of look and
attitude had silently told all the effects of the
story upon the sympathizing spectators.
As I have said, the words allotted here to Mac-
ready were few and far between ; but there was
little need of words. The changes in the father's
heart were uttered in a tongue of which every
movement was a syllable, every look an accent.
At length Gabor retires, and Count Siegendorf
is left alone with Ulric, who not only confesses the
murder, but urges the "silencing of Gabor."
OUK RECENT ACTORS.
97
While the father lies horror-struck in his chair,
Ulric proceeds to explain and defend his crime
in slaying Stralenheim. When the Count answers
him with expressions of grief and abhorrence,
Ulric retorts thus—
" If you condemn me, yet
Remember who bath taught me, once too often,
To listen to him ! Who proclaimed to me
That there were crimes made venial by the occasion ? "
The greatness of Macready's acting here reached
its climax. As Ulric cited the fatal doctrine of
expediency, by which Siegendorf had extenuated
his robbery in the second act, the feeling that his
own maxims and example had betrayed his son
into crime was fearfully expressed by the con¬
vulsions of the face, by the hands, that first
sought to close the ears, and then to beat back
the fatal sounds that would enter. When at
length Ulric, in plain terms, charges his disgrace
upon his father's precepts, Macready produced
one of those rare effects which become traditions
of the theatre. With a shrill cry of agony, as if
pierced mortally by a dart, he bounded from his
seat, and then, as if all strength had failed him,
VOL. I. H
98
OUK RECENT ACTORS.
wavered and fluttered forward, so to speak, till he
sank on one knee in front of the stage.*
How various are the characters, some of them
especially identified with him, which the name of
this great artist recalls ;—in Shakspere, Lear,
Hamlet, Macbeth, King John, Henry the Fourth,
lago, lachimo. Prospero, Benedick, the Fifth
Harry, with his impetuous chivalry, Brutus, with
his placid self-devotion, his long forbearance
with Cassius, his noble and tender fortitude in
Portia's loss, and his indulgent care for his
drowsy attendant; in the general drama, Me-
lantius, in "The Bridal," the soul of honour,
Virginius, the father-priest, Eichelieu, wily, im¬
perious, patriotic. Ion, the antique type of youth
* Mr. Macready was succeeded in his great performance of
Werner by Mr. Phelps, who played the character with con¬
siderable effect during his management of Sadler's Wells.
Since then, Werner remained unrepresented by any adequate
actor, until it was revived by Mr. Henry Irving, on June 1,
1887, for the benefit of the present writer, with a sympathetic
generosity that has scarcely a parallel in theatrical annals.
The pathetic watchfulness of the father absorbed in his son,
and the overpowering climax of paternal agony when Ulric's
unworthiness is at length discovered, have been recorded with
due appreciation and delight by other pens than that of the
writer.
OUE RECENT ACTORS.
99
in its beauty and self-sacrifice, Claude Melnotte,
the modern type of youth in its bright credulity
and passionate impulse. If, as has been said, he
was in this last character here and there a little
too weighty and tragic, the wonder yet was that
at his years, and with his serious bias, his per¬
formance was on the whole so elastic, flexible, and
spirited.
Of the qualities to which Macready owed his
eminence, the highest and most remarkable were
his psychological insight and his artistic power
of translating his emotions into strikingly
appropriate—often absolutely symbolic—forms
of expression. If it be granted that one or two
tragedians have, in some parts, excelled him in the
sudden revelations of passion, it is yet probable
that he has never been excelled, if equalled,
in the complete and harmonious development
of character. In all his great impersonations
was shown the same faculty of grasping the
central idea of his part, and of making all the
lights thrown upon details correspond with that
idea, "What has already been said of his Lear,
100 OUE EECENT ACTORS.
Hamlet, and Macbeth, will suggest how finely
the faculty just referred to was evinced in these
impersonations. His King John furnishes another
marked example. Before practising for Arthur's
death, the Usurper was still a Plantagen et,
haughty and martial in bearing, swift and bold
in decision. After the abasement of instigating
murder, the whole bearing of the man changed;
the former knight had caught something of the
dogged, covert look, the bowed form, the stealthy
gait of the assassin. When, in the fifth act,
Paulconbridge attempts to rekindle the spirit of
the soldier in John, his answer, in feeble,
disheartened tones, "Have thou the ordering of
this present time," was " a whole history."
Dignity and will had forsaken him. Except in
remorse, he was a Plantagenet no more.*
* In the revival of "King John," in 1841, Macready intro¬
duced a new effect. After the fight in the third act, which
results in an English victory, a part of the English force
crossed the stage, preceded by trumpeters, who sounded notes
of melancholy and wailing. One night, at Macready's house,
Mr. W. J. Fox objected that sounds of this kind could not with
propriety have proceeded from the triumphant English, the
retreat alluded to in the stage directions being clearly that of
the French. Macready answered that the purpose of tbese
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 101
An instance of his subtle blending of the chief
motives of a part with its national features, was
to be found in his Shy lock, where the Jew's
traditional reverence for law, and belief in its
inviolability, were emphasized in his delineation :
" I stand for judgment ; answer, shall I have it ? "
" If you deny me, fie upon your law." " I crave
the law." "I charge you by the law." "You
know the law; your exposition hath been most
sound." " Is that the law ? "
The power of expressing states of feeling by
gesture and attitude is, of course, necessary to
every actor. With Macreadj it rose into a
special endowment. Take two more examples
of this, the first from Gerald Griffin's almost
forgotten play of " Gisippus," produced at Drury
Lane. On discovering that his betrothed, whom
he passionately loves, is really attached to his
notes was to prepare the house for King John's sinister inter¬
view with Hubert, which immediately followed. On being
asked for my opinion—that of a very young man—by two who
were greatly my seniors, I was diplomatic enough to observe
that the question seemed to be how far a dramatic effect,
finely suggestive, might be purchased at the expense of
probability.
102 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
friend, Gisippns, after a struggle, resigns her to
him. The marriage day comes, and Gisippns,
suppressing his emotion, mingles with the guests.
At length the affianced pair move on to the
bridal. At this point Macready lingered behind,
sank upon a bench, and, as the music grew
fainter, took off his chaplet, gazed on it wistfully,
mournfully; then, with bowed head, let it fall,
with a sigh. The wreath seemed to drop on the
grave of his illusions.
My next recollection is of an opposite kind;
it is that of his towering, scornful attitude, as
Spinola, in " Nina Sforza," when, in the fifth act,
with foot and sword, he turned over the limbs
of the prostrate rival—his house's foe—whose
despair and ruin he had accomphshed. The
intense malignity of the action last named
excited the opposition of the pit, but it was true
to the hereditary hatred of the character, which,
with its duplicity, had been superbly rendered
throughout.
Amongst the sources of this artist's inspiration,
was that reverential and religious sentiment to
OUE KECENT ACTORS.
103
which so many pages of his diary bear witness—
a sentiment which, in poetical natures, begets a
deep sense of the supernatural. Macready had
evidently felt deeply the strange contrasts of
human life—its mournful transiency, and its
persistent love; its seal of mortality, and its
far-extending dreams ; the darkness, without reve¬
lation, that engirds it, and the yearning, dim, but
ennobling, that points to a lot higher than its
apparent one. Thus, the "Out, out, brief candle ! "
of Macbeth ; Hamlet's fascinated awe before the
form that, " in complete steel, revisited the
glimpses of the moon," and his baffled conjecture
as to the " undiscovered country ; " the solemn
farewell of Brutus to Cassius—
" If we do meet again, why, we shall smile ;
If not, why then this parting was well made ; "
—all these took from Macready's lips and look a
pathetic awe that penetrated and subdued the
hearer. Again, the closing lines of Eichelieu,
now regrettably omitted—
"No; let us own that there is One, above.
Who sways the harmonious mysteries of the world
Far better than prime ministers. So ends it,"
104 OUE EECENT ACTORS.
were delivered by him, on the first night, with
a submissive reverence in striking contrast with
his recent bearing as the proud and victorious
minister.
In general, he may be said to have excelled in
characters and situations where intellect and
passion set off each other, as in Lear, rather than
in those in which passion largely predominated
—in the satire which springs from embittered
feeling and in emotional thought, especially when
it touches upon mystery and speculation. Hence
much of the excellence of his Hamlefi He was
at home in finesse and strategy, and in all that
involved intellectual gladiatorship, as in lago and
Eichelieu. Combativeness in any aspect had a
charm for him. Thus his finest act in Macbeth "
was the last, in which the usurper is at bay.
He was seldom more effective than in characters
of forlorn pride, where the dignity or haughti¬
ness of the man has to pierce through his mean
fortunes, as in Werner. In portraying the
domestic affections, he shone more as the father
than as the lover or the husband. He was not.
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 105
to my thinking, at his best in characters chiefly
contemplative, like Jacques, On rare occasions
he was liable, as in parts of " Macbeth," to
suppress impulse by over-elaboration of design.
His transitional contrasts of voice, though at
times very telling, were often artiflcial. His
delivery, though most clear and expressive in
passages of emotion, was occasionally dragging
and spasmodic—a defect probably owing to his
advancing asthma; while, to miss none of his
peculiarities, he had, in moments of repose, a
monotonous proneness to standing in the same
posture—one knee, a little bent, before the other.
Among those contemporaries in tragedy with
whom I had a chance of comparing him—I was
too young to see Edmund Kean or John Kemble
—he was facile prince;ps. Neither Charles Kemble
nor Charles Kean approached him in imagination
or—until the latter left ideal for photographic art
—in breadth of execution.* In both respects
Vandenhoff was no less his inferior. Where his
♦ In the latter respect Charles Kean's Hamlet was an ex¬
ception.
106
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
way was clear, this last performer had decisive¬
ness of outline and force of style ; but he lacked
Macready's subtlety and refinement. In these
respects, Butler, who had, undoubtedly, passion
and physical power, was far behind him. Phelps,
after his debut in London, had, to a great extent,
founded himself upon Macready, and in his tragic
impersonations, with a few exceptions—Hamlet
and Othello, for instance—followed him closely
and often impressively, though wanting something
of his vigour. As to Edmund Kean, though
unable to speak of him from personal knowledge,
I cannot doubt from general testimony, that, in
the exhibition of passion, he was a more inspired
actor than Macready. That wild agony of Othello,
that ever flies from, and still encounters love;
Eichard's fiendish cunning and heartlessness, and
his desperate energy of will in the fight where he
" enacted more wonders than a man ; " Shylock's
alternations of grief and revenge, as the thought
of his daughter's flight and the hope of Antonio's
ruin seize him by turns,—these, by all accounts,
received from Kean that sudden and terrible
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
107
illumination whicli made Coleridge liken its
effect to " reading Shakspere by flashes of light¬
ning." I should not, therefore, hesitate to
acknowledge Edmund Kean's superiority to any
male performer of his time, since so absolutely
to identify himself—if only in certain scenes—
with the passions of a human being as to
reproduce their most vital manifestations, is, so
far, not only to represent, but to he, the man.
Yet a sharp line of division between such men
as the elder Kean and Macready should be
avoided. In harmony of design, and in purely
intellectual qualifications generally, the latter had
evidently the advantage ; while in characters that
touched some secret of his own personality, such
as Eichelieu or Werner, Macready must have
approached the spontaneous and life-like intensity
of Kean. Eegarding, in addition to his wide
command of emotion, the depth of his con¬
ceptions, the clearness of his outlines, his width
of range, his suggestive imagination, and his
power of giving to feelings and ideas striking
expression in outward form, Macready, whether
108 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
compared with his contemporaries or his prede¬
cessors, may probably be ranked as the most
intellectual of British actors. His death took
place in April, 1873, at the age of eighty.
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
109
CHAPTEE IV.
MR. CHARLES KEMBLE.
A summer evening at the West End, in the season of 1835—
Charles Kemble's Hamlet, at the Haymarket—Cast of the
tragedy—Charles Kemble's appearance and manner—
Description of his Hamlet—His return to the stage in 1840,
by command of Her Majesty—Account of his Mercutio
in " Romeo and Juliet "—His readings at Willis's Rooms,
in 1844—Account of his Faulconbridge in " King John,"
and his reading of that play generally—Presence of the
Queen Dowager—Personal acquaintance with Charles
Kemble—Various fireside readings—Shylock—Richard
the Third—His tragic recitations generally—Resolution
not to attempt John Kemble's parts, with the exception
of Hamlet, till his brother retired—Contrast of Charles
Kemble's style with that of Macready, and (by report) of
the elder Kean—His private readings or recitations in
comedy—A gentleman of the old school in private—Dignity
of his manner and appearance—His conversation generally
serious, with occasional passages of humour—Anecdote
of his brother John—Dispute as to the intelligence of a
popular actor—A test-prologue written for his recitation—
The prologue in question—Mr. Kemble's deafness and
habit of making his confidences aloud—Anecdotes illus¬
trative of this—His Epicurean tastes—Talk on the drama
—Suggestion of plots—A domestic story—The reign of
Henry the Second—Mr. David Roberts, R.A.—Mexico and
Montezuma—General estimate of C. Kemble as an actor—
110 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
Leigh Hunt's testimony on his retirement—His minuteness
of treatment often unfavourable to passion—Mrs. Siddons
on his JaflSer—General admiration of his Mark Antony—
John Oxenford on the consistency of his characterization,
instanced in Charles Surface—Charles Kemble's death, at
the age of seventy-nine.
An evening in the summer of 1835 still lives
distinctly in my memory. It was the height of
the season, and when, between five and six o'clock,
I found myself in Piccadilly, opposite the Green
Park (having probably made my way to this
point from the grand old trees of Kensington
Gardens), the road was stül crowded with lines
of carriages and equestrians bound to or returning
from Hyde Park. To a lad's eye the scene
was, of course, enchanting. How delightful the
fresh green of the trees, the brightness of the
evening, the effects of sunlight on harness or
emblazoned panel, or the glimpse of grace and
beauty as some fair Amazon dashed by. Then,
on nearing Eegent Street, how brüliant the shops
with their glittering windows, where more than
the treasures of an Eastern bazaar were displayed.
These, with the shops of Eegent Street itself, had
probably offered me many temptations to Enger,
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
Ill
to say nothing of an episodic seduction in the
shape of the Burlington Arcade, with its cool,
mysterious shade, its treasures of French nick-
nacks, its fascinations in haberdashery, its imita¬
tion jewellery, and its autographed likenesses
of reigning celebrities in opera and ballet. At
any rate, it was more than half-past six when
I sauntered down the Haymarket. The carriages
at the box entrance of the theatre were dis¬
charging their occupants, the crowd at the pit
had already entered. Charles Kemble was to
play Hamlet.
I had, doubtless, previously been aware of this,
but, most likely because the actor's fame had been
chiefly associated with elegant comedy, the an¬
nouncement of his Hamlet had inspired me with
no especial interest. At the door of the theatre,
however, the thought seized me that he was the
brother of Siddons, and of that John Kemble
whose portrait in Hamlet, by Lawrence, had
filled me with many regrets that I had never
seen the original. To see Charles Kemble in
Hamlet, would be to see, in tragedy, the last
112
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of the old Kemble trio, who, though falling short
in public estimation of his brother and still more
renowned sister, was now their sole male heir and
representative—of one blood with them, so to
speak, in art as well as in life.*
These considerations determined me to witness
the performance. So I passed, by the familiar
door that had often tempted me, into the pit.
Soon the overture ceased, and the curtain rose.
Mrs. Glover was the Queen, Mr. Strickland,
Polonius, Mr. Cooper, the Ghost, and Miss Taylor
(afterwards Mrs. Walter Lacy), Ophelia.
When at length the King, Queen, Hamlet,
and the Court had entered, I felt at once, even
before a sound had issued from the lips of the
melancholy Prince, that in some essential points
my best expectations would be realized. Though
surrounded by good and accomplished actors,
there was in Charles Kemble's look, attitude,
and movement, a charm which, if sad, was
* Years later, on her return to the stage, I witnessed the
representations of his daughter (then Mrs. Butler), who so
well maintained the honours of her line.
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
113
SO noble and full of repose as to distinguish
him from his associates. He was then sixty,
and of too massive a presence for his character ;
but he well counterfeited the suavity and dignity,
if not the form and features, of princely youth.
His step was stately without being pompous ; it
had the stateliness of one " to the manner born."
When at length he spoke, the perfect modulation
of his tones, except occasionally when reaching
to a high note (in passion he more than once
" piped "), was enchanting. Study, of course, there
was in all this, perhaps over-study, though the
art of concealing art had, in a great measure,
been mastered. I was, however, then too young
to be minutely critical,* and surrendered myself
with delight to the harmony of the representation.
I had never imagined there could be so much
charm in words as mere sounds. Next, I was
caught by a graceful, pensive idling with those
quibbles of the brain in which Hamlet first
♦ Of course, with respect to Mr. Charles Kemble, and every
other performer treated of in my series, I record my early judg¬
ments only so far as they have been confirmed and matured
by experience.
VOL. I. I
114
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indulges, that made them seem tricks of fence to
ward off approach to his deeper nature. Though
they had their touch of causticity, they were
thrown off with an air of courtly ease and
respect widely different from the intense and
scornful significance employed by some actors,
who have thus disclosed, at the very outset of the
play, Hamlet's loathing for the King. Charles
Kemble's fine instinct taught him the unseem¬
liness of launching bitter sarcasms at Claudius
before his courtiers. The subdued and delicate
irony of his manner might be understood by
those whose guilt gave the key to it. To the
rest it was the mere humour of the moment, or
play upon words. When the Court breaks up and
Hamlet is left alone, the soliloquy beginning—
" Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt ! "
I have since more than once heard rendered
with greater bitterness, with more passionate
denunciation of the Queen's inconstancy, with
a fiercer recoil from the King, but never, I think,
with so much pathetic beauty. There was, of
course, indignation, but the predominant note
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
115
was that of melancholy. You heard a wail
over human instability, conveyed by a music of
delivery which, skilfully varied in its tones,
insinuated, rather than forced its way, and made
sorrow lovely :—
" Why, she would hang on him,
As if increase of appetite had grown
By what it fed on ! And yet, within a month,—
Let me not think on't ;—Frailty, thy name is woman ! "
These last words seemed to float away in a
very melody of sadness. The fitful and wilder
grief that preceded them had sunk into a sigh.
While unable at that time to recognize the art
which produced this effect, I was deeply conscious
of the effect itself. Beauty of treatment, indeed
(as contrasted with what is commonly known
as power of treatment, though beauty has, of
course, its own power), was the feature of the
performance. In Hamlet's apostrophe to the
Ghost, what beauty of attitude, of tones, which,
though subdued and awe-struck, yet found scope
for variety. When Horatio and Marcellus would
fain restrain him from following the spectre,
what grace mingled with the energy of Iiis
116 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
struggles, how picturesque was his figure, how
fraught with filial trust and reverence ! There
was about him an air of elevation and trust in
his spiritual visitant when he broke from his
companions, which seemed to speak him of a
different and higher nature—as one who had
kinship with supernatural life which they might
not comprehend. The house sat breathless to
see him glide off after his father's spirit, which
magnetically and irresistibly drew him. To
criticise fully a representation almost embarrass¬
ingly rich in delicate and subtle detail, would
be impossible within the limits of this notice.
Passing, then, to his scene with Ophelia, of which
I yet recall the charm—the melancholy, tender
portrayal of a noble soul's distrust, striving with
its love, overcome by it, then reasserting itself
to the close in despair that yet idolized, in
irresistible but mournful upbraidings, blended
and harmonized with fond though vain yearnings
—at the risk of being charged with fine writing,
which every writer nowadays incurs, who
introduces an image from nature into criticism.
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
117
I will venture to say that this scene vividly
suggested to me a shore at ebb-tide, now bare,
now for a moment revisited, even flooded, by the
returning wave, which, as it once more recedes,
chimes its own plaintive, lingering farewell.
I had not seen "Hamlet" performed before, so
that I could not then contrast Charles Kemble's
rendering with any other. But, from larger ex¬
perience, I am bound to say that the play-scene
was not given with all the breadth and flre of
which it is capable. The under-meanings, how¬
ever, in the answers to the King and Queen could
scarcely have been better conveyed ; they were
polished, but keen as arrows; while for those
fierce and ringing tones of exultation which I
heard later from Macready, when the King and
Queen hurry from the stage, was substituted a
conflict of indignation with grief, which, aided by
the actor's grace of delivery and princely bearing,
captivated rather than excited the house. His
manner subsequently of rebuking the spies was
unsurpassed by any I have- witnessed. His sar¬
casms, though given incisively, were so free from
118
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
violence, and his disdain had such lofty quietude,
and such a suggestion of melancholy at the world-
liness and insincerity of men, as to reconcile the
displeasure of the Prince with elevation both of
manner and feeling.
In the closet-scene with his mother, grief and
filial tenderness prevailed, perhaps unduly, over
the sternness which, however restrained, should
still, I think, be in the ascendant ; but the noble
passages with which the scene abounds gave rare
opportunities for the display of an elocution so
finished that its art seemed nature. In the scene
at Ophelia's grave—though it lacked the over¬
mastering impulse of Macready—the same excel¬
lence of elocution was exhibited with great effect ;
but what I liked still better in later years (when
I heard Charles Kemble read " Hamlet ") was the
tender beauty of the churchyard scene, and his
vein of wandering reverie when he followed the
quaint, half-humorous speculations of the part
with such nice perception as never to disturb
the prevailing gravity which they relieved. He
was, indeed, a proficient in the display of graceful
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 119
melancholy, and in the art of enhancing its effect
by momentary reliefs of fancy. In the fifth act,
his manner of rallying from weighty cares to
accommodate himself to the fantastic levities of
Osric, his perfect, most musical delivery of the
meditative passages to Horatio ; subsequently, his
"gentle" bearing in the fencing scene with Laertes
—the smiling, subdued grace of one only con¬
scious of " the yoke of inauspicious stars," and the
tender beauty of his dying,—fitly and softly led
to the sleep which " rounded " his princely life.
He may be said to have realized those aspects
of the character—its pervading grace, with its
contrasts of impetuosity and inaction, of pensive-
ness and passion, of amiability and irony, all
harmonized and made lifelike—which, a few
years since, were described by an accomplished
critic,* when noticing Mr. Edwin Booth, in
language worthy of Hazlitt.
