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The person charging this material is re- 
 sponsible for its return on or before the 
 Latest Date stamped below. 
 
 Theft, mutilation, and underlining of books 
 are reasons for disciplinary action and may 
 result in dismissal from the University. 
 
 University of Illinois Library 
 
at aE 
 
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 SHADOWS OF THE STAGE 
 
SHADOWS OF THE~ 
 STAGE / 
 
 ‘py, Bion as pale 
 WILLIAM WINTER? \s3c=S Y'/ 
 NN 
 LS — “4 3 
  <“ The best in this hind are but shadows” 
 SHAKESPEARE 
 
 NEW YORK 
 “MACMILLAN AND COMPANY 
 
 AND LONDON , 
 
 1893 
 
a 
 
 CopyRIGHT, 1892, 
 
 By MACMILLAN & CO. 
 
 Set up and electrotyped May, 1892. Large Paper 
 Edition printed May. Ordinary Edition reprinted 
 June, August, November, 1892; January, June, Octo- 
 ber, 1893. 
 
 Norwood press: 
 J. S. Cushing & Co. — Berwick & Smith. 
 Boston, Mass., U.S.A. 
 
TO 
 Henry Irbing 
 
 IN MEMORY AND IN HONOUR 
 OF ALL THAT HE HAS DONE 
 
 | TO DIGNIFY AND ADORN THE STAGE 
 AND TO ENNOBLE SOCIETY 
 
 THIS BOOK IS GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED 
 
 “Cui laurus xternos honores 
 Delmatico peperit triumpho”’ 
 
 (32643 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 ——@—— 
 
 “Tae papers contained in this volume, 
 chosen out of hundreds that the author has 
 written on dramatic subjects, are assembled 
 with the hope that they may be accepted, 
 in their present form, as a part of the 
 permanent record of our theatrical times. 
 For at least thirty years it has been a 
 considerable part of the constant occupa- 
 tion of the author to observe and to record 
 the life of the contemporary stage. Since 
 1860 he has written intermittently in various 
 periodicals, and since the summer of 1865 
 he has written continuously in the New 
 York Tribune, upon actors and their art; 
 and in that way he has accumulated a 
 great mass of historical commentary upon 
 thedrama. In preparing this book he has 
 been permitted to draw from his contribu- 
 tions to the Tribune, and also from his 
 writings in Harper's Magazine and Weekly, 
 in the London Theatre, and in Augustin 
 
 7 
 
i 
 
 8 PREFACE. 
 
 x Daly’s Portfolio of Players. The choice 
 
 of these papers has been determined partly 
 by consideration of space and partly with 
 the design of supplementing the author's 
 earlier dramatic books; \namely- Edwin 
 Booth in Twelve Dramatic Characters ; 
 The Jeffersons; Henry Irving; The Stage 
 Life of Mary Anderson; Brief Chronicles, 
 containing eighty-six dramatic biographies ; 
 In Memory of McCullough; The Life of 
 John Gilbert; The Life and Works of 
 John Brougham ; The Press and the Stage ; 
 The Actor and Other Speeches; and A 
 Daughter of Comedy, being the life of 
 Ada Rehan. The impulse of all those 
 writings, and of the present volume, is 
 commemorative. Let us save what we can. 
 
 “* Sed omnes una manet nox, 
 Et calcanda semel via leti.”’ 
 
 W. W. 
 APRIL 18, 1892. 
 
CHAP. 
 
 CON TEN LS, 
 
 THE GOOD OLD TIMES 
 IRVING IN FAUST . 
 ADELAIDE NEILSON 
 EDWIN BOOTH ” . 
 MARY ANDERSON . 
 
 OLIVIA . . : 
 
 ON JEFFERSON’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY, 
 
 ON JEFFERSON’S ACTING 
 
 JEFFERSON AND FLORENCE. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF FLORENCE 
 
 SHYLOCK AND PORTIA 
 JOHN MCCULLOUGH 
 CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN 
 
 LAWRENCE BARRETT 
 
10 
 CHAP. 
 
 XV. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 xIx. 
 
 xX. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 XXY. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 IRVING IN RAVENSWOOD Ke Dy 
 MERRY WIVES AND FALSTAFF, 243 
 ADA REHAN ne : . 258 
 TENNYSON’S FORESTERS . - 269 
 
 ELLEN TERRY: MERCHANT OF 
 
 .VENICE . : : : -: 286 
 RICHARD MANSFIELD 5 . 3801 
 GENEVIEVE WARD . 5 ) 
 EDWARD S. WILLARD . . 322 
 SALVINI ‘ : : , .. 339 
 IRVING AS EUGENE ARAM «- 348 
 CHARLES FISHER . ; . 367 
 MRS. GILBERT . 4 : . 314 
 JAMES LEWIS . : Pes Yas) 
 
 A LEAF FROM MY JOURNAL . 383 
 
“—TIt so fell out that certain players 
 We o'er-raught on the way: of these we told him ; 
 And there did seem in him a kind of joy 
 To hear of it.” 
 
 HAMLET. 
 
 “ Of all the cants which are canted in this 
 canting world —though the cant of hypocrites 
 may be the worst—the cant of criticism is the 
 most tormenting. I would go fifty miles on Soot, 
 Jor I have not a horse worth riding on, to kiss 
 the hand of that man who will give up the 
 reins of his imagination into his author's hands, 
 —be pleased he knows not why and cares not 
 
 wherefore.” : 
 TRISTRAM SHANDY. 
 
SHADOWS OF THE STAGE. 
 4 
 i 
 THE GOOD OLD TIMES. 
 
 T is recorded of John Lowin, an actor 
 contemporary with Shakespeare and 
 associated: with several of Shakespeare’s 
 greater characters (his range was so wide, 
 indeed, that it included Falstaff, Henry the 
 Eighth, and Hamlet), that, having survived 
 the halcyon days of ‘‘ Eliza and our James”’ 
 and lingered into the drab and russet period 
 of the Puritans, when all the theatres in the 
 British islands were suppressed, he became 
 poor and presently kept a tavern, at Brent- 
 ford, called The Three Pigeons. Lowin 
 was born in 1576 and he died in 1654 — his 
 grave being in London, in the churchyard of 
 St. Martin-in-the-Fields— so that, obviously, 
 he was one of the veterans of the stage. He 
 wasin hisseventy-eighth yearwhenhe passed 
 away — wherefore in his last days he must 
 
 13 
 
14, » THE GOOD OLD TIMES. 
 
 have been ‘‘a mine of memories.’? He could 
 talk of the stirring times of Leicester, Drake, 
 Essex, and Raleigh. He could remember, . 
 as an event of his boyhood, the execution 
 of Queen Mary Stuart, and possibly he 
 could describe, as an eye-witness, the splen- 
 did funeral procession of Sir Philip Sidney. 
 He could recall the death of Queen Eliza- 
 beth ; the advent of Scottish James; the 
 ruffling, brilliant, dissolute, audacious Duke 
 of Buckingham ; the impeachment and dis- 
 grace of Francis Bacon; the production of 
 the great plays of Shakespeare and Ben 
 Jonson; the meetings of the wits and poets 
 at the Apollo and the Mermaid. He might 
 have personally known Robert Herrick — 
 that loveliest of the wild song-birds of that 
 golden age. He might have been present 
 at the burial of Edmund Spenser, in West- 
 minster Abbey —when the poet brothers 
 of the author of The Faerie Queene cast 
 into his grave their manuscript elegies and 
 the pens with which those laments had been 
 written. He had acted Hamlet, — perhaps 
 in the author’s presence. He had seen the 
 burning of the old Globe Theatre. He had 
 been, in the early days of Charles the First, 
 the chief and distinguished Falstaff of the 
 time. He had lived under the rule of three 
 
—— 
 
 THE GOOD OLD TIMES. 15 
 
 successive princes ; had deplored the san- 
 guinary fate of the martyr-king (for the 
 actors were almost always royalists) ; had 
 seen the rise of the Parliament and the 
 downfall of the theatre; and now, under 
 the Protectorate of Oliver Cromwell, he had 
 become the keeper of an humble wayside 
 inn. It is easy to fancy the old actor sit- 
 ting in his chair of state, the monarch of 
 his tap-room, with a flagon of beer, anda 
 church-warden pipe of tobacco, and holding 
 forth, to a select circle of cronies, upon the 
 vanished glories of the Elizabethan stage — 
 upon the days when there were persons in 
 existence really worthy to be called actors. 
 He could talk of Richard Burbage, the first 
 Romeo ; of Armin, famous in Shakespeare’s 
 £lowns and fools ; of Heminge and Condell, 
 who edited the First Folio of Shakespeare, 
 which possibly he himself purchased, fresh 
 from the press; of Joseph Taylor, whom it 
 is said Shakespeare personally instructed 
 how to play Hamlet, and the recollection of 
 whose performance enabled Sir William 
 Davenant to impart to Betterton the ex- 
 ample and tradition established by the author 
 —a model that has lasted to the present 
 day ; of Kempe, the original Dogberry, and 
 of the exuberant, merry Richard Tarleton, 
 
16 THE GOOD OLD TIMES. 
 
 after whom that comic genius had fashioned 
 his artistic method; of Alleyne, who kept 
 the bear-garden, and who founded the Col- 
 lege and Home at Dulwich— where they 
 still flourish ; of Gabriel Spencer, and his 
 duel with Ben Jonson, wherein he lost his 
 life at the hands of that burly antagonist ; 
 of Marlowe ‘‘of the mighty line,’”’ and his 
 awful and lamentable death —stabbed at 
 Deptford by a drunken drawer in a tavern 
 brawl. Very rich and fine, there can be no 
 doubt, were that veteran actor’s remem- 
 brances of ‘‘ the good old times,’’? and most 
 explicit and downright, it may surely be 
 believed, was his opinion, freely commu- 
 nicated to the gossips of The Three Pig- 
 eons, that — in the felicitous satirical phrase 
 of Joseph Jefferson—all the good actors. 
 are dead. 
 
 It was ever thus. Each successive epoch 
 of theatrical history presents the same 
 picturesque image of storied regret —mem- 
 ory incarnated in the veteran, ruefully 
 vaunting the vanished glories of the past. 
 There has always been a time when the 
 stage was finer than it is now. Cibber and 
 Macklin, surviving in the best days of 
 Garrick, Peg Woffington, and Kitty Clive, 
 were always praising the better days of 
 
THE GOOD OLD TIMES. 17 
 
 Wilks, Betterton, and Elizabeth Barry. 
 Aged play-goers of the period of Edmund 
 Kean and John Philip Kemble were firmly 
 persuaded that the drama had been buried, 
 never to rise again, with the dust of Gar- 
 rick and Henderson, beneath the pavement 
 of Westminster Abbey. Less than fifty 
 years ago an American historian of the 
 stage (James Rees, 1845) described it as a 
 wreck, overwhelmed with ‘‘ gloom and eter- 
 nal night,’’? above which the genius of the 
 drama was mournfully presiding, in the 
 likeness of an owl. The New York veteran 
 of to-day, although his sad gaze may not 
 penetrate backward quite to the effulgent 
 splendours of the old Park, will sigh for 
 Burton’s and the Olympic, and the luminous 
 period of Mrs. Richardson, Mary Taylor, 
 and Tom Hamblin. The Philadelphia vet- 
 eran gazes back to the golden era of the old 
 Chestnut Street theatre, the epoch of tie- 
 wigs and shoe-buckles, the illustrious times 
 of Wood and Warren, when Fennell, Cooke, 
 Cooper, Wallack, and J. B. Booth were 
 shining names in tragedy, and Jefferson 
 and William Twaits were great comedians, 
 and the beautiful Anne Brunton was the 
 queen of the stage. The Boston veteran 
 speaks proudly of the old Federal and the 
 
 ¢ B 
 
18 THE GOOD OLD TIMES. 
 
 old Tremont, of Mary Duff, Julia Pelby, 
 Charles Eaton, and Clara Fisher, and is even 
 beginning to gild with reminiscent splen- — 
 dour the first days of the Boston Theatre, — 
 when Thomas Barry was manager and Julia 
 Bennett Barrow and Mrs. John Wood con- 
 tended for the public favour. In a word, 
 the age that has seen Rachel, Seebach, 
 Ristori, Charlotte Cushman, and Adelaide 
 Neilson, the age that sees Ellen Terry, Mary 
 Anderson, Edwin Booth, Joseph Jefferson, 
 Henry Irving, Salvini, Coquelin, Lawrence 
 Barrett, John Gilbert, John S. Clarke, Ada — 
 Rehan, James Lewis, Clara Morris, and 
 Richard Mansfield, is a comparatively sterile 
 period — ‘* Too long shut in strait and few, 
 thinly dieted on dew’’— which ought to 
 have felt the spell of Cooper and Mary Duff, — 
 and known what acting was when Cooke’s 
 long forefinger pointed the way, and Dun- 
 lap bore the banner, and pretty Mrs. Mar- 
 shall bewitched the father of his country, 
 and Dowton raised the laugh, and lovely 
 Mrs. Barrett melted the heart, and the roses 
 were ‘‘bright by the calm Bendemeer.’’ 
 The present writer, who began theatre- 
 going in earnest over thirty years ago, finds 
 himself full often musing over a dramatic 
 time that still seems brighter than this—_ 
 
THE GOOD OLD TIMES. Ig 
 
 when he could exult in the fairy splendour 
 and comic humour of Aladdin and weep 
 over the sorrows of The Drunkard, when 
 he was thrilled and frightened by J. B. 
 Booth in Zhe Apostate, and could find an 
 ecstasy of pleasure in the loves of Alonzo 
 and Cora and the sublime self-sacrifice of 
 Rolla. Thoughts of such actors as Henry 
 Wallack, George Jordan, John Brougham, 
 John EK. Owens, Mary Carr, Mrs. Barrow, 
 and Charlotte Thompson, together in the 
 
 game theatre, are thoughts of brilliant peo- 
 ple and of more than commonly happy dis- 
 
 plays of talent and beauty. The figures 
 that used to be seen on Wallack’s stage, at 
 
 the house he established upon the wreck of 
 John Brougham’s Lyceum, often rise in 
 “memory, crowned with a peculiar light. 
 
 Lester Wallack, in his peerless elegance ; 
 
 Laura Keene, in her spiritual beauty ; the 
 quaint, eccentric’ Walcot; the richly hu- 
 -morous Blake, so noble in his dignity, so 
 
 firm and fine and easy in his method, so 
 copious in his natural humour; Mary Gan- 
 non, sweet, playful, bewitching, irresistible ; 
 
 ' Mrs. Vernon, as full of character as the 
 tulip is of colour or the hyacinth of grace, 
 and as delicate and refined as an exquisite 
 
 seminal 
 
 bit of old china—those actors made a 
 
20 THE GOOD OLD TIMES. 
 
 group, the like of which it would be hard to 
 
 find now. Shall we ever see again such an 
 Othello as Edwin Forrest, or such a Lord 
 
 Duberly and Cap’n Cuttle as Burton, or 
 
 such a Dazzle as John Brougham, or such 
 an Affable Hawk as Charles Mathews ? 
 Certainly there was a superiority of man- 
 ner, a tinge of intellectual character, a tone 
 of grace and romance about the old actors, 
 such as is not common in the present ; and, 
 
 making all needful allowance for the illu- 
 
 sive glamour that memory casts Over the. 
 distant and the dim, it yet remains true 
 
 that the veterans of our day have a certain: 
 measure of right upon their side of the 
 question. 
 
 In the earlier periods of our theatrical 
 history the strength of the stage was con- 
 centrated in a few theatres. The old Park, 
 for example, was called simply The The-| 
 atre, and when the New York playgoer 
 spoke of going to the play he meant that. 
 he was going there. One theatre, or per-| 
 haps two, might flourish, in a considerable | 
 town, during a part of the year, but the 
 field was limited, and therefore the actors 
 were brought together in two or thret| 
 groups. The star system, at least till the| 
 time of Cooper, seems to have been innocu | 
 
THE GOOD OLD TIMES. 21 
 
 ous. Garrick’s prodigious success in Lon- 
 don, more than a hundred years ago, had 
 enabled him to engross the control of the 
 stage in that centre, where he was but 
 little opposed, and practically to exile many 
 players of the first ability, whose lustre he 
 dimmed or whose services he did not re- 
 quire ; and those players dispersed them- 
 selves to distant places — to York, Dublin, 
 Edinburgh, etc.—or crossed the sea to 
 America. With that beginning the way was 
 opened for the growth of superb stock-com- 
 panies, in the early days of the American 
 theatre. The English, next to the Italians, 
 were the first among modern peoples to 
 create a dramatic literature and to establish 
 the acted drama, and they have always led 
 In this field — antedating, historically, and 
 surpassing in essential things the French 
 stage which nowadays it is fashionable to 
 extol. English influence, at all times stern 
 and exacting, stamped the character of our 
 early theatre. The tone of society, alike 
 in the mother country, in the colonies, and 
 in the first years of our Republic, was, as 
 to these matters, formal and severe. Suc- 
 ess upon the stage was exceedingly diffi- 
 “eult to obtain, and it could not be obtained 
 ‘without substantial merit. The youths who 
 
 ae - 
 
22 THE GOOD OLD TIMES. 
 
 sought it were often persons of liberal edu- 4 
 cation. In Philadelphia, New York, and 
 Boston the stock-companies were composed 
 of select and thoroughly trained actors, 
 many of whom were well-grounded classical 
 scholars. Furthermore, the epoch was one 
 of far greater leisure and repose than are 
 possible now — when the civilised world is 
 at the summit of sixty years of scientific 
 development such as it had not experienced 
 in all its recorded centuries of previous 
 progress. Naturally enough the dramatic art 
 of our ancestors was marked by scholar-like 
 and thorough elaboration, mellow richness 
 of colour, absolute simplicity of character, 
 and great solidity of merit. Such actors as 
 Wignell, Hodgkinson, Jefferson, Francis, 
 and Blissett offered no work that was not 
 perfect of its kind. The tradition had been | 
 established and accepted, and it was trans- | 
 mitted and preserved. Everything was con- 
 centrated, and the public grew to be entirely | 
 familiar with it. Men, accordingly, who | 
 obtained their ideas of acting at a time | 
 when they were under influences surviving 
 from those ancient days are confused, be- | 
 wwildered, and distressed by much that is 
 offered in the theatresnow. Ihave listened | 
 to the talk of an aged American acquain- | 
 
THE GOOD OLD TIMES. 23 
 
 tance (Thurlow Weed), who had seen and 
 known Edmund Kean, and who said that 
 all modern tragedians were insignificant in 
 comparison with him. I have listened to 
 the talk of an aged English acquaintance 
 (Fladgate), who had seen and known John 
 Philip Kemble, and who said that his equal 
 has never since been revealed. The present 
 day knows what the old school was,! when 
 it sees William Warren, Joseph Jefferson, 
 Charles Fisher, Mrs. John Drew, John Gil- 
 bert, J. H. Stoddart, Mrs. G. H. Gilbert, 
 William Davidge, and Lester Wallack — 
 the results and the remains of it. The old 
 touch survives in them and is under their 
 control, and no one, seeing their ripe and 
 finished art, can feel surprise that the vet- 
 eran moralist should be wedded to his idols 
 of the past, and should often be heard sadly 
 to declare that all the good actors — except 
 these —are dead. He forgets that scores 
 of theatres now exist where once there were 
 but two or three; that the population of 
 the United States has been increased by 
 about fifty millions within ninety years ; 
 that the field has been enormously broad- 
 
 1 This paper was written in 1888, and now, in 1892, 
 Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Stoddart, Mrs. Drew, and Mrs. 
 Gilbert are the only survivors of that noble group. 
 
24. THE GOOD OLD TIMES. 
 
 ened; that the character of the audience 
 has become one of illimitable diversity ; 
 that the prodigious growth of the star-sys-_ 
 tem, together with all sorts of experimental 
 catch-penny theatrical management, is one 
 of the inevitable necessities of the changed 
 condition of civilisation; that the feverish 
 tone of this great struggling and seething 
 mass of humanity is necessarily reflected — 
 in the state of the theatre; and that the 
 forces of the stage have become very widely 
 diffused. Such a moralist would neces- 
 sarily be shocked by the changes that have 
 come upon our theatre within even the last 
 twenty-five years —by the advent of ‘‘ the 
 sensation drama,’’ invented and named by 
 Dion Boucicault ; by the resuscitation of 
 the spectacle play, with its lavish tinsel 
 and calcium glare and its multitudinous— 
 nymphs; by the opera bouffe, with its 
 frequent licentious ribaldry ; by the music- 
 hall comedian, with his vulgar realism ; 
 and by the idiotic burlesque, with its futile 
 babble and its big-limbed, half-naked girls. 
 Nevertheless there are just as good actors 
 now living as have ever lived, and there 
 is just as fine a sense of dramatic art in the 
 community as ever existed in any of *¢ th 
 palmy days’’; only, what was formerly 
 concentrated is now scattered. 
 
THE GOOD OLD TIMES. 25 
 
 The stage is keeping step with the prog- 
 ress of human thought in every direction, 
 and it will continue to advance. Evil influ- 
 ences impressed upon it there certainly are, 
 in liberal abundance — not the least of these 
 being that of the speculative shop-keeper, 
 whose nature it is to seize any means of 
 turning a penny, and who deals in dramatic 
 art precisely as he would deal in groceries : 
 but when we speak of ‘‘our stage’’ we do 
 not mean an aggregation of shows or of the 
 schemes of showmen. ‘The stage is an in- 
 stitution that has grown out of a necessity 
 in human nature. It was as inevitable that 
 man should evolve the theatre as it was 
 that he should evolve the church, the judi- 
 ciary tribunal, the parliament, or any other 
 essential component of the State. Almost 
 all human beings possess the dramatic per- 
 ception ; a few possess the dramatic fac- 
 ulty. These few are born for the stage, and 
 each and every generation contributes its 
 number to the service of this art. The 
 problem is one of selection and embarka- 
 tion. Of the true actor it may be said, as 
 
 Ben Jonson says of the true poet, that he is 
 made as well as born. The finest natural 
 faculties have never yet been known to avail 
 : Without training and culture. But this is a 
 
26 THE GOOD OLD TIMES. : 
 
 problém which, in a great measure, takes 
 care of itself and in time works out and 
 submits its own solution. The anomaly, 
 every day presented, of the young person 
 who, knowing nothing, feeling nothing, 
 and having nothing to communicate except 
 the desire of communication, nevertheless 
 rushes upon the stage, is felt to be absurd. 
 
 Where the faculty as well as the instinct — 
 
 exists, however, impulse soon recognises 
 the curb of common sense, and the aspirant 
 finds his level. In this way the dramatic 
 profession is recruited. In this way the 
 several types of dramatic artist — each type 
 being distinct and each being expressive of 
 a sequence from mental and spiritual an- 
 cestry —are maintained. It is not too much 
 to say that a natural law operates silently 
 and surely behind each seemingly capricious 
 chance, in this field of the conduct of life. 
 A thoroughly adequate dramatic stock- 
 company may almost be said to be a thing 
 of natural accretion. It is made up, like 
 every other group, of the old, the middle- 
 aged, and the young; but, unlike every 
 
 other group, it must contain the capacity to — 
 
 present, in a concrete image, each elemental 
 type of human nature, and to reproduce, 
 
 with the delicate exaggeration essential to 
 
 | 
 
THE GOOD OLD TIMEs. a | 
 
 dramatic art, every species of person; in 
 order that all human life — whether of the 
 street, the dwelling, the court, the camp, 
 man in his common joys and sorrows, his 
 vices, crimes, miseries, his loftiest aspira- 
 tions and most ideal state—may be so 
 copied that the picture will express all its 
 beauty and sweetness, all its happiness and 
 mirth, all its dignity, and all its moral ad- 
 monition and significance, for the benefit of 
 the world. Such a dramatic stock-company, 
 for example (and this is but one of the com- 
 ‘mendable products of the modern stage), 
 has grown up and crystallised into a form 
 of refined power and symmetry, for the 
 purpose to which it is devoted, under the 
 management of Augustin Daly. That pur- 
 pose is the acting of comedy. Mr. Daly 
 began management in 1869, and he has re- 
 mained in it, almost continually, from that 
 time to this. Many players, first and last, 
 have served under his direction. His com- 
 pany has known vicissitudes. But the or- 
 ganisation has not lost its comprehensive 
 form, its competent force, and its attractive 
 quality of essential grace. No thoughtful 
 observer of its career can have failed to per- 
 ceive how prompt the manager has been to 
 profit by every lesson of experience ; what 
 
28 THE GOOD OLD TIMES. 
 
 keen perception he has shown as to the 
 essential constituents of a theatrical troop ; 
 with what fine judgment he has used the 
 forces at his disposal; with what intrepid 
 resolution and expeditious energy he has 
 animated their spirit and guided their art ; 
 and how naturally those players have glided 
 into their several stations and assimilated 
 in one artistic family. How well balanced, 
 how finely equipped, how distinctively able 
 that company is, and what resources of 
 poetry, thought, taste, character, humour, 
 and general capacity it contains, may not, 
 perhaps, be fully appreciated in the passing 
 hour. ‘‘ Non, si male nune, et olim sic erit.”’ 
 Fifty years from now, when perchance some 
 veteran, still bright and cheery ‘‘in the 
 chimney-nook of age,’’ shall sit in his arm- 
 chair and prose about the past, with what 
 complacent exultation will he speak of the 
 beautiful Ada Rehan, so bewitching as 
 Peggy in The Country Girl, so radiant, 
 vehement, and stormily passionate as Kath- 
 erine ; of manly John Drew, with his non- 
 chalant ease, incisive tone, and crisp and 
 graceful method ; of noble Charles Fisher, 
 and sprightly and sparkling James Lewis, 
 and genial, piquant, quaint Mrs. Gilbert! 
 I mark the gentle triumph in that aged 
 
THE GOOD OLD TIMES. 29 
 
 reminiscent voice, and can respect an old 
 man’s kindly and natural sympathy with 
 the glories and delights of his vanished 
 youth. But I think it is not necessary to 
 wait till you are old before you begin to 
 praise anything, and then to praise only the 
 dead. Let us recognise what is good in our 
 own time, and honour and adimire it with 
 grateful hearts. 
 
 Note. — At the Garrick club, London, June 
 26, 1885, it was my fortune to meet Mr. Flad- 
 gate, ‘‘father of the Garrick,’’ who was then 
 aged 86. The veteran displayed astonishing 
 resources of memory and talked most in- 
 structively about the actors of the Kemble 
 period. He declared John Philip Kemble to 
 have been the greatest of actors, and said 
 that his best impersonations were Penrud- 
 dock, Zanga, and Coriolanus. Mrs. Siddons, 
 he said, was incomparable, and the elder 
 Mathews a great genius, —the precursor of 
 Dickens. For Edmund Kean he had no en- 
 thusiasm. Kean, he said, was at his best in 
 Sir Edward Mortimer, and after that in Shy- 
 lock. Miss O’Neill he remembered as the 
 perfect Juliet: a beautiful, blue-eyed woman, 
 who could easily weep, and who retained her 
 beauty to the last, dying at 85, as Lady 
 Wrixon Becher. 
 
30 HENRY IRVING AND 
 
 II. 
 HENRY IRVING AND ELLEN TERRY IN FAUST. 
 
 ibs is not surprising that the votaries of 
 Goethe’s colossal poem — a work which, 
 although somewhat deformed and degraded 
 with the pettiness of provincialism, is yet. a 
 grand and immortal creation of genius — 
 should find themselves dissatisfied with the- 
 atrical expositions of it. Although dramatic 
 in form the poem is not continuously, di- 
 rectly, and compactly dramatic in move- 
 ment. It cannot be converted into a play 
 without being radically changed in struc- 
 ture and in the form of its diction. More 
 disastrous still, in the eyes of those vota- 
 ries, it cannot be and it never has been 
 
 converted into a play without a considerable — 
 sacrifice of its contents, its comprehensive 
 
 scope, its poetry, and its ethical significance. 
 In the poem it is the Man who predomi- 
 nates ; it isnot the Fiend. Mephistopheles, 
 indeed, might, for the purpose of philosoph- 
 ical apprehension, be viewed as an embodied 
 
a — 
 
 ELLEN TERRY IN FAUST. 31 
 
 projection of the mind of Faust; for the 
 power of the one is dependent absolutely 
 upon the weakness and surrender of the 
 other. The object of the poem was the 
 portrayal of universal humanity in a typical 
 form at its highest point of development 
 and in its representative spiritual experi- 
 ence. Faust, an aged scholar, the epitome 
 of human faculties and virtues, grand, 
 venerable, beneticent, blameless, is passing 
 miserably into the evening of life. He has 
 done no outward and visible wrong, and 
 yet he is wretched. The utter emptiness 
 of his life—its lack of fulfilment, its lack 
 of sensation — wearies, annoys, disgusts, 
 and torments him. He is divided between 
 an apathy, which heavily weighs him down 
 into the dust, and a passionate, spiritual 
 longing, intense, unsatisfied, insatiable, 
 which almost drives him to frenzy. Once, 
 at sunset, standing on a hillside, and look- 
 ing down upon a peaceful valley, he utters, 
 in a poetic strain of exquisite tenderness 
 and beauty, the final wish of his forlorn and 
 weary soul. It is no longer now the god- 
 like aspiration and imperious desire of his 
 prime, but it is the sufficient alternative. 
 All he asks now is that he may see the 
 world always as in that sunset vision, in 
 
32 HENRY IRVING AND 
 
 the perfection of happy rest; that he may 
 be permitted, soaring on the wings of. the 
 spirit, to follow the sun in its setting (“The 
 day before me and the night behind’’), and 
 thus to circle forever round and round this 
 globe, the ecstatic spectator of happiness 
 and peace. He has had enough and more 
 than enough of study, of struggle, of un- 
 fulfilled aspiration. Lonely dignity, arid 
 renown, satiety, sorrow, knowledge with- 
 out hope, and age without comfort, — these 
 are his present portion; and a little way 
 onward, waiting for him, is death. Too 
 old to play with passion, too young not to 7 
 feel desire, he has endured a long struggle 
 between the two souls in his breast —one 
 longing for heaven and the other for the 
 world; but he is beaten at last, and in the 
 abject surrender of despair he determines 
 to die by his own act. A childlike feeling, 
 responsive in his heart to the divine prompt- 
 ing of sacred music, saves him from self- — 
 murder; but ina subsequent bitter revulsion 
 he utters a curse upon everything in the 
 state of man, and most of all upon that 
 celestial attribute of patience whereby man 
 is able to endure and to advance in the 
 eternal process of evolution from darkness 
 into light. And now it is, when the soul — 
 
ELLEN TERRY IN FAUST. 35 
 
 of the human being, utterly baffled by the 
 mystery of creation, crushed by its own 
 hopeless sorrow, and enraged by the ever- 
 lasting command to renounce and refrain, 
 
 has become one delirium of revolt against 
 God and destiny, that the spirit of perpetual 
 _ denial, incarnated in Mephistopheles, steps 
 
 forth to proffer guidance and help. It is as 
 if his rejection and defiance had suddenly 
 become embodied, to aid him in his ruin. 
 
 _ More in recklessness than in trust, with no 
 
 fear, almost with scorn and contempt, he 
 
 yet agrees to accept this assistance. If 
 
 happiness be really possible, if the true 
 way, after all, should lie in the life of the 
 senses, and not in knowledge and reason; 
 if, under the ministrations of this fiend, 
 
 one hour of life, even one moment of it, 
 
 shall ever (which is an idle and futile sup- 
 
 position) be so sweet that his heart shall 
 
 desire it to linger, then, indeed, he will sur- 
 render himself eternally to this at present 
 
 preposterous Mephistopheles, whom his 
 mood, his magic, and the revulsion of his 
 moral nature have evoked : — 
 
 “Then let the death-bell chime the token! 
 Then art thou from thy service free! 
 The clock may stop, the hand be broken, 
 And time be finished unto me.”’ 
 Cc 
 
34 HENRY IRVING AND 
 
 Such an hour, it is destined, shall arrive, 
 after many long and miserable years, when, 
 aware of the beneficence of living for 
 others and in the imagined prospect of 
 leading, guiding, and guarding a free peo-— 
 ple upon a free land, Faust shall be willing” 
 to say to the moment: ‘‘ Stay, thou art so 
 fair’? ; and Mephistopheles shall harshly 
 cry out: ‘'The clock stands still’’?; and 
 the graybeard shall sink in the dust; and 
 the holy angels shall fly away with his soul, 
 leaving the Fiend baffled and morose, to gibe 
 at himself over the failure of all his infernal 
 arts. But, meanwhile, it remains true of 
 the man that no pleasure satisfies him and 
 no happiness contents, and ‘‘death is de- 
 sired, and life a thing unblest.”’ 
 
 The man who puts out his eyes must be-— 
 come blind. The sin of Faust is a spiritual 
 sin, and the meaning of all his subsequent 
 terrible experience is that spiritual sin must 
 be—and will be —expiated. No human 
 soul can ever be lost. In every human soul 
 the contest between good and evil must 
 continue until the good has conquered and 
 the evil is defeated and eradicated. Then, 
 when the man’s spirit is adjusted to its” 
 environment in the spiritual world, it will 
 be at peace —and not till then. And if 
 = 
 
ELLEN TERRY IN FAUST. 35 
 
 this conflict is not waged and completed 
 now and here, it must be and it will be 
 fought out and finished hereafter and some- 
 where else. It is the greatest of all delu- 
 sions to suppose that you can escape from 
 yourself. Judgment and retribution pro- 
 ceed within the soul and not from sources 
 outside of it. That is the philosophic drift 
 of the poet’s thought expressed and im- 
 plied in his poem. It was Man, in his mor- 
 tal ordeal — the motive, cause, and necessity 
 of .which remain a mystery —whom he 
 desired and aimed to portray; it was not 
 merely the triumph of a mocking devil, 
 temporarily victorious through ministration 
 to animal lust and intellectual revolt, over 
 the weakness of the carnal creature and 
 the embittered bewilderment of the baffled 
 mind. Mr. Irving may well say, as he is 
 reported to have said, that he will consider 
 himself to have accomplished a good work 
 if his production of Faust should have 
 the effect of invigorating popular interest 
 in Goethe’s immortal poem and bringing 
 closer home to the mind of his public a true 
 sense of its sublime and far-reaching signifi- 
 cation. 
 _ The full metaphysical drift of thought 
 
 | and meaning in Goethe’s poem, however, 
 
36 HENRY IRVING AND 
 
 can be but faintly indicated in a play. It 
 is more distinctly indicated in Mr. Wills’s” 
 play, which is used by Mr. Irving, than in 
 any other play upon this subject that has 
 been presented. This result, an approxi- 
 mate fidelity to the original, is due in part 
 to the preservation of the witch scenes, in - 
 part to Mr. Irving’s subtle and significant 
 impersonation of Mephistopheles, and in 
 part to a weird investiture of spiritual mys- 
 tery with which he has artfully environed 
 the whole production. The substance of 
 the piece is the love story of Faust and 
 Margaret, yet beyond this is a background 
 of infinity, and over and around this is a 
 poetic atmosphere charged with suggestive- 
 ness of supernatural agency in the fate of 
 man. If the gaze of the observer be con- 
 centrated upon the mere structure of the 
 piece, the love story is what he will find; 
 and that is all he will find. Faust makes 
 his compact with the Fiend. He is rejuve- 
 nated and he begins a new life. In ‘the 
 Witch’s Kitchen”? his passions are intensi- 
 fied, and then they are ignited, so that he 
 may be made the slave of desire and after- 
 ward if possible imbruted by sensuality. 
 He is artfully brought into contact with 
 Margaret, whom he instantly loves; who. 
 