* Mr. Charles Dunphie, who, in his original poems, his
felicitous renderings of English into Latin verse, and in several
volumes of original essays, has shown not only rare refinement,
humour, and keen perception, but a sympathy, under the veil
of irony, with right and goodness, which are no less calculated
to delight than to attach his readers.
120 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
In depth of conception, and in power of render¬
ing, Charles Kemble's Hamlet was inferior to
Macready's, which, on the other hand, it excelled
in the qualities that endear and charm. As I left
the theatre and walked thoughtfully home, it
seemed to me as if Hamlet's death had something
in common with the night into which the sweet
day had merged—a lingering twilight, with the
soft mournfulness and tender repose that enchant
more than brightness. Hamlet, indeed, was the
one Shaksperian character in tragedy in which
the excellence of the actor was unanimously
admitted. I fancy, however, that he conceived
himself to be, above all things, a tragedian; though
accident had led him to seek distinction chiefly in
comedy. One night, many years after the per¬
formance I have just chronicled, he had been
reading at my house some scenes from " Eichard
the Third." Laying aside the book, he observed,
in answer to our thanks, " The fame of my brother
John in tragedy caused me for long to avoid tres¬
passing upon his ground. To give up Hamlet,
however, would have been a sacrifice beyond me."
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 121
When, after his retirement, he returned to the
stage for a few nights, in 1840, by command of
Her Majesty, I had the pleasure of witnessing
his Mercutio. Anderson was the Eomeo, Miss
Emmeline Montague, the Juliet, Mrs. C. Jones—
a good actress of the Mrs. Glover type, though
much her inferior in subtlety of characterization—
the Nurse.
The spontaneousness of Charles Kemble's
Mercutio struck his audience at once. The art
that conceals art had done its work to perfection.
Besides that ease and distinction which set him
apart, even from actors conventionally graceful
and spirited, there was in Kemble that fresh¬
ness which arises when an actor seems to speak
from the impulse of the moment, and when
his utterances are apparently as fresh to him¬
self as to the listener. Thus in the delivery
of the speech describing Queen Mab, the first
line—
" Oh, then, I see, Queen Mab hath been with you,"
was uttered without a touch of formal rhetoric
or j^ose—by no means as a prelude to a set descrip-
122 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
tion, but as a simple, whimsical thought springing
from mere buoyancy of heart. The thought
uttered, you saw that it gave birth to another
equally unpremeditated—
" She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate stone ; "
until, pursuing the image, he had described her
journey—
" Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep."
Then came another sudden burst of fancy, born
of the first, gaining fresh strength and impetus
in its course, till the speaker abandoned himself
to the brilliant and thronging illustrations which,
amidst all their rapidity and fire, never lost the
simple and spontaneous grace of nature in which
they took rise. Mercutio's overflow of life, with
its keen, restless enjoyment, was embodied with
infectious spirit. There was no gall. If he was
betrayed into a duel of words with Tybalt, it
was even more by the love of excitement than
by enmity; if he was betrayed into the indul¬
gence of ridicule, it was the spirit of mirthful
humour that overcame him. I have seen Mer-
OUE KECENT ACTOES. 123
cutios derisively cruel in their banter of the
îiurse. With Charles Kemble it was the sport
of the encounter that drew him on. He assumed
a grave, though somewhat exaggerated, courtesy
towards the " ancient lady," as if to mask his
ridicule from her, while enhancing it towards
his comrades. It was only as the jest wore to
its close that his enjoyment overmastered him,
and showed him as a " saucy merchant " to the
offended domestic. It was less malice than the
same keen love of excitement that prompted
him to quarrel. Even in his last encounter
with Tybalt, the crowning provocation was the
imagined wound that his friend's honour had
received by his " dishonourable submission." It
was, again, this full-blooded impulse that angered
him with the elaborate and tutored fencing and
affected airs of Tybalt—" a villain that fights by
the book of arithmetic."
No description can well convey the force and
the varied significance which the comedian gave
to the scene in which Mercutio is slain. How
startling was the former's change of tone after
124
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
he deemed Eomeo disgraced by his forbearance
with Tybalt! No more the reckless light-hearted
aptness for the stimulant of quarrel, but the
stern, swift scorn, the lightning-like retaliation of
one whose heart has been pierced, whose person
and cause have been humiliated in his friend.
Scarcely has Tybalt parried the furious thrust,
when Eomeo's intervention gives him his chance,
and Mercutio has his mortal wound. " I am
hurt," he exclaims, at first scarcely realizing
his disaster; then, feeling its deadly effect, "A
plague o' both the houses I—I am sped : "—with
a sudden self-upbraiding, as if he asked why he
had let senseless feuds come between him and
the exulting joy of life. And yet, soon after
this, with a quaint, comic touch of expression,
that said, the jade. Fate, will play men such
tricks, " Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch ; marry,
'tis enough ! " How fine was it, next, to note
the bonhomie, the old love of jest struggling
with, and for a moment subduing, the pains of
death, in the answer to Eomeo's encouragement
—" No, 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
125
as a church door; but it is enough. . . . Ask
for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave
man."
Here, having achieved this quip, there was a
bright, though quickly fading smile. He was
still the Mercutio of old—the gay, rash, loyal,
boon-companion. It was a smile to caU up tears,
it conjured up so much of youth and the merry
past, while it was well-contrasted and kept
within reality by the brief techiness, still not
unmixed with humour, that succeeded—" What !
a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to
death ! "—and by the reproof to Eomeo for his
fatal coming between—a reproof nobly and pathe¬
tically redeemed by the loving courtesy with
which he held out his hand to him, a moment
after, in token of full forgiveness—a point which
was, I believe, original with Charles Kemble, and
which has since become an acting tradition of
the character. Then there came a deep, wistful
expression into his face, reminding you of Eomeo's
strange avowal to the Nurse—I am not sure
that it is spoken on the stage—that he was " one
126 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
whom God had made himself to mar "—and that
there were higher possibilities in the Mer cutio
of this brief, bright, tragic story, than had ever
come to light ; but it is too late, said the look ;
let us wind up with a jest, though it be a grim
one—" A plague o' both your houses ! "
Such was the impression I have retained of
this noble performance, though, as in the case
of Hamlet, it is not easy to say how far the
subsequent effects of private or public readings
and of conversation may have entered into and
matured my first acquaintance with it. My
general estimate of it, however, was the same
from the beginning.
Hamlet and Mercutio were the only characters
in which I saw Mr. Charles Kemble on the stage.
I afterwards heard him read, at Willis's Eooms,
part of a series of plays, which included several
of his chief Shaksperian impersonations. These
were " Hamlet," " King John," " As You Like
It," " King Henry IV.," Part I., " Julius Caesar,"
"The Merchant of Venice," "Macbeth," "Eomeo
and Juliet," and " King Eichard III."
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
127
In this list, though it included my favourite,
"Hamlet," no play had more attraction for me
than "King John," which contained Faulconbridge
—one of Kemble's most celebrated characters.
He had evidently modelled his conception of the
part upon the fact that Faulconbridge was the
son of Eichard the " Lion-hearted." As this actor
portrayed him, he might have well stood for
Eichard himself, with the addition, perhaps, of a
dashing carelessness and license springing from
the consciousness that his illegitimacy had at
once given him an illustrious father, and yet left
him free from all bonds of kindred, save those he
imposed upon himself. The intrepidity, the love
of danger and frolic, the occasional penetration
and sagacity of Eichard, and his martial bearing
(with, besides, the untaught grace and freedom
of a barbarian chief), were all embodied in this
Faulconbridge, who had an air of unbounded
enjoyment of life, which reflected King Eichard's
love of adventure even in excess.
It is hard to convey an impression, to those
who have not seen him, of his delivery of the
128
OUE EECENT AOTOES.
dialogue—hard to express the wide difference
between his Taulconbridge and the renderings
of other actors, who have delivered the text
with spirit and just appreciation, and yet fallen
so far short of Charles Kemble as to put com¬
parison out of the question. The secret of his
superiority lay, perhaps, in the fulness of life
which seemed to radiate from him—to make
war a gay pastime, diplomacy a play of wit,
and to clothe worldliness itself with a glow of
bright, genial satire. Thus the celebrated speech
on " commodity," the raillery of Austria, and
the sagacious counsel to England and France to
unite against the defiant city of Angiers, were
given witli zest and ardour that were resistlessly
contagious. This impersonation, in a word,
seemed to blend the spirit of Mercutio with
those of the warrior and the statesman. His
Constance had the great merit of harmonizing
the invectives of the afflicted mother with the
dignity of her high station. Except in the
hands of a fine artist, Constance is apt to
become either too sentimental or too shrewish.
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 129
His King John abounded in minute and skilful
touches, the great scene with Hubert exhibiting
the advances of the tempter- with the nicest
gradations; but he did not bring home to me,
as Macready did, the descent of the Plantagenet
into the assassin. This, like most of his readings,
was distinguished by a stateliness of expression
peculiar to the Kembles, which I have also
seen exhibited in the powerful and intellectual
performances of his daughter, Mrs. Fanny Kemble.
The series of readings attracted audiences which
included much that was most refined and intel¬
lectual in the London of that day. On the
night of "King John," the simultaneous rising
of the company greeted the entrance of a per¬
sonage equally loved and revered, Adelaide, the
Queen Dowager.
In 1848, many years after witnessing Charles
Kemble's Hamlet at the Haymarket, I had
the pleasure of knowing him personally. He
would occasionally gratify me and my family,
and perhaps a chosen friend or two, by reading
scenes from his principal characters at my own
VOL. I. K
130 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
fireside. His selections were sometimes grave
or tragic. He read, or rather, recited, various
scenes of " Shylock " and of " Eichard the Third,"
not only with the nice and finished detail and
varied delivery of which he was always master,
but with abundance of fire, the lack of which
had at times been urged against the male
Kembles. The first soliloquy of Eichard, when
Duke of Gloucester, touching the defects of his
person, he declaimed with a bitterness of irony
which brought them into the strongest relief as
motives of character. In this opening soliloquy,
he urged, Shakspere meant to give the key-note
of Eichard's nature, and to make his deformity,
acting upon a sensitive spirit, the source of his
misanthropy and remorselessness. He showed,
too, remarkable physical energy, though it must,
of course, be granted that a degree of power
very telling in a drawing-room might be far
less so on the stage.
This remark is called for because it has
been alleged that his voice was unequal to the
demand of passion. As to the possession of
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 131
mental qualifications for tragedy, these social
readings or recitals furnished ample proof. They
were the more startling because, with the
exception of his Hamlet, Charles Kemble's
fame rested upon his successes in legitimate
comedy.
In his tragic recitations the dignity of the
Kembles fully asserted itself. His style in
passion was uniformly lofty. There was variety,
indeed—a nice discrimination of emotional changes
relieving each other; but it was a variety con¬
fined within the limits of what may be called
heroic delivery, seldom or never a marked transi¬
tion from it to colloquial realism. The manner,
maintained at the height of the feeling, made no
such appeals to the many as did Macready and,
according to report, Edmund Kean, by those
familiar touches which, at times, set before an
audience the individual rather than the typical
man. I am not praising Charles Kemble for this
habitual loftiness in tragedy. There are times
when abrupt changes, failing, confused utterance—
touches of realistic infirmity, in a word—convey
132
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
passion even by their partial inadequacy to
express it. It may, however, he said that the
heroic school somewhat atones for what it misses
by its charm of elevation, while its disciples are
generally free from those extravagant contrasts
between the ideal and the familiar which is the
besetting weakness of realists. To "raise a
mortal to the skies " has never, in modern times,
been so popular an attempt in art as to "draw
an angel down ; " but the poet has justly implied
that almost equal praise is due to each kind of
effort.
As to comedy, his rendering of such scenes as
those between Orlando and Eosalind, and Bene¬
dick and Beatrice, mingled so happily refinement
and delicacy with mirth and spirit, that the
mental palate delighted in the selectness of the
treat. It was the grand vin of comedy, while in
sally and repartee there was the nicest precision
and point, which yet seemed spontaneous, and
a vein of light but ceremonious courtesy in the
strife which suggested the grace of accomplished
fencers as well as the glitter of the foils.
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
133
In society Mr. Charles Kemble was a model
of the gentleman of the old school. His bow,
though it might now be called formal, was stately
and impressive. His dignity of manner and his
tall figure, somewhat massive in his later years,
gave him eminently that quality which is called
" presence," and which we somehow connect more
closely with a bygone period than with our own.
It seemed a wrong to Mr. Charles Kemble's person
that he did not, off the stage, wear knee-breeches,
silk stockings, and diamond buckles, and that he
had survived the time of powdered hair. His
conversation was generally grave, but he delighted
to hear or relate a good anecdote or story, and,
on such occasions, displayed the hearty enjoyment
of humour which had done so much for him as
a comedian. As an instance, I give the follow¬
ing anecdote which he related one day after
dinner, touching his brother John.
John Kemble, he said, was generally supposed
to be a grave and rather austere man, but he
had, in fact, real appreciation of fun. A favourite
brother-actor had one day been dining with him.
134 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
and talk of old times had wrought John to
such a pitch of hospitality that he was moved
to produce a bottle of rare port, which he had
so much valued that he could seldom bear to
diminish his stock by drinking it. He did this
port—which had, of course, a particular seal—the
honour of going in quest of it himself. In due
time he emerged from the cellar into the dining-
room, with a bottle of the precious liquid, bearing,
apparently, the identifying seal. The wine did
not, of course, undergo the profanation of decant¬
ing, but the two glasses were solemnly filled
from the black bottle. The contents being sipped,
there was, of course, that brief, decorous silence
which the criticism of a noble vintage demanded.
The guest at length observed that it was truly
a remarkable wine, and had a flavour all its own.
The host assented, but fancied, at the same time,
it didn't quite tally with the port in question,
and, though by the seal it must have been the
same, had not the smoothness he expected. The
guest civilly answered that it had a great deal of
life and fine colour, and, holding his glass to the
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
135
light, speculated as to whether its peculiar sweet¬
ness came from its extreme age. This conjecture
John Kemble, whose palate, perhaps, lacked its
usual fineness of discrimination, did not feel called
upon to discuss ; but he owned the " sweetness "
was surprising, and that he greatly missed the
" smoothness." Then a suspicion—fast deepen¬
ing—dawned on him that there might have been
a mistake. He at length admitted that he could
hardly have brought up the port he went in
search of. His guest, however, who was rapidly
improving his acquaintance with it, maintained
that it was capital stuff. The cautious tragedian,
jealous for the honour of his port, confessed that
the drink before them was not bad, but declared
that it was not the wine he had promised ; then
more boldly asserted that, in his opinion, it was
not wine at all. A portion of dark pulp, perhaps,
floating with the beverage into his glass, had
helped him to recollect that his cellar had
lately received the addition of some few bottles
of a liqueur. " Why, it's Cherry Brandy ! " he
exclaimed. This point Charles Kemble made
136 OUR RECENT ACTORS
with all the force of a climax in comedy. It
was afterwards discovered that the seals of the
port and those of the liqueur were identical in
colour—a circumstance which had led to the
mistake.
John Kemble's companion, on this occasion,
was an actor who had held an important position
in the theatres both of Drury Lane and Covent
Garden. At the former theatre, indeed, he had
more than once been the substitute for Edmund
Kean, when that actor was unable or unwilling
to appear ; and he had, in particular, so satis¬
factorily acquitted himself in the part of Othello,
that those in power (Drury Lane was then, I
think, under control of the Committee) deter¬
mined to give him prominence, and thus convey
a hint to Kean that they were less dependent
upon his genius than he supposed.
The belief entertained of the substitute's
adequacy was, however, warmly combated by
two friends of the authorities, who contended
that the actor's success as Othello was purely
exceptional, and due to his close study of Kean's
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 137
effects. They eventually offered, by way of
testing the actor's mental capacity, to write a
prologue for him to study, which, though a mere
tissue of nonsense, should impose upon him by
mere grandiosity of style. The challenge was
accepted, the prologue written and confided to
the actor, who was delighted with it and eager
to deliver it. I do not give the name of this
performer, because I have formed a much higher
estimate of him than that of his two satirists.
The anecdote was told me, as absolutely true, by
Mr. W. J. Tox, who also furnished me with a
copy of the prologue in question. It runs
thus :—
" When Grecian splendour, unadorned by art,
Confirmed the Theban Oracle—in part ;
When Genius walked digestive o'er the scene,
In meagre mystery of unletter'd mien ;
When man first saw, with an inverted eye,
The tearful breath of purple panoply,—
'Twas then the Muse, witli adamantine grace,
Replied, prophetic, from her Pythian base.
And Roscius bent his Macedonian knee
Before the squadrons of Melpomene.
" But mighty Shakspere, whose salacious fire
Waved high his banner o'er the marble choir,
138
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
Spurned the base trammels of despotic Jove,
And taught the stern Persepolis to love.
In fancy cradled, like some Northern light,
That westward gilds an oriental night,
Tearing with ruthless hands the sacred root
Of " man's first disobedience and the fruit "—
So waked our bard that histrionic lore
Which Siddons suckled, but which Garrick bore.
" ' Lo, the poor Indian, whose untutored mind '
Through freedom's mists beholds—what's left behind.
Whose ebon limbs those gory bonds entwine—
The heavy, hempen, equinoctial line—
Mutely exclaims and, supplicating, bends;—
' The lovely young Lavinia once had friends.'
So let our author, whose enamelled hopes.
Exfoliate to-night such classic tropes.
Through this, his tragedy, those laurels share
Which Drake and Wickliff both were proud to wear.
And take his cliaplet loud from British hands.
As Cato died and Trajan's column stands."
" I have been assured," said Mr. Fox, " that
the actor in question was delighted with the
prologue, and much resented its being withdrawn
before the production of a new play."
At the period of my acquaintanceship with
Mr. Charles Kemble, the deafness from which
he had for some time suffered was become con¬
siderable. It had the effect—very frequent in
such cases—of deceiving him occasionally into
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 139
the belief that he was speaking in a confidential
whisper, when he was really speaking at the top
of his voice. This misconception of its range
led at times to results which would have been
amusing but for the fear that the knowledge of
them might have pained him. One night, when
he was reading to us, Mrs. Crowe, authoress of
" The Night-side of Nature," and of various
poems and dramas, chanced to be one of our
guests. She showed great delight in his readings,
and made herself in every way amiable to him,
exerting herself also to meet his infirmity, by
speaking in a loud tone on whatever subjects
interested him. In the course of the evening he
withdrew me to a little distance from the circle,
and imparted in stentorian tones an impression
which he meant to convey in the most private
manner. "What an agreeable and highly in¬
telligent woman," he shouted, " Mrs. Crowe
is ! " It is almost needless to say that the
recipient of this unaddressed tribute was delighted
with it, and that, in common with the rest of us,
she showed her sense of it only by a smile.
140 OUE RECENT ACTORS.
quickly suppressed, and unobserved by the
eulogist.
The following is an instance, on a wider scale,
of the amusing perplexities which sometimes
arose from Mr. Kemble's deafness, and his in¬
accurate perception of the tones he made use of.
He had been much impressed by the abilities
of a young actress, who afterwards rose to the
highest rank in her profession. On being intro¬
duced to her his interest increased, and the
Nestor of dramatic art gave to the neophyte all
the advantages which his brilliant talents and
long experience could supply. One of the leaders
of society was, through the influence of a friend,
won over to the cause of the young performer.
With a view of promoting her interests. Lady
gave a soirée dramatique to guests who were, in
most cases, representatives of what was then most
celebrated or select in the life of the metropolis.
The entertainment of the evening was the reading
of " Hamlet " by the actress in question. Charles
Kemble was present, and it chaneed that I sat
by his side. His 'protégée—she might almost
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
141
have been called his pupil—had on the previous
evening been reading in public at one of the chief
provincial towns. She had, consequently, arrived
a good deal fatigued in London only a few hours
before the time fixed for Lady 's soirée. Not
unnaturally, at the opening of the reading, her
voice was rather feeble, and her manner and
expression lacked something of their habitual
animation. Charles Kemble was quick to per¬
ceive that the lady was wanting in her usual
force, and to express his regret and dissatisfaction
in accents which were heard by all present,
though he fully believed that he was speaking
either in unnoticed asides, or imparting his
concern to me in the most guarded undertones.
" Can you hear her ? " was his first high-pitched
inquiry ; " I can hardly catch a word ! " As the
reading proceeded, his mortification and the
utterance of it became still more emphatic.
" Oh, she's so inanimate ; she's not doing herself
justice ! She's injuring herself. I can't tell you
how sorry I am; they won't have the faintest
idea of her!" It was in vain that I strove to
142 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
arrest him, first by silence, then by glances and
gestures. These latter, intended for warnings,
he took simply as signs of acquiescence in his
complaints, and as provocations to their repeti¬
tion. At length, an intimate friend of our
entertainer was dispatched to me, with an urgent
request that I would apprise Mr. Kemble of the
effect he was producing. To do this, without
exciting general attention, was, on account of
his deafness, a difficult task. To induce him to
leave the room, and then to explain matters to
him as delicately as the case would permit,
seemed the only practicable course. In order
to effect this, I made signs of being overcome
by heat, even to faintness, which soon attracted
his attention. The kind old gentleman soon
proposed that we should leave the room, and
offered his arm to support me. Having quitted
the drawing-room, I threw myself on a chair
in the refreshment-room which adjoined, and
counterfeited a gradual recovery from brief in¬
disposition. This point being gained, it seemed
well to turn the conversation upon the reading
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
143
of the night, and to observe, in answer to my
companion's renewed lamentations upon that
subject, that the reader, besides suffering from
fatigue, might perhaps have felt a little dis¬
couraged by the expression of his disappointment.
" But how could she guess that ? " he asked. I
pointed out that her ear was accustomed to his
voice, and that it was just possible some of his
unfavourable comments might have reached her.
" What ! " he exclaimed in consternation ; " you
don't mean that what I said could have been
heard by any one but you ?" I permitted myself
to remark that his interest in the matter had led
him now and then to raise his voice, and I
repeated the conjecture that his brief criticisms
might once or twice have reached the subject of
them. " Oh, I trust not, I trust not ! " he cried
earnestly. " I will take care to make no further
observation." I now did my best to lessen his
apprehensions, and he returned to the drawing-
room, I fully hope, with the impression that his
kind concern for me had been his only motive
for leaving it. The heroine of the night was by
144 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
this time in full possession of her genius, and,
at the close of "Hamlet," deserved and received
the warm plaudits and congratulations of the
veteran actor, as well as those of the general
company.
Charles Kemble had nice and delicate taste in
matters of the palate as well as of the intellect.
The little dinners at which I assisted, though
composed of few dishes, generally included
something recherché. I once caused him severe
mortification by eating a morsel of preserved
ginger at the beginning of dessert. " I told you,"
he said in a grieved and reproachful tone, "that
I was about to give you one of the finest
clarets, in my opinion, ever tasted, and now
you have utterly disqualified yourself for appre¬
ciating it."
On one of these pleasant evenings he over¬
flowed with dramatic suggestions, and gave me
the outline of an effective plot, laid in former days,
in which a young Swiss should marry a girl of
foreign extraction, and then, quitting his own
country for hers, enter the army of his new home
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 145
(probably Austria), in which his services should
be engaged against his native Switzerland, and
thus—an actual, but at first unintentional, traitor
—fall into the hands of his father, who should be
commandant of a military post on the part of the
Swiss. The complications and struggles which
this position involved smacked of the " high
Eoman fashion" of Cato and Lucius Junius
Brutus, and of that toga-heroism which the
comedian had probably admired in his stately
brother. Charles Kemble himself, I believe, in a
play, original or adapted, called " The Point of
Honour," had delineated a dramatic conflict on
lines similar to, though not identical with, those
of the plot just described. He also dwelt with
great fervour upon the opportunities which the
reign of our second Henry offered to a dramatist,
with its combination of striking figures—the
sagacious Henry himself ; his insubordinate sons,
Henry, Eichard, and Geoffrey; John, who dis¬
graced his descent ; the scheming and bold
Queen Eleanor, and the hapless Eosamond.
On no poetic field, however—except, perhaps,
VOL. I. L
146
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
that of the forsaken epic—could such thronging
personages and such great events have been
adequately displayed. The late Mr. David
Eoberts, RA., who was one of our small group
on the night referred to, zealousy recommended
the story of Montezuma for tragic treatment.
It was pleasant to note the glow in the actor's
eyes as Mr. Roberts referred to the stirring inci¬
dents connected with Montezuma's life, and to
the grand scenic effects which a tale of ancient
Mexico would yield. These had, no doubt,
appealed strongly to the architectural painter
as a noble frame for dramatic action.
One of my latest glimpses of Charles Kemble
was due to meeting him one summer day in Great
Portland Street, with an open volume, which he
had been perusing, in his hand. On my arresting
him, he showed me the volume with a gentle
smile, and with some remark on its suitability to
his years. It was a weU-known devotional work
—I think, the " Imitation of Christ."
Charles Kemble's retirement happened so soon
after I became a playgoer, that, as already stated.
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 147
I have had to found my impressions of him on
two performances on the stage—those of Hamlet
and Mercutio — on a few public and private
readings, and on conversations. It is not, how¬
ever, too much to affirm that, in his later day, he
stood alone as a legitimate comedian. "Where
now," writes Leigh Hunt, on Kemble's retirement,
" shall we seek the high Eoman fashion of look
and gesture and attitude ? Where shall old
chivalry retain her living image, and high
thoughts, 'seated in a heart of courtesy,' have
adequate expression T Wliere shall the indignant
honesty of a young patriot spirit 'show fiery
off ? WTiither shall we look for gentlemanly
mirth, for gallant ease- for delicate raillery,
and gay, glittering enterprise ?" In a notice
written long befoTe, Hunt praises him as being
perhaps, in his " complaining softness," the best
of theatrical lovers, were it not for his occasional
languor. As to this latter defect, though I saw
no trace of it in his Hamlet or Mercutio, it has
so often been attributed to him that it probably
existed.
148
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
That he was relatively unsuccessful in the
display of broad and intense passion, is to be
accounted for not only by want of physique, but
by the minuteness of his style. I have heard him
give so many reasons for particular renderings of
certain passages in Shakspere, that his notes on the
text, if printed, would probably have surpassed it
in bulk. Tragedy, as a rule, requires the strong
and swift impulse of leading ideas, and the almost
unconscious absorption of all minor suggestions
into a massive whole. Yet this minuteness was
scarcely out of place in the meditative Hamlet,
his presentment of whom, though far from being
the most powerful, was the most touching and
picturesque that I have seen. He had great
sensibility, if not overwhelming passion. In one
of her letters Mrs. Siddons * avowed her pre¬
ference for his Jaffier to that of John Kemble,
speaking of the latter as being too " cold and
formal " in this part, and " without sensibilities
sufficient acute for a lover," though admitting his
superiority in characters of a sterner kind. From
* John Payne Collier's " An Old Man's Diary."
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
149
private as well as public report, it would seem
that Charles Kemble's Mark Antony was one of
his very finest parts, and that his address to
the citizens over Csesar's body, from its first dis¬
claimer of complaint against Brutus, his following
insinuation of Caesar's virtues, and his apparent
reluctance to read the will which made the
Eomans his heirs, down to the grand final effect
—when public indignation had been aroused—
of unveiling Caesar's body, and appealing to the
crowd for retribution, was an absolute triumph
of skilful, varied, and passionate elocution. As
an instance of the actor's sense of consistency,
that fine critic, John Oxenford, observed that
when the house came to the redeeming points of
Charles Surface, it had been fully prepared for
them by previous indications of the spendthrift's
better nature. This sense of consistency was,
doubtless, habitual with Kemble. An actor of
rare and varied accomplishment is, perhaps, the
phrase which best sums up his claim to admira¬
tion—the accomplishment which springs from
quick and sympathetic intelligence, and from a
150 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
natural sense of grace and harmony applied and
developed by unremitting labour. This celebrated
comedian had reached his seventy-ninth year at
the time of his death, which took place in
November, 1854.
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
151
CHAPTER V.
mr. william fareen, the elder.
Difficulty of replacing him in various characters—His son heir
to some of his traditions—Lord Ogleby and Sir Peter
Teazle belong to a relatively new era in comedy—The
man of fashion from the reign of Charles the Second to
that of George the Third—Account of Farren's Sir Peter
Teazle—A vein of indulgent cynicism characteristic both
of his Sir Peter and his Lord Ogleby — Account of the
latter—His Malvolio—His Sir Anthony Absolute—Want
of robustness and heartiness—A painter of well-bred people,
with their vanities, and other foibles, and redeeming
qualities—Excellent in the pathos attaching to mental
or bodily infirmities—His best known characters but few
—His Bertrand in " The Minister and the Mercer "—His
Michael Perrin in " Secret Service," in 1834—The latter
piece revived at Covent Garden in 1840—His Michael
Perrin described —His performance at the Olympic, under
Madame Vestris, in 1837 and 1838—His acting in "Sons
and Systems," and in "The Court of Old Fritz"—His Old
Parr at the Haymarket, in 1843—His chief excellence in
characters of mental or bodily infirmity—A touch of the
morbid necessary to his pathos—His persuasion that he
could act tragedy—His attempt at Shylock—His fine dis¬
crimination as to expression in acting—Instance of this—
His personal appearance—His death.
Amongst the great actors of the century who
are gone from us, there is, perhaps, none whom
152
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
it would be so difficult to replace as the late
William Parren. We have, indeed, in the son
who bears his name, a sterling actor, who inherits
some of his traditions and accomplishments ; but
the individualities of the two men are distinct,
and the plain, frank manners of our own day
have, very naturally, had their effect on the style
of the present artist. In the mean time, tragic
actors, melodramatic actors, eccentric comedians,
have disappeared, and found successors apparently
to the public content ; but the old beau of George
the Third's reign, with the formal characters in
some points akin to him of previous times, took, in
many respects, a long leave of the stage when the
Lord Ogleby, the Sir Peter Teazle, and the Malvolio
of the elder Parren last retired at the wing.
The two former characters belonged to a new
era in comedy. Each differs widely from the
previous type, which had its original in the man
of fashion under Charles the Second. If, on the
whole, a mere libertine, that personage brought to
his love of pleasure a dashing spirit of gallantry
and adventure, for which he was, in some measure.
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 153
indebted to tlie changes of his fortunes. With
one who had known, while yet young, defeat,
exile, and sudden restoration to a splendid court,
life was at fever heat, and the stage showed it.
In a generation or two the romance connected
with the Eestoration had greatly subsided. In¬
trigue, become deliberate, had lost its impulsive¬
ness. The beau, young or old, of that period
was still a wit, but no longer a knight-errant.
After the death of Queen Anne ensued a period
of utter grossness in morals. Vice in high
places, shorn even of wit, looked ugly enough
to produce a reaction towards high-breeding
and decorum. At the accession of good King
George the Third this reaction had already set
in, and, in spite of some excesses in this reign,
was strengthened by the influence of the Court.
The flne gentleman of the time was known by the
disciplined restraint of his emotions and passions,
the plausibility of his language, his formal cour¬
tesy, and his minute observance of the punctilios
of etiquette. Gallantry, politeness, and good taste
revived, though they had lost their old spon-
154
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
taneity. They were, however, de rigueur, as much
the external attributes of a gentleman as his
lace ruffles or his chapeau-hras. The code of
honour still existed in all its stringency ; but, on
the whole, owing to the suppression of natural
impulse, existence itself was become a sort of
carefully acted comedy. Love stopped short at
sentiment and taste, displeasure showed itself by
chilling politeness, or, now and then, perhaps,
with the old, by a pardonable lapse into testiness.
Such was the generation of which two elderly
specimens (one furnished by the senior Colman
and Garrick, the other by Sheridan) will always
be associated with the late William Farren, no
less than with his distinguished predecessor,
Thomas King. Graphic as is the Sir Peter
Teazle of the dramatist, but half of his indivi¬
duality can be gathered from the written page.
In Farren, the unmistakable air of refinement, the
dry, quiet enunciation, which added more force to
epigram than the most studied declamation could
have given ; in the scenes with Lady Teazle, the
sense of provocation, generally tempered by the
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
155
courtesy of a well-bred man to a woman, even
though his wife ; the uxorious admiration, oddly
mingled with annoyance, which her brilliant
sallies called forth,—these were felicities of ex¬
pression which, though suggested by the dramatist,
implied on the actor's part a power of translating
mental ideas into the forms of actual life that was
scarcely short of invention. Among other subtle¬
ties of Farren's performance was the excitement
which now and then contrasted with his habitual
efforts at self-restraint—a display produced neither
by Lady Teazle's recklessness nor by her seeming
heartlessness, but by the raillery which sometimes
made him look absurd. Thus, his anger was far
less provoked by her suggestion that it would be
obliging in him to make her an early widow, than
by her quotation from that " forward, impertinent
gipsy," Cousin Sophy, who had described him as
"a stiff, peevish old bachelor." A man of Sir
Peter's type can forgive wrong far more easily
than ridicule. Farren's touches of extreme irri¬
tability when exposed to the latter, set this trait
in admirable relief.
156
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
No qualified comedian fails in so capital a
situation as that of the "screen scene." For
Farren it was, of course, a triumph. One special
felicity of his acting deserves, however, to be
singled out. 1 refer to his manner when Joseph
Surface, to shield himself from a still graver
discovery, pretends to Sir Peter that he has an
intrigue with "a little milliner," who is then
behind the screen. I have seen Sir Peters—" and
heard others praise them "—who greeted this
confession with such explosions of boisterous
laughter, that it was clear they had seen nothing
in it but drollery. Farren, while fully bringing
out what was ludicrous in the position, never
forgot the trust Sir Peter had so long placed in
the man of moral sentiments. The comedian's
air of bewilderment and incredulity, his tickled
laugh, at first half smothered out of respect to
Joseph, and breaking out in aside indulgences,
were as true to the character as they were taking
in effect. When Joseph quits the room, and Sir
Peter disclosed the secret to Charles, the actor's
mirth was naturally undisguised. Yet it was
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
157
never coarse ; it never lost refinement or ßnesse ;
it was the mirth of a somewhat worn man of
society, who finds one of his few piquant
diversions in contrasting the set proprieties of
outward decorum with the frailties which they
affect to disguise. A vein of tolerant cynicism,
indeed, is the natural product of an age in which
the extreme emphasis thrown upon forms will
suggest the discrepancy between them and the
quahties they should express. Such cynics,
however, have their moods of generosity, since,
unless they had an ideal standard of good to
which they sometimes conformed, they would less
perceive the contrast between forms and realities.
Thus, both Sir Peter and Lord Ogleby are at the
same time satirical and good-natured. Farren's
excellence in the latter character has been
attested by Leigh Hunt and Hazlitt, no less
than by more recent critics. And what a test
character it is for a comedian ! What a mixture
of shrewdness and infatuated self-complacency,
of causticity and courtesy, of puerile affectation
and manly judgment, of selfishness and chivalry !
158
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
To say tliat Farren realized and harmonized all
those aspects, is in effect to say that he was one
of the greatest of comedians. He possessed to
perfection the nuances of expression, apprehended
with the finest delicacy the effect of semitones.
To indicate to the audience his delight at his
valet's fiattery, while he laughs at it, or rebukes
it with an air of sincerity ; tn tolerate the
tediousness and bad taste of th« vulgar Sterling
with a genuine urbanity, which, nevertheless, a
lad in the gallery knew to be the disguise of
a martyr ; to touch the acme of senile absurdity
in his wooing of Fanny, and yet to afford through
it a glimpse of the knightly feeling which, in his
bitter disappointment, afterwards makes him her
friend and protector,—these were the achieve¬
ments of Farren in one of the most elaborate
characters in modern comedy. His very appear¬
ance in the part was a dramatic effect. In the
studied and cautious walk, even in the listless
fingers, there was a gleam of the decayed beau,
as there was in the character itself a gleam of
decayed chivalry.
OUK EECENT ACTORS.
159
Not only in showing the marks of social
position did this actor excel. He could repre¬
sent admirably the dispositions and manners of
those who covet and ape it; he could assume
equally the graceful nonchalance of my lord, and
the importance and minute ceremoniousness of
the major-domo. In personations of the latter
kind, as in Malvolio, he would exhibit a de¬
lightfully humorous imitation of some rare and
subtle quality in true breeding. In many
Malvolios the leading feature is contemptuous
superiority; in Mr. Farren's it was lofty con¬
descension. He despised the coarse world around
him, but he was for the most part affably tolerant
to it, as a man who knew the graces, and " prac¬
tised behaviour to his own shadow in the sun,"
could afford to be. In characters like Sir
Anthony Absolute, in the downright, choleric,
but good-hearted stage-fathers of the old school,
he was excellent in their impatience, fault¬
finding, and petulance, but wanted heartiness in
their better qualities. There was not a touch
of "John BuUism" in his nature. To paint
160 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
with subtle insight, and with just, delicate, sure
touches, the vanity, the self-love, the inconsis¬
tency, and now and then the redeeming good-
feeling of worldly, well-bred people, and occa¬
sionally the credulous faith of simple, guileless
people, were his special functions. Yet the
cynicism from which this capacity springs has
its pathetic side also, and Farren could move one
to tears in such characters as the deceived
Michael Perrin in " Secret Service," or a Grand¬
father Whitehead, where life itseK is touched
with the irony of fate, and second childishness
counterfeits the first in the thoughtless glee,
the doting fondness, and the hysterical passion
of age.
The most widely-known characters of this
comedian are, considering the length of his
career, comparatively few. The cause of this
was probably their frequent repetition. But
the parts in which he deserved to be remembered
would make a long catalogue. In 1834 he made
a great impression at Drury Lane, in a piece
from Scribe, entitled "The Minister and the
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
161
Mercer," in which he personated Bertrand, a
scheming diplomatist. He was still more suc¬
cessful in Michael Perrin, in " Secret Service,"
a piece also adapted from the French, and
produced in the same year. Michael Perrin
became one of his stock parts. It was revived
at Covent G-arden, under the management of
Madame Yestris, in 1840. The simple, guileless
bearing of Farren, as the ci-devant curé (who is
betrayed, through his affections, to promote un¬
consciously a political intrigue), his grief when
he learns that his beloved niece has concealed
her poverty and sold one of her trinkets for his
support, his artless joy when he finds himself
able to earn money, and his indignant protest—
all the more powerful because contrasted with the
cure's sweetness of nature—when he learns that
he has been used as a spy, were admirable features
in a performance as consistent as it was im¬
pressive. In 1837-8, at the Olympic, where he
succeeded Liston, Farren's acting in " The Country
Squire " and " Naval Engagements " is spoken of
with special praise. To his forcible but delicate
VOL. I.
M
162
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
power in dramatic portraiture in " Sons and
Systems" and "The Court of Old Fritz," both
produced at the same time, in 1838, I can
personally testify. In the former piece he played
the part of a father whose theory of training is
that of stern and unrelaxing discipline. To this
character is opposed that of his sister, whose rule
is one of unbounded indulgence. The sister, a
widow, was, by the way, capitally represented
by Mrs. Orger. The systems of both brother and
sister prove equal failures, the sons making their
escape, and marrying in defiance of their parents.
Upon these latter the effects of filial rebellion
are different. The severe doctrinaire father
becomes benevolent and forgiving, the indulgent
mother irascible, and for a time relentless. As
the sharp disciplinarian, with unlimited faith in
his system, Farren's vigour and self-complacency
were admirably assumed, yet with such a touch
of exaggeration, and such an endeavour to justify
his system, that one felt it to be rather the result
of a mistaken theory than of a harsh disposition.
Accordingly, when, after the frustration of his
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
163
scheme, he changes under the wiles of his
daughter-in-law, disguised as a lad, into a for¬
giving old man, and inhales with ill-concealed
delight the incense offered by the adroit youngster,
the transformation seemed as natural as possible,
while the phase of pleased senility was as life-like
as had been that of the paternal martinet. One
capital effect was Farren's amusement at the
change in his sister, while decrying her new
severity with a self-satisfaction that drolly
condemned his former self. Mrs. Msbett, it
may be observed, acted the part of the disguised
bride, who wins over the old man. All was
prettily and cleverly done, but the part was
scarcely one of importance. In the " Court of
Old Fritz," Frederick the Great and Voltaire are
the chief personages. Both were represented by
Farren, who in these delineations gave one more
proof that he was an actor who could play not
only a range of parts suited to his own person¬
ality, but that he could throw himself with
success into widely different individualities. No
characters could have been more unlike than
164 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
that of the brusque soldier-king and that of the
easy and imperturbable wit and cynic; but in
which of these he was the more lifelike, the
objective actor left as a moot-point to the public.
His Old Parr, too, produced at the Haymarket in
1843, well deserves a word, if only for the felicity
with which two phases of old age seem to have
been discriminated. Already a centenarian when
he first appears. Parr still retains activity and
cheerfulness. He is a little garrulous—the only
mental sign of his very advanced age. When the
curtain again rises, nearly thirty years have been
added to his existence. He has yielded to the
infirmities which a term of life prolonged beyond
all modern precedent has entailed. His frame is
bent, his gait tottering, his memory ruined, the
aims of life all but gone, but with them the
cares also. His second childhood, with its inno¬
cent diversions, its wandering chat with a lad in
his service, its momentary anxious inspection
of flowers and attempts to name them, its begin¬
ning once more to spell out life by the alphabet
—no personation could have been more subtle
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
165
or more directly pathetic by the very absence
of pain.
It is curious that Farren's excellence seems
to have been confined to parts in which infirmity,
mental or bodily, was a special trait. In the
elderly and uxorious husband, the dilapidated
gallant ; in the unruffled nonchalance of a sceptic
like Voltaire, or the irritable authoritativeness
of Frederick the Great ; in parts where old age
lapsed into the extreme sensibility or the
oblivious placidity of second childhood, as in
Grandfather Whitehead or Old Parr, or in the
credulous unworldliness of Michael Perrin—he
was truly admirable ; but it is indicative of his
mental bias that he could not play, or, at all
events, did not choose to play, the hearty, genial
Englishman, full of spirit and feeling, and free
from peculiarities. He could be pathetic—most
pathetic ; but there mingled a touch of the
morbid in the pathos that suited him. As
already hinted, he seemed to the writer a
theatrical cynic, who, in portraying the wander¬
ings of men from a mental ideal and a just
166 OUR RECENT ACTORS
equipoise of character, sometimes infused into
Iiis characters moving or redeeming touches of
the ideal itself which had been violated, or of
the healthy judgment which had been impaired.
Farren's belief that he could act legitimate
tragedy, his appearance and failure in Shylock,
for instance, is well known. In poetical passion
he -could scarcely have succeeded, for the sceptical
penetration of the satirist is at war with the
enthusiasm that tragedy requires. Yet he could
be deeply moved by the enthusiasm of other
actors. I recall, once at rehearsal, an instance
of his fine perception of the shades of expression.
An actress, justly celebrated, had thrown great
intensity into the utterance of wounded and
indignant love. "What would you say," asked
Farren, " to taking that speech just a key lower ? "
He then recited the passage after his own con¬
ception, and all present felt that it had gained
in dignity and pathos by the repressed emotion
of his delivery.
With his tall form, his full lip, and quiet,
unspeculative eye, there was little in Mr. Farren's
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
167
appearance off the stage to denote his genius
as a comedian, except in those rare moments
when, interested in talk, it was suggested by his
then mobile and placid face. His death took
place in September, 1861, at the age of seventy-
five.
168
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
CHAPTER VI.
MR. AND MRS. CHARLES KEAN.
The latter part of Charles Keau's career the most notable,
though his reappearance in Hamlet, at Drury Lane, in
1838, a great success—Account of this performance—
Charles Kean less successful in other Shaksperian cha¬
racters—Imitations of his father adopted in 1838—After¬
wards abandoned—Effect of this change—His Macbeth
in 1849—His Romeo—His Richard the Third—This
character ranked next to his Hamlet in Shaksperian
plays — Reasons for his superiority in Hamlet — Per¬
sonal acquaintance with Mr. and Mrs. Charles Kean—
Favourable first impressions of tiiem—Their generous
appreciation of dramatic work—They appear, in 1849, at
the Haymarket, in the author's tragedy entitled " Strath-
more "—Mr. Kean's performance in this play—Some
difference of view between him and the author—Mr. and
Mrs. Charles Kean at rehearsal—Her solicitude for him
—Their appearance in " The Wife's Secret "—Mr. George
Lovell—Journey of the writer and a friend with Charles
Kean to Brighton—A delicate discussion on the way with
respect to Phelps and Sadler's Wells—Pçâce secured—
An amicable dinner—Change in Kean's style of acting
soon after entering with Keeley on management of the
Princess's Theatre, in 1850—More original hitherto in
comedy than tragedy—His Master Ford—His Benedick—
His Mephistopheles in "Faust and Marguerite"—The
change in his acting foreshadowed in his comedy—First
exemplified in serious drama in " The Templar," by Mr.