ELLEN TERRY IN FAUST. a7 
 
 presently loves him, whom he wins, and 
 upon whom, since she becomes a mother 
 out of wedlock, his inordinate and reckless 
 love imposes the burden of pious contrition 
 and worldly shame. ‘Then, through the 
 puissant wickedness and treachery of Meph- 
 istopheles, he is made to predominate 
 over her vengeful brother, Valentine, whom 
 he kills in a street fray. Thus his desire 
 to experience in his own person the most 
 exquisite bliss that humanity can enjoy and 
 equally the most exquisite torture that it 
 can suffer, becomes fulfilled. He is now 
 the agonised victim of love and of remorse. 
 Orestes pursued by the Furies was long ago 
 selected as the typical image of supreme 
 anguish and immitigable suffering; but 
 Orestes is less a lamentable figure than 
 Faust — fortified though he is, and because 
 he is, with the awful but malign, treacher- 
 ous, and now impotent sovereignty of hell. 
 To deaden his sensibility, destroy his con- 
 science, and harden him in evil the Fiend 
 leads him into a mad revel of boundless 
 -profligacy and bestial riot — denoted by the 
 beautiful and terrible scene upon the 
 Brocken —and poor Margaret is abandoned 
 / to her shame, her wandering, her despair, 
 her frenzy, her crime, and her punishment. 
 
 a 
 
38 HENRY IRVING AND 
 
 This desertion, though, is procured by a 
 stratagem of the Fiend and does not pro= 
 ceed from the design of her lover. The 
 expedient of Mephistopheles, to lull his prey 
 by dissipations, is a failure. Faust finds 
 them ‘‘tasteless,’? and he must return to 
 Margaret. He finds her in prison, crazed 
 and dying, and he strives in vain to set her 
 free. There is a climax, whereat, while 
 her soul is borne upward by angels he— 
 whose destiny must yet be fulfilled — is 
 summoned by the terrible voice of Satan. 
 This is the substance of what is shown; 
 but if the gaze of the observer pierces be- 
 yond this, if he is able to comprehend that 
 terrific but woeful image of the fallen angel, 
 if he perceives what is by no means ob- 
 scurely intimated, that Margaret, redeemed 
 and beatified, cannot be happy unless her 
 lover also is saved, and that the soul of 
 Faust can only be lost through the impos- 
 sible contingency of being converted into 
 the likeness of the Fiend, he will under- 
 stand that a spectacle has been set before 
 him more august, momentous, and sublime 
 than any episode of tragical human love 
 could ever be. 
 
 Henry Irving, in his embodiment of Meph- 
 istopheles, fulfilled the conception of the 
 
ELLEN TERRY IN FAUST. 39 
 
 poet in one essential respect and tran- 
 scended it in another. His performance, 
 superb in ideal and perfect in execution, 
 was a great work —and precisely here was 
 the greatness of it. Mephistopheles as de- 
 lineated by Goethe is magnificently intel- 
 lectual and sardonic, but nowhere does he 
 convey even a faint suggestion of the god- 
 head of glory from which he has lapsed. 
 His own frank and clear avowal of himself 
 leaves no room for doubt as to the limita- 
 tion intended to be established for him by 
 the poet. Iam, he declares, the spirit that 
 perpetually denies. I am a part of that 
 part which once was all—a part of that 
 darkness out of which came the light. I 
 repudiate all things— because everything 
 that has been made is unworthy to exist 
 and ought to be destroyed, and therefore it 
 is better that nothing should ever have been. 
 made. God dwells in splendour, alone and 
 eternal, but his spirits he thrusts into dark- 
 hess, and man, a poor creature fashioned to 
 poke his nose into filth, he sportively dow- 
 ers with day and night. My province is 
 evil; my existence is mockery ; my pleas- 
 ure and my purpose are destruction. In a 
 word, this Fiend, towering to the loftiest 
 Summit of cold intellect, is the embodiment 
 
40 HENRY IRVING AND 
 
 of cruelty, malice, and scorn, pervaded and 
 interfused with grim humour. That ideal 
 Mr. Irving made actual. The omniscient 
 craft and deadly maglignity of his imper- 
 sonation, swathed in a most specious hu- 
 mour at some moments (as, for example, in 
 Margaret’s bedroom, in the garden scene 
 with Martha, and in the duel scene with 
 Valentine) made the blood creep and curdle 
 with horror, even while they impressed the 
 sense of intellectual power and stirred the 
 springs of laughter. But if you rightly saw 
 his face, in the fantastic, symbolical scene 
 of the Witch’s Kitchen ; in that lurid mo- 
 ment of sunset over the quaint gables and 
 haunted spires of Nuremburg, when the 
 sinister presence of the arch-fiend deepened 
 the red glare of the setting sun and seemed 
 to bathe this world in the ominous splen- 
 dour of hell; and, above all, if you per- — 
 ceived the soul that shone through his eyes 
 in that supremely awful moment of his pre- 
 dominance over the hellish revel upon the 
 Brocken, when all the hideous malignities 
 
 of nature and all those baleful ‘spirits — 
 which tend on mortal consequence’’ are 
 loosed into the aerial abyss, and only this 
 imperial horror can curb and subdue them, ~ 
 you knew that this Mephistopheles was a 
 
ELLEN TERRY IN FAUST. AI 
 
 sufferer not less than a mocker; that his 
 colossal malignity was the delirium of an 
 angelic spirit thwarted, baffled, shattered, 
 yet defiant; mever to be vanquished ; 
 never through all eternity to be at peace 
 with itself. The infinite sadness of that 
 face, the pathos, beyond words, of that 
 isolated and lonely figure —those are the 
 qualities that irradiated all its diversified 
 attributes of mind, humour, duplicity, sar- 
 casm, force, horror, and infernal beauty, 
 and invested it with the authentic quality 
 of greatness. There is no warrant for this 
 treatment of the part to be derived from 
 Goethe’s poem. There is every warrant 
 for it in the apprehension of this tremen- 
 dous subject by the imagination of a great 
 actor. You cannot mount above the earth, 
 you cannot transcend the ordinary line of 
 the commonplace, as a mere sardonic image 
 of self-satisfied, chuckling obliquity. Mr. 
 Irving embodied Mephistopheles not as a 
 man but as a spirit, with all that the word 
 implies, and in doing that he not only 
 heeded the fine instinct of the true actor 
 but the splendid teaching of the highest 
 poetry —the ray of supernal light that 
 flashes from the old Hebrew Bible; the 
 blaze that streams from the Paradise Lost ; 
 
———— 
 
 42 HENRY IRVING AND 
 
 the awful glory through which, in the 
 pages of Byron, the typical figure of 
 agonised but unconquerable revolt towers 
 over a realm of ruin: — . 
 
 “On his brow 
 The thunder-scars are graven; from his eye 
 Glares forth the immortality of hell.” 
 
 Ellen Terry, in her assumption of Mar- 
 garet, once more displayed that profound, 
 comprehensive, and particular knowledge 
 of human love—that knowledge of it 
 through the soul and not simply the mind 
 —which is the source of her exceptional 
 and irresistible power. This Margaret was 
 a woman who essentially loves, who exists 
 only for love, who has the courage of her 
 love, who gives all for love—not knowing 
 that it is a sacrifice —and whose love, at 
 last, triumphant over death, is not only her 
 own salvation but that also of her lover. — 
 The point of strict conformity to the con-— 
 ception of the poet, in physique and in 
 spiritual state, may be waived. Goethe’s 
 Margaret isa handsome, hardy girl, of hum-— 
 ble rank, who sometimes uses bad gram-_ 
 mar and who reveals no essential mind, 
 She is just a delicious woman, and there is — 
 nothing about her either metaphysical or 
 
 Si org ak Me ae, 
 
ELLEN TERRY IN FAUST. 43 
 
 mysterious. The wise Fiend, who knows 
 that with such a man as Faust the love of 
 such a woman must outweigh all the world, 
 wisely tempts him with her, and infernally 
 lures him to the accomplishment of her 
 ruin. But it will be observed that, aside 
 from the infraction of the law of man, the 
 loves of Faust and Margaret are not only 
 innocent but sacred. This sanctity Mephis- 
 topheles can neither pollute nor control, 
 and through this he loses his victims. Ellen 
 Terry’s Margaret was a delicious woman, 
 and not metaphysical nor mysterious ; but 
 it was Margaret imbued with the tempera- 
 ment of Ellen Terry, — who, if ever an ex- 
 ceptional creature lived, is exceptional in 
 every particular. In her embodiment she 
 transfigured the character: she maintained 
 it in an ideal world, and she was the living 
 epitome of all that is fascinating in essen- 
 tial womanhood — glorified by genius. It 
 did not seem like acting but like the reve- 
 lation of a hallowed personal experience 
 upon which no chill worldly gaze should 
 venture to intrude. 
 
 In that suggestive book in which Lady 
 Pollock records her recollections of Mac- 
 ready it is said that once, after his retire- 
 ment, on reading a London newspaper 
 
44 HENRY IRVING AND 
 
 account of the production of a Shake- 
 spearean play, he remarked that ‘‘ evidently 
 the accessories swallow up the poetry and 
 the action’’: and he proceeded, in a remi- 
 niscent and regretful mood, to speak as 
 follows: ‘‘In my endeavour to give to 
 Shakespeare all his attributes, to enrich his 
 poetry with scenes worthy of its interpre- 
 tation, to give to his tragedies their due 
 magnificence and to his comedies their 
 entire brilliancy, I have set an example 
 which is accompanied with great peril, for 
 the public is willing to have the magnifi- 
 cence without the tragedy, and the poet is 
 swallowed up in display.’? Mr. Irving is 
 the legitimate successor to Macready and he 
 has encountered that same peril. There are 
 persons —many of them —who think that 
 it is a sign of weakness to praise cordially 
 and to utter admiration with a free heart. 
 They are mistaken, but no doubt they are 
 sincere. Shakespeare, the wisest of moni- 
 tors, is never so eloquent and splendid as 
 when he makes one of his people express 
 
 praise of another. Look at those speeches 
 
 in Coriolanus. Such niggardly persons, 
 in their detraction of Henry Irving, are 
 prompt to declare that he is a capital stage 
 manager but not a great actor. This has 
 
 — > 
 
ELLEN TERRY IN FAUST. 45 
 
 an impartial air and a sapient sound, but it 
 is gross folly and injustice. Henry Irving 
 is one of the greatest actors that have ever 
 lived, and he has shown it over and over 
 again. His acting is all the more effective 
 because associated with unmatched ability 
 to insist and insure that every play shall be 
 perfectly well set, in every particular, and 
 that every part in it shall be competently 
 acted. But his genius and his ability are 
 no more discredited than those of Macready 
 were by his attention to technical detail 
 and his insistence upon total excellence of 
 result. It should be observed, however, 
 that he has carried stage garniture to an 
 extreme limit. His investiture of Faust 
 was so magnificent that possibly it may 
 have tended in the minds of many specta- 
 tors, to obscure and overwhelm the fine in- 
 tellectual force, the beautiful delicacy, and 
 the consummate art with which he em- 
 bodied Mephistopheles. It ought not to 
 have produced that effect — because, in 
 fact, the spectacle presented was, actually 
 and truly, that of a supernatural being, 
 predominant by force of inherent strength 
 and charm over the broad expanse of the 
 populous and teeming world ; but it might 
 have produced it: and, for the practical 
 
46 IRVING AND TERRY IN FAUST. 
 
 good of the art of acting, progress in that — 
 direction has gone far enough. The su- 
 preme beauty of the production was the ~ 
 poetic atmosphere of it —the irradiation of — 
 that strange sensation of being haunted 
 which sometimes will come upon you, even 
 at noon-day, in lonely places, on vacant hill- * 
 side, beneath the dark boughs of great 
 trees, inthe presence of the grim and silent 
 rocks, and by the solitary margin of the 
 sea. The feeling was that of Goethe’s own 
 weird and suggestive scene of the Open 
 Field, the black horses, and the raven- 
 stone; or that of the shuddering lines of 
 Coleridge : — 
 
 ** As one that on a lonesome road 
 Doth walk in fear and dread, 
 And, having once turned round, walks on 
 And turns no more his head, 
 Because he knows a frightful fiend 
 Doth close behind him tread.’’ 
 
ADELAIDE NEILSON. 47 
 
 Til. 
 ADELAIDE NEILSON AS IMOGEN AND JULIET. 
 
 HAKESPEARBE’S drama of Cymbeline 
 seems not at any time in the history of 
 
 the stage to have been a favourite with the- 
 atrical audiences. In New York it has had 
 but five revivals in more than a hundred 
 years, and those occurred at long inter- 
 vals and were of brief continuance. The 
 names of Thomas Barry, Mrs. Shaw-Ham- 
 blin (Eliza Marian Trewar), and Julia Ben- 
 nett Barrow are best remembered in 
 association with it on the American stage. 
 It had slept for more than a generation 
 when, in the autumn of 1876, Adelaide 
 Neilson revived it at Philadelphia; but 
 since then it has been reproduced by sev- 
 eral of her imitators. She first offered it 
 on the New York stage in May 1877, and 
 it was then seen that her impersonation of 
 
 Imogen was one of the best of her works. 
 If it be the justification of the stage as an 
 institution of public benefit and social ad- 
 
48 ADELAIDE NEILSON 
 
 vancement, that it elevates humanity by 
 presenting noble ideals of human nature 
 and making them exemplars and guides, 
 that justification was practically accom- 
 plished by that beautiful performance. 
 
 The poetry of Cymbeline is eloquent and 
 lovely. The imagination of its appreciative 
 reader, gliding lightly over its more sinister 
 incidents, finds its story romantic, its acces- 
 sories—both of the court and the wilder- 
 ness — picturesque, its historic atmosphere 
 novel and exciting, and the spirit of it ten- 
 der and noble. Such a reader, likewise, 
 fashions its characters into an ideal form 
 which cannot be despoiled by comparison 
 with a visible standard of reality. Itis not, 
 however, an entirely pleasant play to wit- 
 ness. The acting version, indeed, is consid- 
 erably condensed from the original, by the 
 excision of various scenes explanatory of 
 the conduct of the story, and by the omis- 
 sion of the cumbersome vision of Leon- 
 atus ; and the gain of brevity thereby made 
 helps to commend the work to a more gra- 
 cious acceptance than it would be likely to 
 obtain if acted exactly according to Shake- 
 speare. Its movement also is imbued with 
 additional alacrity by a rearrangement of 
 its divisions. It is customarily presented in 
 
AS IMOGEN AND JULIET. 49 
 
 six acts. Yet, notwithstanding the cutting 
 and editing to which it has been subjected, 
 Cymbeline remains somewhat inharmoni- 
 ous alike with the needs of the stage and 
 the apprehension of the public. 
 
 For this there are several causes. One 
 perhaps is its mixed character, its vague, 
 ‘elusive purpose, and its unreality of effect. 
 ‘From the nature of his story —a tale of 
 ‘Stern facts and airy inventions, respecting 
 Britain and Rome, two thousand years ago 
 —the poet seems to have been compelled 
 to make a picture of human life too literal 
 to be viewed wholly as an ideal, and too 
 romantic to be viewed wholly as literal. 
 In the unequivocally great plays of Shake- 
 speare the action moves like the mighty 
 flow of some resistless river. In this one 
 it advances with the diffusive and strag- 
 gling movement of a summer cloud. The 
 drift and meaning of the piece, accordingly, 
 do not stand boldly out. That astute 
 thinker, Ulrici, for instance, after much 
 brooding upon it, ties his mental legs in a 
 hard knot and says that Shakespeare in- 
 tended, in this piece, to illustrate that man 
 is not the master of his own destiny. There 
 must be liberal scope for conjecture when a 
 philosopher can make such a landing as that. 
 
 D 
 Ww! 
 
50 ADELAIDE NEILSON 
 
 The persons in Cymbeline, moreover — 
 aside from the exceptional character of 
 Imogen—do not come home to a spectator’s 
 realisation, whether of sympathy or repug- 
 nance. It is like the flower that thrives 
 best under glass but shivers and wilts in” 
 the open air. Its poetry seems marred by 
 the rude touch of the actual. Its delicious 
 mountain scenes lose their woodland fra 
 grance. Its motive, bluntly disclosed in the 
 wager scene, seems coarse, unnatural, and 
 offensive. Its plot, really simple, moves” 
 heavily and perplexes attention. It is a 
 piece that lacks pervasive concentration 
 and enthralling point. It might be defined 
 as Othello with a difference — the difference 
 being in favour of Othello. Jealousy is the 
 pivot of both: but in Othello jealousy is” 
 treated with profound and searching truth, 
 with terrible intensity of feeling, and with 
 irresistible momentum of action. A spee 
 tator will honour and pity Othello, and hate 
 and execrate Iago— with some infusion, per. 
 haps of impatience toward the one and Of 
 admiration for the other— but he is lik 
 to view both Leonatus and Jachimo with 
 considerable indifference ; he will casua II 
 recognise the infrequent Cymbeline as ai 
 ill-tempered, sonorous old donkey ; he will 
 
AS IMOGEN AND JULIET. oy 
 
 sive a passing smile of scornful disgust to 
 Jloten — that vague hybrid of Roderigo and 
 Jswald; and of the proceedings of the 
 queen and the fortunes of the royal family 
 —whether as affected by the chemical ex- 
 yeriments of Doctor Cornelius or the belli- 
 ose attitude of Augustus Cesar, in reach- 
 ng for his British tribute — he will be prac- 
 ically unconscious. This result comes of 
 omumingling stern fact and pastoral fancy 
 n such a way that an auditor of the com- 
 oSition is dubious whether to fix his senses 
 teadfastly on the one or yield up his spirit 
 0 poetic reverie on the other. 
 
 Coleridge— whose intuitions as to such 
 natters were usually as good as recorded 
 ruth—thought that Shakespeare wrote 
 Jymbeline in his youthful period. He cer- 
 ainly does not manifest in it the cogent 
 nd glittering dramatic force that is felt in 
 Jthello and Macbeth. The probability is 
 hat he wrought upon the old legend of 
 Tolinshed in a mood of intellectual caprice, 
 nclining towards sensuous and fanciful 
 lalliance with a remote and somewhat 
 ntangible subject. Those persons who ex- 
 ‘lain the immense fecundity of his creative 
 ‘enius by alleging that he must. steadily 
 ave kept in view the needs of the contem- 
 
 U. OF ILL LIB, 
 
52 ADELAIDE NEILSON 
 
 porary theatre seem to forget that he went 
 much further in his plays than there was 
 any need for him to go, in the satisfaction 
 of such a purpose, and that those plays are, 
 in general, too great for any stage that has 
 existed. Shakespeare, it is certain, could 
 not have been an exception to the law that 
 every author must be conscious of a feeling, 
 apart from intellectual purpose, that carries 
 him onward in his art. The feeling that 
 shines through Cymbeline is a loving de- 
 light in the character of Imogen. 
 
 The nature of that feeling and the quality 
 of that character, had they been obscure, 
 would have been made clear by Adelaide 
 Neilson’s embodiment. The personality 
 that she presented was typical and unusual, 
 It embodied virtue, neither hardened by 
 austerity nor vapid with excess of goodness, 
 and it embodied seductive womanhood, 
 without one touch of wantonness or guile. 
 It presented a woman innately good and 
 radiantly lovely, who amid severest trials 
 spontaneously and unconsciously acted with, 
 the ingenuous grace of childhood, the grand 
 est generosity, the most constant spirit | 
 The essence of Imogen’ s nature is fidelity 
 Faithful to love, even till death, she is ye. 
 more faithful to honour. Her scorn of false | 
 
AS IMOGEN AND JULIET. 53 
 
 hood is overwhelming; but she resents no 
 injury, harbours no resentment, feels no 
 spite, murmurs at no misfortune. From 
 every blow of evil she recovers with a gen- 
 tle patience that is infinitely pathetic. Pas- 
 sionate and acutely sensitive, she yet seems 
 never to think of antagonising her affliction 
 or to falter in her unconscious fortitude. 
 She has no reproach —but only a grieved 
 submission — for the husband who has 
 wronged her by his suspicions and has 
 doomed her to death. She thinks only of 
 him, not of herself, when she beholds him, 
 as she supposes, dead at her side ; but even 
 then she will submit and endure — she will 
 ‘but ‘‘weep and sigh’’ and say twice o’er 
 “a century of prayers.’’ She is only sorry 
 for the woman who was her deadly enemy 
 and who hated her for her goodness —so 
 often the incitement of mortal hatred. 
 She loses without a pang the heirship to a 
 kingdom. An ideal thus poised in good- 
 hess and radiant in beauty might well have 
 ‘sustained —as undoubtedly it did sustain 
 —the inspiration of Shakespeare. 
 
 _ Adelaide Neilson, with her uncommon 
 graces of person, found it easy to make the 
 chamber scene and the cave scenes pictorial 
 and charming. Her ingenuous trepidation 
 
 — 
 
54 ADELAIDE NEILSON | ; 
 
 and her pretty wiles, as Fidele, in the cave, 
 were finely harmonious with the character 
 and arose from it like odour from a flower, 
 
 The innocence, the glee, the feminine desire 
 to please, the pensive grace, the fear, the 
 weakness, and the artless simplicity made 
 up a state of gracious fascination. It was, 
 
 however, in the revolt against Iachimo’s 
 perfidy, in the fall before Pisanio’s fatal 
 disclosure, and in the frenzy over the sup- 
 posed death of Leonatus that the actress 
 put forth electrical power and showed how 
 strong emotion, acting through the imagi- 
 nation, can transfigure the being and give 
 
 to love or sorrow a monumental semblance 
 and an everlasting voice. ‘The power was 
 
 harmonious with the individuality and did 
 
 not mar its grace. There was a perfett| 
 preservation of sustained identity, and this | 
 was expressed with such a sweet elocution 
 
 and such an airy freedom of movement and | 
 naturalness of gesture that the observer 
 almost forgot to notice the method of the, 
 mechanism and quite forgot that he was: 
 looking upon a fiction and a shadow. ‘That 
 her personation of Imogen, though more 
 exalted in its nature than any of her works, 
 excepting Isabella, would rival in publlit| 
 acceptance her Sulit Viola, or Rosai 
 
AS IMOGEN AND JULIET. 55 
 
 was not to be expected: it was too much 
 
 a passive condition — delicate and elusive 
 
 —and too little an active effort. She woke 
 into life the sleeping spirit of a rather repel- 
 lant drama, and was ‘‘alone the Arabian 
 
 _pird.” 
 
 Shakespeare’s Juliet, the beautiful, ill- 
 
 fated heroine of his consummate poem of 
 love and sorrow, was the most effective, if 
 not the highest of Adelaide Neilson’s tragic 
 assumptions. It carried to every eye and 
 
 to every heart the convincing and thrilling 
 
 sense equally of her beauty and her power. 
 
 The exuberant womanhood, the celestial 
 
 _afiection, the steadfast nobility, and the 
 _ lovely, childlike innocence of Imogen — 
 _ shown through the constrained medium of 
 _ a diffusive romance — were not to all minds 
 
 appreciable on the instant. The gentle sad- 
 
 ness of Viola, playing around her gleeful 
 animation and absorbing it as the cup of 
 _ the white lily swallows the sunshine, might 
 _ well be, for the more blunt senses of the 
 
 average auditor, dim, fitful, evanescent, and 
 ineffective. Ideal heroism and dream- 
 like fragrance —the colours of Murillo or 
 
 _ the poems of Heine —are truly known but 
 
 to exceptional natures or in exceptional 
 moods. The reckless, passionate idolatry 
 
56 ADELAIDE NEILSON 
 
 of Juliet, on the contrary, — with its attend- 
 ant sacrifice, its climax of disaster, and its — 
 sequel of anguish and death, — stands forth 
 as clearly as the white line of the lightning 
 on a black midnight sky, and no observer 
 can possibly miss its meaning. All that 
 Juliet is, all that she acts and all that she 
 suffers, is elemental. It springs directly 
 from the heart and it moves straight onward 
 like a shaft of light. Othello, the perfec- 
 tion of simplicity, is not simpler than 
 Juliet. In him are embodied passion and 
 jealousy, swayed by an awful instinct of 
 rude justice. In her is embodied unmixed 
 and immitigable passion, without law, limit, 
 reason, patience, or restraint. She is love 
 personified and therefore a fatality to her- 
 self. Presented in that way — and in that 
 way she was presented by Adelaide Neilson 
 —her nature and her experience come 
 home to the feelings as well as the imagina- 
 tion, and all that we know, as well as all 
 that we dream, of beauty and of anguish 
 are centred in one image. In this we may - 
 see all the terrors of the moving hand of 
 fate. In this we may almost hear a warn- 
 ing voice out of heaven, saying that no- 
 where except in duty shall the human heart — 
 find refuge and peace — or, if not peace, 
 submission. 
 
AS IMOGEN AND JULIET. 57 
 
 The question whether Shakespeare’s 
 Juliet be correctly interpreted is not one 
 of public importance. It might be ever so 
 correctly interpreted without producing the 
 right effect. ‘There have been many Juliets. 
 There has, in our time, been no Juliet so 
 completely fascinating and irresistible as 
 that of Adelaide Neilson. Through the 
 medium of that Shakespearean character 
 the actress poured forth that strange, thrill- 
 ing, indescribable power which more than 
 anything else in the world vindicates by its 
 existence the spiritual grandeur and destiny 
 of the human soul. Neither the accuracy 
 of her ideals nor the fineness of her execu- 
 tion would have accomplished the result 
 that attended her labours and crowned her 
 fame. There was an influence back of 
 these — a spark of the divine fire —a con- 
 
  secration of the individual life —as eloquent 
 
 to inform as it was potent to move. Ade- 
 Jaide Neilson was one of those strange, 
 exceptional natures that, often building 
 better than they know, not only interpret 
 
 “the poet’s dream’ but give to it an added 
 
 emphasis and a higher symbolism. Each 
 
 element of her personality was rich and 
 
 f 
 
 rare. The eyes —now glittering with a 
 mischievous glee that seemed never to have 
 
4 
 58 ADELAIDE NEILSON ; 
 
 seen a cloud or felt a sorrow, now steady, 
 frank, and sweet, with innocence and trust, 
 — could, in one moment, flash with the wild 
 fire of defiance or the glittering light of 
 imperious command, or, equally in one mo- 
 ment, could soften with mournful thought 
 and sad remembrance, or darken with the 
 far-off look of one who hears the waving 
 wings of angels and talks with the spirits 
 of the dead. @&he face, just sufficiently 
 unsymmetrical to be brimful of character, 
 whether piquant or pensive; the carriage 
 of body, —casy yet quaint in its artless 
 erace, like that of a pretty child in the un- 
 conscious fascination of infancy; the rest- 
 less, unceasing play of mood, and the 
 instantaneous and perfect response of ex- 
 pression and gesture, —all these were the 
 denotements of genius; and, above all 
 these, and not to be mistaken in its irradia- 
 tion of the interior spirit of that extraor- 
 dinary creature, was a voice of perfect mus 
 sic — rich, sonorous, flexible, vibrant, copi- 
 ous in volume, yet delicate as a silver thread 
 — a voice 
 
 ‘* Like the whisper of the woods . 
 In prime of even, when the stars are few.” 
 
 It did not surprise that such a woman 
 
et 
 
 AS IMOGEN AND JULIET. 59 
 
 should truly act Juliet. Much though there | 
 pe in a personality that is assumed, there is - 
 much more in the personality that assumes 
 it. Golden fire in a porcelain vase would 
 not be more luminous than was the soul of 
 that actress as it shone through her ideal of 
 Juliet. The performance did not stop short 
 at the interpretation of a poetic fancy. It 
 was amply and completely that— but it 
 was more than that, being also a living ex- 
 perience. The subtlety of it was only 
 equalled by its intensity, and neither was 
 surpassed except by its reality. The mo- 
 ment she came upon the scene all eyes fol- 
 lowed her, and every imaginative mind was 
 vaguely conscious of something strange and 
 sad —a feeling of perilous suspense — a 
 dark presentiment of impending sorrow. 
 In that was felt at once the presence of a 
 nature to which the experience of Juliet 
 would be possible ; and thus the conquest 
 of human sympathy was effected at the 
 
 outset —by a condition, and without the 
 
 exercise of a single effort. Fate no less 
 than art participated in the result. Though 
 it was the music of Shakespeare that flowed 
 from the harp, it was the hand of living 
 genius that smote the strings; it was the 
 soul of a great woman that bore its vital 
 
60 ADELAIDE NEILSON 
 
 testimony to the power of the universal pas- 
 sion. 
 
 Never was poet truer to the highest truth 
 of spiritual life than Shakespeare is when 
 he invests with ineffable mournfulness — 
 shadowy as twilight, vague as the remem- 
 brance of a dream — those creatures of his 
 fancy who are preordained to suffering 
 and a miserable death. Never was there 
 sounded a truer note of poetry than that 
 which thrills in Othello’s, ‘‘ If it were now 
 to die,’’ or sobs in Juliet’s ‘‘ Too early seen 
 unknown, and known too late.”? It was the 
 exquisite felicity of Adelaide Neilson’s acting 
 of Juliet that she glided into harmony with 
 that tragical undertone, and, with seemingly 
 a perfect unconsciousness of it — whether 
 prattling to the old nurse, or moving, 
 sweetly grave and softly demure, through 
 the stately figures of the minuet — was al- 
 ready marked off from among the living, 
 already overshadowed by a terrible fate, 
 already alone in the bleak loneliness of the 
 broken heart. Striking the keynote thus, 
 the rest followed in easy sequence. The 
 ecstasy of the wooing scene, the agony of 
 the final parting from Romeo, the forlorn 
 tremor and passionate frenzy of the terrible 
 night before the burial, the fearful awak- 
 
AS IMOGEN AND JULIET. 61 
 
 ening, the desperation, the paroxysm, the 
 death-blow that then is mercy and kindness, 
 —all these were in unison with the spirit 
 at first denoted, and through these was 
 naturally accomplished its prefigured doom. 
 If clearly to possess a high purpose, to fol- 
 low it directly, to accomplish it thoroughly, 
 to adorn it with every grace, to conceal 
 every vestige of its art, and to cast over 
 the art that glamour of poetry which en- 
 nobles while it charms, and while it dazzles 
 also endears, —if this is greatness in acting, 
 then was Adelaide Neilson’s Juliet a great 
 embodiment. It never will be forgotten. 
 Its soft romance of tone, its splendour of 
 passion, its sustained energy, its beauty of 
 speech, and its poetic fragrance are such 
 as fancy must always cherish and memory 
 cannot lose. Placing this embodiment be- 
 side Imogen and Viola, it was easy to un- 
 derstand the secret of her extraordinary 
 success. She satisfied for all kinds of per- 
 sons the sense of the ideal. To youthful 
 fancy she was the radiant vision of love 
 ‘and pleasure ; to grave manhood, the image 
 of all that chivalry should honour and 
 streneth protect; to woman, the type of 
 noble goodness and constant affection ; to 
 the scholar, a relief from thought and care ; 
 
62 ADELAIDE NEILSON. 
 
 to the moralist, a spring of tender pity 
 —that loveliness, however exquisite, must ~ 
 fade and vanish. Childhood, mindful of 
 her kindness and her frolic, scattered flowers 
 at her feet ; and age, that knows the thorny 
 pathways of the world, whispered its silent 
 prayer and laid its trembling hands in 
 blessing on her head. She sleeps beneath 
 a white marble cross in Brompton ceme- 
 tery, and all her triumphs and glories have 
 dwindled to a handful of dust. 
 
 Notk oN CyYMBELINE. — Genest records 
 productions of Shakespeare’s Cymbeline, in 
 London, as follows: Haymarket, November 8, 
 1744; Covent Garden, April 7, 1746; Drury 
 Lane, November 28, 1761; Covent Garden, — 
 December 28, 1767; Drury Lane, December 1, 
 1770; Haymarket, August 9, 1782; Covent 
 Garden, October 18, 1784; Drury Lane, Novem- 
 ber 21, 1785, and January 29 and March 20, 
 1787; Covent Garden, May 13, 1800, January 
 18, 1806, June 3, 1812, May 29, 1816, and June 
 2, 1825; and Drury Lane, February 9, 1829; 
 Imogen was represented, successively, by Mrs. 
 Pritchard, Miss Bride, Mrs. Yates, Mrs. Barry, 
 
 Mrs. Bulkley, Miss Younge, Mrs. Jordan, Mrs. 
 
 Siddons, Mrs. Pope, Miss Smith, Mrs. H. Johns- — 
 ton Miss Stephens, Miss Foote, and Miss 
 Phillips. Later representatives of it were Sally 
 Booth, Helen Faucit, and Laura Addison. 
 
ST 
 
 EDWIN BOOTH. 63 
 
 ve 
 EDWIN BOOTH. 
 
 M\HERE was a great shower of meteors 
 
 on the night of November 18, 1833, and 
 on that night, near Baltimore, Maryland, 
 was born the most famous tragic actor of 
 America in this generation, Edwin Booth. 
 No other American actor of this century 
 has had a rise so rapid or a career so early 
 and continuously brilliant as that of Edwin 
 Booth. His father, the renowned Junius 
 Brutus Booth, had hallowed the family 
 name with distinction and romantic inter- 
 est. If ever there was a genius upon the 
 stage the elder Booth was a genius. His 
 wonderful eyes, his tremendous vitality, 
 his electrical action, his power to thrill the 
 feelings and easily and inevitably to awaken 
 pity and terror, —all these made him a 
 unique being and obtained for him a repu- 
 tation with old-time audiences distinct from 
 that of all other men. He was followed.as 
 
 a marvel, and even now the mention of his 
 * 
 
64 EDWIN BOOTH. 
 
 name stirs, among those who remember 
 him, an enthusiasm such as no other theatri- 
 cal memory can evoke. His sudden death 
 (alone, aboard a Mississippi river steam- 
 boat, November 80, 1852) was pathetic, and 
 the public thought concerning him thence-— 
 forward commingled tenderness with pas- 
 sionate admiration. When his son Edwin ~ 
 began to rise as an actor the people every- 
 where rejoiced and gave him an eager wel- ” 
 come. With such a prestige he had no 
 difficulty in making himself heard, and 
 when it was found that he possessed the 
 same strange power with which his father 
 had conquered and fascinated the dramatic 
 world the popular exultation was unbounded. 
 
 Edwin Booth went on the stage in 1849_ 
 and accompanied his father to California 
 in 1852, and between 1852 and 1856 he 
 gained his first brilliant success, The early 
 part of his California life was marked by 
 hardship and all of it by vicissitude, but his’ 
 authentic genius speedily flamed out, and 
 long before he returned to the Atlantic sea- 
 board the news of his fine exploits had 
 cleared the way for his conquest of all hearts. 
 He came back in 1856-57, and from that 
 time onward his fame continually increased. 
 He early identified himself with two of the 
 
EDWIN BOOTH. 65 
 
 most fascinating characters in the drama 
 —the sublime and pathetic Hamlet and 
 the majestic, romantic, picturesque, tender, 
 and grimly humorous Richelieu. He first 
 acted Hamlet in 1854 ; he adopted Richelieu 
 in 1856; and such was his success with 
 the latter character that for many years 
 afterward he made it a rule (acting on 
 the sagacious advice of the veteran New 
 Orleans manager, James H. Caldwell), al- 
 ways to introduce himself in that part 
 defore any new community. The popular 
 sentiment toward him early took a roman- 
 sic turn and the growth of that sentiment 
 aas been accelerated and strengthened by 
 xvery important occurrence of his private 
 ife. In July 1860 he was married to a 
 ovely and interesting woman, Miss Mary 
 Jeviin, of Troy, and in February 1863 she 
 lied. In 1867 he lost the Winter Garden 
 heatre, which was burnt down on the 
 uight of March 22, that year, after a per- 
 ormance of John Howard Payne’s Brutus. 
 de had accomplished beautiful revivals of 
 Tamlet, Othello, The Merchant of Venice, 
 md other plays at the Winter Garden, and 
 tad obtained for that theatre an honourable 
 Minence ; but when in 1869 he built and 
 ‘pened Booth’s Theatre in New York, he 
 | E 
 
 | 
 | 
 
66 EDWIN BOOTH. 
 
 proceeded to eclipse all his previous effor 
 and triumphs. ‘The productions of Rom 
 and Juliet, Othello, Richelieu, Hamlet, 
 Winter’s Tale, and Julius Cesar we 
 marked by ample scholarship and ma 
 nificence. When the enterprise failed ai 
 the theatre passed out of Edwin Boott 
 hands (1874) the play-going public endur 
 a calamity. But the failure of the acto) 
 noble endeavour to establish a great theat 
 in the first city of America, like every oth 
 conspicuous event in his career, served b 
 to deepen the public interest in his welfa 
 He has more than retrieved his losses sin 
 then, and has made more than one t 
 umphal march throughout the length a 
 breadth of the Republic, besides acting 
 London and other cities of Great Brita 
 and gaining extraordinary success upon t 
 stage of Germany. To think of Edwin Bac 
 is immediately to be reminded of those le: 
 ing events in his career, while to revi, 
 them, even in a cursory glance, is to p 
 
 ceive that, notwithstanding calamities a 
 ' sorrows, notwithstanding a bitter exps 
 ence of personal bereavement and of 
 persecution of envy and malice, Edy 
 Booth has ever been a favourite of fortu 
 
 The bust of Booth as Brutus and that 
 
~ 
 
 N EDWIN BOOTH. 67 
 
 John Gilbert as Sir Peter, standing side by 
 side in the Players’ Club, stir many memo- 
 ries and prompt many reflections. Gilbert 
 was a young man of twenty-three, and had 
 been six years on the stage, before Edwin 
 Booth was born; and when, at the age of 
 sixteen, Booth made his first appearance 
 (September 10, 1849, at the Boston Museum, 
 as Tressil to his father’s Richard), Gilbert 
 had become a famous actor. The younger 
 man, however, speedily rose to the higher 
 leyel of the best dramatic ability as well as 
 the best theatrical culture of his time ; and 
 it is significant of the splendid triumph of 
 tragic genius, and of the advantage it pos- 
 sesses over that of comedy in its immediate 
 effect upon mankind, that when the fine 
 and exceptional combination was made 
 (May 21, 1888, at the Metropolitan Opera 
 House, New York), for a performance of 
 Hamlet for the benefit of Lester Wallack, 
 Edwin Booth acted Hamlet, with John 
 Gilbert for Polonius, and Joseph Jefferson 
 for the first Grave-digger. Booth has had 
 his artistic growth in a peculiar period in 
 
 the history of dramatic art in America. 
 
 Just before his time the tragic sceptre was 
 inthe hands of Edwin Forrest, who never 
 succeeded in winning the intellectual part of 
 
 a : 
 Bie 
 { yy 
 
68 EDWIN BOOTH. 
 
 the public, but was constantly compelled t 
 dominate a multitude that never heard an 
 sound short of thunder and never felt an} 
 thing till it was hit with a club. The bul 
 of Forrest’s great fortune was gained by hi 
 with Metamora, which is rant and fustiai 
 He himself despised it and deeply despise 
 and energetically cursed the public th 
 forced him to act in it. Forrest’s be 
 powers, indeed, were never really apprec 
 ated by the average mind of his ferve: 
 admirers. He lived in a rough period ai 
 he had to use a hard method to subdue ai. 
 please it. Edwin Booth was fortunate | 
 coming later, when the culture of the peoy 
 had somewhat increased, and when the o 
 sledge-hammer style was going out, so th| 
 he gained almost without an effort the 1) 
 fined and fastidious classes. As long a} 
 as 1857, with all his natural grace, refit: 
 ment, romantic charm, and fine bearit 
 his impetuosity was such that even the dt- 
 est sensibilities were aroused and thrill 
 and astonished by him,—and so it hi! 
 pened that he also gained the multitu | 
 To think of these things is to realise 1} 
 steady advance of the stage in the este} 
 of the best people, and to feel grateful t]| 
 we do not live in ‘‘the palmy days’?! 
 
EDWIN BOOTH. 69 
 
 those raw times that John Brougham used 
 to call the days of light houses and heavy 
 gas bills. 
 
 Mrs. Asia Booth Clarke, wife of the dis- 
 tinguished and excellent comedian John 
 S. Clarke, wrote a life of her father, Jun- 
 ius Brutus Booth, in which she has re- 
 counted interesting passages in his career, 
 and chronicled significant and amusing 
 anecdotes of his peculiarities. He was on 
 the stage from 1813 to 1852, in which 
 latter year he died, aged fifty-six. In his 
 youth he served for a while in the British 
 navy, showed some talent for painting, 
 learned the printer’s trade, wrote a little, 
 and dabbled in sculpture— all before he 
 turned actor. The powerful hostility of 
 Edmund Kean and his adherents drove him 
 from the London stage, though not till after 
 he had gained honours there, and he came 
 to America in 1821, and bought a farm near 
 Baltimore, where he settled, and where his 
 son Edwin (the seventh of ten children) was 
 born. That farm remained in the family 
 till 1880, when for the first time it changed 
 hands. There is a certain old cherry-tree 
 growing upon it —remarkable among cherry- 
 trees for being large, tall, straight, clean, 
 and handsome — amid the boughs of which 
 
bl 
 70 EDWIN BOOTH. 
 
 the youthful Edwin might often have beer 
 found in his juvenile days. It is a coinei 
 dence that Edwin L. Davenport and J ohr 
 McCullough, also honoured names in Ameri 
 can stage history, were born on the sami 
 day in the same month with Edwin Booth 
 though in different years. 
 
 From an early age Edwin Booth wai 
 associated with his father in all the wan 
 derings and strange and often sad adven 
 tures of that wayward man of genius, anc 
 no doubt the many sorrowful experience; 
 of his youth deepened the gloom of hi 
 inherited temperament. Those who knoy 
 him well are aware that he has great ten 
 derness of heart and abundant playfu 
 humour ; that his mind is one of extraordi. 
 nary liveliness, and that he sympathise: 
 keenly and cordially with the joys ant 
 sorrows of others; and yet that he seem) 
 saturated with sadness, isolated from com 
 panionship, lonely and alone. It is thi 
 temperament, combined with a sombre ani 
 melancholy aspect of countenance, that ha) 
 helped to make him so admirable in thi 
 character of Hamlet. Of his fitness fo 
 that part his father was the first to speak | 
 when on a night many years ago, in Sac 
 ramento, they had dressed for Pierre ani 
 
EDWIN BOOTH. 71 
 
 Jaffier, in Venice Preserved. Edwin, as 
 Jaffier, had put on a close-fitting robe of 
 black velvet. ‘* You look like Hamlet,”’ 
 the father said. The time was destined to 
 come when Edwin Booth would be ac- 
 cepted all over America as the greatest 
 Hamlet of the day. In the season of 
 1864-65, at the Winter Garden theatre, 
 New York, he acted that part for a hun- 
 dred nights in succession, accomplishing a 
 feat then unprecedented in theatrical an- 
 nals. Since then Henry Irving, in London, 
 has acted Hamlet two hundred consecutive 
 times in one season ; but this latter achieve- 
 ment, in the present day and in the capital 
 city of the world, was less difficult than 
 Edwin Booth’s exploit, performed in tur- 
 bulent New York in the closing months of 
 the terrible civil war. 
 
 The elder Booth was a short, spare, mus- 
 cular man, with a splendid chest, a symmet- 
 rical Greek head, a pale countenance, a 
 voice of wonderful compass and thrilling 
 power, dark hair, and blue eyes. His son’s 
 resemblance to him is chiefly obvious in the 
 shape of the head and face, the arch and 
 curve of the heavy eyebrows, the radiant 
 and constantly shifting light of expression 
 that animates the countenance, the natural 
 
72 EDWIN BOOTH. 
 
 grace of carriage, and the celerity of move- 
 ment. Booth’s eyes are dark brown, and 
 seem to turn black in moments of excite- 
 ment, and they are capable of conveying, 
 with electrical effect, the most diverse 
 meanings — the solemnity of lofty thought, 
 the tenderness of affection, the piteousness 
 of forlorn sorrow, the awful sense of spirit- 
 ual surroundings, the woful weariness of 
 despair, the mocking glee of wicked sar- 
 casm, the vindictive menace of sinister 
 purpose, and the lightning glare of baie- 
 ful wrath. In range of facial expressive- 
 ness his countenance is thus fully equal 
 to that of his father. The present 
 writer saw the elder Booth but once, and 
 then in a comparatively inferior part — 
 Pescara, in Shiel’s ferocious tragedy of 
 The Apostate. He was a terrible pres- 
 ence. He was the incarnation of smooth, 
 specious, malignant, hellish rapacity. His 
 exultant malice seemed to buoy him above 
 the ground. He floated rather than walked. 
 His glance was deadly. His clear, high, 
 cutting, measured tone was the exasperat- 
 ing note of hideous cruelty. He was acting 
 a fiend then, and making the monster not 
 only possible but.actual. He certainly gave 
 a greater impression of.overwhelming power 
 
EDWIN BOOTH. 73 
 
 than is given by Edwin Booth, and seemed 
 a more formidable and tremendous man. 
 But his face was not more brilliant than 
 that of his renowned son; and in fact it 
 was, if anything, somewhat less splendid in 
 power of the eye. ‘There is a book about 
 him, called The Tragedian, written by 
 Thomas R. Gould, who also made a noble 
 bust of him in marble ; and those who never 
 saw him can obtain a good idea of what 
 sort of an actor he was by reading that 
 book. It conveys the image of a greater 
 actor, but not a more brilliant one, than 
 Edwin Booth. Only one man of our time 
 has equalled Edwin Booth in this singular 
 splendour of countenance — the great New 
 England orator Rufus Choate. Had Choate 
 been an actor upon the stage—as he was 
 , before a jury — with those terrible eyes of 
 his, and that passionate Arab face, he must 
 have towered fully to the height of the tra- 
 dition of George Frederick Cooke. 
 
 The lurid flashes of passion and the vehe- 
 ment outbursts in the acting of Edwin 
 Booth are no doubt the points that most per- 
 sons who have seen him will most clearly re- 
 member. Through these a spectator natu- 
 
 Yally discerns the essential nature of an 
 actor. The image of George Frederick 
 
74 EDWIN BOOTH. 
 
 Cooke, pointing with his long, lean fore- 
 finger and uttering Sir Giles’s imprecation 
 upon Marrall, never fades out of theatrical 
 history. Garrick’s awful frenzy in the 
 storm scene of King Lear, Kean’s colossal 
 agony in the farewell speech of Othello, 
 Macready’s heartrending yell in Werner, 
 Junius Booth’s terrific utterance of Rich- 
 ard’s “What do they i’ the north ?’’ For 
 rest’s hyena snarl when, as Jack Cade, he 
 met Lord Say in the thicket, or his vol- 
 umed ery of tempestuous fury when, as 
 Lucius Brutus, he turned upon Tarquin 
 under the black midnight sky — those are 
 things never to be forgotten. Edwin Booth 
 has provided many such great moments in 
 acting, and the traditions of the stage will 
 not let them die. .To these no doubt we 
 must look for illuminative manifestations 
 of hereditary genius. Garrick, Henderson, 
 Cooke, Edmund Kean, Junius Booth, and 
 Edwin Booth are names that make a natural 
 sequence in one intellectual family. Could 
 we but see them together, we should un- 
 doubtedly find them, in many particulars, 
 kindred. Henderson flourished in the 
 school of nature that Garrick had created 
 —to the discomfiture of Quin and all the 
 classics. Cooke “had seen Henderson act, 
 
EDWIN BOOTH. os 
 
 and was thought to resemble him. Ed- 
 mund Kean worshipped the memory of 
 Cooke and repeated many of the elder 
 tragedian’s ways. So far, indeed, did he 
 carry his homage that when he was in New 
 York in 1824 he caused Cooke’s remains to 
 be taken from the vault beneath St. Paul’s 
 church and buried in the church-yard, 
 where a monument, set up by Kean and 
 restored by his son Charles, by Sothern, 
 and by Edwin Booth, still marks their place 
 of sepulture. That was the occasion when, 
 as Dr. Francis records, in his book on old 
 New York, Kean took the index finger of 
 Cooke’s right hand, and he, the doctor, 
 took his skull, as relics. ‘I have got 
 Cooke’s style in acting,’’ Kean once said, 
 ‘but the public will never know it, I am so 
 much smaller.’ It was not the imitation 
 of a copyist ; it was the spontaneous devo- 
 tion and direction of a kindred soul. The 
 elder Booth saw Kean act, and although 
 injured by a rivalry that Kean did not hesi- 
 tate to make malicious, admired him with 
 honest fervour. “I will yield Othello to 
 him,’’? he said, “but neither Richard nor 
 Sir Giles.’? Forrest thought Edmund Kean 
 the greatest actor of the age, and copied 
 him, especially in Othello. Pathos, with 
 
76 EDWIN BOOTH. 
 
 all that it implies, seems to have been 
 Kean’s special excellence. Terror was the 
 elder Booth’s. Edwin Booth may be less 
 than either, but he unites attributes of 
 both. 
 
 In the earlier part of his career Edwin 
 Booth was accustomed to act Sir Giles Over- 
 reach, Sir Edward Mortimer, Pescara, and 
 
 a number of other parts of the terrific order, — 
 
 that he has since discarded. He was fine 
 in every one of them. ‘The first sound of 
 his voice when, as Sir Edward Mortimer, 
 he was heard speaking off the scene, was 
 eloquent of deep suffering, concentrated 
 will, and a strange, sombre, formidable 
 character. The sweet, exquisite, icy, infer- 
 nal joy with which, as Pescara, he told his 
 rival that there should be ‘*music’’ was 
 almost comical in its effect of terror: it 
 drove the listener across the line of tragical 
 tension and made him hysterical with the 
 grimness of a deadly humour. His swift 
 defiance to Lord Lovell, as Sir Giles, and 
 indeed the whole mighty and terrible action 
 with which he carried that scene — from 
 ‘¢ What, are you pale ? ’’ down to the grisly 
 and horrid viper pretence and reptile spasm 
 
 of death— were simply tremendous. This 
 
 was in the days when his acting yet re- 
 
EDWIN BOOTH. Vii 
 
 tained the exuberance of a youthful spirit, 
 before “the philosophic mind’’ had checked 
 the headlong currents of the blood or curbed 
 imagination in its lawless flight. And those 
 parts not only admitted of bold colour and 
 extravagant action but demanded them. 
 Even his Hamlet was touched with that 
 elemental fire. Not alone in the great 
 junctures of the tragedy — the encounters 
 with the ghost, the parting with Ophelia, 
 the climax of the play-scene, the slaugh- 
 ter of poor old Polonius in delirious mis- 
 take for the king, and the avouchment to 
 Laertes in the graveyard — was he bril- 
 liant and impetuous; but in almost every- 
 thing that quality of temperament showed 
 itself, and here, of course, it was in excess. 
 He no longer hurls the pipe into the flies 
 when saying ‘‘Though you may fret me, 
 you can not play upon me’’; but he used 
 to do so then, and the rest of the perform- 
 ance was kindred with that part of it. 
 He needed, in that period of his develop- 
 ment, the more terrible passions to ex- 
 press. Pathos and spirituality and the 
 mountain air of great thought were yet to 
 be. His Hamlet was only dazzling — the 
 glorious possibility of what it has since 
 become. But his Sir Giles was a consum- 
 
78 EDWIN BOOTH. 
 
 mate work of genius —as good then as it 
 ever afterward became, and better than 
 any other that has been seen since, not 
 excepting that of E. L. Davenport. And 
 in all kindred characters he showed him- 
 self a man of genius. His success was 
 great. The admiration that he inspired 
 partook of zeal that almost amounted to 
 craziness. When he walked in the streets 
 of Boston in 1857 his shining face, his 
 compact figure, and his elastic step drew 
 every eye, and people would pause and 
 turn in groups to look at him. 
 
 The actor is born but the artist must be 
 made, and the actor who is not an artist 
 only half fulfils his powers. Edwin Booth 
 had not been long upon the stage before he 
 showed himself to be an actor. During — 
 his first season he played Cassio in Othello, . 
 Wilford in The Iron Chest, and Titus in 
 The Fall of Tarquin, and he played them © 
 all auspiciously well. But his father, not 
 less wise than kind, knew that the youth 
 must be left to himself to acquire experi- - 
 ence, if he was ever to become an artist, 
 and so left him in California, ‘‘to rough 
 it,’? and there, and in the Sandwich Islands 
 and Australia, he had four years of the most 
 severe training that hardship, discipline, 
 
EDWIN BOOTH. 79 
 
 labour, sorrow, and stern reality can furnish. 
 When he came east again, in the autumn of 
 1856, he was no longer a novice but an edu- 
 -eated, artistic tragedian, still crude in some 
 things, though on the right road, and in the 
 fresh, exultant vigour, if not yet the full 
 | maturity, of extraordinary powers. He ap- 
 peared first at Baltimore, and after that 
 made a tour of the south, and during the 
 ensuing four years he was seen in many 
 cities all over the country. In the summer 
 of 1860 he went to England, and acted in 
 London, Liverpool, and Manchester, but he 
 was back again in New York in 1862, and 
 from September 21, 1863 to March 23, 
 1867 he managed what was known as the 
 Winter Garden theatre, and incidentally 
 devoted himself to the accomplishment of 
 some of the stateliest revivals of standard 
 plays that have ever been made in America. 
 On February 3, 1869 he opened Booth’s 
 Theatre and that he managed for five years. 
 In 1876 he made a tour of the south, which, 
 so great was the enthusiasm his presence 
 aroused, was nothing less than a triumphal 
 progress. In San Francisco, where he filled 
 an engagement of eight weeks, the receipts 
 exceeded $96,000, a result at that time un- 
 precedented on the dramatic stage. 
 
80 EDWIN BOOTH. 
 
 The circumstances of the stage and of 
 the lives of actors have greatly changed 
 since the generation went out to which ~ 
 such men as Junius Booth and Augustus 
 A. Addams belonged. No tragedian would 
 now be so mad as to put himself in” 
 pawn for drink, as Cooke is said to have 
 done, nor be found scraping the ham from — 
 the sandwiches provided for his luncheon, — 
 as Junius Booth was, before going on to 
 play Shylock. Our theatre has no longer a 
 Richardson to light up a pan of red fire, as 
 that old showman once did, to signalise 
 the fall of the screen in The School for — 
 Scandal. The eccentrics and the taste for 
 them have passed away. It seems really 
 once to have been thought that the actor 
 who did not often make a maniac of him- 
 self with drink could not be possessed 
 of the divine fire. That demonstration of 
 genius is not expected now, nor does the 
 present age exact from its favourite players 
 the performance of all sorts and varieties 
 of parts. Forrest was’ the first of the 
 prominent actors to break away from the 
 old usage in this latter particular. During 
 the most prosperous years of his life, from — 
 1837 to 1850, he acted only about a dozen 
 parts, and most of them were old. The 
 
 ~s 
 
EDWIN BOOTH. 8I 
 
 only new parts that he studied. were Claude 
 Melnotte, Richelieu, Jack Cade, and Mor- 
 daunt, the latter in the play of The Patri- 
 sian’s Daughter, and he ‘recovered ”’’ 
 Mare Antony, which he particularly liked. 
 Edwin Booth, who had inherited from his 
 father the insanity of intemperance, con- 
 yuered that utterly, many years ago, and 
 aobly and grandly trod it beneath his feet ; 
 md as he matured in his career, through 
 wting every kind of part, from a dandy 
 1egro up to Hamlet, he at last made choice 
 9 the characters that afford scope for his 
 Jowers and his aspirations, and so settled 
 ipon a definite, restricted repertory. His 
 tharacters were Hamlet, Macbeth, Lear, 
 Jthello, Iago, Richard the Second, Rich- 
 wd the Third, Shylock, Cardinal Wolsey, 
 3enedick, Petruchio, Richelieu, Lucius 
 3rutus, Bertuccio, Ruy Blas, and Don 
 Jesar de Bazan. These he acted in cus- 
 emary usage, and to these he occasion- 
 ily added Marcus Brutus, Antony, Cassius, 
 slaude Melnotte, and the Stranger. The 
 ‘ange thus indicated is extraordinary ; but 
 nore extraordinary still was the evenness of 
 he actor’s average excellence throughout 
 he breadth of that range. 
 
 Booth’s tragedy is better than his ele- 
 
 F 
 
82 EDWIN BOOTH. 
 
 gant comedy. ‘There are other actors who- 
 equal or surpass him in Benedick or Don 
 Ceresar. The comedy in which he excels 
 is that of silvery speciousness and bitter 
 sarcasm, as in portions of Iago and Rich- 
 ard the Third and the simulated madness — 
 of Lucius Brutus, and the comedy of grim _ 
 drollery, as in portions of Richelieu — hi | 
 expression of those veins being wonder-— 
 fully perfect. But no other actor who has — 
 trod the American stage in our day has 1 
 equalled him in certain attributes of tragedy ‘ 
 that are essentially poetic. He is notfat 
 his best, indeed, in all the tragic parts that 
 he acts ; and, like his father, he is an un 
 even actor in the parts to which he is best 
 
 suited. No person can be said to know 
 Edwin Booth’s acting who has not seen 7 
 him play the same part several times, His 
 artistic treatment will generally be found 
 adequate, but his mood or spirit will con-_ 
 
 ance seems cold. This characteristic is, 
 perhaps, inseparable from the poetic tem- 
 perament. Each ideal that he presents 
 is poetic; and the suitable and adequate 
 presentation of it, therefore, needs poetic 
 warmth and glamour. “Booth never goes 
 
 ~ 
 
EDWIN BOOTH. 83 
 
 behind his poet’s text to find a prose image 
 in the pages of historic fact. The specta- 
 tor who takes the trouble to look into his 
 art will find it, indeed, invariably accu- 
 rate as to historic basis, and will find that 
 all essential points and questions of scholar- 
 ship have been considered by the actor. 
 But this is not the secret of its power 
 upon the soul. That power resides in its 
 charm, and that charm consists in its 
 poetry. Standing on the lonely ramparts 
 of Elsinore, and with awe-stricken, preoc- 
 cupied, involuntary glances questioning the 
 star-lit midnight air, while he talks with 
 his attendant friends, Edwin Booth’s Ham- 
 let is the simple, absolute realisation of 
 Shakespeare’s haunted prince, and raises no 
 question, and leaves no room for inquiry, 
 whether the Danes in the Middle Ages 
 wore velvet robes or had long flaxen hair. 
 {t is dark, mysterious, melancholy, beau- 
 iful—a vision of dignity and of grace, 
 nade sublime by suffering, made weird and 
 wwiul by ‘‘ thoughts beyond the reaches of 
 yur souls.’’ Sorrow never looked more 
 vofully and ineffably lovely than his sorrow 
 ooks in the parting scene with Ophelia, 
 wnd frenzy never spoke with a wilder glee 
 horrid joy and fearful exultation than is 
 
$4 EDWIN BOOTH. 
 
 heard in his tempestuous ery of delirium, 
 “Nay, I know not: is it the king?” 
 
 An actor who is fine only at points is 
 not, of course, a perfect actor. The re- 
 mark of Coleridge about the acting of 
 Edmund Kean, that it was like ‘‘ reading 
 Shakespeare by flashes of lightning,’’ has 
 misled many persons as to Kean’s art. 
 Macready bears a similar testimony. But 
 the weight of evidence will satisfy the 
 reader that Kean was, in fact, a careful 
 student and that he never neglected any 
 detail of his art. This is certainly true 
 of Edwin Booth. In the level plains that 
 lie between the mountain-peaks of expres- 
 sion he walks with as sure a footstep and 
 as firm a tread as on the summit of the 
 loftiest crag or the verge of the steepest 
 abyss. In 1877-78, in association with the 
 present writer, he prepared for the press 
 an edition of fifteen of the plays in which 
 he acts, and these were published for the 
 use of actors. There is not a line in either 
 of those plays that he has not studiously 
 and thoroughly considered; not a vexed 
 point that he has not scanned ; not a ques: 
 tionable reading that he has not, for his 
 own purposes in acting, satisfactorily set 
 tled. His Shakespearean scholarship is 
 
EDWIN BOOTH. 85 
 
 extensive and sound, and it is no less 
 minute than ample. His stage business has 
 been arranged, as stage business ought to 
 be, with scientific precision. If, as king 
 Richard the Third, he is seen to be abstract- 
 edly toying with a ring upon one of his 
 fingers, or unsheathing and sheathing his 
 dagger, those apparently capricious actions 
 would be found to be done because they 
 were illustrative parts of that monarch’s 
 personality, warranted by the text and con- 
 
 text. Many years ago an accidental im- 
 
 pulse led him, as Hamlet, to hold out his 
 sword, hilt foremost, toward the receding 
 spectre, as a protective cross—the symbol 
 of that religion to which Hamlet so fre- 
 quently recurs. The expedient was found 
 to justify itself and he made it a custom. 
 In the graveyard scene of this tragedy he 
 directs that one of the skulls thrown up 
 by the first clown shall have a tattered 
 and mouldy fool’s-cap adhering to it, so 
 that it may attract attention, and be sin- 
 gled out from the others, as ‘‘ Yorick’s 
 skull, the king’s jester.’? These are little 
 things ; but it is of a thousand little things 
 that a dramatic performance is composed, 
 
 and without this care for detail — which 
 
 f 
 
 ‘must be precise, logical, profound, vigilant, 
 
 4 
 
 a 
 
86 EDWIN BOOTH. 
 
 unerring, and at the same time always 
 unobtrusive and seemingly involuntary — 
 there can be neither cohesion, nor symme- 
 try, nor an illusory image consistently 
 maintained ; and all great effects would be- 
 come tricks of mechanism and detached 
 exploits of theatrical force. 
 
 The absence of this thoroughness in such 
 acting as that of Edwin Booth would in- 
 stantly be felt; its presence is seldom ad- 
 equately appreciated. We feel the perfect 
 charm of the illusion in the great fourth act 
 of Richelieu — one of the most thrilling sit- 
 uations, as Booth fills it, that ever were 
 created upon the stage; but we should not 
 feel this had not the foreground of charac- 
 ter, incident, and experience been prepared 
 with consummate thoroughness. The char- 
 acter of Richelieu is one that the elder 
 Booth could never act. He tried it once, 
 upon urgent solicitation, but he had not 
 proceeded far before he caught Joseph 
 around the waist, and with that astonished 
 friar in his arms proceeded to dash into a 
 waltz, over which the curtain was dropped. 
 He had no sympathy, with the moonlight 
 mistiness and lace-like complexity of that 
 weird and many-fibred nature. It lacked 
 for him the reality of the imagination, the 
 
EDWIN BOOTH. 87 
 | trumpet blare*and tempest rush of active 
 passion. But Edwin Booth, coming after 
 _ Forrest, who was its original in America, 
 has made Richelieu so entirely his own that 
 _ no actor living can stand a comparison with 
 him in the character. Macready was the 
 first representative of the part, as every- 
 _ body knows, and his performance of it was 
 deemed magnificent; but when Edwin 
 Booth acted it in London in 1880, old 
 John Ryder, the friend and advocate of 
 _ Macready, who had participated with him 
 
 in all his plays, said to the American trage- 
 dian, with a broken voice and with tears in 
 his eyes, ‘‘You have thrown down my 
 idol.’’ Two at least of those great moments 
 in acting that everybody remembers were 
 furnished by Booth in this character — the 
 defiance of the masked assailant, at Rouel, 
 and the threat of excommunication deliv- 
 ered upon Barradas. No spectator pos- 
 sessed of imagination and sensibility ever 
 saw, without utter forgetfulness of the 
 stage, the imperial entrance of that Riche- 
 lieu into the gardens of the Louvre and into 
 | the sullen presence of hostile majesty. The 
 same spell of genius is felt in kindred mo- 
 ments of his greater impersonations. His 
 Tago, standing in the dark street, with 
 
88 EDWIN BOOTH. 
 
 sword in hand, above the prostrate bodies 
 of Cassio and Roderigo, and as the sud- 
 den impulse to murder them strikes his 
 brain, breathing out in a blood-curdling 
 whisper, “ How silent is this town!”’ his 
 Bertuccio, begging at the door of the ban- 
 quet-hall, and breaking down in hysterics 
 of affected glee and maddening agony ; his 
 Lear, at that supreme moment of intolera- 
 ble torture when he parts away from Gone- 
 ril and Regan, with his wild scream of 
 revenves that shall be the terrors of the 
 earth; his Richard the Third, with the 
 gigantic effrontery of his ‘‘ Call him again,” 
 and with his whole matchless and wonder- 
 ful utterance of the awful remorse speech 
 with which the king awakens from his last 
 earthly sleep — those, among many others, 
 rank with the best dramatic images that 
 ever were chronicled, and may well be cited 
 to illustrate Booth’s invincible and splendid 
 adequacy at the great moments of his art. 
 Edwin Booth has been tried by some of 
 the most terrible afflictions that ever tested 
 the fortitude of a human soul. Over his 
 youth, plainly visible, impended the low- 
 ering cloud of insanity. While he was yet 
 a boy, and when literally struggling for life 
 in the semi-barbarous wilds of old Califor- 
 
EDWIN BOOTH. 89 
 
 nia, he lost his beloved father, under cir- 
 ‘cumstances of singular misery. In early 
 manhood he laid in her grave the woman of 
 his first love—the wife who had died in 
 absence from him, herself scarcely past the 
 threshold of youth, lovely as an angel and 
 to all that knew her precious beyond ex- 
 ‘pression. A little later his heart was well- 
 nigh broken and his life was well-nigh 
 blasted by the crime of a lunatic brother 
 that for a moment seemed to darken the 
 hope of the world. Recovering from that 
 blow, he threw all his resources and powers 
 into the establishment of the grandest thea- 
 tre in the metropolis of America, and he 
 saw his fortune of more than a million dol- 
 lars, together with the toil of some of 
 the best years of his life, frittered away. 
 Under all trials he has borne bravely up, 
 and kept the even, steadfast tenor of his 
 course; strong, patient, gentle, neither 
 elated by public homage nor imbittered by 
 private grief. Such a use of high powers in 
 the dramatic art, and the development and 
 maintenance of such a character behind 
 them, entitle him to the affection of his 
 countrymen, proud equally of his goodness 
 and his renown. 
 
go MARY ANDERSON: 
 
 Ve 
 MARY ANDERSON: HERMIONE: PERDITA. 
 
 N November 25, 1875 an audience was 
 
 assembled in one of the theatres of 
 Louisville, Kentucky, to see ‘‘the first ap- 
 pearance upon any stage’’ of ‘‘a young 
 lady of Louisville,’”? who was announced 
 to play Shakespeare’s Juliet. That young 
 lady was in fact a girl, in her sixteenth 
 year, who had never received any prac- 
 tical stage training, whose education had 
 been comprised in five years. of ordinary 
 schooling, whose observation of life had 
 never extended beyond the narrow limits 
 of a provincial city, who was undeveloped, 
 unheralded, unknown, and poor, and whose 
 only qualifications for the task she had set 
 herself to accomplish were the impulse of 
 genius and the force of commanding char- 
 acter. She dashed at the work with all the 
 vigour of abounding and enthusiastic youth, 
 and with all the audacity of complete inex- 
 perience. A rougher performance of Juliet 
 
HERMIONE: PERDITA. se} | 
 
 probably was never seen, but through all 
 ‘the disproportion and turbulence of that 
 effort the authentic charm of a beautiful 
 nature was distinctly revealed. The sweet- 
 ness, the sincerity, the force, the excep- 
 tional superiority and singular charm of that 
 nature could not be mistaken. The uncom- 
 mon stature and sumptuous physical beauty 
 of the girl were obvious. Above all, her 
 magnificent voice — copious, melodious, 
 penetrating, loud and clear, yet soft and 
 gentle — delighted every ear and touched 
 every heart. The impersonation of Juliet 
 was not highly esteemed by judicious hear- 
 ers; but some persons who saw that per- 
 formance felt and said that a new actress 
 had risen and that a great career had begun. 
 Those prophetic voices were right. That 
 ‘young lady of Louisville’? was Mary An- 
 derson. 
 