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
169
Selous—His acting in " Anne Blake "—He appears in
" Louis the Eleventh," in the " Corsican Brothers," and
in " Pauline "—He reads to the author various scenes
from "Louis the Eleventh," some time before its pro¬
duction—Great impression produced—A triumph con¬
fidently predicted—Account of his performance—Rises to
genius in this and other character parts—Account of his
Louis the Eleventh—This his greatest achievement—Mr.
Henry Irving in the same part—Charles Kean's visit to
Plessy-les-Tours—His Wolsey—His Richard the Second—
Spectacular and archseological revivals—Danger of excess
in these directions—Charles Kean in private—His for¬
givable egoism—His bonhomie, humour, love of fun, and
winning avowal of his weaknesses—His sly raillery of Mrs.
Kean on her susceptibility—Decline of taste for legitimacy
—A melancholy pledge—Quarrel with a dramatic author—
The alleged price of listening to a story—Ex parte state -
ment as to the way commissions were obtained from him—
Mrs. Kean's sympathy with him—Hereditary genius—His
father's fame, in his opinion, detrimental to him—His
strong desire to find his opinions adopted and his side in
a quarrel espoused—This illustrated by his difference with
Douglas Jerrold—Causes of this—Censure of Mrs. Kean's
acting by a critic—Charles Kean's strange method of
resenting this, and annoyance with the author for dis¬
approving of his retaliation—His avowed objection to
impartial criticism. The model of a theatrical notice—
Hears a detailed eulogy of his wife's acting in a particular
play—Demands the speaker's opinion at equal length on
his own acting—Resents the notion that a man ought not
to be praised to his face—His expedient for meeting this
objection—A last interview with him—A glimpse of him,
during illness, at Scarborough—His death—Brief summary
of his claims, professional and private.
Much that is most noticeable in the career of
Mr. Charles Kean is exclusively connected with
170 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
its later period. Had he died or retired before
his lesseeship of the Princess's Theatre, in 1850,
what was most individual in his acting, and
what most distinguished him from the number
of fairly intelligent and well-trained tragedians
who have their day, and then glide out of
recollection, would have hardly been surmised.
However, his reappearance in " Hamlet," in
January, 1838, at Drury Lane, after a long
course of preparation in the provinces, was, it
must be owned, a great success—the first he
obtained in London. I well remember the excite¬
ment with which I read the eulogies of the
Press generally upon this performance, and the
fervour with which my youtliful judgment
endorsed them, when, one night shortly after
his reappearance, I struggled into the pit. Nor
was this impression deadened when, after a
lapse of years, I saw the same actor in the
same part. He had at that time enriched it
with many new details. It is true that his
Hamlet was not remarkable for subtlety, nor
even definiteness of conception. Whether he
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
171
inclined to Goetlie's view of the character, or
to any other in particular, could not very easily
have been determined. Psychology in poetic
characters was not yet, at all events, one of
Mr. Kean's strong points. But the grace and
earnestness of his style, the care bestowed upon
the delivery of favourite passages, and the skill,
not always free from artifice, with which certain
effects had been prepared, delighted many who,
if they could secure a varied and brilliant
display of emotion and stage effect, were not
nicely critical as to depth of conception and
harmonies of characterization. Charles Kean's
acting in his first interview with the Ghost
was greatly admired. Awe and filial devotion
could hardly have been more effectively mani¬
fested. In addressing the Ghost his tones were
generally hushed and tremulous. It seemed as
if he had felt that mortal sounds were too
gross in so dread and sacred a presence. Yet
there were moments when the majesty of the
apparition seemed to raise and inspire him.
Nothing could have been finer than his tone
172 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
of growing confidence and exaltation when he
rejoined to the expostulations of his companions—
" Why, -what should be the fear ?
I do not sot my life at a pin's fee ;
And for my soul—what should it do to that,
Being a thing immortal as itself ? "
Performers of Hamlet are always applauded
when they break away from Horatio and Mar¬
cellus to follow the Ghost. There is, of course,
great opportunity for a telling struggle, and for
a striking contrast between the tones Hamlet
employs to his companions and those addressed
to the Ghost. Charles Kean seldom missed a
point where stage effect and true feeling are thus
capable of being united. I have never seen an
actor who more fully conveyed the feeling that
his fate " cried out " to him with tragic vehe¬
mence to obey his father's summons ; I have
never seen a Hamlet whose grief for his father
was so pervading, so inwardly gnawing. It
surpassed that of either Macready or Charles
Kemble, imparting a more sombre character than
theirs to the Prince's irony, and a darker colour
of present suffering to his indignation. It is not
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 173
at all meant that his indignation was softened
by his grief—on the contrary, his self-reproach,
and his invective against the King in the
soliloquy beginning, " Oh, what a rogue and
peasant slave am I ! " were amongst his most
passionate and successful explosions—but that,
whereas, with the two other performers named,
grief seemed at this point to have been almost
absorbed in the desire for revenge, in Charles
Kean's case anguish for his father's "taking off"
was as vividly portrayed as if the event had
been of yesterday. He was very successful in
the scene with Ophelia, the poignancy of his
invective being accompanied by an expression
of such forlorn hopelessness, that his love revealed
itself, not only in spite of, but by means of his
bitterness. His burst after the play-scene, as
he threw himself on Horatio's neck, "Why, let
the stricken deer go weep!" etc,, had a rare
mingling of wild energy and hysterical grief.
In the closet-scene, his denunciation of the King
and of his mother's perfidy was less forcible than
Macready's, probably because, in his expostu-
174 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
lations with the Queen, the sense that he was
still her son was, under the circumstances, almost
unduly apparent. His most effective, but some¬
what tricky point, after killing Polonius, of
sliding up to the Queen, while, with eyes riveted
on her, and a hissing voice, he exclaimed, "Is
it the King ? roused frantic applause. These
were the salient points of his representation, of
which the general characteristics were fervour,
grace of bearing, and a pervading melancholy
which approached the sentimental.
Apart from his Hamlet, many effects of which
had, from an executive point of view, been most
thoroughly studied, I was seldom greatly im¬
pressed by this actor's performances in Shak-
sperian tragedy. On the occasion of his reappear¬
ance at Drury Lane, he had introduced various
imitations of his father, on dismissing which his
acting, spite of occasional bursts of vigour, for
which he reserved himself, grew comparatively
tame. His Macbeth, when I saw it—^in 1849,
and subsequently—was painstaking, but, on the
whole, feeble and colourless. He had freed him-
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
175
self in a great degree from the point-making
which at one time beset him ; but, in rejecting
theatricality, he had not, except in Hamlet, and
perhaps in Richard the Third, attained tragic
power. It may be that in " Macbeth " he had hus¬
banded his resources for the great demands of the
last act, where he showed much physical energy,
carrying the audience away, if I may say so, by
the " pluck " of his acting. It was exciting ; but,
for want of skill to distinguish nicely the rela¬
tion of Macbeth's conflicting qualities with each
other, his rage, his defiance, his recklessness, and
his disgust with life were so many changing
phases to which you had no sufiScient key. You
had less the thought of a combat with Fate than
of a bull-fight, and of the brave and frantic
efforts of the tortured animal in the arena. It
should be said, however, that he gave with much
pathos and taste the soliloquy—
" I have lived long enough : my way of life
Is fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf; "
and that after the Queen's death, with its melan¬
choly iteration—
17G OUR RECENT ACTORS.
" To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day."
His Othello, after he discarded the ultra-vehe¬
mence of his early style, was on the same level
as his Macbeth, its painstaking inadequacy being
somewhat redeemed by the actor's great know¬
ledge of stage business and effect, though it
presented no sustained display of energy and
abandon, as did his final act in the latter tragedy.
I once saw him act Eomeo. He had not the
romance or the chivalrous tenderness of the
lover, but he showed great energy in the scene
of passionate grief with the friar, and in the
scene where Eomeo kills Tybalt. His Shylock
was conventional, but fairly effective. In Eichard
the Third he was more than conventionally good.
The sardonic, crafty, unscrupulous, and deter¬
mined Eichard lay well within the range of his
conception, while his rendering of it—animated,
and full of variety and contrast—did not greatly
betray his old sin of staginess. If his Eichard,
more than any of his Shaksperian performances,
was founded on his father's, it was yet so earnest
OUK EECENT ACTOES.
177
and living, one conld not but feel that its adopted
points had been thoroughly assimilated. His
Eichard the Third stood next to his Hamlet as
a success in tragedy. His superiority to the
end, in the latter, may be accounted for partly
by the romance of the character itself, with its
sensitiveness to impression, its contrasts of aspi¬
ration and despondency, tenderness and satire ;
by those quick transitions of the eventful story
which perpetually stimulate the actor ; and,
lastly, by the fact that his first great success in
London had been won in the part, and that he
associated with its poetry something of the glow
and ardour which attached to his comparatively
early and gratifying triumph.
I made the acquaintance of himself and his
wife in 1849. Mr. Webster had placed in their
hands a tragic play which I had written for the
Haymarket Theatre. I called upon them soon
afterward, and can remember few first interviews
which gave me greater pleasure. Their simple
cordiality and a certain playfulness of allusion
on the husband's part to matters in which we
VOL. I. N
178
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
were both interested, while the smiling connte-
nance of his wife spoke her enjoyment of his
humour, made me at home with them at once.
Nor could anything be more frank and generous
than their estimate of the play, in which they
were soon to appear. I may here say that, at
a later period, when Charles Kean became lessee
of a theatre, he and his wife never failed to
express the same open and lively pleasure with
dramatic work that engaged their sympathies;
they never resorted to the poor stratagem of
depreciating what they intended to buy.
In the summer of 1849 Mr. and Mrs. Charles
Kean appeared in my tragedy of " Strathmore,"
which, it may be well to say, has no likeness of
character or plot to a novel which has since been
widely known under the same title. Mrs. Charles
Kean's performance in this play shall be treated
of later. Having studied every detail carefully,
in conjunction with his wife, Mr. Kean won the
warm approval of the press and the public, no
less than that of the author. He threw into
the chief situations an intensity of feeling which
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 179
riveted the house. The writer of the piece
differed with him, however, in one point, and
that an important one. The phantoms of old
memories which beset the excited imagination of
Strathmore—after, in pursuance of duty, he has
doomed the father of his betrothed to death—were
meant in the end to be dispelled by his sense of
right and moral necessity. Charles Kean, on the
contrary, abandoned himself to unresisted anguish,
which culminated at the fall of the curtain. He
suggested Orestes pursued by the Furies. " Don't
you think that fine ? " said Mrs. Kean, apart,
to the writer, when her husband went through
the scene in question at rehearsal. " Very
intense and effective," was the answer ; " but "
" Oh, do tell him so ! " she interrupted ; " it. will
give him new spirit." " But it's not what I
meant," was the reply ; upon which the author's
view was explained to her, and subsequently to
the actor. " I will try to express your view,"
said he ; " but I am disappointed that you do not
like mine. What should I make of the situation
if I acted it thus ? " He then gave the writer's
180 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
conception, but with such tameness and want
of sympathy that the audience would, without
question, have been far less moved by it than by
the previous rendering. The author held to his
conviction that, if his notion had been sympa¬
thetically carried out, still higher effectiveness
would have been secured, as well as truth of idea.
" Oh," cried Mrs. Kean, in an earnest whisper,
" don't thwart him ! I like his way better than
yours ; but, if it were wrong, his heart is in it,
and he will make far more of it than of your way,
which does not seize him." So far as the effect of
his acting in this particular scene was concerned,
there was truth in this reasoning. A sort of
compromise between the two views was effected
in theory ; but, in practice, Mr. Kean was always
mastered by his original bias, which is hardly to
be wondered at, as he gained great applause by
following it. I give this little relation as an
instance of the watchful care to gratify her
husband which Mrs. Kean never failed to evince.
Amongst other plays produced by the Keans
at the Haymarket was the popular and effectively
OUß EECENT ACTOBS. 181
constructed " Wife's Secret," by the late Mr.
George Lovell, who united to his dramatic gift
such a faculty for business that the Phoenix Life
Assurance Company, of which he was secretary,
testified their sense of his great services by pre¬
senting him with his portrait. Mr. Lovell was
the author of " The Provost of Bruges," a tragedy
which Macready persuaded Bunn to produce at
Drury Lane. Though the piece was abruptly
withdrawn, it was greatly and deservedly ap¬
plauded, its situations being finely conceived, its
dialogue showing throughout vigour and fancy,
and rising towards the close to great power.
This play was reproduced by Phelps at Sadler's
Wells. It is one that, with a reviving taste for
the poetic drama, will probably reassert its claims.
"The Wife's Secret," without being a play of
so high a class, afforded many and great oppor¬
tunities to the performers who represented its
hero and heroine. Of these Mr. and Mrs. Kean
availed themselves with such marked effect, that
the piece remained for years amongst the most
attractive in their repertoire. During what may
182
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
be called the period of Charles Kean's first
manner, there were few dramas in which he
displayed more fervour or achieved greater
success.
Shortly before he became co-lessee of the
Princess's Theatre with the late Mr. Kobert
Keeley, I and Mr. A., a friend of mine, met him
by chance at London Bridge Station. We were
all going to Brighton, and it was at once arranged
that we should travel in the same carriage. That
which we entered was occupied only by our¬
selves, and our privacy was uninvaded during
the journey. This circumstance, which seemed
conducive, by freedom from restraint, to social
enjoyment, proved in the result a little unfortu¬
nate. My friend A. was almost as impulsive and
open-hearted as Kean himself, and, in his willing¬
ness to communicate, did not sufficiently weigh
the possible effect of his communications. When
I had introduced him to Kean, who already knew
him by repute, the talk naturally turned upon
theatrical matters, and, in particular, upon the
prospects of the legitimate drama, which Kean's
OUE KECENT ACTOES. 183
near enterprise at the Princess's was intended to
promote. Then ensued the following dialogue,
which, though reported after many years, is sub¬
stantially accurate throughout :—
"There are, and always have been, difhculties
in the way of highest art," observed Kean.
"Yes ; the fit audience is too often the few,"
answered A. ; " and the difficulty is still greater
where the few are divided."
Kean. "Excuse me, I don't quite understand.
How divided ? "
A. " I mean this ; whenever the legitimate
drama has prospered, there has always been one
actor whose supremacy was undoubted, as in
your father's case, and, in a less degree, in
Macready's."
I began to think we were on delicate ground.
Macready's supremacy was hardly a point to be
insisted on to a contemporary tragedian. A.'s
simple-mindedness and interest in his subject
had evidently hid this truth from him.
A. {co7itinuing). " However, Macready's engage¬
ments in London are likely now to be compara-
184 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
lively short ; but you must prepare yourself,
Mr. Kean, for a hard battle with the supporters
of Phelps."
Kean {after a jpausef " But Mr. Phelps is
the manager of a suburban theatre ; our interests
are not likely to clash."
A. " Oh, pardon me, he draws to Sadler's
Wells intellectual playgoers from all quarters—
the West End, the Clubs, and the Inns of Court
—and they swear by him."
Myself {trying to effect a diversion). " You told
me, Kean, that you play to-morrow at Brighton.
I suppose Mrs. Kean is there ? "
Kean. "Kot yet ; she will follow me."
A. {charged with interest and information).
"And I am sorry to say, Mr. Kean, that the
admirers of Phelps, at Sadler's Wells, are not
always generous partisans. Sometimes they
assail you openly in the theatre, by shouting out
comparisons when Phelps makes a point."
Kean {a little restlessly). " Of course I can't
expect to be a favourite with Mr. Phelps's
audience."
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 185
A. " Perhaps not ; but, still, partisanship should
have limits."
Myself {interrupting). " Favourite actors, of
course, have partisans."
A. {addressing Kean). " Why, in the last panto¬
mime at the Wells (I am sure without Phelps's
authority), made up for a complete carica¬
ture of you, and did all in his power to make you
ridiculous. Of course, the many roared ; but I
condemned the whole exhibition. I tell you this
only to show that Phelps has a powerful following
in the public, as well as in the press, and that you
will doubtless have something of a battle to fight
with him."
A faint laugh from Kean, a muttered aside, and
at last this dangerous subject was dismissed. It
spoke well for his amiability that, on our arrival
at Brighton, he insisted on our dining with
him. He probably discerned the truth that
A.'s disclosure had flowed from an open and
guileless nature, quite incapable of giving
intentional offence. Fortunately, the dinner
passed away in cheerful talk and anecdote, with
186
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
no recurrence to the disquieting topic of the
morning.
From the time that Charles Kean entered, in
1850, upon the management of the Princess's
Theatre with Mr. Eobert Keeley (who soon after
retired), the signs of a broad change in his acting,
even in serious pieces, became apparent. In
comedy, though he played it comparatively
seldom, he showed from the first more original
insight than in high tragedy. There was much
individuality in both his Master Ford and his
Benedick. The former, indeed, was an excellent
personation. It abounded in those quaint and
realistic touches which he afterwards threw into
his serious acting, of which it was to some extent
an adumbration ; for his second manner in serious
drama may be described as a quaint blending of
the minute and homely traits and humours with
a tragic force, which they kept within the limits
of a somewhat grim reality. The mingled agita¬
tion, perplexity, and humour of the scene where
Master Ford, for his own ends, eggs on Falstaff
to tempt his wife, and of subsequent scenes ; the
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 187
restless aside glances and gestures by which the
actor revealed his jealous pangs ; his rage at the
intending seducer, and his shame at himself for
practising a mean stratagem—were so expressed
as to prove at once the reality of his passion,
and provoke irrepressible mirth at the oddity of
its manifestations.
The same minuteness and force of silent ex¬
pression proved very telling in his Benedick,
which showed a frank, genial enjoyment of jest
and repartee that at once commended it to his
audience. No part did he invest with so much
eccentric humour, or with so many complex
effects, as his Mephistopheles in " Faust and Mar¬
guerite "—a piece taken from a French version of
Goethe's great poem, which ingeniously contrived
to eliminate the poetry. Kean produced " Faust
and Marguerite" at the Princess's, in 1854. The
tawdry nature of the piece in general was redeemed
by his acting of Mephistopheles. The contempt
of this personage for human failings and incon¬
sistencies was blended with a sense of so much
amusement at them, and the satirical comments
188
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
were uttered with so much dry indulgence, that
the sinister Mephistopheles became far more
diverting than many characters in set comedy.
Now and then, however, there was a revelation of
something terrible in the grotesque individuality
—like the gleam which suddenly comes into the
eye of a playful cat at the sight of a bird—which
made the entire effect unique.
It has already been said that his peculiar
qualities in comedy foreshadowed much of the
coming change in his serious acting. Perhaps
the first example of it was his acting in a
piece entitled " The Templar," written by Mr.
Selous, and produced early under the Kean
and Keeley management of the Princess's. In
this piece Kean had to personate a wronged
man yearning for revenge, but compelled for
awhile to hide his purpose. The " reserved
strength "—to use a later phrase—which he
displayed, the occasional dry colloquialism, and
the tendency to express passion rather by
significant low tones than by exertions of the
voice, were remarked upon by several as a
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 189
contrast to his former high, declamatory style
in tragedy. The delivery of one line—
" The tiger crouches ere he takes his leap,"
produced a great effect by its quiet, ominous con¬
centration. At the end of the play, a keen, if
somewhat fastidious critic—the late Mr. G. H.
Lewes, no warm admirer of the actor—observed
to me, " Charles Kean is changing his style into
a natural one. He will convert me yet."
A still more conclusive proof of his new predi¬
lection in art was supplied by his acting in the
present writer's play of " Anne Blake," produced
at the Princess's, in 1852. Though a drama of
contemporary life, the incidents and characters
were such as demanded the exhibition of strong
emotion; and Mr. Kean admirably reconciled
this necessity with the tone and habits of modern
society. Once or twice, indeed, he seemed to
sacrifice the abandon, of which he was capable, to
a desire to conform to the usages of the drawing-
room ; though, as the events were more exciting
and romantic than those which generally trans¬
pire in drawing-rooms, more demonstrative feeling
190 OUR RECENT ACTOR«.
than is generally found there would have been
allowable, even granting the doctrine—which may
undoubtedly be pushed too far—that the habits
of a period have a despotic right to govern its
emotions. Still, it must be said that the per¬
formance in question was one of great excellence,
of admirable keeping, and of a manly, if, at times,
repressed force, which made its way to the heart,
through all the impediments of everyday customs
and attire.
But it was not until the production of Mr.
Boucicault's version of " Louis the Eleventh "
at the Princess's, in 1855, that Charles Kean
set the seal upon what I have called his second
manner in tragedy. This manner, as has been
said, combined the quaintest realism of detail,
sometimes embracing the minutest peculiarities
of a character, with all the heat of passion.
Other indications of this might have been
found in the deadly coolness of his revenge
and hatred in " The Corsican Brothers," and
in the hero of the drama called " Pauline."
In the former it would have been difficult to
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 191
surpass the quiet and menacing intensity of
his acting, or, in the latter, the effect of passion
at white heat, strangely enhanced somehow by
the realism of modern costume and the non¬
chalance of modern manners. In the duel-
scene of this piece he held the house breathless.
By the conditions of the duel, the result must
be fatal to one of the combatants. Thus the
silent, concentrated quietude with which Charles
Kean prepared for the encounter ; the way in
which he combined the merciless determination
of fixed hatred with the refined ease and placidity
of the man of society ; the air of calm acquies¬
cence in his fate when he removed from his lips
the blood-stained handkerchief which betrayed his
mortal wound,—all these details, if less ambitious
than those of his acting in tragedy proper, far
surpassed them generally in dramatic suggestive-
ness, incisive power, and freedom from artifice.