 It is seldom in stage history that the 
 biographer comes upon such a character as 
 that of Mary Anderson, or is privileged to 
 muse over the story of such a career as she 
 has had. In many cases the narrative of 
 the life of an actress is a narrative of talents 
 perverted, of opportunity misused, of fail- 
 ure, misfortune, and suffering. For one 
 ‘story like that of Mrs. Siddons there are 
 
g2 MARY ANDERSON: 
 
 many like that of Mrs. Robinson. For one 
 name like that of Charlotte Cushman or 
 that of Helen Faucit there are many like 
 that of Lucille Western or that of Matilda 
 Heron — daughters of sorrow and victims of 
 trouble. The mind lingers, accordingly, 
 impressed and pleased with a sense of sweet 
 personal worth as well as of genius and 
 beauty upon the record of a representative 
 American actress, as noble as she was bril- 
 liant, and as lovely in her domestic life as 
 she was beautiful, fortunate, and renowned 
 in her public pursuits. The exposition of 
 her nature, as apprehended through her 
 acting, constitutes the principal part of her 
 biography. 
 
 Mary Anderson, a native of California, 
 was born at Sacramento, July 28, 1859. 
 Her father, Charles Joseph Anderson, who 
 died in 1863, aged twenty-nine, and was 
 buried in Magnolia cemetery, Mobile, A.a- 
 bama, was an officer in the service of the 
 Southern Confederacy at the time of his 
 death, and he is said to have been a hand- 
 some and dashing young man. Her mother, | 
 Marie Antoinette Leugers, was a native of 
 Philadelphia. Her earlier years were passed 
 in Louisville, whither she was taken in 
 1860, and she was there taught in a Roman 
 
HERMIONE: PERDITA. 93 
 
 atholic school and reared in the Roman 
 Datholic faith under the guidance of a 
 Pranciscan priest, Anthony Miller, her 
 mother’s uncle. She left school before she 
 was fourteen years old and she went upon 
 he stage before she was sixteen. She had 
 while a child seen various theatrical per- 
 formances, notably those given by Edwin 
 Booth, and her mind had been strongly 
 drawn toward the stage under the influence 
 of those sights. The dramatic characters 
 that she first studied were male characters 
 — those of Hamlet, Wolsey, Richelieu, and 
 Richard IJI.— and to those she added 
 Schiller’s Joan of Arc. She studied those 
 parts privately, and she knew them all and 
 knew them well. Professor Noble Butler, 
 of Louisville, gave her instruction in English 
 literature and elocution, and in 1874, at 
 Cincinnati, Charlotte Cushman said a few 
 encouraging words to her, and told her to 
 persevere in following the stage, and to 
 “begin at the top.’? George Vandenhoff 
 gave her a few lessons before she came out, 
 and then followed her début as Juliet, lead- 
 ing to her first regular engagement, which 
 ‘began at Barney Macaulay’s Theatre, Lou- 
 
 isville, January 20, 1876. From that“time, aos 
 onward for thirteen years shy ARS ‘au \ac- MJ 
 
94 MARY ANDERSON: 
 
 tress, — never in a stock company but 
 always as a star,— and her name became 
 famous in Great Britain as well as America, 
 She had eight seasons of steadily increasing 
 prosperity on the American stage before 
 she went abroad to act, and she became a 
 favourite all over the United States. She 
 filled three seasons at the Lyceum Theatre, 
 London (from September 1, 1883, to April 
 5, 1884; from’ November 1, 1884, to April 
 25, 1885 ; and from September 10, 1887, to 
 March 24, 1888), and her success there 
 surpassed, in profit, that of any American 
 actor who had appeared in England. She 
 revived Romeo and Juliet with much splen- 
 dour at the London Lyceum on November 
 1, 1884, and she restored A Winter’s Tale 
 to the stage, bringing forward ‘that comedy 
 on September 10, 1887, and carrying it 
 through the season. She made several 
 prosperous tours of the English provincial 
 theatres, and established herself as a favour- 
 ite actress in fastidious Edinburgh, critical 
 Manchester, and impulsive but exacting 
 Dublin. The repertory with which she 
 gained fame and fortune included Juliet, 
 Hermione, Perdita, Rosalind, Lady Mac- 
 beth, Julia, Bianca, Evadne, Parthenia, 
 Pauline, The Countess, Galatea, Clarice, 
 
HERMIONE: PERDITA. 95 
 
 Ion, Meg Merrilies, Berthe, and the Duch- 
 ess de Torrenueya. She incidentally acted 
 a few other parts, Desdemona being one 
 ofthem. Her distinctive achievements were 
 in Shakespearean drama. She adopted into 
 her repertory two plays by Tennyson, Zhe 
 Cup and The Falcon, but nevér produced 
 them. This record signifies the resources 
 of mind, the personal charm, the exalted 
 spirit, and the patient, wisely directed and 
 strenuous zeal that sustained her achieve- 
 ments and justified her success. 
 
 Aspirants in the field of art are contin- 
 ually coming to the surface. In poetry, 
 painting, sculpture, music, and in acting — 
 which involves and utilises those other arts 
 —the line of beginners is endless. Con- 
 stantly, as the seasons roll by, these essay- 
 ists emerge, and as constantly, after a little 
 time, they disappear. The process is se- 
 quent upon an obvious law of spiritual life, 
 —that all minds which are conscious of the 
 art impulse must at least make an effort 
 toward expression, but that no mind can suc- 
 ceed in the effort unless, in addition to the 
 art impulse, it possesses also the art faculty. 
 For expression is the predominant necessity 
 of human nature. Out of this proceed 
 forms and influences of beauty. These 
 
96 MARY ANDERSON: 
 
 react upon mankind, pleasing an instinet 
 for the beautiful, and developing the faculty 
 of taste. Other and finer forms and infiu- 
 ences of beauty ensue, civilisation is ad- 
 vanced, and thus finally the way is opened 
 toward that condition of immortal spiritual 
 happiness which this process of experi- 
 ence prefigures and prophesies. But the 
 art faculty is of rare occurrence. At long 
 intervals there is a break in the usual expe- 
 rience of stage failure, and some person 
 hitherto unknown not only takes the field 
 but keeps it. When Garrick came out, as 
 the Duke of Gloster, in the autumn of 1741, 
 in London, he had never been heard of, but 
 within a brief time he was famous. ‘‘ He 
 at once decided the public taste,’’ said 
 Macklin ; and Pope summed up the victory 
 in the well-known sentence, ‘¢ That young 
 man never had an equal, and will never 
 have a rival.’? Tennyson’s line furnishes 
 the apt and comprehensive comment— 
 ‘¢ The many fail, the one succeeds.’’? Mary 
 Anderson in her day furnished the most 
 conspicuous and striking example, aside 
 from that of Adelaide Neilson, to which it 
 is possible to refer of this exceptional expe- 
 rience. And yet, even after years of trial 
 and test, it is doubtful whether the excel- 
 
HERMIONE: PERDITA. 97 
 
 ‘ence of that remarkable actress was en- 
 sirely comprehended in her own country. 
 The provincial custom of waiting for for- 
 sign authorities to discover our royal minds 
 s one from which many inhabitants of 
 America have not yet escaped. As an 
 wetress, indeed, Mary Anderson was, prob- 
 ibly, more popular than any player on the 
 American stage excepting Edwin Booth or 
 foseph Jefferson ; but there is a difference 
 yetween popularity and just and compre- 
 iensive intellectual recognition. Many act- 
 ots get the one; few get the other. 
 
 Much of the contemporary criticism that 
 8 lavished upon actors in this exigent period 
 -—so bountifully supplied with critical ob- 
 eryations, so poorly furnished with crea- 
 ive art—touches only upon the surface. 
 Acting is measured with a tape and the 
 shief demand seems to be for form. This 
 s right, and indeed is imperative, whenever 
 tis certain that the actor at his best is one 
 vho never can rise above the high-water 
 nark of correct mechanism. There are 
 tases that need a deeper method of in- 
 {uiry and a more searching glance. A wise 
 ‘ritic, when this emergency comes, is some- 
 hing more than an expert who gives an 
 )pinion upon a professional exploit. The 
 
 G 
 
98 MARY ANDERSON: 
 
 special piece of work may contain technical 
 flaws, and yet there may be within it a soul 
 worth all the ‘‘icily regular and splendidly 
 null’? achievements that ever were possible 
 to proficient mediocrity. That soul is) 
 visible only to the observer who can look 
 through the art into the interior spirit of, 
 the artist, and thus can estimate a piece of, 
 acting according to its inspirational drift) 
 and the enthralling and ennobling person- 
 ality out of which it springs. The acting 
 of Mary Anderson, from the first moment 
 of her career, was of the kind that needs) 
 that deep insight and broad judgment, — 
 aiming to recognise and rightly estimate its 
 worth. Yet few performers of the day 
 were so liberally favoured with the moni- 
 tions of dulness and the ponderous patron- 
 age of self-¢complacent folly. 
 Conventional judgment as to Mary An- 
 derson’s acting expressed itself in one state _ 
 ment — ‘‘she is cold.’? There could not be 
 a greater error. That quality in Mary An! 
 derson’s acting — a reflex from her spiritual 
 nature — which produced upon the conven 
 tional mind the effect of coldness was b 
 fact distinction, the attribute of being ex: 
 ceptional. The judgment that she was coli 
 was a resentful judgment, and was given 1)! 
 
HERMIONE: PERDITA. 99 
 
 aspirit of detraction. It proceeded from an 
 order of mind that can never be content 
 with the existence of anything above its 
 own level. ‘'He hath,’’ said Iago, speak- 
 ing of Cassio, ‘‘a daily beauty in his life 
 that makes me ugly.’’ Those detractors 
 did not understand themselves as well as 
 
 the wily Italian understood himself, and 
 
 they did not state their attitude with such 
 precision; in fact, they did not state it at 
 all, for it was unconscious with them ad 
 involuntary. They saw a being unlike them- 
 selves, they vaguely apprehended the pres- 
 
 ence of a superior nature, and that they 
 resented. The favourite popular notion is 
 
 that all men are born free and equal; which 
 
 is false. Free and equal they all are, un- 
 
 doubtedly, in the eye of the law. But every 
 man is born subject to heredity and circum- 
 stance, and whoever will investigate his life 
 
 will perceive that he never has been able to 
 
 stray beyond the compelling and constrain- 
 ing force of his character — which is his 
 fate. All men, moreover, are unequal. 
 
 To one human being is given genius; to 
 another, beauty; to another, strength; to 
 another, exceptional judgment ; to another, 
 exceptional memory; to another, grace 
 and charm; to still another, physical ugli- 
 
| 100 MARY ANDERSON: 
 
 ness and spiritual obliquity, moral taint, 
 and every sort of disabling weakness. To 
 the majority of persons Nature imparts 
 mediocrity, and it is from mediocrity that 
 the derogatory denial emanates as to the 
 superior men and women of our race. A 
 woman of the average kind is not difficult 
 to comprehend. There is nothing distine- 
 tive about her. She is fond of admiration ; 
 rather readily censorious of other women; 
 charitable toward male rakes; and partial 
 to fine attire. The poet Wordsworth’s for- 
 mula, ‘‘ Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, 
 and smiles,’? comprises all that is essential 
 for her existence, and that bard has himself 
 precisely described her, in a grandfatherly 
 and excruciating couplet, as 
 
 “* A creature not too bright and good 
 For human nature’s daily food.” 
 
 Women of that sort are not called ‘‘ cold.” 
 The standard is ordinary and it is under. 
 stood. But when a woman appears in ar’ 
 whose life is not ruled by the love of admi-. 
 ration, whose nature is devoid of vanity 
 who looks with indifference upon adulation 
 whose head is not turned by renown, whos' 
 composure is not disturbed by flattery 
 whose simplicity is not marred by wealth 
 
HERMIONE: PERDITA. Io! 
 
 who does not go into theatrical hysterics 
 and offer that condition of artiticial delirium 
 as the mood of genius in acting, who above 
 all makes it apparent in her personality and 
 her achievements that the soul can be suffi- 
 cient to itself and can exist without tak- 
 ing on a burden of the fever or dulness of 
 other lives, there is a flutter of vague dis- 
 content among the mystified and bothered 
 rank and file, and we are apprised that she 
 is *‘cold.’? That is what happened in the 
 case of Mary Anderson. 
 
 What are the faculties and attributes 
 essential to great success in acting? A 
 sumptuous and supple figure that can 
 realise the ideals of statuary; a mobile 
 countenance that can strongly and unerr- 
 ingly express the feelings of the heart and 
 the workings of the mind; eyes that can 
 awe with the majesty or startle with the 
 terror or thrill with the tenderness of their 
 soul-subduing gaze; a voice, deep, clear, 
 resonant, flexible, that can range over the 
 wide compass of emotion and carry its 
 meaning in varying music to every ear and 
 every heart; intellect to shape the pur- 
 poses and control the. means of mimetic 
 art; deep knowledge of human nature; 
 delicate intuitions; the skill to listen as 
 
102 MARY ANDERSON: 
 
 well as the art to speak; imagination to 
 grasp the ideal of a character in all its con- 
 ditions of experience; the instinct of the 
 sculptor to give it form, of the painter to 
 
 give it colour, and of the poet to give it | 
 movement; and, back of all, the tempera- _ 
 
 ment of genius —the genialised nervous 
 
 system —to impart to the whole artistic | 
 
 structure the thrill of spiritual vitality. 
 Mary Anderson’s acting revealed those 
 faculties and attributes, and those obsery- 
 
 ers who realised the poetic spirit, the moral 
 
 majesty, and the isolation of mind that she 
 
 continually suggested felt that she was an 
 extraordinary woman. Such moments in | 
 
 her acting as that of Galatea’s mute suppli- 
 
 cation at the last of earthly life, that of | 
 
 Juliet’s desolation after the final midnight 
 parting with the last human creature whom 
 
 she may ever behold, and that of Hermi- 
 
 one’s despair when she covers her face and | 
 falls as if stricken dead, were the eloquent 
 
 denotements of power, and in those and 
 such as those — with which her art abounded | 
 
 — was the fulfilment of every hope that her 
 acting inspired and the vindication of every | 
 
 encomium that it received. 
 Early in her professional career, when | 
 considering her acting, the present essayist 
 
HERMIONE: PERDITA. 103 
 
 quoted as applicable to her those lovely lines 
 by Wordsworth ; — 
 
 “The stars of midnight shall be dear 
 To her, and she shall lean her ear 
 In many a secret place 
 Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
 And beauty born of murmuring sound 
 Shall pass into her face.”’ 
 
 In the direction of development thus in- 
 dicated she steadily advanced. Her affilia- 
 tions were with grandeur, purity, and 
 loveliness. An inherent and _ passionate 
 tendency toward classic stateliness in- 
 creased in her more and more. Charac- 
 ters of the statuesque order attracted her 
 imagination —JIon, Galatea, Hermione — 
 but she did not leave them soulless. In the 
 interpretation of passion and the presenta- 
 tion of its results she revealed the striking 
 truth that her perceptions could discern 
 those consequences that are recorded in 
 the soul and in comparison with which the 
 dramatic entanglements of visible life are 
 puny and evanescent. Though living in 
 the rapid stream of the social world she 
 dwelt aloof from it. She thought deeply, 
 and in mental direction she took the path- 
 way of intellectual power. It is not sur- 
 
104 MARY ANDERSON: 
 
 prising that the true worth of such a 
 nature was not accurately apprehended. 
 Minds that are self-poised, stately, irre- 
 sponsive to human weakness, unconven- 
 tional, and self-liberated from allegiance 
 to the commonplace are not fully and in- 
 stantly discernible, and may well perplex 
 the smiling glance of frivolity ; but they are 
 permanent forces in the education of the 
 human race. Mary Anderson retired from 
 the stage, under the pressure of extreme 
 fatigue, in the beginning of 1889 and en- 
 tered upon a matrimonial life on June 17, 
 1890. It is believed that her retirement 
 is permanent. The historical interest at- 
 taching to her dramatic career justifies the | 
 preservation of this commemorative essay, | 
 There is so much beauty in the comedy | 
 of A Winter’s Tale—so much thought, | 
 character, humour, philosophy, sweetly 
 serene feeling and loveliness of poetic 
 language —that the public ought to feel . 
 obliged to any one who successfully restores | 
 it to the stage, from which it usually is ban- 
 ished. The piece was written in the ma- 
 turity of Shakespeare’s marvellous powers, | 
 and indeed some of the Shakespearean | 
 scholars believe it to be the last work that 
 fell from his hand. Human life, as depicted 
 
HERMIONE: PERDITA. 105 
 
 in A Winter’s Tale, shows itself like what 
 it always seems to be in the eyes of patient, 
 tolerant, magnanimous experience — the 
 eyes ‘‘that have kept watch o’er man’s 
 mortality ’? —for it is a scene of inexpli- 
 cable contrasts and vicissitudes, seemingly 
 the chaos of caprice and chance, yet always, 
 in fact, beneficently overruled and guided 
 to good ends. Human beings are shown in 
 it as full of weakness ; often as the puppets 
 of laws that they do not understand and of 
 universal propensities and impulses into 
 which they never pause to inquire ; almost 
 always as objects of benignant pity. The 
 woful tangle of human existence is here 
 viewed with half-cheerful, half-sad toler- 
 ance, yet with the hope and belief that all 
 will come right at last. The mood of the 
 comedy is pensive but radically sweet. 
 The poet is like the forest in Emerson’s | 
 subtle vision of the inherent exultation of 
 
 nature : — 
 
 ‘* Sober, on a fund of joy, 
 The woods at heart are glad.” 
 
 Mary Anderson doubled the characters of 
 Hermione and Perdita. This had not been 
 conspicuously done until it was done by 
 her, and her innovation, in that respect, 
 
106 MARY ANDERSON: 
 
 was met with grave disapprovai. The 
 moment the subject is examined, however, 
 objection to that method of procedure is 
 dispelled. Hermione, as a dramatic per- 
 son, disappears in the middle of the 
 third act of Shakespeare’s comedy and 
 comes no more until the end of the piece, 
 when she emerges as a Statue. Her char- 
 acter has been entirely expressed and her 
 part in the action of the drama has been 
 substantially fulfilled before she disappears. 
 There is no intermediate passion to be 
 wrought to a climax, nor is there any 
 intermediate mood, dramatically speaking, 
 to be sustained. The dramatic environ- 
 ment, the dramatic necessities, are vastly 
 unlike, for example, those of Lady Macbeth 
 —one of the hardest of all parts to play 
 well, because exhibited intermittently, at 
 long intervals, yet steadily constrained by 
 the necessity of cumulative excitement. 
 The representative of Lady Macbeth must 
 be identified with that character, whether 
 on the stage or off, from the beginning of 
 it to the end. Hermione, on the contrary, 
 is at rest from the moment when she faints 
 upon receiving information of the death of 
 her boy. <A lapse of sixteen years is 
 assumed, and then, standing forth as a 
 
HERMIONE: PERDITA. 107 
 
 statue, she personifies majestic virtue and 
 victorious fortitude. When she descends 
 from the pedestal she silently embraces 
 Leontes, speaks a few pious, maternal and 
 tranquil lines (there are precisely seven 
 of them in the original, but Mary Ander- 
 son added two, from ‘‘ All’s Well’’), and 
 embraces Perdita, whom she has not seen 
 since the girl’s earliest infancy. This is 
 their only meeting, and little is sacrificed 
 by the use of a substitute for the daughter 
 in that scene. Perdita’s brief apostrophe 
 to the statue has to be cut, but it is not 
 missed in the representation. The re- 
 semblance between mother and daughter 
 heightens the effect of illusion, in its 
 impress equally upon fancy and vision ; 
 and a more thorough elucidation is given 
 than could be provided in any other way of 
 the spirit of the comedy. It was a judicious 
 and felicitous choice that the actress 
 made when she selected those two charac- 
 ters, and the fact that her impersonation of 
 them carried a practically disused Shake- 
 spearean comedy through a season of one 
 hundred and fifty nights at the Lyceum 
 Theatre in London furnishes an indorse- 
 ment alike of her wisdom and her ability. 
 She played in a stage version of the piece, 
 
108 MARY ANDERSON: 
 
 in five acts, containing thirteen scenes, 
 arranged by herself. 
 
 While Mary Anderson was acting those 
 two parts in London the sum of critical 
 opinion seemed to be that her performance 
 of Perdita was better than her performance 
 of Hermione; but beneath that judgment 
 there was, apparently, the impression that 
 Hermione is a character fraught with super- 
 latively great passions, powers, and quali- 
 ties, such as are only to be apprehended by 
 gigantic sagacity and conveyed by hercu- 
 lean talents and skill. Those vast attri- 
 butes were not specified, but there was a 
 mysterious intimation of their existence — 
 as of something vague, formidable, and 
 mostly elusive. But in truth Hermione, 
 although a stronger part than Perdita, is 
 neither complex, dubious, nor inaccessible ; 
 and Mary Anderson, although more fasci-' 
 nating in Perdita, could and did rise, in” 
 Hermione, to a noble height of tragic 
 power — an excellence not possible for her, 
 nor for anybody, in the more juvenile and 
 slender character. 
 
 Hermione has usually been represented 
 as an elderly woman and by such an actress 
 as is technically called ‘‘heavy.’? She 
 ought to be represented as about thirty 
 
HERMIONE: PERDITA. 10g 
 
 years of age at the beginning of the piece, 
 and forty-six at the end of it. Leontes is 
 not more than thirty-four at the opening, 
 and he would be fifty at the close. He 
 speaks, in his first scene, of his boyhood as 
 only twenty-three years gone, when his 
 dagger was worn ‘‘ muzzled, lest it should 
 bite its master’? —at which time he may 
 have been ten years old; certainly not 
 more, probably less. His words, toward 
 the end of act third, ‘‘so sure as this 
 beard’s gray,’’ refer to the beard of Antig- 
 onus, not to hisown. He is a young man 
 when the play begins, and Polixenes is 
 about the same age, and Hermione is a young 
 woman. Antigonus and Paulina are mid- 
 dle-aged persons in the earlier scenes and 
 Paulina is an elderly woman in the statue 
 scene — almost an old woman, though not 
 too old to be given in marriage to old 
 Camillo, the ever-faithful friend. In Mary 
 Anderson’s presentation of A Waéinter’s 
 Tale those details received thoughtful con- 
 sideration and correct treatment. 
 
 In Hermione is seen a type of the celes- 
 tial nature in woman — infinite love, infinite 
 charity, infinite patience. Sucha nature 
 is rare; but it is possible, it exists, and 
 Shakespeare, who depicted everything, did 
 
IIo MARY ANDERSON: 
 
 not omit to portray that. To comprehend 
 Hermione the observer must separate her, 
 absolutely and finally, from association 
 with the passions. Mrs. Jameson acutely 
 and justly describes her character as exhib- 
 iting ‘‘ dignity without pride, love without 
 
 passion, and tenderness without weakness.” | 
 
 That is exactly true. Hermione was not 
 
 easily won, and the best thing known about 
 
 Leontes is that at last she came to love 
 him and that her love for him survived his 
 
 cruel and wicked treatment, chastened him, _ 
 reinstated him, and ultimately blessed him. | 
 
 Hermione suffers the utmost affliction that 
 a good woman can suffer. Her boy dies, 
 heart-broken, at the news of his mother’s 
 
 alleged disgrace. Her infant daughter is 
 
 torn from her breast and cast forth to per- 
 
 ish. Her husband becomes her enemy and | 
 persecutor. Her chastity is assailed and | 
 
 vilified. She is subjected to the bitter in- 
 
 dignity of a public trial. It is no wonder 
 that at last her brain reels and she falls as 
 if stricken dead. The apparent anomaly is | 
 
 her survival for sixteen years, in lonely 
 
 j 
 
 seclusion, and her emergence, after that, 
 
 as anything but a forlorn shadow of her 
 
 former self. The poet Shelley has recorded 
 the truth that all great emotions either kill 
 
HERMIONE: PERDITA. Tit 
 
 themselves or kill those who feel them. It 
 is here, however, that the exceptional tem- 
 perament of Hermione supplies an explana- 
 tory and needed qualification. _Her emo- 
 tions are never of a passionate kind. Her 
 mind predominates. Her life is in the 
 affections and therefore it is one of thought. 
 She sees clearly the facts of her experience 
 and condition, and she knows exactly how 
 those facts look in the eyes of others. She 
 is one of those persons who possess a keen 
 and just prescience of events, who can look 
 far into the future and discern those result- 
 ant consequences of the present which, 
 under the operation of inexorable moral 
 law, must inevitably ensue. Self-poised in 
 the right and free from the disturbing force 
 of impulse and desire, she can await the 
 justice of time, she can live, and she can 
 live in the tranquil patience of resignation. 
 True majesty of the person is dependent on 
 repose of the soul, and there can be no 
 repose of the soul without moral rectitude 
 and a far-reaching, comprehensive, wise 
 vision of events. Mary Anderson embodied 
 Hermione in accordance with that ideal. 
 By the expression of her face and the tones 
 of her voice, in a single speech, the actress 
 placed beyond question her grasp of the 
 character : — 
 
112 MARY ANDERSON: 
 
 ‘Good my lords, 
 T am not prone to weeping, as our sex 
 Commonly are —the want of which vain dew 
 Perchance shall dry your pities — but I have 
 That honourable grief lodged here, which 
 burns 
 Worse than tears drown.” 
 
 The conspicuous, predominant, convinc- 
 ing artistic beauty in Mary Anderson’s im- 
 personation of Hermione was her realisation 
 of the part, in figure, face, presence, de- 
 meanour, and temperament. She did not 
 afflict her auditor with the painful sense of 
 a person struggling upward toward an un- 
 attainable identity. She made you con- 
 scious of the presence of a queen. This, 
 obviously, is the main thing—that the in- 
 dividuality shall be imperial, not merely 
 wearing royal attire but being invested with 
 the royal authenticity of divine endowment 
 and consecration. Much emphasis has been 
 placed by Shakespeare upon that attribute 
 of innate grandeur. Leontes, at the open- 
 ing of the trial scene, describes his accused 
 wife as ‘‘the daughter of a king,’’ and in 
 the same scene her father is mentioned as 
 the Emperor of Russia. The gentleman 
 who, in act fifth, recounts to Autolycus the 
 meeting between Leontes and his daughter 
 
HERMIONE: PERDITA. Tene 
 
 Perdita especially notes ‘‘ the majesty of 
 the creature, in resemblance of the mother.”? 
 Hermione herself, in the course of her vin- 
 dication — expressed in one of the most 
 noble and pathetic strains of poetical elo- 
 quence in our language — names herself ‘‘a 
 great king’s daughter,”’ therein recalling 
 those august and piteous words of Shake- 
 speare’s Katharine : — 
 
 “We are a Queen, or long have thought so, 
 certain 
 _ The daughter of a king.”’ 
 
 Poor old Antigonus, in his final soliloquy, 
 recounting the vision of Hermione that had 
 come upon him in the night, declares her to 
 be a woman royal and grand not by descent 
 only but by nature : — 
 
 “T never saw a vessel of like sorrow, 
 So filled and so becoming. In pure white 
 robes, 
 Like very sanctity, she did approach.”’ 
 
 That image Mary Anderson embodied, 
 and therefore the ideal of Shakespeare was 
 made a living thing—that glorious ideal, 
 in shaping which the great poet ‘‘from all 
 that are took something good, to make a 
 perfect woman.’’ Toward Polixenes, in 
 
 H 
 
Ii4 MARY ANDERSON: 
 
 the first scene, her manner was wholly 
 gracious, delicately playful, innocently kind, 
 and purely frank. Her quiet archness at 
 the question, ‘‘ Will you go yet?” struck 
 exactly the right key of Hermione’s mood. 
 With the baby prince Mamillius her frolic 
 and banter, affectionate, free, and gay, 
 were in a happy vein of feeling and 
 humour. Her simple dignity, restraining 
 both resentment and grief, in face of the 
 injurious reproaches of Leontes, was entirely 
 noble and right, and the pathetic words, 
 ‘¢T never wished to see you sorry, now I 
 trust I shall,’’? could not have been spoken 
 with more depth and intensity of grieved 
 affection than were felt in her composed 
 yet tremulous voice. The entrance, at the 
 trial scene, was made with the stateliness 
 natural to a queenly woman, and yet with 
 a touch of pathos —the cold patience of de- 
 spair. The delivery of Hermione’s defen- 
 sive speeches was profoundly earnest and 
 touching. The simple cry of the mother’s 
 breaking heart, and the action of veiling 
 her face and falling like one dead, upon the 
 announcement of the prince’s death, were 
 perfect denotements of the collapse of 4 
 grief-stricken woman. The skill with which 
 the actress, in the monument scene — which 
 
 a 
 
HERMIONE: PERDITA. II5 
 
 is all repose and no movement — contrived 
 nevertheless to invest Hermione with steady 
 vitality of action, and to imbue the crisis 
 with a feverish air of suspense, was in a 
 high degree significant of the personality of 
 genius. For such a performance of Her- 
 mione Shakespeare himself has provided 
 the sufficient summary and encomium : — 
 
 “Women will love her, that she is a woman 
 More worth than any man; men that she is 
 The rarest of all women.”’ 
 
 It is one thing to say that Mary Anderson 
 was better in Perdita than in Hermione, 
 and another thing to say that the perform- 
 ance of Perdita was preferred. Everybody 
 preferred it even those who knew that it 
 was not the better of the two ; for everybody 
 loves the sunshine more than the shade. 
 Hermione means grief and endurance. 
 Perdita means beautiful youth and happy 
 love. It does not take long for an observer 
 to choose between them. Suffering is not 
 companionable. By her impersonation of 
 Hermione the actress revealed her knowl- 
 edge of the stern truth of life, its trials, 
 its calamities, and the possible heroism of 
 character under its sorrowful discipline. 
 Into that identity she passed by the force 
 
116 MARY ANDERSON: 
 
 of her imagination. The embodiment was 
 majestic, tender, pitiable, transcendent, but 
 its colour was the sombre colour of pensive 
 melancholy and sad experience. That per- 
 formance was the higher and more signifi- 
 cant of the two. But the higher form of 
 art is not always the most alluring — never 
 the most alluring when youthful beauty 
 smiles and rosy pleasure beckons another 
 way. All hearts respond to happiness. 
 By her presentment of Perdita the actress 
 became the glittering image and incarna- 
 tion of glorious youthful womanhood and 
 fascinating joy. No exercise of the imagi- 
 nation was needfui to her in that. There 
 was an instantaneous correspondence be: 
 tween the part and the player. The em 
 bodiment was as natural as a sunbeam 
 Shakespeare has left no doubt about his 
 meaning in Perdita. The speeches of al 
 around her continually depict her fresh ant 
 piquant loveliness, her innate superiority 
 her superlative charm; while her behaviou 
 and language as constantly show forth he 
 nobility of soul. One of the subtlest sid 
 lights thrown upon the character is in th 
 description of the manner in which Perdit 
 heard the story of her mother’s death- 
 when ‘attentiveness wounded’? her ‘til 
 
HERMIONE: PERDITA. Om, 
 
 from one sign of dolour to another, she did 
 bleed tears.’’ And of the fibre of her na- 
 ture there is perhaps no finer indication 
 than may be felt in her comment on old 
 Camillo’s worldly view of prosperity as a 
 vital essential to the permanence of love : — 
 
 “T think affliction may subdue the cheek, 
 But not take in the mind.”’ 
 
 In the thirty-seven plays of Shakespeare 
 there is no strain of the poetry of sentiment 
 and grace essentially sweeter than that 
 which he has put into the mouth of Perdita ; 
 and poetry could not be more sweetly 
 spoken than it was by Mary Anderson in 
 that delicious scene of the distribution of 
 the flowers. The actress evinced compre- 
 hension of the character in every fibre of its 
 being, and she embodied it with the affluent 
 vitality of splendid health and buoyant tem- 
 perament — presenting a creature radiant 
 with goodness and happiness, exquisite 
 
 ‘in natural refinement, piquant with arch- 
 ‘ness, soft, innocent, and tender in confid- 
 ‘ing artlessness, and, while gleeful and 
 triumphant in beautiful youth, gently 
 touched with an intuitive pitying sense of 
 the thorny aspects of this troubled world. 
 The giving of the flowers completely be- 
 
118 MARY ANDERSON. 
 
 witched her auditors. The startled yet 
 proud endurance of the king’s anger was 
 in an equal degree captivating. Seldom has 
 the stage displayed that rarest of all combi- 
 nations, the passionate heart of a woman 
 with the lovely simplicity of a child. Noth- 
 ing could be more beautiful than she was 
 to the eyes that followed her lithe figure 
 through the merry mazes of her rustic 
 dance — an achievement sharply in contrast 
 with her usually statuesque manner, It 
 ‘smakes old hearts fresh’’ to see a specta- 
 cle of grace and joy, and that spectacle 
 they saw then and will not forget. The 
 value of those impersonations of Hermione 
 and Perdita, viewing them as embodied in- 
 terpretations of poetry was great, but they 
 possessed a greater value and a higher sig- 
 nificance as denotements of the guiding 
 light, the cheering strength, the elevating 
 loveliness of a noble human soul. They 
 embodied the conception of the poet, but ai 
 the same time they illumined an actual in. 
 carnation of the divine spirit. They wer 
 like windows to a sacred temple, ant 
 through them you could look into the sou 
 of a true woman—always a realm wher 
 thoughts are gliding angels, and feelings ar 
 the faces of seraphs, and sounds are thi 
 music of the harps of heaven. a 
 
IRVING AND TERRY IN OLIVIA. IIQ 
 
 aa & 
 HENRY IRVING AND ELLEN TERRY IN OLIVIA. 
 
 T has sometimes been thought that the 
 acting of Henry Irving is seen at its best 
 
 in those impersonations of his that derive 
 their vitality from the grim, ghastly, and 
 morbid attributes of human nature. That 
 he is a unique actor, and distinctively a 
 great actor, in Hamlet, Mathias, Kugene 
 Aram, Louis XI., Lesurque, and Dubosc, 
 few judges will deny. His performances of 
 those parts have shown him to be a man of 
 weird imagination, and they have shown 
 that his characteristics, mental and spir- 
 | -itual, are sombre. Accordingly, when it 
 was announced that he would play Dr. 
 Primrose — Goldsmith’s simple, virtuous, 
 homely, undramatic village- preacher, the 
 Vicar of Wakefield, —a doubt was felt as 
 _ to his suitability for the part and as to the 
 success of his endeavour. He played Dr. 
 Primrose, and he gained in that character 
 _ some of the brightest laurels of his profes- 
 
120 HENRY IRVING AND 
 
 sional career. The doubt proved unwar- 
 ranted. More than one competent observer 
 of that remarkable performance has granted 
 it an equal rank with the best of Henry Iry- 
 ing’s achievements ; and now, more clearly 
 than before, it is perceived that the current 
 of his inspiration flows as freely from the 
 silver spring of goodness as from the dark 
 and troubled fountain of human misery. 
 On the first night of Olivia, at the Ly- 
 ceum Theatre (it was May 27, 1885, when 
 the present writer happened to be in Lon- 
 don), Henry Irving’s performance of Dr, 
 Primrose was fettered by a curb of con- 
 straint. The actor’s nerves had been 
 strained to a high pitch of excitement and 
 he was obviously anxious. His spirit, ae- 
 cordingly, was not fully liberated into the 
 character. He advanced with cautious care 
 and he executed each detail of his design 
 with precise accuracy. To various audi- 
 tors, for that reason, the work seemed a 
 little Methodistical; and drab is a colour 
 at which the voice of the scoffer is apt to 
 scoff. But the impersonation of Dr. Prim- 
 rose soon became equally a triumph of 
 expression and of ideal; not only flowing 
 out of goodness, but flowing smoothly and 
 producing the effect of nature. It was not 
 
ELLEN TERRY IN OLIVIA. I21 
 
 absolutely and identically the Vicar that 
 Goldsmith has drawn, for its personality 
 was unmarked by either rusticity or strong 
 humour; but it was a kindred and higher 
 type of the simple truth, the pastoral sweet- 
 ness, the benignity, and the human tender- 
 ness of that delightful original. To in- 
 vest goodness with charm, to make virtue 
 piquant, and to turn common events of 
 domestic life to exquisite pathos and noble 
 exaltation was the actor’s purpose. It was 
 accomplished ; and Dr. Primrose, thitherto 
 an idyllic figure, existent only in the cham- 
 bers of fancy,.is henceforth as much a deni- 
 zen of the stage as Luke Fielding or Jesse 
 Rural; a man not merely to be read of, 
 as one reads of Uncle Toby and Parson 
 Adams, but to be known, remembered, and 
 loved. 
 
 Wills’s drama of. Olivia, based upon an 
 episode in Goldsmith’s story, is one of ex- 
 treme simplicity. It may be described as 
 a series of pictures displaying the conse- 
 quences of action rather than action itself. 
 It contains an abundance of incident, but 
 
 the incident is mostly devoid of inherent 
 dramatic force and therefore is such as must 
 derive its chief effect from the manner in 
 which it is treated by the actors who repre- 
 
122 HENRY IRVING AND 
 
 sent the piece. Nevertheless, the piece was 
 found to be, during its first three acts, an 
 expressive, coherent, interesting play. It 
 tells its story clearly and entirely, not by 
 narrative but by the display of characters 
 in their relations to each other. Its lan- 
 guage, flavoured here and there with the 
 phraseology of the novel, is consistently ap- 
 propriate. The fourth and last act is fee- 
 ble. Nobody can sympathise with ‘‘ the 
 late remorse of love’? in a nature so trivial 
 as that of Thornhill, and the incident of the 
 reconciliation between Olivia and her hus- 
 band, therefore, goes for nothing. It is 
 the beautiful relation between the father 
 and his daughter that animates the play. 
 It is paternal love that thrills its structure 
 with light, warmth, colour, sincerity, moral 
 force, and human significance. Opinion 
 may differ as to the degree of skill with 
 which Wills selected and employed the ma- 
 terials of Goldsmith’s story; but nobody 
 can justly deny that he wrought for the 
 stage a practical dramatic exposition of the 
 beauty and sanctity of the holiest relation 
 that is possible in human life; and to have 
 done that is to have done a noble thing. 
 Many persons appear to think that criti- 
 cism falls short of its duty unless it wounds 
 
ELLEN TERRY IN OLIVIA. 123 
 
 and hurts. Goldsmith himself observed 
 that fact. It was in the story of The 
 Vicar of Wakefield that he made his play- 
 ful suggestion that a critic should always 
 take care to say that the picture would 
 have been better if the painter had taken 
 more pains. Wills probably heard more 
 than enough for his spiritual welfare about 
 the faults of his piece ; yet there is really 
 nothing weak in the play except the con- 
 clusion. It is not easy to suggest, how- 
 ever, in what way the fourth act could be 
 strengthened, unless it were by a recasting 
 and renovation of the character of Squire 
 Thornhill. But the victory was gained, in 
 spite of a feeble climax. Many persons 
 also appear to think that it is a sort of sac- 
 rilege to lay hands upon the sacred ark of a 
 classic creation. Dion Boucicault, per- 
 ceiving this when he made a play about 
 Clarissa Harlowe, felt moved to depre- 
 cate anticipated public resentment of the 
 liberties that he had taken with Richard- 
 son’s novel. Yet it is difficult to see why 
 the abundant details of that excellent though 
 protracted narrative should not be curtailed, 
 in order to circumscribe its substance within 
 the limits of a practical drama. Jefferson 
 was blamed for condensing and slightly 
 
124 HENRY IRVING AND 
 
 changing the comedy of The Rivals. Yet 
 the author, who probably knew something ~ 
 about his work, deemed it a wretchedly 
 defective piece, and expressed the liveliest 
 regret for having written it. Wills did 
 not reproduce Goldsmith’s Vicar upon the 
 stage: in some particulars he widely di- 
 verged from it—and his work, accord- 
 ingly, may be censured. Yet The Vicar 
 of Wakefield is far from being a faultless 
 production, such as a divinity should be 
 supposed to hedge. Critical students are 
 aware of this. It is not worth while to 
 traverse the old ground, The reader who 
 will take the trouble—and pleasure —to 
 refer to that excellent chapter on Goldsmith 
 in Dr. Craik’s History of English Literature 
 will find the structural defects of the novel 
 specifically enumerated. If the dramatist 
 has ignored many details he has at least 
 extracted from the narrative the salient 
 points of a consistent, harmonious story. 
 The spectator can enjoy the play, whether 
 he has read the original or not. At the end 
 of its first act he knows the Vicar and his 
 family, their home, their way of life, their 
 neighbours, the two suitors for the two girls, 
 the motives of each and every character, 
 and the relations of each to all; and he sees, 
 
ELLEN TERRY IN OLIVIA. 125 
 
 what is always touching in the spectacle of 
 actual human life, the contrasted states of 
 circumstance and experience surrounding 
 and enmeshing all. After this preparation 
 the story is developed with few and rapid 
 strokes. Two of the pictures were poems. 
 At the end of act first the Vicar, who has 
 been apprised of the loss of his property, 
 imparts this sad news to his family. The 
 time is the gloaming. The chimes are 
 sounding in the church-tower. It is the 
 hour of evening prayer. The gray-haired 
 pastor calls his loved ones around him, in 
 his garden, and simply and reverently tells 
 them of their misfortune, which is to be 
 accepted submissively, as Heaven’s will. 
 The deep religious feeling of that scene, the 
 grouping, the use of sunset lights and shad- 
 ows, the melody of the chimes, the stricken 
 look in the faces of the women and chil- 
 dren, the sweet gravity of the Vicar—in- 
 stinct with the nobleness of a sorrow not yet 
 become corrosive and lachrymose, as is the 
 tendency of settled grief —and, over all, 
 the sense of blighted happiness and an 
 uncertain future, made up a dramatic as 
 well as a pictorial effect of impressive poetic 
 significance. In act second — which is pic- 
 torial almost without intermission — there 
 
126 HENRY IRVING AND 
 
 was a companion picture, when the Vicar 
 reads, at his fireside, a letter announcing 
 the restitution of his estate ; while his wife 
 and children and Mr. Burchell are assem- - 
 bled around the spinet singing an old song, 
 The repose with which Henry Irving made 
 that scene tremulous, almost painful, in its ” 
 suspense, was observed as one of the hap- 
 piest strokes of his art. The face and 
 demeanour of Dr. Primrose, changing from > 
 the composure of resignation to a startled 
 surprise, and then to almost an hysterical 
 gladness, presented a study not less instruc- 
 tive than affecting of the resources of acting, _ 
 Only two contemporary actors have pre- 
 sented anything kindred with Mr. Irving’s 
 acting in that situation and throughout the 
 scene that is sequent on the discovery of 
 Olivia’s flight — Jefferson in America and - 
 Got in France. 
 
 Evil is restless and irresistibly prone to 
 action. Goodness is usually negative and | 
 inert. Dr. Primrose is a type of goodness. — 
 In order to invest him with piquancy and 
 dramatic vigour Henry Irving gave him | 
 passion, and therewithal various attributes | 
 of charming eccentricity. The clergyman _ 
 thus presented is the fruition of a long life 
 of virtue. He has the complete repose of 
 
ELLEN TERRY IN OLIVIA. 127 
 
 innocence, the sweet candour of absolute 
 purity, the mild demeanour of spontane- 
 ous, habitual benevolence, the supreme 
 
 grace of unconscious simplicity. But he 
 
 is human and passionate; he shows—in 
 his surroundings, in his quick sympathy 
 with natural beauty, and in his indicated 
 rather than directly stated ideals of con- 
 duct—that he has lived an imaginative 
 and not a prosaic life; he is vaguely and 
 pathetically superstitious ; and while essen- 
 tially grand in his religious magnanimity 
 he is both fascinating and morally formi- 
 dable as a man. Those denotements point 
 at Henry Irving’s ideal. For his method 
 it is less easy to find the right description. 
 His mechanical reiteration of the words 
 that are said to him by Sophia, in the 
 
 moment when the fond father knows that 
 
 his idolised Olivia has fled with her lover ; 
 
 his collapse, when the harmless pistols are 
 
 taken from his nerveless hands; his de- 
 spairing cry, “If she had but died!” ; his 
 abortive effort to rebuke his darling child 
 in the hour of her abandonment and mis- 
 
 ery, and the sudden tempest of passionate 
 
 affection with which the great tender heart 
 sweeps away that inadequate and paltry 
 though eminently appropriate morality, and 
 
128 HENRY IRVING. AND 
 
 takes its idol to itself as only true love can 
 do — those were instances of high dramatic 
 achievement for which epithets are inade- 
 quate, but which the memory of the heart 
 will always treasure. 
 
 It was said by the poet Aaron Hill, in 
 allusion to Barton Booth, that the blind | 
 might have seen him in his voice and the deaf 
 might have heard him in his visage. Such > 
 a statement made concerning an actor now 
 would be deemed extravagant. But, turn- 
 ing from the Vicar to his cherished daughter, 
 that felicitous image comes naturally into 
 the mind. To think of Ellen Terry as 
 Olivia will always be to recall one especial 
 and remarkable moment of beauty and ten- 
 derness. It is not her distribution of the 
 farewell gifts, on the eve of Olivia’s flight — 
 full although that was of the emotion of a 
 good heart torn and tortured by the conflict 
 between love and duty —and it is not the 
 desperate resentment with which Olivia 
 beats back her treacherous betrayer, when, 
 at the climax of his baseness, he adds insult 
 to heartless perfidy. Those, indeed, were 
 made great situations by the profound sin- 
 cerity and the rich, woman-like passion of 
 the actress. But there was one instant, in 
 the second act of the play, when the wo- 
 
ELLEN TERRY IN OLIVIA. 129 
 
 man’s heart has at length yielded to her 
 lover’s will, and he himself, momentarily 
 dismayed by his own conquest, strives to 
 turn back, that Ellen Terry made pathetie 
 beyond description. The words she spoke 
 are simply these, ‘But I said I would 
 come!’ What language could do justice 
 to the voice, to the manner, to the sweet, 
 confiding, absolute abandonment of the 
 whole nature to the human love by which 
 t had been conquered? The whole of that 
 derformance was astonishing, was thrilling, 
 vith knowledge of the passion of love. 
 Chat especial moment was the supreme 
 eauty of it. At such times human nature 
 S irradiated with a divine fire, and art 
 ulfils its purpose. 
 i 
 
130 ON JEFFERSON'S 
 
 Vil. 
 ON JEFFERSON’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 OSEPH JEFFERSON has led a life o! 
 
 noble endeavour and has had a careel 
 of ample prosperity, culminating in honour 
 able renown and abundant happiness. Hi 
 was born in Philadelphia, February 20 
 1829. He went on the stage when he wa. 
 four years old and he has been on th 
 stage ever since. His achievements as a 
 actor have been recognised and accepte 
 with admiration in various parts of th 
 world ; in Australia and New Zealand an 
 in England, Scotland, and Ireland, as we 
 as in the United States. Among Englis) 
 speaking actors he is the foremost livir 
 representative of the art of eccentric comed 
 He has not, of late years, played a wi 
 range of parts, but, restricting himself to’ 
 few characters, and those of a represeni| 
 tive kind, the manner in which he has act. 
 them is a perfect manner—and it is t] 
 that has gained for him his distinct!’ 
 
 | 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. I31 
 
 eminence. Jefferson, however, is not sim- 
 ply and exclusively an actor. His mind 
 is many sided. He has painted landscape 
 pictures of a high order of merit, — pictures 
 in which elusive moods and subtle senti- 
 ments of nature are grasped with imagina- 
 tive insight and denoted and interpreted 
 with a free, delicate, and luminous touch. 
 He has also addressed the public as an 
 author. He has written an easy, collo- 
 quial account of his own life, and that 
 breezy, off-hand, expeditious work, — after 
 ‘passing it as a serial through their Century 
 Magazine, —the Century Company has 
 published in a beautiful volume. It is a 
 work that, for the sake of the writer, will 
 be welcomed everywhere, and, for its own 
 sake as well as his, will everywhere be 
 preserved. 
 
 Beginning a theatrical career nearly sixty 
 years ago (1833), roving up and down the 
 earth ever since, and seldom continuing in 
 one place, Fetiernbis has had uncommon 
 opportunities of noting the development 
 of the United States and of observing, in 
 both hemispheres, the changeful aspect of 
 one of the most eventful periods in the 
 history of the world. Actors, as a class, 
 know nothing but the stage and see noth- 
 
 | 
 
132 ON JEFFERSON'S 
 
 ing but the pursuit in which they are occu- 
 pied. Whoever has lived much among 
 them knows that fact, from personal obser- 
 vation. Whoever has read the various and 
 numerous memoirs that have from time to 
 time been published by elderly members of 
 that profession must have been amused to 
 perceive that, while they conventionally agree 
 that. ‘‘all the world’s a stage,”’ they are 
 enthusiastically convinced that the stage 
 is all the world. Jefferson’s book, al- 
 though it contains much about the theatre, 
 shows him to be an exception in this re- 
 spect, even as he is in many others. He 
 has seen many countries and many kinds 
 of men and things, and he has long looked 
 upon life with the thoughtful gaze of a 
 philosopher as well as the wise smile of 
 a humourist. He can, if he likes, talk 
 of something besides the shop. His ac: 
 count of his life ‘‘lacks form a little,’’ an¢ 
 his indifference to ‘‘ accurate statistics ”_ 
 which he declares to be ‘‘somewhat te 
 dious’?——is now and then felt to be al 
 embarrassment. One would like to know 
 for instance, while reading about the prim 
 itive theatrical times, when actors saile: 
 the western rivers in flatboats, and sho 
 beasts and birds on the bank, precisel 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 133 
 
 the extent and limits of that period. Nor 
 is this the only queer aspect of the dra- 
 matic past that might be illumined. The 
 total environment of a man’s life is al- 
 most equally important with the life itself 
 —hbeing, indeed, the scenery amid which 
 the action passes — and a good method for 
 the writing of a biography is that which 
 sharply defines the successive periods of 
 childhood, youth, manhood, and age, and, 
 while depicting the development of the 
 individual from point to point, depicts also 
 the entire field through which he moves, 
 and the mutations, affecting his life, that 
 occur in the historic and social fabric 
 around him. Jefferson, while he has 
 painted vigorously and often happily, on 
 a large canvas, has left many spaces empty 
 and others but thinly filled. The reader 
 who accompanies him may, nevertheless, 
 with a little care, piece out the story so as 
 to perceive it as a sequent, distinct, harmo- 
 nious, and rounded narrative. Meanwhile 
 the companionship of this heedless historian 
 is delightful — for whether as actor, painter, 
 or writer, Jefferson steadily exerts the 
 charm of a genial personality. You are as 
 
 one walking along a country road, on a 
 golden autumn day, with a kind, merry 
 
 ; 
 
134 ON JEFFERSON'S 
 
 companion, who knows all about the trees 
 that fringe your track and the birds that 
 flit through their branches, and who beguiles 
 the way with many a humorous tale and 
 many a pleasant remembrance, now im- 
 pressing your mind by the sagacity of his 
 reflections, now touching your heart by 
 some sudden trait of sentiment or pathos, 
 and always pleasing and satisfying you 
 with the consciousness of a sweet, human, 
 broad, charitable, piquantnature. Although 
 an autobiographer Jefferson is not ego- 
 tistical, and although a moralist he is not 
 a bore. There is a tinge of the Horatian 
 mood in him — for his reader often becomes 
 aware of that composed, sagacious, hali- 
 droll, quizzical mind that indicates, with 
 grave gentleness, the folly of ambition, the 
 vanity of riches, the value of the present) 
 hour, the idleness of borrowing trouble, the 
 blessing of the golden medium in fortune, 
 the absurdity of flatterers, and the comfort 
 of keeping a steadfast spirit amid the iney- 
 itable vicissitudes of this mortal state. : 
 
 Jefferson has memories of a boyhood 
 that was passed in Washington, Baltimore, 
 and New York. He went to Chicago m| 
 1838, when that place was scarcely more 
 than a village—making the journey from 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 135 
 New York to Buffalo in a canal-boat, and 
 sailing thence, aboard a steamer, through 
 the lakes of Erie, Huron, and Michigan. 
 He travelled with his parents, and they gave 
 dramatic performances, in which he as- 
 sisted, in western towns. It was a time 
 of poverty and hardship, but those ills were 
 borne cheerfully —the brighter side of a 
 hard life being kept steadily in view, and 
 every comic incident of it being seen and 
 appreciated. His father was a gentleman 
 of the Mark Tapley temperament, who 
 came out strong amid adverse circum- 
 stances, and the early disappearance from 
 the book of that delightful person (who 
 died in 1842, of yellow fever, at Mobile), 
 is a positive sorrow. His mother, a refined 
 and gentle lady, of steadfast character and 
 of uncommon musical and dramatic talents 
 and accomplishments, survived till 1849, 
 
 and her ashes rest in Ronaldson’s ceme- 
 tery, in Philadelphia. Jefferson might 
 
 have said much more about his parents, 
 
 and especially about his famous grand- 
 
 father, without risk of becoming tedious — 
 for they were remarkably interesting peo- 
 ple; but he was writing his own life and 
 
 not theirs, and he has explained that he 
 
 likes not to dwell much upon domestic 
 
136 ON JEFFERSON'S 
 
 matters. The story of his long ancestry of 
 actors, which reaches back to the days of 
 Garrick (for there have been five genera- 
 tions of the Jeffersons upon the stage), he 
 has not mentioned; and the story of his 
 own young days is hurried rapidly to a con- 
 clusion. He was brought on the stage, 
 when a child, at the theatre in Washington, 
 D.C., by the negro comedian Thomas D. 
 Rice, who emptied him out of a bag; and 
 thereupon, being dressed as ‘‘a nigger 
 dancer,’’ in imitation of Rice, he performed 
 the antics of Jim Crow. He adverts to his 
 first appearance in New York and remem- 
 bers his stage combat with Master Titus; 
 and he thinks that Master Titus must re- 
 member it also,— since one of that boy’s 
 big toes was nearly cut off in the fray, 
 That combat occurred at the Franklin the- 
 atre, September 380, 1837—a useful fact 
 that the autobiographer cares not to men- 
 
 tion. He speedily becomes a young man, - 
 as the reader follows him through the first. 
 three chapters of his narrative, — of which | 
 
 there are seventeen, — and he is found to 
 
 | 
 
 be acting, as a stock player, in support of 
 James W. Wallack, Junius Brutus Booth, | 
 W.C. Macready, and Mr. and Mrs. J. W. | 
 
 Wallack, Jr. Upon the powers and peculi- 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 137 
 
 arities of those actors, and upon the traits 
 of many others who, like them, are dead 
 and gone (for there is scarcely a word in 
 the book about any of his living contempo- 
 raries), he comments freely and instruc- 
 tively. He was ‘‘barn-storming’’ in Texas 
 when the Mexican war began, and he fol- 
 lowed in the track of the American army, 
 and acted in the old Spanish theatre in 
 Matamoras, in the spring of 1846; and, 
 subsequently, finding that this did no good, 
 he opened a stall there for the sale of coffee 
 and other refreshments, in the corner of a 
 gambling hell.. He calls to mind the way of 
 domestic life and the every-day aspect of 
 houses, gardens, people, and manners in 
 Matamoras, and those he describes with 
 especial skill—deftly introducing. the por- 
 traiture of a dusky, black-eyed, volatile 
 Mexican girl, to whom he lost, temporarily, 
 the light heart of youth, and whom he 
 thinks that he might have married had he 
 not deemed it prudent to journey northward 
 toward a cooler clime. In New Orleans, 
 at about that time, he first saw the then 
 young comedian John E. Owens: and he 
 records the fact that his ambition to 
 excel as an actor was awakened by the 
 Spectacle of that rival’s success. Owens 
 
138 ON JEFFERSON'S 
 
 has had his career since then, —and a bril- 
 liant one it was, and now he sleeps in 
 peace. 
 
 After that experience Jefferson re- 
 paired to Philadelphia, and during the next 
 ten years, from 1846 to 1856, he wrought 
 in that city and in New York, Baltimore, 
 Richmond, and other places, sometimes as a 
 stock actor, sometimes as a Star, and some- 
 times as a manager. He encountered vari- 
 ous difficulties. He took a few serious steps 
 and many comic ones. He was brought 
 into contact with some individuals that were 
 eminent and with some that were ludicrous. 
 He crossed the Allegheny mountains in 
 mid-winter, from Wheeling to Cumberland, 
 in a cold stage-coach, and almost perished. 
 He was a member of Burton’s company at 
 the Arch Street theatre, Philadelphia, and 
 was one of the chorus in that great actor's 
 revival of Antigone — which there is little 
 doubt that the chorus extinguished. Ht 
 was the low comedian in Joseph Foster's 
 amphitheatre, where he sang Captain 
 Kidd to fill up the ‘‘ carpenter scenes,’ 
 and where he sported amid the turbulen 
 shetorical billows of Timour the Tartar an' 
 The Terror of the Road. He acted in Ney 
 York at the Franklin theatre and also a 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 139 
 
 the Chatham. He managed theatres in 
 Macon and Savannah, where he brought 
 out the blithe Sir William Don; and one of 
 the sprightliest episodes of his memoir is 
 the chapter in which he describes that tall, 
 elegant, nonchalant adventurer. Don was 
 a Scotchman, born in 1826, who made his 
 first appearance in America in November 
 1850 at the Broadway theatre, New York, 
 and afterward drifted aimlessly through the 
 provincial theatres. Don was married in 
 1857 to Miss Emily Sanders, and he died ° 
 at Tasmania, March 19, 1862, and was 
 buried at Hobartstown. Jefferson saw the 
 dawn of promise in the career of Julia 
 Dean, — when that beautiful girl was act- 
 ing with him, in the stock —and afterwards 
 he saw the noonday splendour of her pros- 
 perity ; and he might have recalled, but 
 that sad touches are excluded from his 
 _ biography, her mournful decline. In 1853 
 he was stage manager of the Baltimore 
 -tmuseum, for Henry C. Jarrett, and in 1854 
 he was manager of the Richmond theatre, 
 for John T. Ford. Among the players 
 whom he met, and who deeply influenced 
 him, were James E. Murdoch, Henry Pla- 
 ' cide, Edwin Forrest, Edwin Adams, and 
 _ Agnes Robertson. But the actor who most 
 
140 ON JEFFERSON'S 
 
 affected the youth of Joseph Jefferson, 
 whose influence sank deepest into his heart 
 and has remained longest in his memory 
 and upon his style, was his half-brother, 
 Charles Burke: and certainly, as a serio- 
 comic actor, it may be doubted whether 
 Charles Burke ever was surpassed. That 
 comedian was born March 27, 1822, in Phil- 
 adelphia, and he died in New York, No- 
 vember 10, 1854. Jefferson’s mother, Cor. 
 nelia Frances Thom4s, born in New York, 
 - October 1, 1796, the daughter of French 
 parents, was married in her girlhood to the 
 Irish comedian Thomas Burke, who died 
 in 1824; and she contracted her second 
 marriage, with Jefferson’s father, in 
 1826. Jefferson writes at his best in the 
 description of scenery, in the analysis of 
 character, and in the statement of artistic 
 principles. His portraiture of Murdoch, as 
 a comedian, is particularly clear and fine. 
 His account of Julia Dean’s hit, as Lady 
 Priory, is excellent and will often be cited. 
 His portrayal of the reciprocal action of 
 Burton and Charles Burke, when they: 
 were associated in the same piece, conveys 
 a valuable lesson. His anecdotes of Edwin 
 Forrest present that grim figure as yet 
 again the involuntary cause of mirth. It 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. I4I 
 
 eften was so. Jefferson, however, draws 
 a veil of gentle charity over those misused 
 
 _ powers, that perverse will, that wasted life. 
 
 The most striking dramatic portraiture in 
 the book is that bestowed on Charles 
 Burke, William Warren, George Holland, 
 Tom Glessing, and Edwin Adams. Those 
 were men who lived in Jefferson’s affec- 
 tions, and when he wrote about them he 
 wrote from the heart. ‘The sketch of Gles- 
 sing, whom, everybody loved that ever 
 knew him, is in a touching strain of tender 
 remembrance. 
 
 Jefferson visited England and France 
 in 1856, but not to act. At that time he 
 saw the famous English comedians Comp- 
 ton, Buckstone, Robson, and Wright, anda 
 that extraordinary actor, fine. alike in 
 tragedy and comedy, the versatile Samuel 
 Phelps. In 1857 he was associated with 
 Laura Keene at her theatre in New York ; 
 and from that date onward his career has 
 been upon a high and sunlit path, visible to 
 the world. His first part at Laura Keene’s 
 theatre was Dr. Pangloss. Then came 
 Our American Cousin, in which he gained 
 a memorable success as Asa Trenchard, 
 and in which Edward A. Sothern laid 
 the basis of that fantastic structure of 
 
142 ON JEFFERSON’S 
 
 whim and grotesque humour that after- 
 ward became famous as Lord Dundreary. 
 Sothern, Laura Keene, and William Rufus 
 Blake, of course, gained much of Jef- 
 ferson’s attention at that time, and he 
 has not omitted to describe them. His ac- 
 count of Blake, however, does not impart an 
 adequate idea of the excellence of that come- 
 dian. In 1858 he went to the Winter Garden 
 theatre, and was associated with the late 
 Dion Boucicault. His characters then were 
 Newman Noggs, Caleb Plummer, and Salem 
 Scudder —in Nicholas Nickleby, The Cricket 
 on the Hearth, and The Octoroon. Mr. 
 Boucicault told him not to make Caleb 
 Plummer a solemn character at the begin- 
 ning —a deliverance that Jefferson seems 
 to have cherished as one of. colossal wis- 
 dom. He made a brilliant hit in Salem 
 Scudder, and it was then that he determined 
 finally to assume the position of a star. 
 ‘‘Art has always been my sweetheart,’’ 
 exclaims Jefferson, ‘‘and I have loved her 
 for herself alone.’’ No observer can doubt 
 that who has followed his career. It was 
 in 1859 that he reverted to the subject of 
 Rip Van Winkle, as the right theme for his 
 dramatic purpose. He had seen Charles 
 Burke as Rip, and he knew the several 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 143 
 
 yersions of Washington Irving’s story that 
 had been made for the theatre by Burke, 
 Hackett, and Yates. The first Rip Van 
 Winkle upon the stage, of whom there is 
 any record in theatrical annals, was Thomas 
 Flynn (1804-1849). That comedian, the 
 friend of the elder Booth, acted the part 
 for the first time on May 24, 1828, at Al- 
 bany. Charles B. Parsons, who afterward 
 acted in many theatres as Rip, and ulti- 
 mately became a preacher, was, on that 
 night, the performer of Derrick. Jeffer- 
 soui’s predecessors as Rip Van Winkle were 
 remarkably clever men — Flynn, Parsons, 
 Burke, Chapman, Hackett, Yates, and Wil- 
 liam Isherwood. But it remained for Jef- 
 ferson to do with that character what no 
 one else had ever thought of doing — to 
 lift it above the level of the tipsy rustic 
 and make it the poetical type of the drift- 
 ing and dreaming vagrant — half-haunted, 
 half-inspired, a child of the trees and the 
 clouds. Jefferson records that he was 
 lying on the hay in a barn in Paradise 
 Valley, Pennsylvania, in the summer of 
 1859, taking advantage of a rainy day to 
 read Washington Irving’s Life and Letters, 
 when that plan came to him. It proved an 
 inspiration of happiness to thousands of 
 
144 ON JEFFERSON’S 
 
 people all over the world. The comedian 
 made a play for himself, on the basis of 
 Charles Burke’s play, but with one vital 
 improvement —he arranged the text and 
 business of the superriatural scene so that 
 Rip only should speak, while the ghosts 
 should remain silent. That stroke of 
 genius accomplished his object. The man 
 capable of that exploit in dramatic art 
 could not fail to win the world, because he 
 would at once fascinate its imagination while 
 touching its heart. 
 
 In 1861 Jefferson went to California 
 and thence to Australia, and in the latter 
 country he remained four years. He has 
 written a fine description of the entrance 
 to the harbour at Sydney. His accounts of 
 ‘‘the skeleton dance,’? as he saw it per- 
 formed by the black natives of that land; 
 of his meeting with the haunted hermit in 
 the woods; of the convict audience at Tas- 
 mania, for whom he acted in The Ticket-of- 
 Leave Man; and of the entertainment fur- 
 nished in a Chinese theatre, are composi- 
 tions that would impart to any book the 
 interest of adventure and the zest of novelty. 
 Such pictures as those have a broad back- 
 ground ; they are not circumscribed within 
 the proscenium frame. The man is seen 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 145 
 
 n those passages as well as the actor; and 
 1¢ plays his part well, amid picturesque 
 surroundings of evil and peril, of tragedy 
 ind of pathos. In Australia Jefferson 
 net Charles Kean and his wife (Ellen 
 free), of whom his sketches are boldly 
 lrawn and his memories are pleasant. Mr. 
 nd Mrs. Kean afterward made their fare- 
 vell visit to the United States, beginning, 
 vhen they reached New York (from San 
 francisco, in April 1865), with Henry 
 VIII, and closing with The Jealous Wife. 
 n 1865 Jefferson went from Australia to 
 south America-and passed some time in 
 ima, where he saw much tropical luxury 
 nd many beautiful ladies —an inspiriting 
 pectacle, fittingly described by him in 
 ome of the most felicitous of his fervent 
 vords. In June 1865 he reached London, 
 nd presently he came forth, at the Adelphi, 
 s Rip Van Winkle, —having caused the 
 iece to be rewritten by Mr. Boucicault, 
 rho introduced the colloquy of the chil- 
 Ten, paraphrased for it the recognition 
 cene between King Lear and Cordelia, and 
 ept Gretchen alive to be married to Der- 
 ck. Mr. Boucicault, however, had no 
 tith in the piece or the actor’s plan, and 
 own to the last moment prophesied fail- 
 K 
 
146 ON JEFFERSON’S 
 
 ure. Jefferson’s success was unequivocal, 
 Friends surrounded him and in the gentle 
 and genial record that he has made of those 
 auspicious days some of the brightest 
 names of modern English literature sparkle 
 on his page. Benjamin Webster, Paul Bed. 
 ford, John Billington, John Brougham, ane 
 Marie Wilton were among the actors whe 
 were glad to be his associates. Robertson 
 the dramatist, was his constant companio1 
 __ one of the most intellectual and one of th 
 wittiest of men. Planché, aged yet heart; 
 and genial (and no man had more in hi 
 nature of the sweet spirit of the comrade} 
 speedily sought him. Charles Reade an 
 Anthony Trollope became his cronies; an 
 poor Artemas Ward arrived and joined th 
 party just as Jefferson was leaving it- 
 as bright a spirit, as kind a heart, and ¢ 
 fine and quaint a humourist as ever cheere 
 this age — from which he vanished too soc 
 for the happiness of his friends and f) 
 the fruition of his fame. ‘‘I was mut 
 impressed,’? says the comedian, ‘‘ Wi 
 Ward’s genial manner; he was not in go’ 
 health, and I advised him to be careful le 
 the kindness of London should kill him 
 That advice was not heeded, and the kin 
 ness of London speedily ended Wart 
 days. i 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 147 
 
 Jefferson came home in 1866 and passed 
 ten years in America—vyears of fame 
 and fortune, whereof the record is smooth 
 prosperity. Its most important personal 
 incident was his second marriage, on 
 December 20, 1867, at Chicago, to Miss 
 Sarah Warren. In July 1873 he made a 
 voyage to Europe, with his wife and Wil- 
 liam Warren, the comedian, and remained 
 there till autumn. From November 1, 
 1875 to April 29, 1876 and from Easter 
 1877 until midsummer he was again act- 
 ing in London, where he redoubled his for- 
 mer success. In October 1877 he returned 
 home, and since then he has remained in 
 America. The chronicle that he has writ- 
 ten glides lightly over these latter years, 
 mly now and then touching on their golden 
 summits. The manifest wish of the writer 
 aas been to people his pages as much as 
 dossible with the men and women of his 
 iwtistic circle and knowledge who would 
 ve likely to interest the reader. Robert 
 3rowning, Charles Kingsley, and George 
 Augustus Sala come into the picture, and 
 here is a pleasing story of Browning and 
 4ongfellow walking arm in arm in London 
 treets till driven into a cab by a summer 
 ‘hower, when Longfellow insisted on pass- 
 
148 ON JEFFERSON’S 
 
 ing his umbrella through the hole in the 
 roof, for the protection of the cab-driver. 
 Jefferson lived for one summer in ai 
 old mansion at Morningside, Edinburgh, 
 and he dwells with natural delight on his 
 recollections of that majestic city. Ht 
 had many a talk, at odd times, with th 
 glittering farceur Charles Mathews, abou 
 dramatic art, and some of this is recordec 
 in piquant anecdotes. ‘(By many,’’ say 
 the amiable annalist, ‘‘he was thought t 
 be cold and selfish; I do not think he wa 
 so..? There is a kind word for Charle 
 Fechter, whose imitations of Frederick Le 
 maitre, in Belphegor, the Mountebank, liv 
 in Jefferson’s remembrance as wondel 
 fully graphic. There are glimpses of Jame 
 Wallack, Walter Montgomery, Peter Ricl 
 ings, E. A. Sothern, Laura Keene, Jame 
 G. Burnett, John Gilbert, Tyrone Powe 
 Lester Wallack, John McCullough, J ohn 1) 
 Raymond, Mr. and Mrs. Barney William 
 John Drew (the elder), F. 8. Chanfra) 
 Charlotte Cushman, Mrs. Drake, and mal 
 others; and the record incorporates ty 
 letters, not before published, from Jol 
 Howard Payne, the author of Hom 
 Sweet Home—a melody that is the né 
 ural accompaniment of Jefferson’s li 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 49 
 
 There is a pretty picture of that ancient 
 supper-room at No. 2 Bulfinch Place, Bos- 
 ton — Miss Fisher’s kitchen — as it ap- 
 peared when William Warren sat behind 
 the mound of lobsters, at the head of the 
 table, while the polished pewters reflected 
 the cheerful light, and wit and raillery 
 enlivened the happy throng, and many a 
 face was wreathed with smiles that now is 
 dark and still forever. In ,one chapter 
 Jefferson sets forth his views upon the art 
 of acting ; and seldom within so brief a com- 
 pass will so many sensible refiections be 
 found so simply and tersely expressed. The 
 book closes with words of gratitude for many 
 blessings, and with an emblematic picture 
 of a spirit resigned to whatever vicissitudes 
 of fortune may yet be decreed. 
 