Some time before the production of " Louis the
Eleventh," Charles Kean had recited to me, at his
house in Torrington Square, several of its most
telling scenes, including that memorable passage
192
OUE EECENT ACTOKS.
in which Louis, while arranging a murder with two
of his creatures, on hearing the Angelus, devoutly
takes off his cap, garnished with leaden images
of saints, reverently mutters a prayer, and then
returns to the project of the murder in the iden¬
tical tone of voice he had used when interrupting
himself. I well remember my delight at an
effort which, in my opinion, promised to eclipse
all his previous successes, and I was so far carried
away by my admiration as to say this, when,
troubled for a moment, he exclaimed, " Yes ; but
what of Shakspere ? " Shaksperian characters,
it was agreed, did not fall within the range of
comparison, after which he showed the heartiest
pleasure at my prediction of a signal triumph
—a prediction which it is needless to say was
thoroughly fulfilled when the tragedy was at
length brought out.
Charles Kean's success in Louis the Eleventh
served to prove conclusively that, if he was an
average actor in heroic parts, he was an original
genius in certain character parts—that is, parts
which exhibit various human passions, with a
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 193
modification of their expression peculiar to the
person represented. His appearance, as he first
came upon the stage—the askant and furtive
look, the figure bent slightly forward, the slow
and wary step, the hands closely locked—
conveyed at once suspicion and keenness to detect,
and foreshadowed a singularly individual repre¬
sentation. Selfish cunning, unscrupulous and
remorseless meanness—meanness even to abject
fear—were the leading features of the personation ;
yet through these penetrated often the habit of
authority, and even, at moments, something that
revealed the royal strain of the house of Valois.
In the first act, the desperate love of life which
prompts Louis to moderate his rage, after the
warning of his physician, his brief relapse, and
his attempt to bring impetuous passion within
such limits of cool malignity as might be safely
indulged, were given with such truth to nature,
and with so admirable an ease of transition, that
deep interest and eager expectation were aroused
before the actor had been many minutes on the
stage. The scene where the King insinuates to
VOL. I. 0
194
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
Tristan the murder of Nemours has already been
alluded to. It is enough to add that when, at
the ringing of the Angelus, Louis interrupted
himself, and, hat in hand, muttered his prayers
in a hypocritical parenthesis, and, on the bell
ceasing, resumed the suggestion of the murder
in the very tones and words with which he had
broken off, the wonderful picture of wickedness
and dissimulation converted expectation into
fulfilment, and convinced the playgoer that his
gallery of dramatic characters was about to be
enriched by an arresting portrait. So truly was
every following scene realized, that it would be
mere monotony of praise to dwell upon the sick
King's delight with Marthe when she rallied him
upon looking so young and hale ; upon his almost
paternal kindness, not over-emphatic or over-
sweet, to Marie, when he strove to worm from her
the name of her lover to destroy him, while his
face, when averted from her, revealed his craft
and relentlessness ; upon his feigned humility to
the Burgundian envoy, till, hearing of his master's
defeat and death, he gives, with fierce exultation,
OUE KECENT ACTOES. 195
the order for his arrest. The scene, however, in
which Nemours threatens Louis with instant
death, introduced effects so new to the stage in
a tragic actor, that it must have special record.
First, there was the effort to meet the terrible
emergency with submission, conciliation, denial
of guilt, and prayers for mercy. Then, as resource
after resource failed the threatened man, there
rose from him, with frightful iteration, a cry like
that of some hunted creature in its extremity—
not a natural, pleading cry, however abject, but
the scream that speaks of a horrible, purely
animal recoil from death. The effect was appal¬
ling. In a poetic or heroic character, however
criminal, such horror would have been out of
place; but in the base nature of Louis, only
idealized later by the actual presence of death,
it was in keeping with the Dutch literalness, or
rather, the grim Hogarthian significance of the
entire study. Eepulsive, but never to be for¬
gotten, its sudden and terrible fascination for
the audience was something like that felt by a
wayfarer of old, when lamp or torch on the road
196
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
abruptly disclosed to him the erect gibbet and
its hideous burden. In the last scene, the
character of Louis, with its fearful realism, was
almost redeemed by Charles Kean into poetry,
so vividly did he present the solemnity of death.
As the King tottered on to the stage—a crowned
spectre, swathed in royal robes—his look caught
something of awful dignity from his consciousness
of doom ; his face bore the seal of mortality. The
vain effort to cheat himself into a belief in return¬
ing vigour, the spasmodic attempts at action, the
greedy clutch at the crown that is passing from
him, his terror at the announcement of death
struggling with his desire for vengeance on
Nemours, the final terror which makes him forego
that vengeance, the sense of vanity in all earthly
things, and the piteous cry changing into desperate
command for the prayers of those around—all
these in their detail had no less of imagination
than reality. Few more impressive moments of
the stage can be recalled than that in which
Louis, believed already dead, rises and thrusts
his ghastly face between the Dauphin and Marie,
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
197
as if to revoke the pardon to Nemours. The
frantic yearning for life and power was, indeed
so depicted, that the King's death was a relief
from painful but absorbing tension. Awe and
pity pervaded the hushed house. After such
agony, even a wretch like Louis could be pitied.
The play of " Louis the Eleventh," though strong
only in its one central character, gives great
scope to a fine actor. Louis at once became
the great feature of Charles Kean's répertoire.
Those who have seen Mr. Irving in the part may
congratulate themselves that it has by no means
passed away with the actor who introduced it
to England, but retains, spite of some points of
difference, its old power and individuality in the
hands of its later representative. I may here
observe that, some time after his appearance in
" Louis the Eleventh," Charles Kean paid a visit
to Plessy-les-Tours, marked by its associations
with that execrable monarch. In one of the
tragedian's letters, I had an interesting account
of the visit in question.
After the performance of Louis, Charles Kean
198
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
never went back entirely to his old style, even
when representing poetic characters. His Wolsey,
in " Henry the Eighth," became as individual a
churchman in his way as is a modem ritualist,
while his Eichard the Second abounded in those
realistic peculiarities which distinguish men of
kindred nature from each other, rather than in
those ideal qualities which express the general
likeness of men of the same type. But his
portraiture had now acquired more than con¬
ventional accuracy ; it had something of that
poetic truth which is the inmost reality. There
is no great need, however, to dwell on his
spectacular revivals, such as " Sardanapalus,"
" A Midsummer Night's Dream," " Henry the
Eighth," and " Eichard the Second," in all of
which pageantry was not only introduced but
obtruded, while in the last work a display
of too minute correctness in armorial bearings,
weapons, and household vessels, made the Stage
an auxiliary to the Museum, and forced it to
combine lessons on archfeology with the display
of character and passion. Of course, correctness
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 199
and suggestive beauty of illustration are in them¬
selves commendable ; but it can surely never be
right that accessories should overpower our
interest in the actor, who, if he have genius, will
often rivet us heart and eye upon himself, so
that we forget the accessories. It would be
difficult to name the exact point at which
spectacle ceases to minister to dramatic effect
and begins to impair it. The decision as to this
will not be the same with every playgoer, but
it will probably be the same with all intelligent
audiences, and thus justify or condemn the
particular spectacle exhibited.
No subsequent impersonation of Charles Kean
showed power so striking and original as that
revealed in his Louis the Eleventh. With the
remarks on his great acting in this character, my
criticism on the actor, therefore, almost ceases.
As a man, notwithstanding the pardonable
egoism which he took no pains to disguise,
Charles Kean had many qualities that ensured
not only esteem but attachment. He was irre¬
proachable in his domestic life, free and open in
200
OUR RECENT ACTORS
Iiis manners, and faithful to his engagements.
When free from the nervous anxiety and sensi¬
tiveness which at times troubled him, he showed
a honliomie which was quite charming—quaint
humour, childlike enjoyment of fun, and a
guileless frankness in proclaiming his own weak¬
nesses which utterly disarmed censure. His
generally grave expression, and his guttural and
rather monotonous voice, were obvious dis¬
advantages ; but now and then they lent a
peculiarly dry effect to his passages of humour,
in the course of, or at the end of which a very
winning smile would perhaps light up the
gravity of his aspect, and reveal his sly enjoy¬
ment beneath it. This kind of serious humour
he indulged habitually in private. Mrs. Kean's
quickness of emotion when rehearsing her parts
gave frequent openings for his grave sallies. He
used to rally the writer by complaining that his
wife was more affected by the study of his cha¬
racters than was good for her spirits. " Marston,"
he exclaimed at a family dinner one day, when
Mrs. Kean was carving, "I fancy you are for
OUK RECENT ACTORS.
201
a second slice of mutton. Please address your¬
self to me, and I will communicate with my wife,
A request for mutton from you would probably
throw her into tears, and force her to leave the
table," This was said with a stolidity of manner
that made it doubly waggish, while the gleam in
his eye told how much he relished the pleasantry.
His profits from " The Corsican Brothers " were
far greater than those from any other work he
had produced. " Ah," said he, with a melancholy
which the monetary success of this piece a good
deal tempered, " the old legitimate drama is fast
dying before these new sensations. Pill your
glass, and let two old-fashioned actors drink
sympathetically with an old-fashioned dramatist.
Perhaps we shall be the last of our race,"
On the same occasion—for trifies had some¬
times importance to him—he related with some
glee how he had out-manœuvred a certain dra¬
matic author, who evidently designed to cut him
in the street. " PTo, no," said he ; " Charles Kean
is not a man to be cut; so I bore down upon
him, said ' How do you do ? ' and forced a gruff
202 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
response, without offering my hand." On my
asking what offence he could have given this
gentleman, he answered, " The offence of telling
him, when he entered my dressing-room some
nights ago, that I was glad to see him, but that
I could not afford to let him tell me a story"
"And you were both on the best terms a short
time since ! " said Mrs. Kean, regretfully. This
phrase, " Tell me a story," seemed to need further
explanation ; so a full statement followed as
to the disagreement between Kean and his
author. According to this possibly biassed
version of the actor-manager (Kean was then
lessee of the Princess's), he had been surprised
by a demand, on the part of his former friend,
for the price of a drama which had recently
been rejected. The author maintained that the
piece had been written under contract, but this
Kean emphatically denied. " Had any terms
been discussed ? " I asked. " None whatever,"
was the reply ; " but it was doubtless understood
that if I liked the piece I sliould give the terms
I had previously paid him." " On what, then.
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 203
does he ground his claim for a contract ? " " Ah !
there it is," exclaimed the sympathetic wife.
" Like one or two others, he asked Charles to
listen to an anecdote." "Just so," resumed the
manager, with a pathetic sense of his hardships.
" He walked into my room, and, after the usual
greetings, said, ' Kean, shall I tell you a story ? '
I, of course, knew that ' story ' was another
term for 'plot of a play.' I answered that my
arrangements were made for some time, but,
with that explanation, I was always glad to
hear any notions of established authors. He
told the story. I thought it very taking—you
know how well X tells a story. 'You like
it, then ? ' said he. 'Do you like it well enough
to let me set to work upon it ? ' I referred to
the difficulty mentioned—the pieces I must bring
out previously—but said I should certainly like
to see his drama when completed. It was com¬
pleted—clearly in a hurry. The strong points of
the tale had been so weakened by diffuse talk
and by a poor underplot, that I could scarcely
have believed a dramatic story could have been
204
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
SO spoiled by a practised writer. I declined the
piece as politely as I could, and was then met
with the demand to pay for it under my contract.
Of course, by saying I should like X to set
to work, I simply meant that the idea of the
piece was worth pursuing. I had no concep¬
tion that I was committing myself to take it,
however it might turn out. X has, at all
events, taught me this lesson—that it is a very
risky thing for a manager to let an author sit
opposite to him in his dressing-room and regale
him with ' a story.' " I laughed, saying I should
take his warning, and henceforth send my stories
to him on paper for Ms acceptance. My impres¬
sion is that a compromise was afterwards arranged
between Kean and the dramatist, and a good
understanding in some measure restored.
The conversation turned one day upon here¬
ditary genius. "A man may be very proud of
his father's fame," he said; "but in some cases
it's about as damaging a legacy as can be left
to him. If it had not been for my father's fame,
I should have made my way with the public
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 205
twice as easily. When I took his view of a
character, it was the fashion with shallow people
to call me an imitator. On the other hand,
when I took a line specially my own, the cry
was, 'What a difference between Charles Kean
and his father ! ' " " Quite true ! " exclaimed Mrs.
Kean, with her unfailing wifely devotion. At
that time, when Charles Kean had not shown
the marked originality he afterwards evinced,
it did not appear to me that his father's renown
had been a serious disadvantage to him. It
would have been uncourteous to state this view,
so I made some general remark, which I fancied
my host received a little dubiously. No man
more liked an emphatic assent to his opinions.
He would even take it a little amiss if you did
not espouse his cause vigorously when he chanced
to have a quarrel. On the occasion of his
difference with Douglas Jerrold, he signified his
intention of sending me his version of the case
so soon as it should be printed. Perhaps this
announcement drew forth no particularly warm
response from a man who, having already heard
206 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
the opposite version, knew that something was
to be said on both sides. Subsequently, Mr.
Kean stated his grievance—or what he believed
to be such—with so much energy, that his com¬
panion was obliged to remind him that he was
on friendly terms with Douglas Jerrold, whom
he frequently met, and for whom he had much
esteem. This remark was followed by a gloomy
silence and a speedy close of the interview, in
which " Good mornings " were exchanged some¬
what briefly. A staunch adherent himself,
Charles Kean did not greatly relish impartiality
in his friends where his own interests were
concerned.
The coolness between him and Jerrold was
owing to some difference respecting the comedy
by the latter, entitled " St. Cupid." At an earlier
period, however, than that just referred to, Kean
had been a good deal mortifled by some expres¬
sion of Jerrold's. A piece of his had been chosen
for the royal theatricals at Windsor. Of these
Kean was the manager. Jerrold, who desired
to be present at the acting of his piece, had
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 207
asked Kean whether this wish could not be grati¬
fied. Kean did not see his way to it, as no
person could be present at these entertainments
without a special invitation or command. " How¬
ever, Jerrold," said he, " I might possibly take
you under my wing, and you might witness the
piece from the side of the stage." " Take me
under your wing!" ejaculated Jerrold, who per¬
haps suspected an assumption of patronage. "I
can dispense with seeing the piece; but I can't
reconcile myself to seeing it ' under your wing.' "
" And why should he not have gone under my
wing ? " demanded Kean, in bitter resentment at
the implied slight.
Charles Kean fully appreciated the devoted
attachment of his wife, and was almost as sensi¬
tive as he would have been in his own case to
any censure of her acting. On one occasion his
displeasure at such censure showed itself in a
curious and, probably, unique manner. A certain
dramatic critic, who had often written warmly
of both Mr. and Mrs. Charles Kean, in one par¬
ticular character so far disapproved of the lady
208
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
that he spoke of her acting as "vulgar." Vul¬
garity was certainly not a fault with which Mrs.
Kean could fairly be taxed in general, and the
imputation of it to her, perhaps not unnaturally,
called forth her husband's indignation. Calling
O O
on him one morning, he related to me the offence,
and the somewhat droll retaliation to which he
had resorted. " I wrote to the critic of the
he said, " and requested the favour of an early
interview. He came the morning after I wrote.
I asked him if he had written the notice in
question, which he at once admitted. I then
charged him with having insulted Mrs. Kean by
calling her vulgar. After a little demur he said
he had a perfect right to call her acting vulgar
if he thought it so. 'Ko, no ! ' I cried "—here
Kean turned to me with the vehement desire that
he sometimes showed to have his opinion endorsed
—" no man has a right to call my wife vulgar,
either on or off the stage." After a moment he
asked my judgment on the matter. To his
obvious annoyance, my answer was, that though
I by no means agreed with the writer of the
OUE EEOENT ACTOKS.
209
notice, yet I thouglit if he honestly, however mis¬
takenly, believed that an actress was vulgar, he
had a right to say so. He had a right to say
that a poet or painter was vulgar ; why not say
so of an actress ? " It was false, and it was
intended for an insult ! " cried Kean ; " so I simply
said to our critic, ' I shall give you a lesson
against insulting my wife in future.' I got up,
left the room, locked the door from the outside,
apprised the servants, directed them not to go
near the apartment. After some hours I returned,
and gave order for the prisoner's release." I
could not resist a laugh in saying that his conduct
had been quite illegal, and that he had made
himseK liable to an action for assault and deten¬
tion. " Oh, it was capital fun ! " said Kean,
giving way to more impulsive laughter than he
often indulged in. " Depend upon it, the position
was too absurd for him to make it public." The
critic, in his turn, told me the story of his
durance." " Oh yes, I took it quietly," he said,
with a philosophic smile. " One does not provoke
a madman, but amuses one's self with his antics."
VOL. I. p
210
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
It has already been said, in effect, that, with
the love of distinction which belongs to artists
of all classes, there was mingled in Charles
Kean's case a boy-like openness and honTiomie
in admitting, or rather, proclaiming his foibles,
which, far from offending, attracted the listener ;
he could not but feel won by a nature which had
no reserves and desired none. On his expressing
dissatisfaction one night with a criticism which
was, on the whole, very favourable, it was sug¬
gested to him that a touch of fault-finding, as
showing impartiality, gave added value to a
laudatory notice. " Oh, I hate impartiality ! "
exclaimed the frank actor ; " I like the admiration
that carries a man away, and won't let him stop
to think of a few slight and accidental defects."
Not long after this, on a chance-meeting in the
street, he drew from his pocket a daily paper,
which, with a solemn and impressive look, he
put into my hand. The paper contained a well-
written notice of Charles Kean by a friend who
had attained a high position both in law and in
literature. The well-written notice proved to be
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 211
a long and elaborate panegyric which, so far
as I can remember, was nowhere spoiled for the
actor's palate by the hint of a single blemish or
defect. "Do read it carefully," said Kean, with
earnestness. " That's what I call criticism ! "
Of the unusual candour of his avowals, an
amusing instance occurred one night in his
dressing-room. When I entered, the curtain had
fallen for some little time upon a play in which
Mrs. Kean and himself had been acting. Mr.
George Lovell, the dramatist, was about to quit
the room as I passed in. " Eemember, Lovell—
remember," cried Kean, laying more than his
accustomed stress upon his " E's," " that Mrs.
Kean is in the manager's room. Go to her at
once ! " Mr. Lovell smiled, exchanged greetings
with me, and went out. " I have something good
to tell you of our friend Lovell," began Kean, in
considerable excitement. I composed myself to
listen, and he continued—" Lovell was greatly
delighted with my wife in our new piece. In that
he resembles all who have seen it ; no one knows
better than I how well she deserves his praise.
212
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
And it was good, downright praise. He went
into the performance, act by act, almost point by
point. After a time I said to myself, 'Nothing
can be more true. I wonder whether what he
has to say of Charles Kean will be as nice ? ' On
he went—capital praise—praise that showed how
well he understood her. Still no mention of
Charles Kean. ' Oh,' thought I, at length, ' I see ;
he will first finish with her, then begin with me.'
He did finish with her. 'Lovell,' I said, 'your
opinion of Mrs. Kean delights me.' ' It is quite
sincere,' he answered ; and then—what do you
think he did ? He held out his hand and said,
' Good night, Kean ! ' ' Good night ! ' I echoed,
astonished ; ' good night ? And you have not
uttered a word as to what you think of Charles
Kean in his new part ! ' 'I think very highly of
him,'he replied. 'Very glad to hear it,' said I.
' Then just be good enough to stay a few minutes
and go a little into the matter.' What do you
think he said to that ? He pleaded the d d
rubbish that he couldn't praise a man to his face.
' Lovell,' I said, ' have no scruples with me. I
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 213
act for the very purpose of being praised ; I like
to be praised. Above all things, I like to be
praised to my face.' However, he begged to be
excused, since, though he had great admiration
for my acting, he really couldn't express it at
length to me. 'Well, Lovell,' I answered, 'Mrs.
Kean is now in the manager's room. Go to her ;
give her your opinion of Charles Hean, act by act,
with the same minuteness with which you have
given him your opinion of her. She will convey
to me what you are too delicate to express.'
Then you came in. Stuff—stuff! Not praise
a man to his face ! " I have heard him more than
once repeat this anecdote to his acquaintances,
with his usual dry enjoyment in relating any
humorous passage in which he had taken part.
After he resigned the management of the
Princess's, I had but few opportunities of meeting
with him. The last, I think, was at breakfast,
at the Great Western Hotel, Paddington, when
I had the pleasure, after a slight difference, of
renewing cordial relations with him, and of
extending his term in a little drama, which, after
214
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
all, he was unable to produce, and which was
eventually produced at the Haymarket, under
the title of " The Wife's Portrait."
In the autumn of 1866 I chanced to be at
Scarborough. The evening before leaving, when
passing by one of the hotels—I think the Prince
of Wales's—there appeared, framed in one of
the windows, a worn, pallid face, with a look of
deep, melancholy abstraction. " Charles Kean ! "
I exclaimed to myself, and prepared to retrace
my way and call. But, having heard already
that he had been seriously unweU while playing
a round of provincial engagements, I thought it
better not to disturb him or to bring home to
him a grave impression as to his health, even by
a card of inquiry. In little more than a year
after this his death took place. It occurred in
January, 1868, when he had reached his fifty-
seventh year.
Eeverting to him as an actor, it may be
predicted that his Hamlet, with its varied and
finished execution, will dwell in the memory of
all survivors who have seen it. Many of these
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 215
will also recall his claims in some other well-
known characters already mentioned, to which
may be added that of Sir Edmund Mortimer in
" The Iron Chest "—a part, it is said, into which
he threw much of his father's harrowing intensity
in scenes of remorse. But he will undoubtedly
be best remembered by his Louis the Eleventh,
which, in its fusion with passion of the extreme
realism previously almost confined to comedy,
formed a new type of acting on the English
stage. His friends who are still amongst us
will cherish the recollection of a high-principled
gentleman, warm in his attachments, generous
in extending to others the appreciation he coveted
for himself, and gifted with a charm of simple
candour that made even his weaknesses endearing.
216
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
CHAPTER VII.
mrs. charles kean.