 Jefferson’s memoir is a simple mes- 
 sage to simple minds. It will find its way 
 to thousands of readers to whom a paper by 
 Addison or an essay by Hume would have 
 no meaning. It will point for them the 
 moral of a good life. It will impress them 
 with the spectacle of a noble actor, pro- 
 foundly and passionately true to the high 
 jart by which he lives, bearing eloquent tes- 
 timony to its beauty and its worth, and to 
 ‘the fine powers and sterling virtues of the 
 
I50 JEFFERSON’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 good men and women with whom he has 
 been associated in its pursuit. It will dis. 
 play to them—and to all others who may 
 chance to read it —a type of that absolute 
 humility of spirit which yet is perfectly 
 compatible with a just pride of intellect. H 
 will help to preserve interesting traits o} 
 famous actors of an earlier time, togethei 
 with bright stories that illumine the dry 
 chronicle of our theatrical history. And, ir 
 its simple record of the motives by which he 
 has been impelled, and the artistic purposes 
 that he has sought to accomplish, it will re 
 main an eloquent, vital, indestructible me 
 morial to the art and the character of a grea’ 
 comedian, when the present reality of his 
 exquisite acting shall have changed toa din 
 tradition and a fading memory of the past 
 
ON JEFFERSON'S ACTING. If! 
 
 VIII. 
 ON JEFFERSON’S ACTING. 
 
 a years from now the historian of 
 the American stage, if he should be 
 asked to name the actor of this period who 
 was most beloved by the people of this gen- 
 
 eration, will answer that it was Joseph 
 
 Jefferson. Other actors of our time are 
 famous, and they possess in various degrees 
 the affection of the public. Jefferson is 
 not only renowned but universally be- 
 
 | loved. To state the cause of this effect is 
 
 at once to explain his acting and to do it 
 the honour to which it is entitled. That 
 cause can be stated in a single sentence. 
 Jefferson is at once a poetic and a human 
 actor, and he is thus able to charm all 
 minds and to win all hearts. His suc- 
 cess, therefore, is especially important not 
 to himself alone but to the people. 
 
 Public taste is twofold. It has a surface 
 liking, and it hasa deep, instinctive, natural 
 preference. The former is alert, capricious, 
 
152 ON JEFFERSON'S ACTING. 
 
 incessant, and continually passes from 
 fancy to fancy. It scarcely knows what it 
 wants, except that it wants excitement and 
 change. Those persons in the dramatic 
 world who make a point to address it are 
 experimental speculators, whose one and 
 only object is personal gain, and who are 
 willing and ready to furnish any sort of 
 entertainment that they think will please a 
 passing caprice, and thereby will turn a 
 penny for themselves. To judge the public 
 entirely by this surface liking is to find the 
 public what Tennyson once called it—a 
 many-headed beast. With that animal 
 every paltry and noxious thing can be 
 made, for a time, to flourish ; and that fact 
 leads observers who do not carefully look 
 beneath the surface to conclude that the 
 public is always wrong. But the deep 
 preference of the public comes into the ques- 
 tion, and observers who are able to see and 
 to consider that fact presently perceive 
 that the artist, whether actor or otherwise, 
 who gives to the public, not what it says it 
 wants but what it ought to have, is in the 
 long run the victor. The deep preference 
 is for the good thing, the real thing, the 
 right. It is not intelligent. It does not go 
 with thinking and reasoning. It does not 
 
ON JEFFERSON’S ACTING. 153 
 
 pretend to have grounds of belief. It sim- 
 ply responds. But upon the stage the ac- 
 tor who is able to reach it is omnipotent. 
 Jefferson conspicuously is an actor who 
 appeals to the deep, instinctive, natural 
 preference of humanity, and who reaches 
 it, arouses it, and satisfies it. Through- 
 out the whole of his mature career 
 he has addressed the nobler soul of hu- 
 manity and given to the people what 
 they ought to have; and the actor who is 
 really able to do that naturally conquers 
 everything. It is not a matter of artifice 
 and simulation; it is a matter of being 
 genuine and not a sham. 
 
 Still further, Jefferson has aroused and 
 touched and satisfied the feelings of the 
 people, not by attempting to. interpret 
 literature but by being an actor. An actor 
 is a man who acts. He may be an uned- 
 ucated man, deficient in learning and in 
 mental discipline, and yet a fine actor. The 
 people care not at all for literature. They 
 do not read it, and they know nothing 
 
 about it until it is brought home to their 
 
 hearts by some great interpreter of it. 
 What they do know is action. They can 
 
 see and they can feel, and the actor who 
 Makes them see and feel can do anything 
 
154 ON JEFFERSON'S ACTING. 
 
 with them that he pleases. It is his privi- 
 lege and his responsibility. Jefferson is 
 one of those artists (and they are few) 
 who depend for their effects not upon what 
 authors have written but upon impersona- 
 tion. He takes liberties with the text. It 
 would not perhaps be saying too much to 
 say that he does not primarily heed the text 
 at all. He is an actor; and speaking with 
 reference to him and to others like him it 
 would perhaps be well if those persons who 
 write criticisms upon the stage would come 
 to a definite conclusion upon this point and 
 finally understand that an actor must pro- 
 duce his effects on the instant by something 
 that he does and is, and not by rhetoric and 
 elocution, and therefore that he should not 
 be expected to repeat every word of every 
 part, or to be a translator of somebody else, 
 but that he must be himself. If we want 
 the full, literal text of Shakespeare we can 
 stop at home and read it. What we want 
 of the actor is that he should give himself; 
 and the true actor does give himself. The 
 play is the medium. A man who acts 
 Romeo must embody, impersonate, express, 
 convey, and make evident what he knows 
 and feels about love. He need not trouble 
 himself about Shakespeare. That greai 
 
ON JEFFERSON’S ACTING. 155 
 
 poet will survive; while if Romeo, being 
 ever so correct, bores the house, Romeo 
 will be damned. Jefferson is an actor 
 who invariably produces effect, and he pro- 
 duces it by impersonation, and by imper- 
 sonation that is poetic and human. 
 Jefferson’s performance of Acres con- 
 spicuously exemplifies the principles that 
 have been stated here. He has not hesi- 
 tated to alter the comedy of The Rivals, 
 
 and in his alteration of it he has improved 
 
 it. Acres has been made a better part for 
 an actor, and a more significant and sym- 
 pathetic part for an audience. You could 
 not care particularly for Acres if he were 
 played exactly as he is written. You might 
 laugh at him, and probably would, but he 
 would not touch your feelings. Jefferson 
 embodies him in such a way that he 
 often makes you feel like laughing and cry- 
 ing at the same moment, and you end with 
 loving the character, and storing it in your 
 memory with such cherished comrades of 
 the fancy as Mark Tapley and Uncle Toby. 
 There is but little human nature in Acres 
 as Sheridan has drawn him, and what there 
 is of human nature is coarse; but as 
 embodied by Jefferson, while he never 
 ceases to be comically absurd, he becomes 
 
156 ON JEFFERSON’S ACTING © 
 
 fine and sweet, and wins sympathy and in- 
 spires affection, and every spectator is glad — 
 
 to have seen him and to remember him. It 
 is not possible to take that sort of liberty 
 
 with every author. You can do it but sel- — 
 
 dom with Shakespeare; never in any but 
 
 his juvenile plays. But there are authors | 
 
 who can be improved by that process, and 
 Sheridan —in The Rivals, not: in The 
 School for Scandal —is one of them. And 
 anyway, since it ought to be felt, known, 
 understood, and practically admitted that 
 an actor is something more than a telegraph 
 wire, that his personal faculty and testi- 
 mony enter into the matter of embodiment 
 and expression, Jefferson’s rare excel- 
 lence and great success as Acres should 
 teach a valuable lesson, correcting that per- 
 nicious habit of the critical mind which 
 measures an actor by the printed text of a 
 play-book and by the hide-bound traditions 
 of custom on the stage. Jefferson has 
 
 had a royal plenitude of success as an actor, — 
 chiefly with the part of Rip Van Winkle, 
 
 but also with the characters of Caleb Plum- 
 
 mer, Bob Brierly, Dr. Pangloss, Dr. Olla- 
 pod, Mr. Golightly, and Hugh de Brass. | 
 The reason of that success cannot be found | 
 in conventional adherence to stage customs | 
 
 and critical standards. 
 
ON JEFFERSON'S ACTING. 157 
 
 Jefferson has gained his great power 
 over the people —of which his great fame 
 is the shadow—by giving himself in his 
 art —his own rich and splendid nature and 
 the crystallised conclusions of his expe- 
 rience. As an artist, when it comes to 
 execution, he leaves nothing to chance. 
 The most seemingly artless of his proceed- 
 ings is absolutely defined in advance, and 
 never is what heedless observers call im- 
 pulsive and spontaneous. But his tempera- 
 ment is free, fluent, opulent, and infinitely 
 tender ; and when the whole man is aroused, 
 this flows into the moulds of literary and 
 dramatic art and glorifies them. When 
 you are looking at Jefferson as Acres 
 - jn the duel scene in The Rivals, you laugh 
 at him, but almost you laugh through your 
 tears. When you see Jefferson as Rip 
 Van Winkle confronting the ghosts on the 
 lonely mountain-top at midnight, you see a 
 display of imaginative personality quite as 
 high as that of Hamlet in tremulous sensi- 
 bility to supernatural influence, although 
 wholly apart from Hamlet in altitude of 
 intellect and in anguish of experience. 
 The poetry of the impersonation, though, 
 is entirely consonant with Hamlet, and 
 that is the secret of Jefferson’s excep- 
 
158 ON JEFFERSON’S ACTING. 
 
 tional hold upon the heart and the imagina. 
 tion of his time. The public taste does not 
 ask Jefferson to trifle with his art. Its 
 deep, spontaneous, natural preference feels 
 that he is a true actor, and so yields to his 
 power, and enjoys his charm, and is all the 
 time improved and made fitter to enjoy it. 
 He has reached as great a height as it is 
 possible to reach in his profession. He 
 could if he chose play greater parts than 
 he has ever attempted ; he could not give a 
 better exemplification than he gives, in his 
 chosen and customary achievement, of all 
 that is distinctive, beautiful, and beneficent 
 in the art of the actor. 
 
JEFFERSON AND FLORENCE. 159 
 
 IX. 
 JEFFERSON AND FLORENCE IN OLD COMEDY. 
 
 REVIVAL of The Heir at Law was 
 
 accomplished in the New York season 
 of 1890, with Joseph Jefferson in the char- 
 acter of Dr. Pangloss and William James 
 Florence in that of Zekiel Homespun. That, 
 play dates back to 1797, a period in which 
 a sedulous deference to conventionality pre- 
 yailed in the British theatre, as to the 
 treatment of domestic subjects ; and, al- 
 though the younger Colman wrote in a 
 more flexible style than was possessed by 
 any other dramatist of the time, excepting 
 Sheridan, he was influenced to this extent 
 by contemporary usage, that often when he 
 became serious he also became artificial and 
 
 stilted. The sentimental part of The “Meir 
 
 at Law is trite in plan and hard in expres- 
 sion. Furthermore that portion of it which, 
 in the character of Dr. Pangloss, satirises 
 the indigent, mercenary, disreputable pri- 
 yate tutors who constituted a distinct and 
 
160 JEFFERSON AND FLORENCE 
 
 pernicious class of social humbugs in Col- 
 man’s day, has lost its direct point for the 
 present age, through the disappearance of 
 the peculiar type of imposture against 
 which its irony was directed. Dr. Pan- 
 gloss, nevertheless, remains abstractly a 
 humorous personage ; and when he is em- 
 bodied by an actor like Jefferson, who can 
 elucidate his buoyant animal spirits, his 
 gay audacity, his inveterate good-nature, 
 his nimble craft, his jocular sportiveness, 
 his shrewd knowledge of character and of 
 society, and his scholar-like quaintness, he 
 becomes a delightful presence; for his 
 mendacity disappears in the sunshine of 
 his humour; his faults seem venial; and ~ 
 ‘we entertain him much as we do the infi- 
 nitely greater and more disreputable char- 
 acter of Falstaff, — knowing him to be a 
 vagabond, but finding him a charming com- 
 panion, for allthat. ‘This is one great relief 
 to the hollow and metallic sentimentality 
 of the piece. Persons like Henry More- 
 land, Caroline Dormer, and Mr. Steadfast 
 would be tiresome in actual life; they 
 belong, with Julia and Falkland and Pere- 
 grine and Glenroy, to the noble army of 
 the bores, and they are insipid on the stage ; 
 but the association of the sprightly and 
 
IN OLD COMEDY. 161 
 
 jocose Pangloss with those drab-tinted and 
 preachy people irradiates even their consti- 
 tutional platitude with a sparkle of mirth. 
 _ They shine, in spite of themselves. 
 
 Colman’s humour is infectious and pene- 
 trating. In that quality he was original 
 and affluent. As we look along the line of 
 _ the British dramatists for the last hundred 
 years we shall find no parallel to his felicity 
 in the use of comic inversion and equivoke, 
 till we come to Gilbert. Though he was 
 _ tedious while he deferred to that theatrical 
 sentimentality which was the fashion of his 
 day (and against which Goldsmith, in She 
 Stoops to Conquer, was the first to strike), 
 he could sometimes escape from it; and 
 when he did escape he was brilliant. In The 
 Heir at Law he has not only illumined it by 
 the contrast of Dr. Pangloss but by the 
 unctuous humour and irresistible comic 
 force of the character of Daniel Dowlas, 
 Lord Duberly. Situations in a play, in 
 order to be invested with the enduring 
 quality of humour, must result from such 
 conduct as is the natural and spontaneous 
 expression of comic character. The idea 
 of the comic parvenue is ancient. It did 
 not originate with Colman. His applica- 
 tion of it, however, was novel and his treat- 
 | i 
 
162 JEFFERSON AND FLORENCE 
 
 ment of it— taking fast hold of the ele- 
 mental springs of mirth — is as fresh to-day 
 as it was a hundred years ago. French — 
 minds, indeed, and such as subscribe to 
 French notions, would object that the 
 means employed to elicit character and 
 awaken mirth are not scientifically and 
 photographically correct, and that they are 
 violent. Circumstances, they would say, 
 do not so fall out that a tallow-chandler is _ 
 made a lord. The Christopher Sly expe- 
 dient, they would add, is a forced expe- . 
 dient. Perhaps itis. But English art sees 
 
 with the eyes of the imagination and in 
 
 dramatic matters it likes to use colour and — 
 emphasis. Daniel Dowlas, as Lord Du- 
 
 berly, is all the droller for being a retired 
 
 tallow-chandler, ignorant, greasy, COnven- | 
 tional, blunt, a sturdy, honest, ridiculous © 
 person, who thinks he has observed how 
 
 lords act and who intends to put his gained 
 
 knowledge into practical use. We shall | 
 neyer again see him acted as he was acted | 
 by Burton, or by that fine actor William | 
 Rufus Blake, or even by John Gilbert — 
 who was of rather too choleric a tempera-_ 
 ment and too fine a texture for such an) 
 oily and stupidly complacent personage. 
 But whenever and however he is acted he 
 
IN OLD COMEDY. 163 
 
 will be recognised as an elemental type of 
 absurd human nature made ludicrous by 
 comic circumstances ; and he will give rich 
 and deep amusement. 
 
 It is to be observed, in the analysis of 
 this comedy, that according to Colman’s 
 intention the essential persons in it are all, 
 at heart, human. The pervasive spirit of 
 the piece is kindly. Old Dowlas, restricted 
 to his proper place in life, is a worthy man. 
 Dick Dowlas, intoxicated by vanity and 
 prosperity, has no harm in him, and he 
 turns out well at last. Even Dr. Pangloss 
 —although of the species of rogue that 
 subsists by artfully playing upon the weak- 
 ness of human vanity —is genial and ami- 
 able ; he is a laughing philosopher ; he gives 
 good counsel; he hurts nobody; he is but 
 a mild type of sinner—and the satirical 
 censure that is bestowed upon him is neither 
 ‘Merciless nor bitter. Pangloss, in Milk 
 Alley, spinning his brains for a subsistence, 
 might be expected to prove unscrupulous ; 
 but the moraliser can imagine Pangloss, 
 if he were only made secure by permanent 
 good fortune, leading a life of blameless 
 indolence and piquant eccentricity. From 
 that point of view Jefferson formed - 
 his ideal of the character; and, indeed, his 
 
164. JEFFERSON AND FLORENCE 
 
 treatment of the whole piece denoted an 
 active practical sympathy with that gentle 
 view of the subject. He placed before his 
 audience a truthful picture of old English 
 manners ; telling them, in rapid and cheery 
 action, Colman’s quaint story —in which 
 there is no malice and no bitterness, but in 
 which simple virtue proves superior to 
 temptation, and integrity is strong amid 
 vicissitudes —and leaving in their minds, 
 at the last, an amused conviction that 
 indeed ‘‘ Nature hath framed strange fel- 
 lows in her time.’? His own performance 
 was full of nervous vitality and mental 
 sparkle, and of a humour deliciously quaint 
 and droll. Dr. Panglo.ss, as embodied by 
 Jefferson, is a man who always sees the 
 comical aspect of things and can make you 
 see it with him, and all the while can br 
 completely self-possessed and grave withou 
 ever once becoming slow or heavy. ‘Ther 
 was an air of candour, of ingenuous sim. 
 
 plicity, of demure propriety, about th 
 
 embodiment, that made it inexpressibl 
 
 funny. There was no effort and no disto1) 
 
 tion. The structure of the impersonatio | 
 
 tingled with life, and the expression of ite | 
 
 in demeanour, movement, facial play, int 
 nation and business — was clear and cris] 
 
IN OLD COMEDY. 165 
 
 with that absolute precision and beautiful 
 finish for which the acting of Jefferson has 
 always been distinguished. He is probably 
 the only American comedian now left, ex- 
 cepting John S. Clarke, who knows all the 
 traditional embellishments that have gone 
 to the making of this part upon the stage 
 — embellishments fitly typified by the bank- 
 note business with Zekiel Homespun; a 
 device, however, that perhaps suggests a 
 greater degree of moral obliquity in Dr. 
 Pangloss than was intended by the author. 
 ‘It was exceedingly comical, though, and it 
 served its purpose. Jefferson has had 
 the character of Pangloss in his repertory 
 for almost forty years. He first acted it in 
 \New York as long ago as 1857, at Laura 
 Keene’s theatre, when that beautiful woman 
 played Cicely and when Duberly was repre- 
 sented by the lamented James G. Burnett. 
 It takes the playgoer a long way back, to 
 ‘be thinking about this old piece and the 
 casts that it has had upon the American 
 ‘stage. The Heir at Law was a great favour- 
 ite in Boston thirty years ago and more, 
 jwhen William Warren was in his prime 
 and could play Dr. Pangloss with the best 
 of them, and when Julia Bennett Barrow 
 ‘was living and acting, who could play Cicely 
 
 — 
 —e 
 
166 JEFFERSON AND FLORENCE 
 
 in a way that no later actress has excelled. 
 John E. Owens as Pangloss will never be for- 
 gotten. It was a favourite part with John 
 Brougham. And the grotesque fun of John 
 S. Clarke in that droll character has been 
 recognised on both sides of the Atlantic. 
 In Jefferson’s impersonation of Dr. 
 Pangloss the predominant beauty was spon: 
 taneous and perfectly graceful identifica. 
 tion with the part. The felicity of the ap! 
 quotations seemed to be accidental. The 
 manner was buoyant, but the alacrity 0 
 the mind was more nimble than the celerity 
 of the body, and those wise and witty 
 comments that Pangloss makes upon life 
 character, and manners flowed naturall; 
 from a brain that was in the vigour and re 
 pose of intense animation. The actor wa 
 completely merged in the character, whic! 
 nevertheless his judgment dominated ani 
 his will directed. No other representatiy 
 of Pangloss has quite equalled Jefferso, 
 in the element of authoritative and convin¢ 
 ing sincerity. His demure sapience was ¢ 
 the most intense order and it arose out ¢ 
 great mental excitement. No other actc 
 of the part has equalled him in softness an 
 winning charm of humour. His embod 
 ment of Dr. Pangloss has left in the men 
 
IN OLD COMEDY. 167 
 
 ory of his time an image of eccentric char- 
 acter not less lovable than ludicrous. 
 
 With Zekiel Homespun, an actor who is 
 true to the author’s plan will produce the 
 impression of an affectionate heart, virtuous 
 principles, and absolute honesty of purpose, 
 combined with rustic simplicity. Flor- 
 ence easily reached that result. His pres- 
 ervation of a dialect was admirably exact. 
 The soul of the part is fraternal love, and 
 when Zekiel finds that his trusted friend 
 has repulsed him and would wrong his sis- 
 ter, there is a fine flash of noble anger in 
 the pride and scorn with which he confronts 
 this falsehood and dishonour. Florence 
 in days when he used to act the Irish 
 Emigrant proved himself the consummate 
 master of simple pathos. He struck that 
 familiar note again in the lovely manner of 
 Zekiel toward his sister Cicely, and his de- 
 notement of the struggle between affection 
 and resentment in the heart of the brother 
 When wounded by the depravity of his 
 friend was not less beautiful in the grace of 
 art than impressive in simple dignity and 
 touching in. passionate fervour. In point 
 of natural feeling Zekiel Homespun is a 
 stronger part than Dr. Pangloss, although 
 not nearly so complex nor so difficult to act. 
 
168 JEFFERSON AND FLORENCE. 
 
 The sentiments by which it is animated 
 awaken instant sympathy and the princi- 
 ples that impel it command universal re- 
 spect. No actor who has attempted Zekiel 
 Homespun in this generation on the Ameri- 
 can stage has approached the performance 
 that was given by Florence, in conviction, 
 in artless sweetness, in truth of passion, 
 and in the heartfelt expression of the heart. 
 
 Purists customarily insist that the old 
 comedies are sacred; that no one of their 
 celestial commas or holy hyphens can be 
 omitted without sin; and that the altera- 
 tion of a sentence in them is sacrilege. The 
 truth stands, however, without regard to 
 hysterics: and it is a truth that the old 
 comedies owe their vitality mostly to the 
 actors who now and then resuscitate them. 
 No play of the past is ever acted with scrupu- 
 lous fidelity to the original text. The public 
 that saw the Heir-at-Law and the Rivals, 
 when Jefferson and Florence acted in them, 
 saw condensed versions, animated by a liy- 
 
 ing soul of to-day, and therefore it was | 
 impressed. ‘The one thing indispensable on | 
 
 the stage is the art of the actor. 
 
THE DEATH OF FLORENCE. 169 
 
 X. 
 ON THE DEATH OF FLORENCE. 
 HE melancholy tidings of the death of 
 
 Florence came suddenly (he died in 
 Philadelphia, after a brief illness, Novem- 
 
 ber 19, 1891), and struck the hearts of his 
 
 friends not simply with affliction but with 
 dismay. Florence was a man of such vig- 
 orous and affluent health that the idea of 
 
 illmess and death was never associated with 
 
 him. Whoever else might go, he at least 
 would remain, and for many cheerful years 
 he would please our fancy and brighten our 
 lives. His spirit was so buoyant and bril- 
 liant that it seemed not possible it could 
 ever be dimmed. Yet now, in a moment, 
 his light was quenched and there was dark- 
 ness on his mirth. We shall hear his 
 pleasant voice no more and see no more 
 
 the sunshine of a face that was never seen 
 without joy and can never be remembered 
 ‘without sorrow. The loss to the pmblic 
 
 was great. Few actors within the last 
 
170 THE DEATH OF FLORENCE. 
 
 forty years have stood upon a level wit} 
 Florence in versatility and charm. Hj 
 gentleness, his simplicity, his modesty, hi 
 affectionate fidelity, his ready sympathy 
 his inexhaustible patience, his fine talent; 
 —all those attributes united with his spon 
 taneous drollery to enshrine him in temme 
 affection. 
 
 William James Florence, whose family 
 name was Conlin, was born in Albany, Jul 
 26, 1831. When a youth he joined the Mur 
 doch Dramatic Association, and he earh 
 gave evidence of extraordinary dramati 
 talent. On December 9, 1849 he made hi, 
 first appearance on the regular stage, at th: 
 Marshall theatre in Richmond, Virginia 
 where he impersonated Tobias, in Th 
 Stranger. After that he met with the usua 
 vicissitudes of a young player. He was: 
 member of various stock companies — not 
 ably that of W. C. Forbes, of the Provi 
 dence museum, and that of the once-popu 
 lar John Nickinson, of Toronto and Quebe 
 —the famous Havresack of his period 
 Later he joined the company at Niblo’ 
 theatre, New York, under the managemen 
 of Chippendale and John Sefton, appeal 
 ing ghere on May 8, 1850. He also acte 
 at the Broadway, under Marshall’s maz’ 
 
THE DEATH OF FLORENCE. I7I 
 
 agement, and in 1852 he was a member 
 of the company at Brougham’s Lyceum. 
 On January 1, 1853 he married Malvina 
 Pray, sister of the wife of Barney Wil- 
 liams; and in that way those two Irish 
 comedians came to be domestically asso- 
 ciated. 
 
 At that time Florence wrote several plays, 
 upon Irish and Yankee subjects, then very 
 popular, and he began to figure as a star — 
 his wife standing beside him. They ap- 
 peared at Purdy’s National theatre, June 
 8, 1853, and then, and for a long time after- 
 ward, they had much popularity and suc- 
 cess. Florence had composed many songs 
 
 of asprightly character (one of them, called 
 
 Bobbing Around, had a sale of more than 
 100,000 copies), and those songs were sung 
 by his wife, to the delight of the public. 
 The Irish drama served his purpose for 
 many years, but he varied that form of 
 art by occasional resort to burlesque and 
 by incursions into the realm of melodrama. 
 One of his best performancés was that of 
 O’Bryan, in John Brougham’s play of 
 Temptation, or the Irish Emigrant, with 
 which he often graced the stage of the Win- 
 terGarden. In that he touched the extremes 
 of gentle humour and melting pathos. He 
 
172 THE DEATH OF FLORENCE. 
 
 was delightfully humorous, also, in Handy 
 Andy, and in all that long line of Irish 
 characters that came to our stage with 
 Tyrone Power and the elder John Drew. 
 He had exceptional talent for burlesque, 
 and that was often manifested in his early 
 days. Fra Diavolo, Beppo, Lallah Rookh, 
 The Lady of the Lions, and The Colleen 
 Bawn, were among the burlesques that he 
 ‘produced, and with those he was the pio- 
 neer. 
 
 Engagements were filled by Mr. and Mrs. 
 Florence, at the outset of their starring 
 tour, in many cities of the republic, and 
 everywhere they met with kindness and 
 honour. Among the plays written by 
 Florence were Zhe Irish Princess, O’ Neil 
 the Great, The Sicilian Bride, Woman’s 
 Wrongs, Eva, and The Drunkard’s Doom. 
 On April 2, 1856 Mr. and Mrs. Florence 
 sailed for England, and presently they ap- 
 peared at Drury Lane theatre, where they 
 at once stepped into favour. The per- 
 formance of’ the Yankee Gal by Mrs. 
 Florence aroused positive enthusiasm — 
 for it was new, and Mrs. Florence was 
 the first American comic actress that 
 had appeared upon the English stage. 
 More than two hundred representations of 
 
THE DEATH OF FLORENCE. 173 
 
 it were given at that time. Florence used 
 to relate that his fortunes were greatly 
 benefited. by his success in London, and 
 he habitually spoke with earnest gratitude 
 of the kindness that he received there. 
 From that time onward he enjoyed almost 
 incessant prosperity. A tour of the Eng- 
 lish provincial cities followed his London 
 season. He acted at Manchester, Liver- 
 pool, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Belfast, and 
 Dublin, and both his wife and himself be- 
 came favourites —so that their songs were 
 sung and whistled in the streets, wherever 
 they went. 
 
 Returning to the United States Mr. and 
 Mrs. Florence renewed their triumphs, all 
 over the land. In 1861 Florence played some 
 of Burton’s characters in Wallack’s thea- 
 tre — among them being Toodle and Cuttle. 
 Ata later period he made it a custom to 
 lease Wallack’s theatre during the sum- 
 mer, and there he produced many bur- 
 lesques. In 1863, at the Winter Garden, 
 he offered The Ticket-of-Leave Man and 
 acted Bob Brierly, which was one of the 
 best exploits of his life. In 1867 Wallack’s 
 old theatre being then called the Broad- 
 way and managed by Barney Williams, he 
 brought to that house the comedy of Caste 
 
174 THE DEATH OF FLORENCE. 
 
 and presented it with a distribution of the 
 parts that has not been equalled. The 
 actors were Mrs. Chanfrau, Mrs. Gilbert, 
 Mrs. Florence, William Davidge, Owen 
 Marlowe, Edward Lamb, and Florence — 
 who played George D*Alroy. In 1868 he 
 presented No Thoroughfare and enacted 
 Obenreizer,—a performance that estab- 
 lished his rank among the leading actors 
 of the time. In 1876 he made a remark- 
 able hit as the Hon. Bardwell Slote in the 
 play of The Mighty Dollar, by Benjamin 
 E. Woolff. That was the last important 
 new play that he produced. During the 
 last fifteen years of his life he offered selec- 
 tions from his accepted repertory. For a 
 time he was associated with Jefferson — to 
 whom he brought a strength that was deeply 
 valued and appreciated, equally by that. 
 famous actor and by the public — acting Sir 
 Lucius O’Triggerin The Rivals and Zekiel 
 Homespun in The Heir-at-Law. 
 
 The power of Florence was that of. im- 
 personation. He was imaginative and sym- 
 pathetic ; his style was flexible ; and he had 
 an unerring instinct of effect. The secret 
 of his success lay in his profound feeling, 
 guided by perfect taste and perfect self-con- 
 trol. He was an actor of humanity, and he 
 
FLORENCE: AN EPITAPH. 175 
 
 diffused an irresistible charm of truth and 
 gentleness. His place was his own and it 
 can never be filled. 
 
 An Lpitaph. 
 
 Here Rest the Ashes of 
 WILLIAM JAMES FLORENCE, 
 
 Comedian. 
 
 His Copious and Varied Dramatic Powers, 
 together with the Abundant Graces of his 
 Person, combined with Ample Professional 
 Equipment and a Temperament of Peculiar 
 Sensibility and Charm, made him one of 
 the Best and Most Successful Actors of his 
 Time, alike in Comedy and in Serious 
 Drama. He ranged easily from Handy 
 Andy to Bob Brierly, and from ,Cutile to 
 Obenreizer. In Authorship, alike of Plays, 
 Stories, Music, and Song, he was Inventive, 
 Versatile, Facile, and Graceful. In Art 
 Admirable; in Life Gentle; he was widely 
 known, and he was known only to be loved. 
 
176 FLORENCE: AN EPITAPH. 
 
 HE was BoRN IN ALBANY, N.Y., 
 JULY 26, 1831. 
 He DI£D IN PHILADELPHIA, PENN., 
 NOVEMBER 19, 1891. 
 
 By Virtue cherished, by Affection mourned, 
 
 By Honour hallowed and by Fame adorned, 
 
 Here FLORENCE sleeps, and o’er his sacred 
 rest 
 
 Each word is tender and each thought is 
 blest. 
 
 Long, for his loss, shall pensive Mem’ry 
 show, 
 
 Through Humour’s mask, the visage of her 
 woe, 
 
 Day breathe a darkness that no sun dispels, 
 
 And Night be full of whispers and farewells ; 
 
 While patient Kindness, shadow-like and 
 dim, 
 
 Droops in its loneliness, bereft of him, 
 
 Feels its sad doom and sure decadence 
 nigh, — 
 
 For how should Kindness live, when he 
 could die ! | 
 
 The eager heart, that felt for every grief, 
 
 The bounteous hand, that loved to give 
 relief, 
 
FLORENCE: AN EPITAPH 177 
 
 The honest smile, that blessed where’er it 
 lit, 
 The dew of pathos and the sheen of wit, 
 The sweet, blue eyes, the voice of melting 
 tone, 
 That made all hearts as gentle as his own, 
 The Actor’s charm, supreme in royal thrall, 
 That ranged through every field and shone 
 in all — 
 For these must Sorrow make perpetual 
 moan, 
 Bereaved, benighted, hopeless, and alone ? 
 Ah, no; for Nature does no act amiss, 
 And Heaven were lonely but for souls like 
 ) this. 
 M 
 
 ny 
 
178 IRVING AND TERRY 
 
 XI. 
 
 HENRY IRVING AND ELLEN TERRY IN THE 
 MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 ie his beautiful production of The Mer- 
 chant of Venice Henry Irving restored 
 the fifth act, the jailer scene, and the casket 
 scenes in full, and the piece was acted with 
 strict fidelity to Shakespeare. With Ellen 
 Terry for Portia that achievement became 
 feasible. With an ordinary actress in that 
 character the comedy might be tedious — 
 notwithstanding its bold and fine contrasts 
 of character, its fertility of piquant incident, 
 and its lovely poetry. Radiant with her 
 fine spirit and beautiful presence, and ani- 
 mated and controlled in every fibre by his 
 subtle and authoritative intellect, judiciously | 
 cast and correctly dressed and mounted, 
 Henry Irving’s revival of The Merchant 
 of Venice captured the public fancy; and’ 
 in every quarter it was sincerely felt and 
 freely proclaimed that here, at last, was) 
 
 the perfection of stage display. That suc- 
 | 
 
IN MERCHANT OF VENICE. 179 
 
 cess has never faded. The performance 
 was round, symmetrical, and thorough 
 —every detail being kept subordinate to 
 intelligent general effect, and no effort be- 
 ing made toward overweening individual 
 display. 
 
 Shakespeare’s conception of Shylock has 
 long been in controversy. Burbage, who 
 acted the part in Shakespeare’s presence, 
 wore a red wig and was frightful in form 
 
 and aspect. The red wig gives a hint of 
 
 low comedy, and it may be that the great 
 
 actor made use of low comedy expedients 
 
 to cloak Shylock’s inveterate malignity and 
 sinister purpose. Dogget, who played the 
 
 ‘part in Lord Lansdowne’s alteration of 
 
 Shakespeare’s piece, turned Shylock into 
 farce. Macklin, when he restored the orig- 
 inal play to the stage—at Drury Lane, 
 February 14, 1741— wore a red hat, a 
 peaked beard, and a loose black gown, 
 
 ‘playing Shylock as a serious, almost a tragic 
 
 part, and laying great emphasis upon a dis- 
 play of revengeful passion and hateful 
 malignity. So terrible was he, indeed, that 
 
 ‘persons who saw him on the stage in that 
 ‘character not infrequently drew the infer- 
 ence and kept the belief that he was 
 ‘personally a monster. His look was iron- 
 
180 IRVING AND TERRY 
 
 visaged ; the cast of his manners was Tre- 
 lentless and savage. Quin said that his 
 face contained not lines but cordage. In 
 portraying the contrasted passions of joy 
 for Antonio’s losses and grief for Jessica’s 
 elopement he poured forth all his fire. 
 When he whetted his knife, in the trial 
 scene, he was silent, grisly, ominous,and fa- 
 tal. No human touch, no hint of race-maj- 
 esty or of religious fanaticism, tempered the 
 implacable wickedness of that hateful ideal. 
 Pope, who saw that Shylock, hailed it as ‘the 
 Jew that Shakespeare drew’? —and Pope, 
 among other things, was one of the editors 
 of Shakespeare. Cooke, who had seen 
 Macklin’s Shylock, and also those of Hen- 
 derson, King, Kemble, and Yates, adopted, 
 maintained, and transmitted the legend of 
 Macklin. Edmund Kean, who worshipped 
 Cooke, was unquestionably his imitator m 
 Shylock ; but it seems to have been Edmund 
 Kean who, for the first time, gave prom- 
 inence to the Hebraic majesty and fanatical 
 self-consecration of that hateful but colossal 
 character. Jerrold said that Kean’s Shy- 
 lock was like a chapter of Genesis. Ma- 
 cready — whose utterance of ‘‘ Nearest his. 
 heart’? was the blood-curdling keynote of his. 
 whole infernal ideal—declared the part to. 
 
 = ! 
 
IN MERCHANT OF VENICE. I8I 
 
 be ‘‘composed of harshness,’’ and he saw 
 no humanity in the lament for the loss of 
 Leah’s ring, but only a lacerated sense 
 of the value of that jewel. Brooke, a great 
 Shylock, concurred with Kean’s ideal and 
 made the Jew orientally royal, the avenger 
 of his race, having ‘‘an oath in heaven,”’ 
 and standing on the law of ‘‘an eye for an 
 eye.’’ Edwin Forrest, the elder Wallack, 
 EK. L. Davenport, Edwin Booth, Bogumil 
 Davison, and Charles Kean steadily kept 
 Shylock upon the stage, — some walking in 
 the religious track and some leaving it. 
 But the weight of opinion and the spirit 
 and drift of the text would justify a pre- 
 sentment of the Jew as the incarnation not 
 alone of avarice and hate, but of the stern, 
 terrible Mosaic law of justice. That is the 
 high view of the part, and in studying 
 Shakespeare it is safe to prefer the high 
 view. 
 
 There must be imagination, or pathos, or 
 weirdness, or some form of humour, or a 
 personal charm in the character that awak- 
 ens the soul of Henry Irving and calls forth 
 his best and finest powers. There is little 
 of that quality in Shylock. But Henry Irv- 
 ing took the high view of him. This Jew 
 “feeds fat the ancient grudge’’ against 
 
1382 IRVING AND TERRY 
 
 Antonio— until the law of Portia, mo 7 
 subtle than equitable, interferes to thwart 
 him; but also he avenges the wrongs that — 
 his ‘‘ sacred nation ’’ has suffered. His ideal 
 
 was right, his grasp of it firm, his execution © 
 of it flexible with skill and affluent with in- 
 tellectual power. If memory carries away 
 a shuddering thought of his baleful gaze 
 upon the doomed Antonio and of his horrid — 
 cry of the summons ‘‘ Come, prepare!” 
 it also retains the image of a father con- 
 vulsed with grief — momentarily, but sin- 
 cerely — and of a man who at least can re- 
 member that he once loved. It was a most 
 austere Shylock, inveterate of purpose, vin- 
 dictive, malignant, cruel, ruthless; and yet 
 it was human. No creature was ever more 
 logical and consistent in his own justifica 
 tion. By purity, sincerity, decorum, fanat- 
 icism, the ideal was aptly suggestive of such — 
 men as Robert Catesby, Guy Fawkes, and 
 
 John Felton — persons who, with prayer on 
 their lips, were nevertheless capable of hid- 
 eous cruelty. The street scene demands 
 utterance, not repression. The Jew raves 
 there, and no violence would seem exces- 
 sive. Macklin, Kean, Cooke, and the elde1 
 Booth, each must have been terrific at 
 point. Henry Irving’s method was tha 
 
IN MERCHANT OF VENICE. 183 
 
 of the intense passion that can hardly 
 speak—the passion that Kean is said to 
 have used so grandly in giving the curse of 
 Junius Brutus upon Tarquin. But, there 
 was just as much of Shylock’s nature in 
 Henry Irving’s performance as in any per- 
 formance that is recorded. The lack was 
 overwhelming physical power—not men- 
 tality and not art. At ‘‘No tears but of 
 my shedding’’ Henry Irving’s Shylock took 
 a strong clutch upon the emotions and cre- 
 ated an effect that will never be forgotten. 
 Ellen Terry’s Portia long ago became a 
 precious memory. The part makes no ap- 
 peal to the tragic depths of her nature, but 
 it awakens her fine sensibility, stimulates 
 the nimble play of her intellect, and cor- 
 dially promotes that royal exultation in the 
 
 affluence of physical vitality and of spirit- 
 
 ual freedom that so often seems to lift her 
 above the common earth. There have been 
 
 Moments when it seemed not amiss to apply 
 
 Shakespeare’s own beautiful simile to the 
 image of queen-like refinement, soft woman- 
 hood, and spiritualised intellect that this 
 
 wonderful actress presented — ‘‘as if an 
 
 angel dropped down from the clouds.’’ 
 
 Her Portia was stately, yet fascinating; a 
 
 woman to inspire awe and yet to capti- 
 
184 IRVING AND TERRY. 
 
 vate every heart. Nearer to Shakespeare’s 
 meaning than that no actress can ever go. 
 The large, rich, superb manner never in- 
 validated the gentle blandishments of her 
 sex. The repressed ardour, the glowing 
 suspense, the beautiful modesty and can- 
 dour with which she awaited the decision 
 of the casket scene, showed her to be 
 indeed all woman, and worthy of a true 
 man’s love. Here was no paltering of a 
 puny nature with great feelings and a great 
 experience. And never in our day has the 
 poetry of Shakespeare fallen from human 
 lips in a strain of such melody — with such 
 teeming freedom of felicitous delivery and 
 such dulcet purity of diction. 
 
JOHN McCULLOUGH. 185 
 
 XII. 
 
 JOHN McCULLOUGH IN SEVERAL CHARAC- 
 TERS. 
 ’ 
 
 HERE is no greater gratification to the 
 
 intellect than the sense of power and 
 completeness in itself or the perception of 
 power and completeness in others. Those 
 attributes were in John McCullough’s act- 
 ing and were at the heart of itscharm. His 
 repertory consisted of thirty characters, but 
 probably the most imposing and affecting 
 of his embodiments was Virgins. The 
 massive grandeur of adequacy in that per- 
 formance was a great excellence. The 
 rugged, weather-beaten plainness of it was 
 full of authority and did not in the least de- 
 tract from its poetic purity and ideal grace. 
 The simplicity of it was like the lovely inno- 
 cence that shines through the ingenuous 
 eyes of childhood, while its majesty was 
 like the sheen of white marble in the sun- 
 light. It was a very high, serious, noble 
 work ; yet, — although, to his immeasura- 
 
186 JOHN McCULLOUGH 
 
 ble credit, the actor never tried to apply a 
 ‘¢natural ’’ treatment to artificial conditions - 
 or to speak blank verse in a®colloquial man- 
 ner, —it was made sweetly human by a 
 delicate play of humour in the earlier scenes, 
 and by a deep glow of paternal tenderness 
 that suffused every part of it and created an 
 almost painful sense of sincerity. Common 
 life was not made commonplace life by 
 McCullough, nor blank verse depressed to | 
 the level of prose. The intention to be real 
 — the intention to love, suffer, feel, act, de- 
 fend, and avenge, as a man of actual life 
 would do—was obvious enough, through 
 its harmonious fulfilment; yet the realism 
 was shorn of all triteness, all animal excess, 
 all of those ordinary attributes which are 
 right in nature, and wrong because obstruc- 
 tive in the art that is nature’s interpreta- 
 tion. 
 
 Just as the true landscape is the harmo- 
 nious blending of selected natural effects, so 
 the true dramatic embodiment is the crystal- 
 lization of selected attributes in any given 
 .type of human nature, shown in selected — 
 phases of natural condition. McCullough | 
 did not present Virginius brushing his hair — 
 or paying Virginia’s school-bills; yet he} 
 suggested him, clearly and beautifully, in| 
 
IN SEVERAL CHARACTERS. 187 
 
 the sweet domestic repose and paternal be- 
 nignity of his usual life — making thus a 
 background of loveliness, on which to throw, 
 ‘in lines of living light, the terrible image of 
 his agonising sacrifice. And when the iney- 
 ‘itable moment came for his dread act of 
 righteous slaughter it was the moral gran- 
 deur, the heart-breaking paternal agony, and 
 the overwhelming pathos of the deed that 
 his art diffused —not the ‘‘ gashed stab,”’ 
 the blood, the physical convulsion, the re- 
 volting animal shock. Neither was there 
 druling, or dirt, or physical immodesty, or 
 any other attribute of that class of the nat- 
 ural concomitants of insanity, in the subse- 
 quent delirium. 
 A perfect and holy love is, in one aspect 
 of it, a sadder thing to see than the pro- 
 foundest grief. Misery, at its worst, is at 
 least final: and for that there is the relief 
 of death. But love, in its sacred exalta- 
 tion, —the love of the parent for the child, 
 —is so fair a mark for affliction that one can 
 hardly view it without a shudder of appre- 
 hensive dread. That sort of love was per- 
 sonified in McCullough’s embodiment of 
 Virginius, and that same nameless thrill 
 of fear was imparted by its presence, — 
 even before the tragedian, with an exquis- 
 
188 JOHN McCULLOUGH 
 
 ite intuition of art, made Virginius convey 
 his vague presentiment, not admitted but 
 quickly thrust aside, of some unknown 
 doom of peril and agony. ‘There was, in 
 fact, more heart in that single piece of act- 
 ing than in any hundred of the most 
 pathetic performances of the ‘‘ natural” 
 school; and all the time it was maintained 
 at the lofty level of classic grace. It would 
 be impossible to overstate the excellence of | 
 all that McCullough did and said, in the 
 forum scene—the noble severity of the 
 poise, the grace of the outlines, the terrible 
 intensity of the mood, the heartrending 
 play of the emotions, the overwhelming 
 delirium of the climax. Throughout the 
 subsequent most difficult portraiture of 
 shattered reason the actor never, for an 
 instant, lost his steadfast grasp upon sym- 
 pathy and inspiration. Every heart knew 
 the presence of a nature that could feel all 
 that Virginius felt and suffer and act all 
 that Virginius suffered and acted; and, 
 beyond this, in his wonderful investiture 
 of the mad scenes with the alternate va- 
 cancy and lamentable and forlorn anguish | 
 of a special kind of insanity, every judge | 
 of the dramatic art recognised the govern- | 
 ing touch of a splendid intellect, imperial 
 
IN SEVERAL CHARACTERS. 189 
 
 over all its resources and instruments of 
 art. 
 _ Virginius as embodied by McCullough 
 ‘was a man of noble and refined nature ; 
 lovely in life ; cruelly driven into madness : 
 victorious over dishonour, by a deed of ter- 
 ible heroism ; triumphant over crime, even 
 in forlorn and pitiable dethronement and 
 Tuin ; and, finally, released by the celestial 
 mercy of death. And this was shown by a 
 poetic method so absolute that Virginius, 
 while made an actual man to every human 
 heart, was kept a hero to the universal im- 
 agination, whether of scholar or peasant, 
 and a white ideal of manly purity and 
 grace to that great faculty of taste which is 
 the umpire and arbiter of the human mind. 
 The sustained poetic exaltation of that 
 embodiment, its unity as a grand and sym- 
 pathetic personage, and its exquisite sim- 
 plicity were the qualities that gave it 
 vitality in popular interest, and through 
 those it will have permanence in theatrical 
 history. There were many subtle beauties 
 in it. The illimitable tenderness, back of 
 the sweet dignity, in the betrothal of Vir- 
 zinia to Icilius ; the dim, transitory, evan- 
 ascent touch of presentiment, in the fore- 
 tasting of the festival joys that are to 
 
190 JOHN McCULLOUGH 
 
 succeed the war; the self-abnegation and 
 simple homeliness of grief for the dead 
 Dentatus ; the alternate shock of freezing 
 terror and cry of joy, in the camp scene 
 —closing with that potent repression and 
 thrilling outburst, ‘‘ Prudence, but no pa- 
 tience |’? —a situation and words that call 
 at once for splendid manliness of self-com- 
 mand and an ominous and savage vehe- 
 mence ; the glad, saving, comforting cry to 
 Virginia, ‘‘ Is she here ?’’ —that cry which 
 never failed to precipitate a gush of joy- 
 ous tears; the rapt preoccupation and the 
 exquisite music of voice with which he 
 said, ‘‘I never saw thee look so like thy 
 mother, in all my life’’; the majesty of his 
 demeanour in the forum ; the look that saw 
 the knife; the mute parting glance at Ser- 
 via; the accents of broken reason, but 
 unbroken and everlasting love, that called 
 upon the name of the poor murdered Vir. 
 ginia; and then the last low wail of the 
 dying father, conscious and happy in the 
 great boon of death—those, as McCul 
 lough gave them, were points of impres: 
 sive beauty, invested with the ever-varying 
 light and shadow of a delicate artistic treat 
 ment, and all the while animated with pas: 
 sionate sincerity. The perfect finish of thi 
 
a IN SEVERAL CHARACTERS. Ig! 
 
 performance, indeed, was little less than 
 marvellous, when viewed with reference to 
 the ever-increasing volume of power and 
 the evident reality of afflicting emotion 
 with which the part was carried. If acting 
 ever could do good the acting of McCul- 
 lough did. If ever dramatic art concerns 
 the public welfare it is when such an ideal 
 of manliness and heroism is presented in 
 such an image of nobility. 
 
 In Lear and in Othello, — as in Virgin- 
 ius, —the predominant quality of McCul- 
 -lough’s acting was a profound and beautiful 
 sincerity. His splendidly self-poised na- 
 ture — a solid rock of truth, which enabled 
 him, through years of patient toil, to hold 
 a steadfast course over all the obstacles 
 that oppose and amid all the chatter that 
 -assails a man who is trying to accomplish 
 anything grand and noble in art — bore him 
 bravely up in those great characters, and 
 made him, in each of them, a stately type 
 of the nobility of the human soul. As the 
 Moor, his performance was well-nigh per- 
 fect. There was something a little fantas- 
 tic, indeed, in the facial style that he 
 used; and that blemish was enhanced by 
 the display of a wild beast’s head on the 
 back of one of Othello’s robes. The ten- 
 
192 JOHN McCULLOUGH 
 
 dency of that sort of ornamentation — how- 
 ever consonant it may be deemed with the 
 barbaric element in the Moor— is to sug- 
 gest him as heedful of appearances, and 
 thus to distract regard from his experience 
 to his accessories. But the spirit was true, — 
 Simplicity, urged almost to the extreme 
 of barrenness, would not be out of place 
 in Othello, and McCullough, in his treat-. 
 ment of the part, testified to his practical 
 appreciation of that truth. His ideal of 
 Othello combined manly tenderness, spon- 
 taneous magnanimity, and trusting devo- 
 tion, yet withal a voleanic ground-swell of 
 passion, that early and clearly displayed 
 itself as capable of delirium and ungovern- 
 able tempest. His method had the calm 
 movement of a summer cloud, in every act 
 and word by which this was shown. For 
 intensity and for immediate, adequate, 
 large, and overwhelming response of action 
 to emotion, that performance has not been 
 surpassed. There were points in it, though, 
 at which the massive serenity of the actor’s 
 temperament now and then deadened the: 
 glow of feeling and depressed him to un-| 
 due calmness; he sometimes recovered 
 too suddenly and fully from a tempest of 
 emotion—as at the agonising appeal to 
 
IN SEVERAL CHARACTERS. 193 
 
 Jago, ‘‘Give me a living reason she’s dis- 
 
 _loyal’’ ; and he was not enough delirious in 
 _ the speech about the sybil and the handker- 
 _ehief. On the other hand, once yielded to 
 
 the spell of desecrated feeling, his mood 
 _and his expression of it were immeasurably 
 pathetic and noble. Those two great ebulli- 
 
 tions of despair, ‘‘O, now forever,’’ and 
 
 “Had it pleased heaven,’’ could not be 
 
 spoken in a manner more absolutely heart- 
 
 broken or more beautifully simple than 
 
 the manner that was used by him. In 
 
 his obvious though silent suffering at the 
 
 disgrace and dismissal of Cassio; in the 
 
 dazed, forlorn agony that blended with 
 his more active passion throughout the 
 scene of Jago’s wicked conquest of his 
 
 credulity ; in his occasional quick relapses 
 into blind and sweet fidelity to the old be- 
 lief in Desdemona; in his unquenchable 
 
 tenderness for her, through the delirium 
 and the sacrifice; and in the tone of soft, 
 romantic affection—always spiritualised, 
 never sensual—that his deep and loving 
 
 ‘sincerity diffused throughout the work, 
 
 - was shown the grand unity of the embodi- 
 ‘Ment; a unity based on the simple passion 
 
 ‘of love. To hear that actor say the one 
 
 ‘supreme line to Iago, ‘‘I am bound to thee 
 N 
 
194 JOHN McCULLOUGH 
 
 forever,’’? was to know that he understood 
 and felt the meaning of the character, to its 
 minutest fibre and its profoundest depth. 
 
 There were touches of fresh and aptly 
 illustrative ‘‘ business ’’ in the encounter of 
 Othello and Iago, in the great scene of the 
 third act. The gasping struggles of Iago 
 heightened the effect of the Moor’s fury, _ 
 and the quickly suppressed impulse and 
 yell of rage with which he finally bounded — 
 away made an admirable effect of nature. 
 In the last scene McCullough rounded his 
 performance with a solemn act of sacrifice. — 
 There was nothing animal, nothing bar- 
 baric, nothing insane, in the slaughter of 
 Desdemona. It was done in an ecstasy of 
 justice, and the atmosphere that surrounded 
 the deed was that of awe and not of hor- 
 ror. 
 
 For the character of King Lear McCul- 
 lough possessed the imposing stature, the 
 natural majesty, the great reach of voice, 
 and the human tenderness that are its basis — 
 and equipment. No actor of Lear can ever 
 satisfy a sympathetic lover of the part un- | 
 less he possesses a greatly affectionate heart, | 
 a fiery spirit, and, — albeit the intellect must | 
 be shown in ruins, —a regal mind. Within | 
 that grand and lamentable image of shat- 
 
IN SEVERAL CHARACTERS. 195 
 
 tered royalty the man must be noble and 
 lovable. Nothing that is puny or artificial 
 can ever wear the investiture of that co- 
 lossal sorrow. McCullough embodied Lear 
 as, from the first, stricken in mind — 
 already the unconscious victim of incip- 
 ient decay and dissolution; not mad but 
 ready to become so. ‘There is a subtle 
 apprehensiveness all about the presence of 
 the king, in all the earlier scenes. He 
 diffuses disquietude and vaguely presages 
 disaster, and the observer looks on him 
 with solicitude and pain. He is not yet 
 decrepit but he will soon break; and the 
 spectator loves him and is sorry for him 
 and would avert the destiny of woe that is 
 darkly foreshadowed in his condition. Mc- 
 Cullough gave the invectives —as they 
 ought to be given — with the impetuous 
 rush and wild fury of the avalanche; and 
 yet they were felt to come out of agony as 
 well as out of passion. The pathos of those 
 tremendous passages is in their chaotic dis- 
 proportion ; in their lawlessness and lack 
 of government ; in the evident helplessness 
 of the poor old man who hurls them forth 
 ' from a breaking heart and a distracted 
 mind. He loves, and he loathes himself for 
 _ loving: every fibre of his nature is in hor- 
 
196 JOHN McCULLOUGH 
 
 rified revolt against such lack of reverence, 
 gratitude, and affection toward such a mon- 
 arch and such a father as he knows himself 
 to have been. The feeling that McCullough 
 poured through those moments of splendid 
 yet pitiable frenzy was overwhelming in its 
 intense glow and in its towering and inces- 
 sant volume. ‘There was remarkable sub- 
 tlety, also, in the manner in which that 
 feeling was tempered. In Lear’s meeting 
 with Goneril after the curse you saw at 
 once the broken condition of an aged, in- 
 firm, and mentally disordered man, who 
 had already forgotten his own terrible 
 words. ‘* We'll no more meet, no more 
 see one another’’ is a line to which Mc- 
 Cullough gave its full eloquence of abject 
 mournfulness and forlorn desolation. Other 
 denotements of subtlety were seen in his 
 sad preoccupation with memories of the 
 lost Cordelia, while talking with the Fool. 
 ‘‘T did her wrong’? was never more ten- 
 derly spoken than by him. They are only 
 four little words; but they carry the 
 crushing weight of eternal and hopeless re- — 
 morse. It was in this region of delicate, 
 imaginative touch that McCullough’s dra- _ 
 matic art was especially puissant. He was _ 
 the first actor of Lear to discriminate be- 
 
IN SEVERAL CHARACTERS. 197 
 
 tween the agony of a man while going mad 
 and the careless, volatile, fantastic condi- 
 tion — afflicting to witness, but no longer 
 agonising to the lunatic himself — of a man 
 who has actually lapsed into madness. 
 Edwin Forrest — whose Lear is much ex- 
 tolled, often by persons who, evidently, 
 never saw it— much as he did with the 
 part, never even faintly suggested such a 
 discrimination as that. 
 
 To one altitude of Lear’s condition it is 
 probably impossible for dramatic art to rise 
 —the mood of divine philosophy, warmed 
 with human tenderness, in which the dazed 
 but semi-conscious vicegerent of heaven 
 moralises over human life. There is a 
 grandeur in that conception so vast that 
 nothing short of the rarest inspiration of 
 genius can rise to it. The deficiences of 
 McCullough’s Lear were found in the analy- 
 sis of that part of the performance. He 
 had the heart of Lear, the royalty, the 
 breadth ; but not all of either the exalted 
 intellect, the sorrow-laden experience, or 
 the imagination — so gorgeous in its disor- 
 der, so infinitely pathetic in its misery. 
 
 His performance of Lear signally exem- 
 plified, through every phase of passion, that 
 temperance which should give it smoothness. 
 
198 JOHN McCULLOUGH 
 
 The treatment of the curse scene, in par- 
 ticular, was extraordinarily beautiful for the 
 low, sweet, and tender melody of the voice, 
 broken only now and then— and rightly 
 broken — with the harsh accents of wrath. 
 Gentleness never accomplished more, as to 
 taste and pathos, than in McCullough’s 
 utterance of ‘‘I gave you all,’’ and ‘* Pll go 
 with you.’’ The rallying of the broken spirit 
 after that, and the terrific outburst, ‘¢ I'll not 
 weep,’’ had an appalling effect. ‘The recog- 
 nition of Cordelia was simply tender, and 
 the death scene lovely in pathos and solemn 
 and affecting in tragic climax. 
 
 Throughout Othello and King Lear Mc- 
 Cullough’s powers were seen to be curbed 
 and guided, not by a-cold and formal de- 
 sign but by a grave and sweet gentleness of 
 mind, always a part of his nature, but more 
 and more developed by the stress of expe- 
 rience, by the reactionary subduing influence 
 of noble success, and by the definite con- 
 sciousness of power. He found no diffi — 
 culty in portraying the misery of Othello 
 and of Lear, because this is a form of — 
 misery that flows out of laceration of the 
 heart, and not from the more subtle wounds 
 that are inflicted upon the spirit through | 
 the imagination. There was no. brooding 
 
IN SEVERAL CHARACTERS. 199 
 
 over the awful mysteries of the universe, 
 nor any of that corroding, haunted gloom 
 that comes of an over-spiritualised state of 
 suffering, longing, questioning, doubting 
 humanity. Above all things else Othello 
 and Lear are human ; and the human heart, 
 above all things else, was the domain of that 
 actor. 
 
 _ The character of Coriolanus, though high 
 and noble, is quite as likely to inspire re- 
 sentment as to awaken sympathy. It con- 
 tains many elements and all of them are 
 good; but chiefly it typifies the pride of in- 
 tellect. This, in itself a natural feeling and 
 a virtuous quality, practically becomes a 
 vice when it is not tempered with charity for 
 ignorance, weakness, and the lower orders 
 of mind. In the character of Coriolanus it 
 _ is not so tempered, and therefore it vitiates 
 his greatness and leads to his destruction. 
 Much, of course, can be urged in his defence. 
 _ He is a man of spotless honour, unswerving 
 integrity, dauntless courage, simple mind, 
 straightforward conduct, and magnanimous 
 disposition. He is always ready to brave 
 the perils of battle for the service of his 
 country. He constantly does great deeds 
 .-and would continue constantly to do 
 them —for their own sake and in a spirit 
 
200 JOHN McCULLOUGH 
 
 of total indifference alike to praises and 
 rewards. He exists in the consciousness 
 of being great and has no life in the opin- 
 ions of other persons. He dwells in *‘ the 
 cedar’s top’’ and ‘‘dallies with the wind 
 and scorns the sun.’’ He knows and he 
 despises with active and immitigable con- 
 tempt the shallowness and fickleness of 
 the multitude. He is of an icy purity, 
 physical as well as mental, and his nerves 
 tingle with disgust of the personal unclean- 
 liness of the mob. ‘‘ Bid them wash their 
 faces,’’ he says—-when urged to ask the 
 suffrages of the people— ‘‘and keep their 
 teeth clean.’’ ‘‘ He rewards his deeds with 
 doing them,”’ says his fellow-soldier Comin- 
 ius, ‘‘and looks upon things precious as the 
 common muck of the world.’’ His aristoc- 
 racy does not sit in a corner, deedless and 
 meritless, brooding over a transmitted name 
 and sucking the orange of empty self-con- 
 ceit: it is the aristocracy of achievement 
 and of nature — the solid superiority of 
 having done the brightest and best deeds — 
 that could be done in his time and of being 
 the greatest man of his generation. Itisas | 
 if a Washington, having made and saved a | 
 nation, were to spurn it from him with his | 
 foot, in lofty and by no means groundless _ 
 
IN SEVERAL CHARACTERS. 20I 
 
 contempt for the ignorance, pettiness, mean- 
 ness, and filth of mankind. The story of 
 Coriolanus, as it occurs in Plutarch, is 
 thought to be fabulous, but it is very far 
 from being fabulous as it stands transfigured 
 in the stately, eloquent tragedy of Shake- 
 speare. The character and the experience 
 are indubitably representative. It was some 
 modified form of the condition thus shown 
 that resulted in the treason and subsequent 
 tuin of Benedict Arnold. Pride of intellect 
 largely dominated the career of Aaron Burr. 
 More than one great thinker has split on 
 that rock, and gone to pieces in the surges 
 of popular resentment. ‘No man,’’ said 
 Dr. Chapin, in his discourse over the coffin 
 of Horace Greeley, ‘‘ can lift himself above 
 himself.’? He who repudiates the humanity 
 of which he is a part will inevitably come 
 to sorrow andruin. It is perfectly true that 
 no intellectual person should in the least de- 
 pend upon the opinions of others — which, 
 ‘in the nature of things, exist in all stages 
 of immaturity, mutability, and error — but 
 should aim to do the greatest deeds and 
 should find reward in doing them: yet al- 
 _ ways the right mood toward humanity is gen- 
 tleness and not scorn. ‘Thou, my father,’’ 
 said Matthew Arnold, in his tribute to one 
 
202 JOHN McCULLOUGH 
 
 of the best men of the century, ‘*‘ wouldst — 
 not be saved alone.’’ To enlighten the 
 ignorant, to raise the weak, ‘to pity the | 
 frail, to disregard the meanness, ingrati- | 
 tude, misapprehension, dulness, and petty 
 malice of the lower orders of humanity — | 
 that is the wisdom of the wise ; and that is 
 accordant with the moral law of the uni- | 
 verse, from the operation of which no man 
 escapes. To study, in Shakespeare, the 
 story of Coriolanus is to observe the viola- 
 tion of that law and the consequent retri- 
 bution. 
 
 ‘‘ Battles, and the breath 
 Of stormy war and violent death ” 
 
 fill up the first part of the tragedy as it 
 stands in Shakespeare, and that portion is 
 also much diversified with abrupt changes 
 of scene; so that it has been found expe- | 
 dient to alter the piece, with a view to its 
 more practical adaptation to the stage. 
 While however it is not acted in strict . 
 accordance with Shakespeare its essential | 
 parts are retained and represented. Many | 
 new lines, though, occur toward the close. | 
 McCullough used the version that was used | 
 by Forrest, who followed in the footsteps _ 
 of Cooper, the elder Vandenhoff, and James — 
 
IN SEVERAL CHARACTERS. 203 
 
 R. Anderson. There is, perhaps, an excess 
 of foreground —a superfluity of fights and 
 processions — by way of preparing for the 
 
 _ ordeal through which the character of Corio- 
 
 Janus is to be displayed. Yet when Hecuba 
 at last is reached the interest of the situa- 
 
 _ tion makes itself felt with force. The mas- 
 _ sive presence and stalwart declamation of 
 _ Edwin Forrest made him superb in this 
 
 eharacter; but the embodiment of Corio- 
 
 _ Janus by McCullough, while equal to its 
 
 predecessor in physical majesty, was supe- 
 
 _Tior to it in intellectual haughtiness and 
 
 in refinement. An actor’s treatment of 
 the character. must, unavoidably, follow 
 the large, broad style of the historical 
 painter. There is scant opportunity af- 
 forded in any of the scenes allotted to 
 
 -Coriolanus for fine touches and delicate 
 
 Shading. During much of the action the 
 Spectator is aware only of an imperial 
 
 figure that moves with a mountainous 
 
 grace through the fleeting rabble of Roman 
 plebeians and Volscians, dreadful in war, 
 loftily calm in peace, irradiating the con- 
 ‘Scious superiority of power, dignity, worth, 
 -and honourable renown. McCullough filled 
 that aspect of the part as if he had been 
 born for it. His movements had the splen- 
 
204. JOHN McCULLOUGH 
 
 did repose not merely of great strength but 
 of intellectual poise and native mental su- 
 premacy. The ‘‘I must be found”? air of 
 Othello was again displayed, in ripe perfec- 
 tion, through the Roman toga. His decla- 
 mation was as fluent and as massively 
 graceful as his demeanour. If this actor 
 had not the sonorous, clarion voice of John | 
 Kemble, he yet certainly suggested the tradi- — 
 tion of the stately port and dominating step 
 of that great master of the dramatic art. 
 He looked Coriolanus, to the life. More of 
 poetic freedom might have been wished, in 
 the decorative treatment of the person—a 
 touch of wildness in the hair, a tinge of imag- 
 inative exaltation in the countenance, an 
 air of mischance in the gashes of combat. 
 Still the embodiment was correct in its 
 superficial conventionality ; and it certainly — 
 possessed affecting grandeur. Whenever | 
 there was opportunity for fine treatment, 
 moreover, the actor seized and filled it, 
 with the easy grace of unerring intuition 
 and spontaneity. The delicacy of vocalism, 
 the movement, the tone of sentiment, and | 
 the manliness of condition — the royal fibre | 
 of a great mind — in the act of withdrawal | 
 from the senate, was right and beautiful. | 
 It is difficult not to over-emphasise the 
 
IN SEVERAL CHARACTERS. 205 
 
 physical symbols of mental condition, in 
 the street scene with ‘‘the voices’’; but 
 there again the actor denoted a fine spiritual 
 instinct. To a situation like that of the 
 banishment he proved easily equal : indeed, 
 he gave that magnificent outburst of scorn 
 with tremendous power: but it was in the pa- 
 thetic scene with Volumnia and Virgilia that 
 he reached the summit of the Shakespearean 
 conception. The deep heart as well as the 
 imperial intellect of Coriolanus must then 
 speak. Itis, for the distracted son, amoment 
 ofagonised and pathetic conflict : for McCul- 
 lough it was a moment of perfect adequacy 
 and consummate success. The stormy utter- 
 ance of revolted pride and furious disgust, 
 in the denial of Volumnia’s request — the 
 tempestuous outburst, ‘‘I will not do it”’ 
 -—made as wild, fiery, and fine a. moment 
 in tragic acting as could be imagined; but 
 the climax was attained in the pathetic 
 cry — 
 
 “The gods look down, and this unnatural 
 
 scene 
 They laugh at.” 
 