Mrs. Charles Kean (then Ellen Tree) in " The Red Mask," at
Drury Lane, in 1834—Her acting in " The Jewess," etc.,
in 1835—The original Clemanthe in Talfourd's " Ion," at
Covent Garden—She subsequently appears as Ion at the
Haymarket—Notice of her performance—Appears, in
1839, at Covent Garden, under the management of Mr.
and Mrs. Charles Mathews, as the Countess in Sheridan
Knowles's " Love "—The run, then extraordinary, of that
piece—Macready's statement as to the then average attrac¬
tion of legitimate plays, and as to " The Lady of Lyons "—
Miss Ellen Tree's acting as the Countess—As Ginevra, in
Leigh Hunt's play, " The Legend of Florence," at Covent
Garden, 1840—Leigh Hunt's tribute to her—Appears,
same year, in Knowles's "John of Procida," at Covent
Garden—In 1842 (then Mrs. Charles Kean) appears at the
Haymarket in Knowles's " Rose of Arragon "—Her acting
in the two plays last named—Indifferent as Juliet and
Lady Macbeth—Description of her acting in the latter
—Her Gertrude in " Hamlet," Marthe in " Louis the
Eleventh," Katherine in " Strathmore," and Anne Blake in
the play so called—Brief summary—Personal appearance—
Her death.
Much that relates to Mrs. Charles Kean, pro¬
fessionally and privately, has already been told
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 217
in connection with her husband. Some further
particulars respecting her may, however, be stated.
I first saw her in 1834, at Drury Lane, in an
opera called " The Eed Mask ; or. The Council of
Three," founded upon Cooper's novel of " The
Bravo." Several good English singers were
included in the cast, but the character assigned
to Miss Ellen Tree (subsequently Mrs. Charles
Kean) was one simply for acting. The plot of
" The Eed Mask " was more dramatic than that
of operas in general. Miss Ellen Tree had no
great opportunity until late in the piece, but she
then availed herself of it with so much pathos
and force as to win from her audience the most
sympathetic admiration. In Gelsomina—such
was the name of her character—she is said to
have made a decided advance in public favour.
For myself, then a boy in a jacket, the incidents
of the opera, and even those of the novel, with
which I made acquaintance later, have faded from
my mind. I cannot recall the situations which
Miss Ellen Tree made so powerful and so
touching; but I remember walking home with
218
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
dim eyes, with her exquisitely feminine and
expressive voice still in my ears, and as roman¬
tically in love with her as an impressible lad
could well be.
A great success is recorded of her in the follow¬
ing year, when she performed, at Drury Lane,
the heroine of " The Jewess," a drama adopted
by Planché from the original of Scribe. In this
drama, it may be mentioned, Mr. Vandenhoif
also distinguished himself as the Jew, Eleazar.
After " The Eed Mask," I saw Ellen Tree as the
Witch of the Alps, in Lord Byron's tragedy of
" Manfred," which has been noticed in my first
chapter.
Miss Ellen Tree was the original Clemanthe in
the late Mr. Justice (he was then Serjeant)
Talfourd's tragedy of " Ion," when produced at
Covent Garden. She performed that character,
according to Talfourd himself, with " elegance and
pathos." It did not give scope for any great
tragic power. On account of an engagement at
the Haymarket, Miss Tree was obliged to resign
the part, which Miss Helen Faucit consented at
OUK RECENT ACTORS. 219
a sliort notice to study, thus leaving the poet
fortunate in each of his interpreters. In the
course of her Haymarket engagement, the run
of " Ion " having expired at Covent Garden, Miss
Ellen Tree reappeared in the tragedy, this time
as its hero. After the signal triumph of Macready
in the character, her attempt was a bold one.
Miss Tree, however, if she had not, in like degree,
Macready's power of relieving a part, and his
saliency in presenting details, brought very special
gifts to her interpretation. Face, form, voice,
and simple grace of manner combined to make
her externally the ideal of her character, while
its purity, nobility, and self-sacrifice, found such
sympathetic rendering, that, if I may judge by
the experience of my friends and myself, the
effect was ennobling no less than touching, while,
at the close, the spectator withdrew reverently as
after a religious observance.
In 1839 we once more find Ellen Tree appear¬
ing at Covent Garden, then under the manage¬
ment of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Mathews (Madame
Vestris), in Sheridan Knowles's new play, "Love."
220 OUK KECENT ACTORS.
To the amazement of London, the play ran fifty
nights—then an extraordinary number for a
legitimate piece, although it had been much
exceeded in melodrama, as in the case of " Black-
eyed Susan." For a new work of higher pre¬
tension, especially if written in blank verse,
twenty nights in the course of the first season
was thought quite satisfactory.
I remember Macready observing that, in the
days referred to, twelve or fourteen paying houses
to a successful legitimate piece were as many as
could be reckoned on. Of course, at rare intervals,
there were brilliant exceptions. One of these
was " The Lady of Lyons," which, to the best of
my remembrance, ran about thirty nights in its
first season; but, en revanche, I heard from the
manager's own lips that he played it for the first
fortnight to half a pit, and that it would then
have been withdrawn had it not been for the
author's generosity, which called for unusual
exertions on the part of the lessee. These, with
the intrinsic attraction of the piece and the dis¬
closure of Bulwer's name, at length raised the
drama into popularity.
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 221
To return to Knowles's play and Miss Ellen
Tree. The long run of "Love" may be chiefly
attributed to her acting. Although "Love" has
some strong scenes, the interest is anticipated,
and declines greatly after the third act. Mr.
Anderson, again, though an actor of gallant bear¬
ing and some emotional power, had not then
gained such distinction as to make him the hero
of a theatre like Covent Garden ; while Madame
Vestris, though she assumed masculine dress, had
no very telling part. The emotional interest of
the story centres in the Countess (Miss Tree's
character), and in Huon the Serf. The former
character, moreover, contains much delicate psy¬
chology, and gives fine opportunities for contrast.
These contrasts, indeed, would be too extreme,
did not the dramatist intend to imply the growing
love of the Countess for the serf by the excess
of her scorn in resisting it. The conflict indi¬
cated was shown, not too sharply, but with a
harmony of treatment that reconciled and blended
the most opposite effects, both in the opening
scene, where Huon reads to the Countess the
222
OUE EECENT ACTORS.
story of a peasant who loved a lady of high
degree, and in the hawking scene of the second
act, where she stands rooted with terror to see
the serf leaning against a tree, while the light¬
ning plays around him, and yet struck dumb,
lest she should betray her too great stake in his
safety. Nothing could be truer to the strife in
her nature than her arrested movement and
riveted gaze before the serf is struck, her
agonized cry and bound towards him when the
event occurs, and the overdone indifference and
hysterical levity of her feigned gaiety when she
hears that he has only been stunned. In the
third act her power of facial expression was put
to a severe test. Huon has rejected the contract
by which the Duke, her father, seeks to bind
him in wedlock to another, and death or the
galleys is threatened at the end of an hour,
should he still refuse compliance. The Countess,
immediately after the departure of the Duke,
wrests from Huon the truth of the matter, and,
while holding in her hand the contract which,
for her sake, he has renounced, has to express
OUK EEOENT ACTORS. 223
silently the last combat between ber pride and
ber love, and the triumph of the latter. The
strife, with all its alternations, could not have
been told so vividly by any language. The
audience bung suspended on the mute battle¬
field of ber face, following every turn of the
struggle, and breaking into passionate applause
at the close, though not a word was spoken till
she exclaimed, over-mastered, "Huon, I die!"
Her deep sweetness of manner verged upon
humility when at last she owned ber love ; yet
there was a dignity and a power of self-govern¬
ment about ber which revealed the infiuence of
race. She was the Countess of the first act,
exalted over ber pride.
I missed ber personation of Ginevra in Leigh
Hunt's " Legend of Florence," produced at Covent
Garden, in 1840. The sweetness of ber long
forbearance under the taunts of a jealous and
mabgnant husband, and ber pathetic force when
she is at last goaded to resistance, were univer¬
sally admired. Her delivery of the following
was specially extolled :—
224: OUR RECENT ACTORS.
" Gin. I scorned you not, and knew not what scorn was,
Being scarcely past a child, and knowing nothing
But trusting thoughts and innocent daily habits.
Oh, could you trust yourself !—But why repeat
What still is thus repeated, day by day,
Still ending with the question, ' Why repeat? '
[^Rising and moving about.
You make the blood at last mount to my brain.
And tax me past endurance. What have I done.
Good God 1 What have I done, that I am thus
At the mercy of a mystery of tyranny,
Which from its victim demands every virtue,
And brings it none ? "
I have heard Leigh Hunt speak enthusiasti¬
cally of her acting in his play. He betrayed
something akin to her own sensibility when he
spoke of her bright eyes glistening through tears
as she delivered various lines that touched her
at rehearsal.
Ellen Tree appeared at Covent Garden the
same year, as the heroine of Sheridan Knowles's
"John of Procida." At the Haymarket, in 1842,
she (then Mrs. Charles Kean) was again enlisted
for a play by Knowles, " The Eose of Arragon."
"John of Procida" supplied her with no great
situation. She had some chances, however, of
showing her devotion to her lover and her father,
and these she improved with the sympathetic
OUR RECENT ACTORS, 225
truth that was her special gift, " John of
Procida " can hardly be ranked amongst its
author's successes ; yet its second act is a
remarkable achievement. It consists of a duo¬
logue in which no external event takes place,
its breathless interest lying in the revelation of
himself by a patriot-father to a son who lives
in ignorant friendship with the enemies of his
country. In "The Eose of Arragon"—at least, in
its earlier scenes—Mrs, Charles Kean had some¬
what better opportunities as Olivia, the peasant
girl who has secretly married the despotic King
of Arragon's son, and warns him of danger,
though, on the discovery of her marriage, he
has caused it to be annulled and banished her
from the Court. The ingenuous earnestness of
her manner when risking her own life to save
that of her stern father-in-law, was one of the
chief effects of the piece. Another was her
resistance to a sensual villain who has her appa¬
rently in his power. The situation is certainly
old enough ; but the nobility of her bearing, and
the splendid energy of her defiance and detes-
VOL. I. Q
226
OÜE RECENT ACTORS.
tation, revivified towards its close a story which
was gradually become feeble.
Amongst those results which baffle anticipation,
and for which it is hard to assign a cause, was
the qualified success of Mrs. Charles Kean in
Juliet. With her excellence in characters of
sweetness and devotion, and her power of
passionate expression, one would have said in
advance that this was, above all, a part in which
she would have triumphed. It proved otherwise.
Of course, experience, taste, and, in a degree,
sympathetic feeling, veiled her want of vital
individuality in the character. The spectator,
nevertheless, went away disappointed. Perhaps
because Juliet is not, after all, eminently a
character of self-sacrifice; perhaps because the
performer had concentrated her mind upon the
acting difficulties of the character, and striven
to master them as isolated effects, rather than
by entering into Juliet's nature—she did not
carry the audience with her, as she had done in
many parts offering meaner opportunities.
It might have been predicted that Mrs. Charles
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
227
Kean would scarcely make a striking Lady Mac¬
beth. With her fine intensity of feeling, fervour
of exposition, and power to translate herself into
various types of life, she could hardly be said to
combine imagination in its strictly poetic sense.
She loved to seize those traits which bring a
character within the range of actual life—no
doubt an excellent method generally, though its
sole use hardly suits those types which, while
essentially true, are too remote and awful for
familiar treatment. The intuitive feeling which
divines at a glance from a mere external fragment
the spirit of the whole, and which rather descends
from the spirit to the form, than attains to the
spirit through the form—^the method of Siddons
and Eachel—was probably beyond this fine artist,
—at least, in conceptions of mystery or guilt, to
which she could not bring the immense aid of her
personal sympathy. Hence there was a sort of
artificial moderation in her rendering of Lady
Macbeth's terrible adjurations. It seemed as
though she had doubted that an actual woman
could have uttered them, and had therefore
228
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
striven to give tliem reality by softening their
extravagance. From the hints of one or two
mighty phrases, on the other hand, an imagina¬
tion like that of Mrs. Siddons would, one may
conceive, seize the soul of the woman, take that
as the reality, and care little whether the prob¬
abilities of actual expression were overpassed
or otherwise.
Again, in the great scenes of the first and
second acts, an attempt was made to present
Lady Macbeth under the two aspects of deter¬
mined will and wifely fascination ; but these
phases of the character were alternated rather
than fused. Mrs. Kean did not seem to perceive
that, to a mind like Macbeth's, vacillating be¬
tween two principles, resolute will was itself part
of the fascination, and that, until his crime was
committed, she was glorious to him through the
very scorn with which, for his sake, she had
denounced his weakness.
She was good, however, in her watchfulness
over Macbeth in the banquet-scene, and if her
feverishly hurried manner of dismissing the
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 229
guests and repairing to her husband took some¬
thing from the evil woman's self-control, it was
eloquent of conjugal solicitude. In the melan¬
choly and remorse which set in after the murder,
she was also more at home than in certain of the
previous scenes. Her grief, however, was too
simply tender ; her sleep-walking scene had not
the abrupt flashes of recollection that reveal the
hauntings of conscience ; her remorse was like
the repentance of a nature which had originally
been good.
In her later years she often played Gertrude
in "Hamlet." It was one of her most perfect
representations. Her air of apprehensive melan¬
choly, born of secret guilt; her looks of wistful
yearning, at times suddenly repressed, towards
her son ; the obvious compulsion she put upon
herself, in the closet-scene, so much being at
stake, to " lay home " to him his offences ; the
divining, shown by a quick, averted look, of his
terrible impeachment ere it had well begun ; the
mechanical way in which her one or two phrases
of resistance were urged, and her complete
230
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
breaking down before the consciousness of her
guilt and the eye of her son—scarcely left a detail
wanting in the impressive conception. Fine as
is the character of Gertrude, it is, of course, so
dominated by that of Hamlet, that Mrs. Kean
probably performed it so often simply for her
husband's sake. Another and much stronger
instance of the immolation of her professional
interests to his own, was her performance of
Marthe in "Louis the Eleventh." Yet her life¬
like rusticity, the blended bashfulness, appre¬
hension, and shrewd resource with which she
clothed her French peasant, raised the little
sketch into such prominence that it became the
second feature of the play. In two plays of
the writer's—" Strathmore " and " Anne Blake "
—she displayed pathos so subduing, and traits
of character so just and arresting, that he cannot
dwell upon them without seeming partly to
appropriate the praise that was her due. In
fairness to her, however, it should be recorded
that her enunciation of the words, "Ho; die!"
when, in "Strathmore," she confirmed her lover
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 231
in his resolve to accept death rather than false¬
hood, not only overpowered the house, but won
from the press some of the rarest tributes ever
paid to an actress.
In sympathetic emotion, as distinguished from
stern and turbulent passions, no feminine artist
of her time surpassed her; in suggestiveness of
detail, no artist but one. Her range was un¬
usually large. Mirth and humour came as
naturally to her as self-devotion and tenderness.
Her sense of enjoyment was contagious, and free
from the slightest touch of coarseness. Her
performance of Marthe, just referred to, showed
what she could do in characters of eccentric
humour. I have heard her at rehearsal, in
offering suggestions—which she did with especial
tact—assume the language and the looks of the
various characters so admirably, that she seemed
equally at home in each. The beauty of her fair
oval face, with the expressive eyes, and the nose
slightly aquiline, accompanied with the charm
of her refined and emotional voice, were most
captivating in her youth, and much of their attrac-
232 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
tion lasted to the end of her career. Amongst
the women of the English stage who have
recently passed from us, there is no figure to
which I turn with more general admiration or
with profounder esteem. She died in the summer
of 1880, at the age of seventy-five.
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
233
CHAPTEE VIII.
MR. BENJAMIN WEBSTER.
First acquaintance with Mr. Webster—"Borough Politics"—
His quarrel with Mr. and Mrs. Charles Mathews—His
habit of confiding differences to others—Called a " good
hater "—Certainly a staunch friend—Of a sensitive dis¬
position—His feeling of comradeship—His resentments not
lasting—His reported challenge to Macready—His fidelity,
as manager, to the interests of his company—Interview
with him — His personal appearance and manner — An
agreement concluded—His badinage—His frankness and
promptness in negotiations—His acting in a little comedy
by the writer—^Width of his range—His desire to extend
it—I read to him some scenes of a poetic drama of which
I desired him to play the hero—His pleasure at the pro¬
posal and his misgiving—Reasons for it—Variety of his
acting in dramas of real life—Account of his acting in
" The Roused Lion "—Allusion to the excellence of Mrs.
Keeley in the same drama—His acting as Squire Verdón
in "Mind Your Own Business"—His nice balance of
various features of character — This exemplified — His
Richard Pride — His Graves in " Money," Triplet in
"Masks and Faces," Reuben Gwynne in "The Round of
Wrong"—His Tartuffe—Objections to that comedy—His
Jesuit Priest in "Two Loves and a Life"—His Robert
Landry in " The Dead Heart "—Mr. David Fisher in that
drama—Mr. Webster as Penn Holder in " One Touch of
Nature"—His faults—His Petrucchio—His Wildrake in
234: OUE EECENT ACTOES.
" The Love Chase "—Dragging delivery in his later years
—His services as a manager — "The Heart and The
World "—Supper after a failure—Dinner to Webster at
Freemasons' Tavern—The Shakspere Committee—Web¬
ster's Institutions for actors—His reception in Paris by
Napoleon III.—Mr. Eobert Bell—Welcome to Keeley—
Webster's death—His reputation as an actor and in private.
My personal knowledge of the late Mr. Webster
dates from an early period of 1845, at which
time he was lessee of the Hay market Theatre.
I had sent him a comic drama, " Borough Politics,"
which will be more fully alluded to when I
have to speak of Mrs. Glover.
In two or three weeks' time I received from
Mr. Webster an obliging letter, in wliich he
ascribed his delay to the embarrassment into
which Mr. and Mrs. Charles Mathews had
thrown him by abruptly leaving the theatre.
He dwelt emphatically upon what he considered
the unjustifiable nature of their conduct, in a tone
tliat seemed to demand sympathy for himself.
This tendency to repose confidence in one almost
a stranger was, I found afterwards, characteristic
of him, at least, in the vigour of his days. If he
liked you—and he took strong likings—you and
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
235
your friends were his friends, and he doubtless
expected reciprocity. I have heard him called
a good hater and a staunch friend. It was
my good fortune to know him only in the latter
character. He had now and then a way of
beginning a sentence in a tone of great cordiality,
and of ending it in a tone of reserve, which
seemed, I thought, to belong to a nature at once
warm and proud, which was jealous of having
its regard surprised. It is probable that, with
his sense of good comradeship and his eager
disposition to prove himself a true ally, he was
exacting as to reciprocity, and retentive of what
he conceived to be a slight or a wrong. But
his resentments were less enduring than they
were said to be. A bitter coldness took place
between him and the Keans when they arranged
to become co-lessees of the Princess's with Mr.
and Mrs. Keeley. To quit his theatre for the
purpose of conducting a rival house, very likely
appeared to Webster, with his strong cleaving
to old fellowship, something like a breach of
the decalogue. But if his convictions as to
236 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
mutual duties were somewhat strained, it is
just to say that he obeyed them implicitly, and
that, for the sake of past associations, performers
were wont to be retained in his theatre long
after their salaries exceeded their attractions.
With his sensitive character, there is reason to
put faith in the report that he once sent a
challenge to Macready, who replied that he would
be willing to accept it when his correspondent
had taken rank as a tragedian by a successful
performance of Hamlet. However, it was under
Webster's management that Macready's farewell
performance took place, the relations between
lessee and manager being then most cordial. The
former, however, after the sums which he had paid
to the tragedian, somewhat resented his speaking
at a public dinner of Sadler's Wells, instead of
the Haymarket, as the future home of legitimacy.
With respect to other little feuds, I believe both
those with Mr. and Mrs. Mathews, the Keans,
and the Keeleys—if, indeed, the last were ever
regarded as ;partici;pes criminis—were eventually
composed. Indeed, at the dinner given to
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
237
Webster about 1865, Keeley was one of the
most interesting figures.
As to myself, an interview followed quickly
upon Mr. Webster's letter. I had not before
seen him off the stage. He was rather tall, with
eyes of a bluish grey, a fresh complexion, a
figure slightly tending to corpulence, and an
engaging frankness of manner. He at once
accepted my terms, and the little piece was
produced with a result which, I trust, was not
ungratifying to him, A few days later, on
being with him in his room, he said, in his
rather high-pitched voice, with a sly laugh, "Well,
we talked about terms ; but I suppose you
poets write for fame, and would despise anything
so vulgar as a cheque." " And you actors
and managers," was my reply, "you, too, doubt¬
less work for fame; but would you be content
without salaries or profits ? " Seriously, no
manager could have been more pleasant to deal
with. In my own four or five contracts with
him, I never knew him attempt to beat down the
price of a piece by depreciation—by remarking.
238 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
for instance, that it was risky, or that times
were hard. If he really wished to produce your
work, his brief formula was, "Just draw up a
memorandum while I write the cheque."
In the little comedy above mentioned, he
played the character of a good-hearted, well-to-do
farmer, who is with difhculty roused into a con¬
flict with two of his neighbours by their affronts
to his wife. In embodying this part, he displayed
his remarkable power of individualization, his
genuine feeling, and his happy and varied truth¬
fulness of illustration.
Few actors, indeed, have had a wider range.
The heroes of poetic tragedy, or those of high
comedy, he scarcely attempted, his Tartuffe being
an exception. Probably, however, he was not
without ambition to make the trial. On one
occasion I read to him a scene or two from
an uncompleted serious play in blank verse, of
which his estimate was only too generous. "But
who," asked he, " is to play the chief character ? "
"Mr. Benjamin Webster," was the answer, "if
he will." He was more touched than the occasion
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 239
accounted for. " What ! " said he, with a warm
grasp of the hand ; " do yon really think I would
sustain the chief part, almost tragic, in a poetic
drama ? " Having expressed my wish that he
should make the experiment, he replied,—"I
should like it—I should like it, but "
Perhaps there was reason in that "but." His
true feeling and his happiness in presenting
individual traits in prose drama might not
have stood him in such good stead in imagina¬
tive work, where the characteristic is rather of
that large kind which paints human nature in
general, than of that minute kind which paints
the peculiarities as well as the passions of
individual men. It happened, however, that
the drama referred to remained unfinished ;
thus the test which the actor proposed to
himself never was applied. But, even in the
sphere of what is called " real life," what variety,
and what distinctness of conception, were at
Webster's command! To show this it is only
necessary to glance at him in a few of his
leading embodiments. In 1847 he appeared
240
OUK EEOENT ACTOES.
in " Tlie Eoused Lion," taken from a clever
Lrencli original, " Le Eeveil du Lion." Stanislas
de Fonblanche, the part which he represented,
was that of a man rather advanced in life, and,
at the beginning of the piece, somewhat of an
invalid. A letter has been received by his
godson, in which one of his young and thought¬
less acquaintances speaks in contemptuous terms
of the elderly gentleman, of the consulate, and
the empire, and suggests that, with his obsolete
fashions and grave years, he would be a mere
kill-joy at a party of pleasure in the days of the
Citizen - King. Stanislas Fonblanche, though
elderly, is by no means superannuated, and is
roused by this reflection upon the manners and
accomplishments of a former generation. Accord¬
ingly, he contrives to attend a dinner at which his
detractor and his godson are to be present. The
nature of the entertainment is a little fete, and
thus admits of sundry exhibitions of talents,
such as singing, dancing, and fencing, in the
presence of ladies, which are seldom displayed
at a dinner-table. The object of Stanislas
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
241
Fonblanche is to punish Hector de Mauléon,
by engaging with him in a strife of wits, and
proving his own superiority. This he does
most effectually. If Hector ventures upon a
sarcasm disguised as a compliment, or upon an
affected and overdone politeness, his elderly
rival meets him with a repartee as polite as
it is crushing, and an easy, high-bred courtesy of
the old school, beside which Hector's modern
airs look very much like ill-breeding. In sing¬
ing, dancing, at cards, with the foils, and in
other ways, he thoroughly conquers and humiliates
him, and becomes, especially to the fairer portion
of the company, the central and captivating
figure. From the easy languor of the invalid
at the beginning, to the high-toned and temperate
triumph at the end, Webster was admirable, not
only in each phase of the character, in each
detail of action, but in the ease and nature which
gave unity and consistency to all his transitions.
I remember the critic of an influential paper, who
was otherwise loud in the comedian's praise,
charging him with a certain want of refinement.
VOL. I. R
242 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
What seemed surprising to me, on the other hand,
was the presence of this quality in an actor who
had shone hitherto chiefly in rough and strong
parts. We are all, perhaps, too much disposed
to see in an actor the absence or the lack of
qualities which we are accustomed to expect
from him. It would be ungrateful to omit from
this notice of the " Eoused Lion " an allusion to
Mrs. Keeley's wonderful rendering of Mademoiselle
Suzanne Grasset de Yilledieu, formerly a danseuse,
who is anxious to hide her old vocation from
Stanislas, while, in moments of emotion, every look
and tone, every gesture of head, feet, and arms,
unconsciously betray it.
In May, 1852, Mr. Webster appeared at the
Haymarket in a play by Mr. Mark Lemon,
entitled, " Mind your Own Business." Though
not nominally the hero of the piece, he was such
effectually. As a country squire, one Verdón,
who has set his affections where they cannot
be returned, and who passes from a state of
over-sanguine anticipation to one of utter reck¬
lessness and self-abandonment, he was equally
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
243
striking, natural, and truthful in each of these
contrasting moods. There was now and then a
dash of constraint and misgiving in the midst of
Iiis hopefulness, which showed the sensitiveness
of his disposition and the depth of suffering which
the rejection of his love would entail; while in
flying to town, in the attempt to drown his
misery by gambling and drink, the gleams of
a better nature at times broke forth with a pathos
all the more affecting because, instead of being
sharply contrasted with the darker shades of his
character, it was so blended with them as to
indicate the same individuality. The yearning
of a besotted mind towards a higher life seemed
as natural as the right physical movement of
the drunkard when, however unsteadily, he
staggers towards home. Notwithstanding all
the difficulties of the task, he eminently suc¬
ceeded in making the position of the drunkard
thoroughly pathetic, and in so expressing "the
soul of goodness in things evil " that they became
touching instead of repulsive. But for the
strange improbability in the story, which, after
244 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
all that Verdón had suffered for love of the one
sister, would persuade us that his affections had
been all the time unconsciously given to the
other, the piece, owing to Webster's acting,
would have been a lasting success.
In his rendering of Verdón, as in other parts,
the two signal merits of the comedian's acting
were comprehensiveness of conception and nice
gradation in the expression of feeling. He knew
that, with rare exceptions, one leading trait seldom
gains such ascendency in a man as not to be
modified by others. I have seen him, for in¬
stance, take part in a quarrel-scene, in which a
number of qualities had to be expressed and
harmonised. At the beginning, when sarcasm
and taunts were levelled at him, he responded
by a smile of quiet humour, a shrug of the
shoulders, and a deprecatory movement of the
hands; as the provocation continued, his annoy¬
ance was evident, but no less evident the strong
common sense by which he chose to master it.
His look next became fixed and stern, like that
of one who feels a fight inevitable ; and when at
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 245
length his wife was attacked by cruel sneers, and
he suddenly blazed up in indignation, you felt how
much his anger had gained in effect from his
previous self-control—that the very restraints that
had at first checked the ñame were now its fuel.
It was, perhaps, his success in " Mind Your Own
Business " that led him, in 1855, at the Adelphi,
to undertake the tragical representation of another
drunkard, Kichard Pride, in Mr. Boucicault's
drama of "Janet Pride." So powerful in this
part was his rendering of the vitiating effects of
excess, and of the remorse wliich struggles with
them, that Eichard Pride took rank with Iiis most
striking impersonations.
As another instance of "Webster's versatility,
ought to be cited his performance of Graves, in
Lord Lytton's comedy of "Money." The con¬
viction that he was born to an unhappy lot, and
that the finger of adverse fate went out against
him in the smallest trifle, was for a time deep and
pervading; and when at last the seductions of
Lady Franklin took effect upon him, his change
to a sanguine mood was gradual and distrustful ;
246 OUR EECEKT ACTORS.
SO that in the dance with Lady Franklin, to
which he at last abandons himself, there was
the quaintest expression in his face of dawning
mirth, mingled with habitual melancholy in his
movements — fantastic and astonished pleasure
so characterized by solemnity, that the novel
humour of the representation was irresistible. I
have seen in other comedians, notably in the
very effective Thomas Thorne, broader contrasts
in the part of Graves, which perhaps elicited
louder laughter ; but the Graves of Webster
still remains uppermost in my mind, as a
being who, though somewhat exaggerated by the
author, one might have met in the flesh.
In 1852, in the new piece of " Masks and
Faces," he played one of his flnest characters—
that of Triplet, the needy dramatist and portrait
painter, whom, with his family. Peg Woiflngton
saves from starvation. The study of Triplet in
the actor's hands might be taken as a type of
the penurious author of the time. The distraction
amidst the sordid cares of life ; the nervous
impatience, soon atoned for by contrition; the
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
247
moods of gloomy reverie, at times half pierced
by the hope of a nature originally sanguine, but
which time and suffering had tamed and daunted ;
the desperation with which, when unable to
please himself with Peg's likeness, he plunged
his knife through the canvas, together with an
artlessness of look and voice which spoke an
unworldly mind,—all these degrees of the better
mental worker were so truly indicated, that a
glance, a change of tone, however delicate, a stoop,
a step backward or forward, or a fluttering
movement of the hand, were more significant
even than the excellent dialogue in which he
took part. And withal this Triplet was a
gentleman ; no poverty of garb or surroundings
could hide that ; while the perfect unconsciousness
with which this inner refinement showed itself,
was a touch of art so true and unpretending, that
it was seen only in its effects.
The Peg Woffington of Mrs. Stirling, it may
be added, was one of the best, probably the best,
of her original characters.
Towards the end of 1846 Webster was the hero
248 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
of " The Eound of Wrong," a drama by Bay le
Bernard, which, though well-written and con¬
taining some good situations, was elaborate to
heaviness, and thus narrowly missed popularity.
The acting of the principal character was, how¬
ever, so fine as to deserve record. In Eeuben
Gwynne, engaged to marry a girl who afterwards
sadly rejects him at the instigation of her father,
no changes of character could be more complete,
and at the same time more consistent, than those
which the actor depicted. The honest cheerful¬
ness, the good-natured liberality of the happy
lover who would spread the joy he feels, were
shown to the life, as were also the bitterness,
the avarice, and the vindictiveness of the man
whose hopes and whose faith had been trodden
down. Yet, in both aspects, Eeuben Gwynne
was seen to be the same man. His misanthropy
was the reaction against his loving credulity.
His longing for vengeance was the wild outcome
of his suffering—the mad desire to give torture
vent which makes the wounded creature turn
upon the hunter. When at length the tables
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 249
were turned, and his enemy, the father of his
old love, lay at his mercy, nothing could be truer
than the manner—most gradual in its rise, but
sudden in its end—in which the cherished pur¬
pose of revenge gradually yielded before the
prayers and influence of his restored darling.
The spring of his life had returned ; the ice
which had concealed it for a while broke, and
there was the living current.
Another celebrated character of this actor
was that of Tartuffe, in a version by Mr.
Oxenford, originally produced at the Haymarket.
He had here to pass from the embodiment of
strong or fierce passions, emotions of hearty
good-nature and honest anger, of grief and
remorse, or of tender emotions, threaded by
quaint and simple humours, to that of dissimu¬
lation, which is, at all events, meant to be as
profound as it is unscrupulous. It may be
heresy in the writer to take a strong exception
to what some regard as Molière's chef-d'oeuvre,
but he has striven in vain to think that
the hypocrisy of Tartuffe is, on the whole.
250 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
subtle and plausible. It has always seemed to
him, on the contrary, to be so overdone as to
advertise unmistakably its own imposture. It
was one of Mr. Webster's great merits in the
part, that he moderated its excesses as far as
he could, and brought it as near to a human
possibility as his actions would enable him. The
assumption was entirely successful, and Tartuffe
became one of Webster's stock parts ; thus
furnishing one more proof of his power to trans¬
late himself with equal effect into the most
opposite characters. That of a Jesuit priest,
which he played at the Adelphi, in Mr. Charles
Eeade's " Two Loves and a Life," was a striking,
though far less elaborate picture of a higher kind
of cleric, in whom the restraint of a strong will
upon strong passions was admirably exemplified.
As an expression of power, however, nothing
short of tragic must be cited his rendering of
Eobert Landry, in the first act of the Adelphi
drama, " The Dead Heart." Landry, a young
sculptor, by the machinations of a certain Count
de St. Valerie and a godless priest, is immured
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 251
on false pretexts in the Bastille. The object of
St. Valerie in the vile proceeding is to bring
within his snare a lovely and innocent girl
betrothed to Landry. Nearly twenty years after
this shameful deed comes the taking of the
Bastille by the infuriated masses, the murder of
the defenders, and the release of the prisoners.
Of these last Landry is one. But the long-
immured man, crushed by despair, solitude, and
the rigour of his treatment, seems to have lost
alike consciousness and sensation. The ghastly
face, the long and matted hair, the rigid limbs,
seem at first to speak of mere inert matter. It
is, however, matter faintly stirred with breath
that is brought back to day. All means of
restoration are employed, but vainly, till the
urgent repetition of a name—that of his betrothed
—draws forth a tremulous response, after which
the gradual resuscitation of bodily and mental
life sets in. But the conduct of the process was
a masterpiece of art. At first Landry lay like
a fossil. It was as if different forces of nature
passed one into another—mineral existence
252 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
tliawing into tlie mobility of animal life, animal
life groping its way into human consciousness, and
irritating it from its apathy, till at last one saw
the recovered man in the forlorn dignity of his
memory and his wrongs. No scene capable of
such great treatment by the actor occurs in the
remainder of the drama. This one scene, however,
can hardly be forgotten by those who saw it.
Mr. Webster, however, was fine throughout the
piece. Let me record here how admirable I
thought Mr. David Fisher's representation in
this play of the unscrupulous and disdainful
abbé, whose hateful and malignant nature is
rendered just bearable by his scorn of danger.
Having seen Mr. Fisher in several parts which
he filled like a true artist, I have often wondered
that he was not more frequently before the town
in important characters.
It was not my good fortune to see Mr. Webster
in a small piece, in which he was, by general
consent, allowed to be at his best. As the poor
dramatic copyist, Penn Holder, in " One Touch
of Nature," he had a part which gave scope to
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
253
all his yearning tenderness as a father, and to
restraints scarcely less touching, by which he,
for a time, was forced to check it. He had to
make himself known to a daughter who had no
recollection of him, at so early an age had she
been carried off by the guilty mother who
deserted her husband. The daughter, under the
name of Constance Belmour, was then an actress.
A private rehearsal talves place in the house of
a dramatic author, who is dissatisfied with
Constance, in the stage-fiction, for her coldness
when she has to recognize a father who holds a
position precisely analogous to that of Holder to
Constance. Fearful that his daughter should lose
the chance of acting the part. Holder proposes in
this rehearsal to take the character of the supposed
father, and, in doing so, relates a number of real
details which gradually bring back to the girl's
dormant memory her first home and the indistinct
V
vision of a loving father. In brief, Constance
throws herself into the old man's arms, and
learns from her new experience of filial love
how to sustain her part of daughter in the drama.
254
OUE EECENT ACTOES.
It should be added, that while Holder has been
striving to reawaken her memory as a stage-
father, he has been trembling lest he should
reveal his true character too soon, and that, in
portraying these alternations of fond impulsive¬
ness and needful self-suppression, Webster gained
a triumph that he had scarcely surpassed. From
the slight sketch given of Penn Holder's cha¬
racter, I can well believe his excellence in it.
This sterling actor had few faults; perhaps
among the chief of them was a certain heaviness
and sombreness in playing the young heroes of
comedy. Thus his Petrucchio seemed reaUy
violent and angry, and showed little enjoyment
of the part in wMch he was masquerading. His
Wildrake, too, in "The Love-Chase," was over-
sullen and moody. These parts wanted the
geniality and the touches of humour with which
he so often relieved his older characters, and even
his young ones, when they were au fond rather
grave than gay. In his later years, too, whether
from carelessness or too much occupation, he
was seldom perfect in the text when he appeared
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
255
in a new part. A " fishing for words " and
dragging delivery took away from his effects,
till he warmed into his part, recovered his
memory, or supplied the loss of it impromptu.
He took leave of the stage in 1874. From the
farewell benefit accorded to him at Drury Lane
the same year, few indeed of his more distin¬
guished brothers and sisters in art were absent.
He had truly deserved well of his profession.
His services as a manager rivalled those he had
rendered as an actor. He had assembled a
company of actors so numerous, as well as
brilliant, that the accidental absence of one star
could at once be substituted by another. He
had sought to bring to light new dramatic ability
by offers which, if they now seem moderate,
were then liberality itself, and in the course of
his sixteen years' management, it is said, had
paid tliirty thousand pounds to his authors. It
was rumoured that in later years, at the Adelphi,
his outlay was less generous. If true that he had
learnt, from hard experience, to be thrifty, it is
scarcely to be wondered at.
256 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
Amongst other plays of the writer, he pro¬
duced, at the Haymarket, in 1847, a comedy
entitled " The Heart and the World." It was a
piece of so purely a psychological nature as to
neglect incident, which, instead of being pre¬
sented with fulness and strength, was only so
far outlined as to give a key to mental con¬
ditions. This unsuccessful piece is mentioned
only to show how lightly at that time the
manager bore pecuniary failure. He had built
great hopes on the piece, the reception of which
on the first night was cold, though not hostile.
That its " run " was doubtful was an impression
which its author had at once formed, and which-
he took no especial pains to hide from the
cordial manager, who accompanied him home to
a little social gathering, and did his best to cheer
him on the way. "We shall make a stand," he
said. "In a night or two all wiU have warmed
to their work, and the piece will go twice as
briskly." When, however, the notices of the new
play had appeared, and even the kindest of them
did not predict its attraction, it was felt that
OUB KECENT ACTORS. 257
the general opinion could not be resisted.
Without a murmur at his own loss or disap¬
pointment, Mr. Webster did all he could to put
the baffled dramatist in heart, spoke of his
unshaken faith in him, of successes that were
soon to sponge out the present failure, and
showed himself indeed the staunch friend that
he has already been described.
Not very long before the memorable Shakspere
Tercentenary, 1863, a dinner was given to
Webster at the Freemasons' Tavern. The unfor¬
tunate Shakspere Committee was at that time
seeking to raise funds for a memorial of the
poet. It was curious to hear the guest of the
evening demand, almost in terms of menace, that,
in honour of Shakspere, a large part of the sums
raised should be awarded to the two establish¬
ments of which he was founder—the Dramatic
and Equestrian Institution, and the Home for
Decayed Actors at Woking. There was good
reason that these undertakings should be sup¬
ported by contemporary generosity, but very
little that they should divert from its course
VOL. I. s
258
OUR RECENT ACTORS,
tlie money raised for a personal tribute, the best
form of which would obviously have been a
statue. Webster's interest, however, in institu¬
tions which he had founded, magnified to him
their claims, and led him to urge them even
with excessive warmth. Very agreeable, how¬
ever, are the recollections of that night at the
Freemasons'. Webster was full of reminiscences
of old times and of brother-actors. He spoke,
too, with much satisfaction of the cordial recep¬
tion given him in Paris by Hapoleon the
Third, whom he had formerly known in London.
Ptobert Bell, our genial and eloquent chairman,"
proposed the guest's health in a speech full
of criticism and felicitous expression. The
formalities of the evening then gave way to
pleasant gossip, jest, and repartee. At a rather
late hour came in Mr. Eobert Keeley, who had
some time before retired from the stage, and
whose entrance was the signal for a burst of
welcome, and for one more toast, tumultuously
received. Webster was now at the height of
his reputation. A few years later his appear-
OUß KECENT AOTOES.
259
ance became gradually rarer and rarer. He
survived his farewell of the stage more than
eight years. He died in the summer of 1882,
at the age of eighty-four, leaving as a realistic
actor a reputation hardly surpassed for force,
pathos, and humour, conveyed by incisive and
subtle detail; leaving, as a man, the memory of
an influential and honourable career of liberality
in his engagements, and of loyalty in his
friendships.
260
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
CHAPTER IX.
mes. glover.
Mrs. Glover in early days had often appeared in tragedy—Had
performed Hamlet—First saw her as Gertrude, to Charles
Kemble's Hamlet—Her eminence as an actress of comedy—
Her truth to nature—Her keen perception of characteristics,
moderation, and air of unconsciousness—These merits
exemplified in her Mrs. Malaprop—Her performance of
the character compared with Mrs. Stirling's—Mrs. Glover's
Mrs. Candour—Her Nurse in "Romeo and Juliet"—Her
Widow Green in " The Love Chase "—The original Lady
Franklin in "Money"—Her Miss Tucker in "Time
Works Wonders "—She appears in a comedy called " The
Maiden Aunt," by R. B. Knowles—Acts in the writer's
comedy, " Borough Politics "—Account of her performance
—Meeting with her at rehearsal—An argument with the
author—Minuteness and fulness of her observation—
Her sympathy with authors—Thackeray's tribute to her
acting—Reported connection of her family with the famous
Betterton—Her death.
In early life Mrs. Glover had often performed
tragic parts, Hamlet amongst the rest. The
character in which I first saw her was Gertrude
in " Hamlet." I was too much absorbed in Charles
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 261
Kemble's acting to give her the attention that
was her due, but I well recall her aspect of settled
melancholy and the sad, deep tones of her voice.
Tragedy, however, was become with her, in
general, a thing of the past. She had then given
up youthful characters, but, as an actress of
comedy in her own line, as the Nurse in " Eomeo
and Juliet," as Mrs. Heidelberg, Mrs. Malaprop,
Mrs. Candour, and as Widow Green in "The
Love Chase," she was without an equal.
In reviewing a number of performers whose
merits are often alike in everything but degree,
it becomes difficult to apply epithets which have
not lost something of their force by repetition.
To say simply that Mrs. Glover's main excellence
was her truth to nature, though no doubt literally
correct, would hardly tell anything. Edmund
Kean, for instance, Macready, the Kembles, were,
of course, generally true to the passions and
characters they represented. But this truthful¬
ness can only be general in tragedy which re¬
presents the essential feelings men have in
common, and rejects everything that savours
262 OUE EECENT ACTOKS.
of mere peculiarity. In comedy, however, which
represents the idiosyncrasies of persons, and the
modes in which men differ, the expression of
vivid personality is often one of the highest
merits. This Mrs. Glover eminently possessed.
She had an instinct for seizing traits and
humours, a moderation in displaying them as
just as her perception of them was lively, a wide
range of appreciation, and an apparent uncon¬
sciousness which gave wonderful reality to her
delineations. Thus, in the eccentricities of her
parts of speech as Mrs. Malaprop, and in her dis¬
plays of vanity and credulity, there was a solemn
self-complacency, an absence of misgiving, an
ohtuseness to ridicule, a vis inertise of comedy,
so to speak, which, in its power to produce the
ludicrous, could not have been surpassed by the
most active exertions. Those who, having seen
Mrs. Glover in Mrs. Malaprop, have also seen
Mrs. Stirling's admirably telling delineation, full
of intrigue, life, and movement, of the same part,
have had an opportunity of seeing the utmost
that two differing methods can produce, and of
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 263
comparing their effects. In the hands of each,
the general outlines of a character so broadly
defined as Mrs. Malaprop were, of course,
identical. The difference—and it was consider¬
able—lay in shades of expression. In uttering
the grandiloquent phraseology of the part, Mrs.
Glover's seK-satisfaction was more restrained, but
not less profound, than Mrs. Stirling's. The
former seemed to hug the secret of her supe¬
riority, the latter to revel in its presumed effect
upon her listeners. The compliments of Captain
Absolute were received by Mrs. Glover with
evident pleasure, indeed, but with a consciousness
that they were absolutely her due; by Mrs.
Stirhug with a flutter of delighted vanity. In
hearing herself described as " an old weather-
beaten she-dragon," resentment predominates with
Mrs. Stirling, whilst with Mrs. Glover an appeal¬
ing astonishment against the profanity of the
impeachment was the leading sentiment. There
are now few who have had a chance of con¬
trasting the claims of these two admirable
actresses in the part in question ; but even those
264 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
who have the liveliest recollection of Mrs. Glover
will recognize in Mrs. Stirling's Mrs. Malaprop
the finest example of old comedy acting left to
the contemporary stage.
In Mrs. Candour, again, Mrs. Glover, when
uttering her charitable calumnies, wore an air
of almost deep and stolid conviction, which
showed that the hypocrite, imposing even upon
herself, believed that she was defending her
victims while she enjoyed the pleasure of traducing
them.
Her Nurse in " Eomeo and Juliet " had all
the reality of Dutch art applied to character.
Her attachment to her youthful charge was
strong even to audacity. Her remonstrance with
old Capulet, when he threatens and abuses Juliet
for refusing the proposed marriage with Paris,
had a sullen, half-checked fierceness in it, like
the growl of an angry but wary dog when one
attacks his mistress. Her attachment to Juliet
was, indeed, a sort of animal instinct. It exerted
no general influence; it helped to humour, but
not to understand or fathom, the young girl's
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 265
love. She wore a look of puzzled indulgence
when listening to Juliet's grief for Eomeo's
banishment. For a while this, with the ISTurse,
was a whim to be humoured, by no means to
he persisted in at the risk of loss or danger.
In all this, of course, the actress only followed
Shakspere ; but her manner of doing so was
perfect. If self-interest had been an article of
the Decalogue, she could not have obeyed it with
more implicit faith, with more utter unconscious¬
ness of its meanness. There was a sort of frank
rationality in her mien and manner when she
urged Juliet to desert her lover, as of one who
spoke from her deepest convictions. Her very
conscience seemed to be dishonest.
Of her performance of such characters as we
have already named, including Mrs. Heidelberg
in the " Clandestine Marriage," criticism has
taken more ample note than of her acting in
more modern plays—of her "Widow Green," for
instance, in Sheridan Knowles's "Love Chase."
This, however, was one of her best characters.
What a complacent confidence was there in her
266
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
mature cliarms, when she questions her maid as
to the signs of young Master Walter's disap¬
pointment at her absence ; what enjoyment of
her supposed lover's mortification, what eager¬
ness in her desire to repair it; what indignant
disdain for Lydia's pure and disinterested con¬
ception of love ; what elation at the power of
her own attractions, where Master Walter's letter,
with the offer of marriage to her maid, falls by
mistake into her hands; what truth to nature
when it strikes the buxom widow that she looks
too saucily happy for the timid bride she fain
would personate—
" Amelia, give this feather more a slope
That it sit droopingly.
*****
Hang this cheek
Of mine ! it is too saucy. What a pity
To have a colour of one's own ! "
And then, how fine and natural were the grada¬
tions from rage at her self-deception touching
Master Walter to the politic conclusion that, being
dressed for the altar, she would do well to escape
ridicule by marrying the elderly Sir William
Fondlove. Selfish, vain, cunning, worldly, but,
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 267
on the whole, good-humoured, and with a pleasure
in herself that made her pleasant to others, the
actress presented a character, the traits of which
might easily have been spoiled by exaggeration,
with a force which was increased by her modera¬
tion—a moderation, be it understood, in which
there was notliing tame—and with a harmonious
variety which, after a night's acquaintance, made
one feel as if one had known Widow Green all
one's life.
In 1840, during Mr. Webster's management
of the Haymarket, Mrs. Glover, was the original
Lady Franklin in Lord Lytton's comedy of
" Money." Here, for once, it was possible to
take exception to her. She wanted the due
enjoyment of her intrigue and the vivacity
needed to captivate a nature like that of Graves.
She was also, in 1840, the Miss Tucker of
Douglas Jerrold's comedy of "Time Works
AVonders." As the punctilious schoolmistress, she
gave lively and amusing expression to the pecu¬
liarities of the part ; but the comedy was so
crowded with figures that she had relatively
2()8 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
little opportunity to do so. At the Haymarket
also, while with Mr. Webster, she played the part
of the Maiden Aunt in the comedy of that
name by Mr. E. B. Knowles, son of the celebrated
dramatist. Her delightful geniality and spirit
in this character was the mainstay of the piece,
which, though slight in plot, had for a coup d'essai
considerable merit. I am not aware, however,
that Mr. E. B. Knowles made any second dra¬
matic attempt.
In 1846 I had the pleasure of securing Mrs.
Glover's services for a two-act comedy of my
own, entitled " Borough Politics." I had thus
an opportunity of observing, at rehearsal, how
thoroughly she had entered into her part,
omitting no opportunity of watching her rela¬
tions to the other characters in the piece, or
their modifying influence upon herself, the good-
hearted but uneducated woman married to a
worthy farmer, with a daughter betrothed to the
son of supercilious neighbours. The chief trial
of Mrs. Thompson (Mrs. Glover's part), at the
opening of the piece, is the contempt with
OUE KECENT AOTOES. 269
which Dr. and Mrs. Neville regard her efforts
to rise in the social scale. The ostentatious re¬
furnishing of Mrs. Thompson's house has given
Mrs. Neville an opportunity for exhausting her
powers of sarcasm on the former, who, incensed
by a long series of affronts, invokes her husband's
protection. Upon this Nathan Thompson, the
husband, resolves to dispute in his own person
Dr. Neville's election to the mayoralty—a reso¬
lution which has the unhappy effect of separating
the two lovers of the piece, each of whom now
belongs to a rival house. It will be assumed
that this sterling actress brought out with
admirable effect the delight of the worthy
matron in self-display, in the overdone splendour
of her residence, her sullen attempts to conceal
her mortification under the civil contempt of
Mrs. Neville, and the overflow of genuine passion
with which she at last retorted upon her, exulting
in the success of every well-delivered blow.
Nor was her maternal grief less effective, when,
her anger fading, she felt that she had brought
about a separation between her daughter and her
270 OUE RECENT ACTORS.
daughter's suitor, and converted her apparently
easy-going husband into a man stern and
vindictive and a great stickler for ceremonies.
All this may be affirmed, and yet it will not
show the special point in which Mrs. Glover
differed from many capable actresses — that
absorption in her part which no mere clever¬
ness of delivery, however appropriate, can sub¬
stitute or imitate. Take one illustration. When
her husband, as probable mayor, is spoken of as
"his worship," the title sinks deeply into the
mind of his wife. Though she had nothing
immediately to say, her expression showed that
she was rolling it over like a sweet morsel.
Knowing that in some cases the rank of the
husband gives a new appellation to the wife—
that the spouse of a lord or baronet, for instance,
becomes " lady "—poor Mrs. Thompson is anxious
to know how she will be styled as the wife of
"his worship." Over this question Mrs. Glover
fondly brooded, till she sadly discovered that the
honorary phrase of " worship " given to a mayor
still left his wife a simple "Mrs." The con-
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 271
versation th,en turned on other points. She now
and then gave a languid attention to it, and
then relapsed into her reverie, illustrated by her
dejected looks and restless movements. When
she at length rose, with the exclamation, ''It's
hard, though, there aren't no female ' worship ! ' "
she produced a burst of laughter, by disclosing
to the audience in words the trouble which,
with so much quiet nature, she had expressed
in pantomime.
At rehearsal, during the feigned anger of the
farmer-squire at his daughter's melancholy, Mrs.
Glover made an expressive gesture indicating
that all was right between the two. I thought
this rather premature, and observed that the
father had said nothing to justify it. She pointed
out to me, however, that, according to the stage
direction, the mention of his daughter had already
cost him a display of emotion. " Oh," said she,
"don't you think that if such a father is once
moved by the thought of his child, she's sure
to carry the day? It was because I saw him
struggling with his feelings that I put on that
272 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
look of pleasure. I felt convinced, at least for
the moment, that he would forgive her." The
author deferred to an argument which showed
that the actress had more closely studied one
of his characters than he had done. He would
apologize for dwelling on this little drama,
were it not that his presence at rehearsal gave
him an opportunity of noticing the minuteness
and fulness of Mrs. Glover's observation more
closely than he could have done from her acting.
The effects of these qualities might have been
equally felt " at night," but the intellectual
subtlety of motive that led to them would have
been partly missed. On the day after the pro¬
duction of the little piece, it happened that
one journal spoke less favourably of it than
the general press. I remarked to Mrs. Glover
that the criticism in question nevertheless paid
the warmest possible tribute to herself. "Oh,
that may be," said the actress, with aU the
warmth and sincerity which look and tone can
convey ; " but I never feel happy imless the
author has his full share of praise with us."
OUR RECENT ACTORS, 273
After the piece had been performed a few
nights, I had the pleasure of meeting Thackeray,
who expressed the warmest admiration of Mrs-
Glover's acting in it.
It has been asserted that Mrs, Glover, whose
maiden name was Betterton, inherited the blood
of the famous actor who flourished in the reign
of Charles the Second, and his successors. If the
assertion be true, the right to such honourable
descent was well maintained by this excellent
actress. She died in 1850, at the age of sixty-
eight.
VOL. I.
T
274
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
CHAPTEE X.
MES. WAENER.
Mrs. Warner's rank as an actress—Performs both the gentler
and sterner characters in tragedy—At Covent Garden
and Drury Lane with Macready—Had appeared, in 1836,
as the heroine of Knowles's " Daughter "—Her Joan of
Arc, Lady Macbeth, and Hermione—^Her power in invec¬
tive and in irony—Her fine impersonations of Emilia in
" Othello," and of Evadne in " The Maid's Tragedy "—
Account of her acting in these characters—Evadne her
chief triumph—Enthusiastic praise of it by Dickens—
After separating from Phelps, Mrs. Warner attempts, in
1847, to make the Marylebone Theatre a Western Sadler's
Wells—Eventual failure of the scheme—During her
management of the Marylebone, Mrs. Warner appears
as Hermione, Julia, Lady Teazle, Mrs. Beverley, Mrs.
Oakley, and Lady Townley—Her want of fiexibility in
comedy—Great merit, nevertheless, of her Mrs. Oakley—
The event of her first season at the Marylebone the
magnificent and correct reproduction of Beaumont and
Fletcher's " Scornful Lady "—Remarks on this Comedy—
The character of the heroine remarkably suited to her—
Mrs. Warner in private—First meeting with her at
rehearsal at Drury Lane, in 1842—Her acute and
humorous remarks on Macready's realistic getting up
of " The Patrician's Daughter "—Anecdote told by her of
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
275
impracticable stage-effects—Her easy aud genial manners
in private, for the exhibition of which her stage characters
gave few opportunities—Her last illness and death.
Mes. Warner was a remarkable actress, even at
the time when Miss Helen Faucit and Mrs.
Charles Kean were at the height of their popu¬
larity. In serious characters she was second only
to them in public estimation, playing, moreover,
a range of sterner characters than they generally
appeared in. At the time of her engagements
with Macready, both at Covent Garden and at
Drury Lane, Miss Huddart, who, in the course of
them, became Mrs. Warner, was the recognized
Lady Macbeth, Emilia, Gertrude, and Volumnia
of those theatres. In 1836 she had made a
considerable impression in a part of a strong,
but more amiable description—the heroine of
Knowles's " Daughter," a play which, though
gloomy, might for pure dramatic force compete
with any of his productions. I did not see Mrs.
Warner (then Miss Huddart) in the character
mentioned; but it is due to her to record the
warm approval which she received from press
276
OUE EECENT ACTOES.
and public in a more winning part than those
she usually represented.
It may be mentioned here that, in 1837, at
Covent Garden, she personated the heroine of a
melodrama called " Joan of Arc," the critics
generally deposing to her energy and intensity,
though one or two accused her, not quite unjustly,
of occasional ranting.
Lady Macbeth, though probably the character
which Mrs. Warner most frequently impersonated,
was not, in my opinion, her most successful one.
It had a tolerably well counterfeited air of the
true personage, but it would not stand the tests
of long acquaintanceship or examination. In
the early acts, it was stern, set, decisive, and
when need was, impetuous and scornful; but
there was all the difference between it and a
genuine conception that exists between a
character arrived at and expressed by the under¬
standing, and a character seized by the will
and inspired with its energy. There was not
that variety of tone or manner which belongs
to a woman desperately bent upon an end, and
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
277
eager to try every resource in turn to secure it.
There was a declamatory attempt in the first
scene to realize the supernatural, but no real
awe, no real trust in "fate" and "metaphysical
aid." In the later scenes, Mrs, "Warner was
dignified and remorseful, and the solemnities
of the sleep-walking scene were punctiliously
observed, and rendered with all the time-
honoured traditions. What, then, did she lack ?
Depth, incisiveness, the interchange of the
shifting moods of emotion, the different shades
even of the same emotion which mark life. Yet
there was, so to speak, such a consistent ^physique
of Lady Macbeth in Mrs. Warner's delineation,
and such a propriety in her somewhat surface-
exhibition of the character, that she was held
for years to be its most satisfactory representative.
Among the few gentler types of womanhood
that she occasionally embodied, was Hermione
in the "Winter's Tale." She gave with great
dignity and queenly patience that wonderful
defence of the slandered queen, in which the
story of her wrong gains emphasis and force from
278 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
its moderation. Nothing could be more royal
than her appearance in the statue-scene, more
finely graduated than the return to life and
motion, or more nobly affecting than her final
embrace of the repentant Leontes.
She had great power in direct invective, as
well as in irony. In the latter she sometimes
employed a sinister gentleness, which implied
far more scorn than open bitterness could
compass. Her Emüia in "Othello" was finely
conceived and executed. She showed a bold
freedom of manner, which went far to justify
lago's suspicions of her. With this was com¬
bined that sort of half Masé ease which comes
from knowledge of life, however gained, and of
the chief figures of the time, while the whole
was lit up and half redeemed by the sudden
flashes of that more generous spirit by which
Shakspere has hinted what the wife of lago
might have been under better conditions. Her
usual characteristic was breadth rather than
subtlety, except in pride, of which she had all
the nuances. It might be going too far to
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 279
ascribe her devotion to Desdemona to some re¬
morseful tenderness for one who was the image
of her past and purer life. Nevertheless, her
acting perfectly tallied with such a conception.
She was a different, and, on the whole, a higher
being with Desdemona than with others. After
the murder of Desdemona, her defiance to Othello
when she rates him, " I care not for thy sword,"
had the passionate recklessness of life which
indignation creates, and her entire acting in the
passages where she discloses the villainy of her
husband was fraught with a fierce anguish of
bereavement for her mistress, as well as scorn for
her husband and his dupe. For better, for worse,
she was that marvellous embodiment of a nature
grown unscrupulous through its fall, and yet
morally clear-sighted, and capable of generosity
and attachment, that Shakspere has painted
with a success equal to his daring.
There can be no doubt, however, that Mrs.
Warner won her chief triumph as Evadne in
" The Bridal "—Sheridan Knowles's adaptation of
"The Maid's Tragedy," first played at the Hay-
280
OUE EECENT A0T0E8.
market, in 1837. Scorn never took a more regal
mien, guilt never borrowed a more redeeming
touch of majesty from resolution, self-possession,
and contempt of look and tone—all the more
withering because they were kept within the
bounds of calm restraint, as if Evadne would not
allow herself to be much moved by so slight a
cause as this new convenience, this despised
husband. Her first careless disregard of his ex¬
postulation, followed by the cold gaze of her
lustrous eyes on him, when he forced her to be
explicit, made an admirable contrast. There is
a passage in which she asks him what look of
hers suits him best. Amintor replies—
" Why do you ask ?
Evad. That I may show you one less pleasing to you.
Amin. How's that ?
Evad. That I may show you one less pleasing to you.
In the repetition of this answer, her tones
were so clear and slow that each syllable took
its fullest meaning, and carried home to Amintor
the conviction of her recoil from him. When,
subsequently, she warns him that it is no
maiden coyness that bids her shrink from his
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
281
arms; that "hot and rising blood" makes her
apt indeed for love, but that her beauty pledged
to the king shall not stoop to any second wooer,
there was an exaltation in the avowal of her
guilty passion for her paramour which made
her seem an embodiment of sensual beauty,
inspired by passion and ignorant of conscience.
If I mistake not, it was in this scene that she
wore a large necklace of pearls, which threw
the haughty, and, if I may use such an epithet,
the sultry splendour of her face into grand relief.
Tliis scene with Amintor was, indeed, a brilliant
passage. Nowise inferior to it was her interview
with Melantius, when, having discovered her
dishonour, he extorts from her a confession as to
her betrayer. Her levity and prompt resource
of equivocation while she yet doubts her brother's
meaning, her haughty and imperious defiance
when she at length apprehends it, disclosing a
strain of resolution akin to his own, her sub¬
mission only at the last extremity, when he has
wrought upon her shame as well as her terror,
were painted to the height, while the praise of
282 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
a fine artist was due for her skill in softening
Evadne's abrupt change from defiance to repent¬
ance.
Not long after the revival of " The Bridal/'
I met Charles Dickens at dinner at the Clarendon
Hotel.* In the course of the evening we spoke
together of the acting of Macready and Mrs.
Warner in this play. "What a defiant, splendid
Sin that woman is ! " exclaimed Dickens, with
enthusiasm. "How superbly, too, she looks the
part !" In short, the great novelist did not speak
with more delight of his friend Macready in
Melantius (one of his signal triumphs), than of
Mrs. Warner in Evadne.
After separating from Mr. Phelps, Mrs. Warner
opened, in 1847, the Marylebone Theatre, probably
hoping to gain a western suburb the same reputa¬
tion for legitimacy which had followed the
* This dinner was given in honour of the benevolent Dr.
Southwood Smith, the late Lord Lansdowne occupying the
chair. In a book of theatrical recollections, it may not be out
of place to record that the genial Lord Carlisle, better remem¬
bered, perhaps, as Lord Morpeth, was one of the company, whom
he highly amused by humorously avowing his remarkable
likeness to Liston, the comedian.
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
283
experiment at Sadler's Wells. In this expecta¬
tion, however, after a brave struggle, she was
disappointed. The company by which she was
supported, though respectable, was not equal to
that collected by Phelps at the Islington Theatre.
At the Marylebone, being her own mistress,
Mrs. Warner naturally gave her ambition rather
a wide scope. She opened with her admirable
Hermione in the "Winter's Tale," then played
Julia in " The Hunchback," Lady Teazle in " The
School for Scandal," Mrs. Beverley in " The
Gamester," Mrs. Oakley in "The Jealous Wife,"
Lady Townley in " The Provoked Husband,"
securing for all the characters least suited for
her that measure of acceptance which a practised
and intelligent performer can always command.
She was generally somewhat deficient in the
flexibility necessary for the heroines of comedy,
and, indeed, for those heroines whose graver
qualities are relieved by vivacity and humour.
In Mrs. Oakley, however, she displayed remark¬
able spirit, and that character was probably the
best of her assumptions in purely prose comedy.
284
OUE KEOENT ACTOKS.
But the great event of her first season at the
Marylebone was undoubtedly the revival of
Beaumont and Bletcher's " Scornful Lady,"
through an adaptation furnished by Mr. J. D.
Serle, an actor and dramatist who at that time
had some reputation in both capacities. The
comedy was put upon the stage with a sumptuous
taste and correctness which Macready himself
as a manager could not have exceeded. An
imposing hall and grand staircase, a noble
gallery, running the length of the stage, with
the various apartments from it, and an apart¬
ment in the " Lady's house," with its lofty marble
mantelpiece, its various decorations and elegant
trifles all in keeping with the time, were amongst
the chief triumphs of the scenery, while every
costume had been made a careful study. ISTothing
could have been more stately than this frame
for Beaumont and Fletcher's picture. It is
doubtful whether the comedy itself quite de¬
served all the praises for wit and spirit which
were ascribed to it. In other works of these
authors, both these qualities, it seems to the
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
285
writer, have been more fully exhibited—a cir¬
cumstance which is perhaps accounted for by
the small share which Fletcher is supposed to
have taken in the play. Nevertheless, there is
enough of invention, of decisive handling of
character and breadth of contrast in the
characters to leave it effective, even when purged
from some of its grossness. The delineation of
the Scornful Lady was one of Mrs, Warner's
greatest successes. Her haughty severity, kept
within the limits of refined courtesy, well became
her, and had a sort of provoking attractiveness
both for the public and the ill-used lover.
Though it was Mrs, Warner's lot to appear
generally in characters of severity, pride, decision,
or, in rarer cases, of stately sorrow, she was, in
private, full of 'bonhomie, animation, and quick
perception. I first met her at rehearsal, in 1842,
on the stage of Drury Lane Theatre. The play
in preparation, though in blank verse, was one
of contemporary life. Macready was anxious—
perhaps more anxious than the author—to invest
the action with every detail of the most modern
286 OUR RECENT ACTORS.
realism. Eor this purpose, the season represented
being summer, during one of the acts he wished
the actresses engaged to use parasols. "Blank
verse and parasols," said Mrs. Warner, apart, to
me one morning. "Is not that quite a new
combination?" "Yes," was the answer; "the
wish is to show that the present time has its
poetical aspect." "And you demonstrate that,"
she asked archly, " by carrying parasols, and
insisting upon other little realisms of the time ? "
To this, rejoinder was made that the attempt was
to show the poetry of the age, in spite of its
realistic details, and, therefore, they had to be
encountered ; and that, inasmuch as it was quite
possible for a woman to feel a poetical sentiment
—love or admiration, for instance—while using
a parasol, it was quite right to allow her to
express the sentiment with such an appendage;
that the seeming incongruity she referred to
sprang from mere novelty of association, and
that it would disappear as the association became
familiar. " But how far will you insist on this
view ? " she asked. " If you concede to realism
OUR RECENT ACTORS. 287
the uttering of poetical sentiment under parasols,
realism will soon demand more, and exact from
you that the parasols shall cast their shadows
on the ground, and just in accordance with the
position of the sun." This, doubtless, seemed to
her (for the stage resources of limelight were
then little known) a difficulty that could scarcely
be overcome. However, the quickness of her
observation and her power of deduction were
amply shown by her objections, no less than
was her vein of pleasant humour in the mode of
expressing them.
Shortly after undertaking the management of
the Marylebone Theatre, she called on us one
morning, and amused us all greatly by anecdotes
of the impracticable stage-effects which had been
sent to her for representation. One of the dramas
she mentioned was founded on a Grecian subject,
and required that the defeated hero of the piece,
after having been pierced by a javelin, taking
advantage probably of the courtesy of his
enemies, should ascend the slope of a mountain,
and compose himself to die in such an attitude
288
OUR RECENT ACTORS.
that the rays of the declining sun would just
rest upon his brow.* I give this little anecdote
to the best of my memory in Mrs. Warner's own
words, though I cannot reproduce the pleasant
and easy humour of her expression—all the more
noticeable, because she had so few opportunities
of exhibiting this quality on the stage. After
much suffering, during which the gracious sym¬
pathy of Her Majesty was habitually shown to
her, Mrs. Warner died at the age of fifty, in
1854.
* This difficulty, which seemed at the time insurmountable,
might now easily be conquered by the employment of lime¬
light.
END OF VOL. I.
LONDON ; PRINTED BT WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.