206 CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 
 
 XIII. 
 CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 
 
 AKING, one summer day, a pilgrimage 
 to the grave of Charlotte Cushman, I 
 was guided to the place of her rest by one 
 of the labourers employed about the ceme- 
 tery, who incidentally pronounced upon the 
 deceased a comprehensive and remarkable 
 eulogium. ‘‘She was,’’ he said, ‘‘ consid- 
 erable of a woman, for a play-actress.” 
 Well—she was. The place of her sepul- 
 ture is on the east slope of the principal 
 hill in Mount Auburn. Hard by, upon the 
 summit of the hill, stands the gray tower 
 that overlooks the surrounding region and 
 constantly symbolises, to eyes both far and 
 near, the perpetual peace of which it is at. 
 once guardian and image. All around the 
 spot tall trees give shade and music, as the 
 sun streams on their branches and the wind | 
 murmurs in their leaves. At a little dis- 
 tance, visible across green meadows and | 
 the river Charles, —full and calm between 
 
: CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 207 
 
 its verdant banks, —rise the ‘‘ dreaming 
 spires’? of Cambridge. Further away, 
 crowned with her golden dome, towers old 
 Boston, the storied city that Charlotte 
 Cushman loved. Upon the spot where her 
 ashes now rest the great actress stood, and, 
 looking toward the city of her home and 
 heart, chose that to be the place of her 
 grave; and there she sleeps, in peace, after 
 many a conflict with her stormy nature and 
 after many sorrows and pains. What ter- 
 rific ideals of the imagination she made to 
 be realities of life! What burning elo- 
 quence of poesy she made to blaze! What 
 - moments of pathos she lived! What moods 
 of holy self-abnegation and of exalted 
 power she brought to many a sympathetic 
 soul! Standing by her grave, on which the 
 myrtle grows dense and dark, .and over 
 which the small birds swirl and twitter in 
 the breezy silence, remembrance of the 
 _busy scenes of brilliant life wherein she 
 used to move—the pictured stage, the 
 crowded theatre, the wild plaudits of a de- 
 lighted multitude—came strongly on the 
 mind, and asked, in perplexity and sad- 
 / ness, what was the good of it all. To her 
 but little. Fame and wealth were her cold 
 rewards, after much privation and labour ; 
 
208 CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 
 
 but she found neither love nor happiness, 
 and the fuilest years of her life were blighted 
 with the shadow of fatal disease and im- 
 pending death. To the world, however, 
 her career was of great and enduring bene- 
 fit. She was a noble interpreter of the 
 noble minds of the past, and thus she 
 helped to educate the men and women of 
 her time—to ennoble them in mood, to 
 strengthen them in duty, to lift them up in 
 hope of immortality. She did not live in 
 vain. It is not likely that the American 
 people will ever suffer her name to drift 
 quite out of their remembrance: it is a 
 name that never can be erased from the 
 rolls of honourable renown. 
 
 Charlotte Cushman was born on July 25, 
 1816, and she died on February 12, 1876, 
 Boston was the place of her birth and of her 
 death. She lived till her sixtieth year and 
 she was for forty years an actress. Her 
 youth was one of poverty and the early 
 years of her professional career were full 
 of labour, trouble, heart-ache, and conflict. 
 The name of Cushman signifies ‘‘ cross- 
 bearer,’’ and certainly Charlotte Cushman 
 did indeed bear the cross, long before and 
 long after, she wore the crown. At first. 
 she was a vocalist, but, having broken her 
 
CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 209 
 
 voice by misusing it, she was compelled to 
 quit the lyric and adopt the dramatic stage, 
 and when nineteen years old she came out, 
 at New Orleans, as Lady Macbeth. After 
 that she removed to New York and for the 
 next seven years she battled with adverse 
 fortune in the theatres of that city and of 
 Albany and Philadelphia. From 1837 to 
 1840 she was under engagement at the old 
 Park as walking lady and for general utility 
 business. ‘‘I became aware,’’ she wrote, 
 ‘that one could never sail a ship by enter- 
 ing at the cabin windows; he must serve 
 and learn his trade before the mast. This 
 was the way that I would henceforth learn 
 mine.’’ 
 
 Her first remarkable hits were made in 
 Emilia, Meg Merrilies, and Nancy —the 
 latter in Oliver Twist. But it was not till 
 she met with Macready that the day of her 
 deliverance from drudgery really dawned. 
 
 They acted together in New York in 1842 
 and 1843, and in Boston in 1844, and in the 
 autumn of the latter year Miss Cushman 
 
 went to England, where, after much effort, 
 she obtained an opening in London, at the 
 
 Princess’s, and in 1845 made her mem- 
 
 orable success as Bianca. ‘‘ Since the first 
 
 ‘appearance of Edmund Kean, in 1814,”’ 
 
 oO 
 
210 CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 
 
 said a London journal of that time, *‘ never 
 has there been such a début on the stage 
 of an English theatre.” Her engagement 
 lasted eighty-four nights (it was an engage- 
 ment to act with Edwin Forrest), and she 
 recorded its result in a letter to her mother, 
 saying: ‘* All my successes put together 
 since I have been upon the stage would not 
 come near my success in London, and I 
 only wanted some one of you here to enjoy 
 it with me, to make it complete.’? She 
 acted Bianca, Emilia, Lady Macbeth, Mrs. 
 Haller, and Rosalind. A prosperous Pro= 
 vincial tour followed, and then, in Decem- 
 ber, 1845, she came out at the Haymarket, 
 as Romeo, her sister Susan appearing as 
 Juliet. Her stay abroad lasted till the end 
 of the summer of 1849, and to that period 
 belongs her great achievement as Queen 
 Katharine. 
 
 From the fall of 1849 till the spring of 
 1852 Miss Cushman was in America, and 
 she was everywhere received with acclama- 
 tion, gathering with ease both laurels and 
 riches. When she first reappeared, October 
 8, 1849, at the old Broadway theatre, New 
 York —as Mrs. Haller — she introduced 
 Charles W. Couldock to our stage, on which 
 he has ever since maintained his rank as @ 
 
 : 
 
CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 211 
 
 powerful and versatile actor. He acted the 
 Stranger and subsequently was seen in the 
 other leading characters opposite to her 
 own. Miss Cushman’s repertory then in- 
 cluded Lady Macbeth, Queen Katharine, 
 Meg Merrilies, Beatrice, Rosalind, Bianca, 
 Julia, Mariana, Katharine, the Countess, 
 Pauline, Juliana, Lady Gay Spanker, and 
 Mrs. Simpson. Her principal male charac- 
 ters then, or later, were Romeo, Wolsey, 
 Hamlet, and Claude Melnotte. In 1852 she 
 announced her intention of retiring from the 
 stage, and from that time till the end of her 
 days she wavered between retirement and 
 professional occupation. The explanation 
 of this is readily divined, in her condition. 
 There never was a time, during all those 
 years, when she was not haunted by dread 
 of the disease that ultimately destroyed her 
 life. From 1852 to 1857 she lived in Eng- 
 land, and in the course of that period she 
 acted many times, in different cities. In 
 December 1854, when dining with the Duke 
 of Devonshire, at Brighton, she read Henry 
 VIII. to the Duke and his guests, and in 
 that way began her experience as a reader. 
 In the autumn of 1857 she acted at Burton’s 
 theatre, New York, and was seen as Car- 
 _ dinal Wolsey, and in the early summer of 
 
 ¢ 
 7° 
 
212 CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 
 
 1858 she gave a series of ‘¢ farewell’? per- 
 formances at Niblo’s Garden — after which 
 she again crossed the Atlantic and estab- 
 lished her residence in Rome. In June 
 1860 the great actress came home again and 
 passed a year in America. Oliver Twist 
 was given at the Winter Garden in the 
 spring of 1861, when Miss Cushman acted 
 Nancy, and J. W. Wallack, Jr., J.B. Stud- 
 ley, William Davidge, and Owen Marlowe 
 werein thecompany. In 1863, having come 
 from Rome for that purpose, Miss Cushman 
 acted in four cities, for the benefit of the 
 United States Sanitary Commission, and 
 earned for it $8267. The seven ensuing 
 years were passed by her in Europe, but in 
 October 1870 she returned home for the 
 last time, and the brief remainder of her 
 life was devoted to public readings, occa- 
 sional dramatic performances, and the so- 
 ciety of friends. She built a villa at New- 
 port, which still bears her name. She gaye 
 final farewell performances, in the season | 
 of 1874-1875, in New York, Philadelphia, - 
 and Boston. Her final public appearance 
 was made on June 2, 1875, at Easton, Penn-| 
 sylvania, where she gave a reading. Her 
 death occurred at the Parker House, in Bos- 
 ton, February 18, 1876, and she was buried 
 from King’s chapel. | 
 
CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 213 
 
 There is a mournful pleasure in recalling 
 the details of Miss Cushman’s life and 
 meditating upon her energetic, resolute, 
 patient, creative nature. She was faithful, 
 throughout her career, to high principles of 
 art and a high standard of duty. Nature 
 gave her great powers but fettered her 
 also with great impediments. She con- 
 quered by the spell of a strange, weird - 
 genius and by hard, persistent labour. In 
 this latter particular she is an example to 
 every member of the dramatic profession, 
 present or future. In what she was as a 
 woman she could not be imitated — for her 
 colossal individuality dwelt apart, in its 
 loneliness, as well of suffering that no 
 one could share as of an imaginative’ life 
 that no one could fathom. Without the 
 stage she would still have been a great 
 woman, although perhaps she might have 
 lacked an entirely suitable vehicle for the 
 display of her powers. With the stage she 
 
 _ gave a body to the soul of some of Shake- 
 _ speare’s greatest conceptions, and she gave 
 soul and body both to many works of in- 
 _ ferior origin. There is no likelihood that we 
 shall ever see again such a creation as her 
 Meg Merrilies. Her genius could embody 
 the sublime, the beautiful, the terrible, and 
 
214 ‘CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 
 
 with all this the humorous; and it was 
 saturated with goodness. If the love of 
 beauty was intensified by the influence of 
 her art, virtue was also strengthened by 
 the force of her example and the inherent 
 dignity of her nature. 
 
; 
 
 ei - 
 
 LAWRENCE BARRETT. 215 
 
 XIV. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF LAWRENCE BARRETT. 
 [Obiit March 20, 1891.] 
 
 HE death of Lawrence Barrett was the 
 disappearance of one of the noblest fig- 
 ures of the modern stage. During the 
 whole of his career, in a public life of 
 
 a thirty-five years, he was steadily and con- 
 
 tinuously impelled by a pure and fine am- 
 bition and the objects that he sought to 
 accomplish were always the worthiest and 
 the best. His devotion to the dramatic art 
 was a passionate devotion, and in an equal 
 degree he was devoted to a high ideal of 
 personal conduct. Doctrines of expediency 
 never influenced him and indeed were 
 never considered by him. He had early 
 fixed his eyes on the dramatic sceptre. He 
 knew that it never could be gained ex- 
 cept by the greatest and brightest of ar- 
 tistic achievements, and to them accord- 
 ingly he consecrated his life. Whenever 
 and wherever he appeared the community 
 
216 ON THE DEATH OF 
 
 was impressed with a sense of intellectual 
 character, moral worth, and individual dig- 
 nity. Many other dramatic efforts might 
 be trivial. Those of Lawrence Barrett were 
 always felt to be important. Most of the 
 plays with which his name is identified are 
 among the greatest plays in our language, 
 and the spirit in which he treated them 
 was that of exalted scholarship, austere 
 reverence, and perfect refinement. He was 
 profoundly true to all that is noble and 
 beautiful, and because he was true the 
 world of art everywhere recognised him as 
 the image of fidelity and gave to him the 
 high tribute of its unwavering homage. 
 His coming was always a signal to arouse 
 the mind. His mental vitality, which was 
 very great, impressed even unsympathetic 
 beholders with a sense of fiery thought 
 struggling in its fetters of mortality and al- 
 most shattering and consuming the frail 
 temple of its human life. His stately head, 
 silvered with graying hair, his dark eyes 
 deeply sunken and glowing with intense 
 light, his thin visage pallid with study and 
 pain, his form of grace and his voice of 
 
 { 
 ' 
 
 sonorous eloquence and solemn music (in | 
 compass, variety, and sweetness one of the | 
 few great voices of the current dramatic gen- _ 
 
LAWRENCE BARRETT. 217 
 
 eration), his tremendous earnestness, his 
 superb bearing, and his invariable authority 
 and distinction — all those attributes united 
 to announce a ruler and leader in the realm 
 of the intellect. The exceeding tumult of 
 his spirit enhanced the effect of this mor- 
 dant personality. The same sleepless en- 
 ergy that inspired Loyola and Lanfranc 
 burned in the bosom of this modern actor ; 
 and it was entirely in keeping with the 
 drift of his character and the tenor of his 
 life that the last subject that occupied his 
 thoughts should have been the story of 
 Becket, the great prelate— whom he in- 
 tended to represent, and to whom in men- 
 tal qualities he was nearly allied. In losing 
 Lawrence Barrett the American stage lost 
 the one man who served it with an apostle’s 
 - geal because he loved it with an apostle’s 
 love. 
 
 The essential attributes that Lawrence 
 Barrett did not possess were enchantment 
 | for the public and adequate and philosophic 
 patience for himself. He gained, indeed, a 
 
 great amount of public favour, and, — with 
 reference to an indisputable lack of univer- 
 sal sympathy and enthusiasm,—he was 
  Jearning to regard that as a natural conse- 
 quence of his character which formerly he 
 
218 ON THE DEATH OF 
 
 had resented as the injustice of the world. 
 Men and women of austere mind do not fas- 
 cinate their fellow-creatures. ‘They impress 
 by their strangeness. They awe by their 
 majesty. They predominate by their power. 
 But they do not involuntarily entice. Law- 
 rence Barrett, — although full of kindness 
 and gentleness, and, to those who knew 
 him well, one of the most affectionate and 
 lovable of men, — was essentially a man of 
 austere intellect; and his experience was 
 according to his nature. To some persons 
 the world gives everything, without being 
 asked to give at all. To others it gives only 
 what it must, and that with a kind of iey 
 reluctance that often makes the gift a bitter 
 one. Lawrence Barrett, who rose from an 
 obscure and humble position, — without 
 fortune, without friends, without favouring 
 circumstances, without education, without 
 help save that of his talents and his will, — 
 was for a long time met with indifference, 
 or frigid obstruction, or impatient dispar- 
 agement. He gained nothing without battle. 
 He had to make his way by his strength. 
 His progress involved continual effort and) 
 his course was attended with continual con- 
 troversy and strife. Whenat last it had te 
 be conceded that he was a great actor, the 
 
LAWRENCE BARRETT. 219 
 
 concession was, in many quarters, grudg- 
 ingly made. Even then detraction steadily 
 followed him, and its voice — though impo- 
 tent and immeasurably trivial — has not yet 
 died away. There came a time when his 
 worth was widely recognised, and from 
 that moment onward he had much prosper- 
 ity, and his nature expanded and grew 
 calmer, sweeter, and brighter under its in- 
 fluence. But the habit of warfare had got 
 into his acting, and more or less it remained 
 there to the last. The assertive quality, in- 
 
 deed, had long since begun to die away. 
 
 The volume of needless emphasis was grow- 
 ing less and less. Few performances on 
 the contemporary stage are commensurate 
 with his embodiments of Harebell and Grin- 
 goire, in softness, simplicity, poetic charm, 
 and the gentle tranquillity that is the re- 
 pose of a self-centred soul. But his deep 
 and burning desire to be understood, his 
 anxiety lest his effects should not be appre- 
 ciated, his inveterate purpose of conquest, 
 —that overwhelming solicitude of ambition 
 often led him to insist upon his points, to 
 over-elaborate and enforce them, and in 
 that way his art to some extent defeated 
 itself by the excess of its eager zeal. The 
 spirit of beauty that the human race pur- 
 
220 ON THE DEATH OF 
 
 sues is the spirit that is typified in Emer- 
 son’s poem of Forerunners—the elusive 
 spirit that all men feel and no man under- 
 stands. This truth, undiscerned by him at 
 first, had become the conviction of his riper 
 years ; and if his life had been prolonged 
 the autumn of his professional career would 
 have been gentle, serene, and full of tran- 
 quil loveliness. 
 
 The achievement of Lawrence Barrett as 
 an actor was great, but his influence upon 
 the stage was greater than his achievement. 
 Among the Shakespearian parts that he 
 played were Hamlet, Macbeth, King Lear, 
 Othello, Iago, Shylock, Leontes, Cassius, 
 Wolsey, Richard III., Romeo, and Bene- 
 dick. Outside of Shakespeare (to mention 
 only a few of his impersonations) he acted 
 Richelieu, Evelyn, Aranza, Garrick, Claude 
 Melnotte, Rienzi, Dan’l Druce, Lanciotto, 
 Hernani, King Arthur, and Ganelon. The 
 parts in which he was superlatively fine, — 
 and in some respects incomparable, — are 
 Cassius, Harebell, Yorick, Gringoire, King 
 
 Arthur, Ganelon, and James V., King of — 
 
 the Commons. In his time he had played 
 hundreds of parts, ranging over the whole 
 
 ' 
 
 field of the drama, but as the years passed — 
 
 and the liberty of choice came more and 
 
 | 
 
LAWRENCE BARRETT. 221 
 
 more within his reach, he concentrated his 
 powers upon a few works and upon a specific 
 line of expression. The aspect of human 
 
 nature and human experience that especially 
 
 aroused his sympathy was the loneliness of 
 beneficent intellectual grandeur, isolated 
 by its supremacy and pathetic in its isola- 
 tion. He loved the character of Richelieu, 
 and if he had acted Becket, as he purposed 
 to do, in Tennyson’s tragedy, he would 
 have presented another and a different type 
 of that same ideal — lonely, austere, passion- 
 ate age, defiant of profane authority and 
 protective of innocent weakness against 
 wicked and cruel strength. His embodi- 
 ment of Cassius, with all its intensity of 
 repressed spleen and caustic malevolence, 
 was softly touched and sweetly ennobled 
 with the majesty of venerable loneliness, — 
 the bleak light of pathetic sequestration 
 from human ties, without the forfeiture of 
 human love, —that is the natural adjunct 
 of intellectual greatness. He loved also the 
 character of Harebell, because in that he 
 could express his devotion to the beautiful, 
 
 _ the honest impulses of his affectionate heart, 
 
 | 
 
 and his ideal of a friendship that is too pure 
 and simple even to dream that such a thing 
 
 as guile can exist anywhere in the world. 
 
 . 
 
222 ON THE DEATH OF 
 
 Toward the expression, under dramatic con- 
 ditions, of natures such as those, the devel- 
 opment of his acting was steadily directed ; 
 and, even if he fell short, in any degree, of 
 accomplishing all that he purposed, it is 
 certain that his spirit and his conduct dig- 
 nified the theatrical profession, strengthened 
 the stage in the esteem of good men, and 
 cheered the heart and fired the energy of 
 every sincere artist that came within the 
 reach of his example. For his own best 
 personal success he required a part in which, 
 after long repression, the torrent of passion 
 can break loose in a tumult of frenzy and a 
 wild strain of eloquent words. The terri- 
 ble exultation of Cassius, after the fall of 
 Cesar, the ecstasy of Lanciotto when he 
 first believes himself to be loved by Fran- 
 cesca, the delirium of Yorick when he can 
 no longer restrain the doubts that madden | 
 his jealous and wounded soul, the rapture 
 of King James over the vindication of his 
 friend Seyton, whom his suspicions have 
 wronged — those were among his distine- | 
 tively great moments, and his image as he | 
 was in such moments is worthy to live 
 among the storied traditions and the bright | 
 memories of the stage. 
 
 Censure seems to be easy to most people, | 
 
iL 
 
 > LAWRENCE BARRETT. 223 
 
 and few men are rated at their full value 
 while they are yet alive. Just as moun- 
 tains seem more sublime in the vague and 
 hazy distance, so a noble mind looms 
 grandly through the dusk of death. So it 
 will be with him. Lawrence Barrett was a 
 man of high principle and perfect integrity. 
 He never spoke a false word nor knowingly 
 harmed a human being, in all his life. 
 - Although sometimes be seemed to be harsh 
 and imperious, he was at heart kind and 
 humble. Strife with the world, and in 
 past times uncertainty as to his position, 
 caused in him the assumption of a stern and 
 frigid manner, but beneath that haughty 
 reserve there was a great longing for hu- 
 man affection and a sincere humility of 
 spirit. He never nurtured hostility. He 
 had no memory for injuries; but a kind- 
 ness he never forgot. His good deeds were 
 as numerous as his days —for no day rolled 
 over his head without its act of benevolence 
 im one direction or another. He was as 
 impulsive as a child. He had much of the 
 woman in his nature, and therefore his 
 views were impetuous, strong, and often 
 strongly stated; but his sense of humour 
 kept pace with his sensibility and so main- 
 tained the equilibrium of his mind. In 
 
 : 
 
224 ON THE DEATH OF 
 
 temperament he was sad, pensive, intro- 
 spective, almost gloomy; but he opposed 
 to that tendency an incessant mental ac- 
 tivity and the force of a tremendous will. 
 In his lighter moods he was not only ap- 
 preciative of mirth but was the cause of it. 
 His humour was elemental and whatever 
 aspect of life he saw in a comic light he 
 could set in that light before the eyes of 
 others. He had been a studious reader for 
 many years and his mind was stored with 
 ample, exact, and diversified information. 
 He had a scholar’s knowledge of Roman 
 history and his familiar acquaintance with 
 the character and career of the first Napo- 
 leon was extraordinary. In acting he was 
 largely influenced by his studies of Edmund 
 Kean and by his association with Charlotte 
 Cushman. For a few years after 1864 his 
 art was especially affected by that of Edwin 
 Booth; but the style to which he finally 
 gravitated was his own. He was not so 
 
 much an impersonator as he was an inter-_ 
 
 preter of character, and the elocutionary 
 part of acting was made more conspicuous 
 and important by him than by any other 
 
 tragedian since the days of Forrest and 
 
 Brooke. 
 
 It was a beautiful life prematurely ended. © 
 
LAWRENCE BARRETT. 225 
 
 It was a brave, strong spirit suddenly called 
 out of the world. To the dramatic profession 
 the loss is irreparable. In the condition 
 of the contemporary theatre there are not 
 many hopeful signs. No doubt there will 
 be bright days in the future, as there have 
 been in the past. They go and they return. 
 The stage declines and the stage advances. 
 At present its estate is low. Few men like 
 Lawrence Barrett remain for it to lose. 
 Its main hope is in the abiding influence of 
 such examples as he has left. The old 
 theatrical period is fast passing away. The 
 new age rushes on the scene, with youth- 
 
 ful vigour and impetuous tumult. But to 
 
 some of us, — who perhaps have not long 
 to stay, and to whom, whatever be their 
 fortune, this tumult is unsympathetic and 
 
 insignificant, —the way grows darker and 
 lonelier as we lay our garlands of eternal 
 
 farewell upon the coffin of Lawrence Bar- 
 
 | rett. 
 
 t 
 
 ra 
 
 YP 
 
226 HENRY IRVING AND 
 
 XV. 
 
 HENRY IRVING AND ELLEN TERRY IN 
 RAVENSWOOD. 
 
 \y ERIVALP’S play of Ravenswood, writ- 
 ten in four acts, was acted in six. The 
 first act consists of a single scene — an ex- 
 terior, showing the environment of the 
 chapel which is the burial place of the 
 House of Ravenswood. A rockbound coast 
 is visible, at some distance, together with | 
 the ruinous tower of Wolf’s Crag —which | 
 is Ravenswood’s sole remaining possession. 
 This act presents the interrupted funeral 
 of Alan Ravenswood, the father of Edgar, 
 — introducing ten of the seventeen charac- 
 ters that are implicated in the piece, and 
 skilfully laying the basis of the action by, 
 exhibiting the essential personalities of the 
 story in strong contrast, and denoting their 
 
 relations to each other. Each character is) 
 
 clearly and boldly drawn and with a light 
 touch, The second act consists of three 
 scenes —an antique library in the ancien 
 
mB ELLEN TERRY IN RAVENSWOOD. 227 
 
 manor-house of Ravenswood, a room in a 
 roadside ale-house, and a room in the dilap- 
 idated tower of Wolf’s Crag. This act 
 rapidly develops the well-known story, de- 
 picting the climax of antagonism between 
 the Lord Keeper Ashton and Edgar of 
 Ravenswood and their subsequent recon- 
 ciliation. The third act passes in a lovely, 
 romantic, rural scene, which is called ‘‘ the 
 Mermaiden’s Well,’’ —a fairy-like place in 
 the grounds of Ravenswood, —and in this 
 scene Edgar and Lucy Ashton, who have 
 become lovers, are plighted by themselves 
 and parted by Lucy’s mother, Lady Ashton. 
 The fourth and last act shows a room at 
 Ravenswood, wherein is portrayed the be- 
 _trothal of Lucy to Bucklaw, culminating in 
 Edgar’s sudden irruption; and finally, it 
 shows the desolate seaside place of the 
 quicksand in which, after he has slain 
  Bucklaw, Edgar of Ravenswood is engulfed. 
 ’ The house that Scott, when he wrote the 
 novel, had in his mind as that of Sir Wil- 
 ' liam Ashton is the house of Winston, which 
 still is standing, not many miles from Edin- 
 burgh. The tower of Wolf’s Crag was 
 probably suggested to him by Fast Castle, 
 the ruin of which still lures the traveller’s 
 / eye, upon the iron-ribbed and gloomy coast 
 
228 HENRY IRVING AND 
 
 of the North Sea, a few miles southeast 
 of Dunbar—a place, however, that Scott 
 never visited, and never saw except from 
 the ocean. There is a beach upon that 
 coast, just above Cockburnspath, that might 
 well have suggested to him the quicksand 
 and the final catastrophe. I saw it when 
 the morning sun was shining upon it and 
 upon the placid waters just rippling on its 
 verge; and even in the glad glow of a sum- 
 mer day it was grim with silent menace 
 and mysterious with an air of sinister 
 secrecy. In the preparation of this piece 
 for the stage all the sources and associa- 
 tions of the subject were considered ; and 
 the pictorial setting, framed upon the right 
 artistic principle — that imagination should 
 transfigure truth and thus produce the 
 essential result of poetic effect — was elab- 
 orate and magnificent. And the play is 
 the best one that ever has been made upon 
 this subject. 
 
 The basis of fact upon which Sir Walter 
 Scott built his novel of the Bride of Lam 
 mermoor is given in the introduction thai 
 he wrote for it in 1829. Janet Dalrymple, 
 daughter of the first Lord Stair and of his 
 wife Margaret Ross, had privately plightec 
 herself to Lord Rutherford. Those lover; 
 
ELLEN TERRY IN RAVENSWOOD. 229 
 
 had broken a piece of gold together, and 
 had bound themselves by vows the most 
 solemn and fervent that passion could 
 prompt. But Lord Rutherford was objec- 
 tionable to Miss Dalrymple’s parents, who 
 liked not either his family or his politics. 
 Lady Stair, furthermore, had selected a 
 husband for her daughter, in the person of 
 David Dunbar, of Baldoon; and Lady Stair 
 was a woman of formidable character, set 
 upon having her own way and accustomed 
 to prevail. As soon as she heard of Janet’s 
 private engagement to Lord Rutherford she 
 declared the vow to be undutiful and un- 
 lawful and she commanded that it should 
 be broken. Lord Rutherford, a man of 
 energy and of spirit, thereupon insisted 
 that he would take his dismissal only from 
 the lips of Miss Dalrymple herseli, and he 
 demanded and obtained an interview with 
 her. Lady Stair was present, and such was 
 her ascendency over her daughter’s mind 
 that the young lady remained motionless 
 and mute, permitting her betrothal to Lord 
 Rutherford to be broken, and, upon her 
 mother’s command, giving back to him the 
 piece of gold that was the token of her 
 mromise. Lord Rutherford was deeply 
 moved, so that he uttered curses upon Lady 
 
 | 
 
 i 
 aes 
 \ 
 
230 HENRY IRVING AND 
 
 Stair, and at the last reproached Janet in 
 these words: ‘‘ For you, madam, you will 
 be a world’s wonder.’’ After this sad end 
 of his hopes the unfortunate gentleman 
 went abroad and died in exile. Janet 
 Dalrymple and David Dunbar meanwhile 
 were married — the lady ‘* being absolutely 
 passive in everything her mother com- 
 manded or advised.”? As soon, however, 
 as the wedded pair had retired from the 
 bridal feast hideous shrieks were heard te 
 resound through the house, proceeding from 
 the nuptial chamber. The door was there- 
 upon burst open and persons entering saw 
 the bridegroom stretched upon the floor, 
 wounded and bleeding, while the bride, di- 
 shevelled and stained with blood, was grin- 
 ning in a paroxysm of insanity. All she 
 said was, ‘‘Take up your bonny bride- 
 groom.’’ About two weeks later she died. 
 The year of those events was 1669. The 
 wedding took place on August 24. Janet 
 died on September 12. Dunbar recovered, 
 but he would never tell what occurred in 
 that chamber of horror, nor indeed would 
 he permit any allusion to the subject. He 
 did not long survive the tragic event, — 
 having been fatally injured, by a fall from 
 his horse, when riding between Leith and 
 
ELLEN TERRY IN. RAVENSWOOD. 231 
 
 Holyrood. He died on March 28, 1682. 
 
 The death of Lord Rutherford is assigned 
 to the year 1685. Such is the melancholy 
 story as it may be gathered from Scott’s 
 preface. In writing his novel that great 
 master of the art of fiction, —never yet dis- 
 placed from his throne or deprived of his 
 sceptre,— adopted fictitious names, invented 
 fresh circumstances, amplified and elevated 
 the characters, judiciously veiled the locali- 
 ties, and advanced the period of those tragi- 
 cal incidents to about the beginning of the 
 eighteenth century. The delicate taste with 
 which he used his materials has only been 
 surpassed, in.that beautiful composition, by 
 the affluent genius with which he vitalised 
 every part of his narrative. In no other of 
 his many books has he shown a deeper 
 knowledge than is revealed in that one of 
 the terrible passion of love and of the dark 
 and sinuous ways of political and personal 
 eraft. When The Bride of Lammermoor 
 was first published no mention was made 
 in it of the true story upon which remotely 
 it had been based; but by the time Scott. 
 came to write the preface of 1829 other 
 writers had been less reticent, and some 
 account of the Dalrymple tragedy had got 
 into print, so that no reason existed for 
 further silence on that subject. 
 
 —— 
 
232 HENRY IRVING AND 
 
 Sir Robert H. D. Elphinstone, writing in 
 1829, gave the tradition as follows: ‘* When, 
 after the noise and violent screaming in 
 the bridal chamber comparative stillness 
 succeeded and the door was forced, the win- 
 dow was found open, and it was supposed 
 by many that the lover, Lord Rutherford, 
 had, by the connivance of some of the ser- 
 vants, found means, during the bustle of 
 the marriage feast, to secrete himself with- 
 in the apartment, and that soon after the 
 entry of the married pair, or at least as soon 
 as the parents and others retreated and the 
 door was made fast, he had come out from 
 his concealment, attacked and desperately 
 wounded the bridegroom, and then made 
 his escape, by the window, through the gar- 
 den. As the unfortunate bride never spoke 
 after having uttered the words mentioned 
 by Sir Walter, no light could be thrown on 
 the matter by them. But it was thought 
 that Dunbar’s obstinate silence on the 
 subject favoured the supposition of the 
 chastisement having been inflicted by his 
 rival. It is but fair to give the unhappy 
 victim (who was, by all accounts, a most | 
 gentle and feminine creature) the benefit of _ 
 an explanation on a doubtful point.”’ 
 
 Merivale, in dealing with this story, gave 
 
ELLEN TERRY IN RAVENSWOOD. 233 
 
 a conspicuous illustration of the essen- 
 tial dramatic faculty. The first act is the 
 adroit expansion of a few paragraphs, in 
 the second chapter of the novel; which are 
 descriptive of the bleak, misty November 
 morning when Alan Ravenswood was borne 
 to the grave; but by the introduction of 
 the Lord Keeper and of the village crones 
 into that funeral scene he opened the whole 
 subject, indicated all the essential ante- 
 cedents of the story, and placed his charac- 
 ters in a posture of lively action. That the 
 tone is sombre must be conceded, and 
 people who think that the chief end of man 
 is to grin might condemn the piece for that 
 reason; but Ravenswood is a tragedy and 
 not a farce, and persons who wish that 
 their feelings may not be affected should 
 avoid tragedies. 
 
 In the second act Ravenswood seeks 
 Ashton at Ravenswood manor, intending 
 to kill him in a duel, but his hand is stayed 
 when he catches sight of Lucy Ashton’s 
 portrait. The incident of Edgar’s rescue 
 of Lucy is used in this scene. In a later 
 scene Sir William Ashton and his daughter 
 _take refuge in Wolf’s Crag, and the be- 
 witchment of Ravenswood is accomplished. 
 The quarrel between Edgar and Bucklaw 
 
234. HENRY IRVING AND 
 
 is then given, as a basis for the ensu- 
 ing rivalry and deadly conflict between 
 them. In the third act there is a beautiful 
 love-scene “between Edgar and Lucy, the 
 dialogue being especially felicitous in ten- 
 derness and grace and fraught with that 
 reverential. quality, that condition of com- 
 mingled ecstasy and nobleness, which is 
 always characteristic of the experience of 
 this passion in pure natures. Lady Ash- 
 ton’s interruption of their happiness and 
 the subsequent parting have a vigorous 
 dramatic effect. The character of Lucy 
 has been much strengthened, so that it 
 differs from that of the original precisely 
 as Desdemona differs from Ophelia; and 
 the change is an improvement. The fourth 
 
 act opens with ‘‘a song of choristers heard _ 
 
 outside.’? The letters of Lucy and Edgar 
 
 have been intercepted. The lady has been | 
 
 told that her lover is false. The suit of 
 Bucklaw has been urged. The authority 
 
 of the stern mother has prevailed over her | 
 daughter’s will. It is the old story. ‘*The | 
 
 absent are always wrong’’ —and Ravens- | 
 
 wood is absent. Lucy Ashton yields to her 
 
 } 
 
 ' 
 t 
 
 fate. The marriage contract between Lucy 
 and Bucklaw has just been signed when Ra- | 
 venswood bursts into the group. From that 
 
ELLEN TERRY IN RAVENSWOOD. 235 
 
 point the action is animated equally with 
 celerity and passion. The misery of Ravens- 
 wood utters itself in a swift stream of burn- 
 ing words. The grief of Lucy ends tragically 
 in a broken heart and sudden death. The 
 fight between Bucklaw and Ravenswood 
 clashes for a moment but is abruptly fin- 
 ished on the moonlit sands, and Edgar is 
 seen to leap down from a rock and rush 
 away-toward the manor, where, as his dying 
 foe has told him, the faithful and innocent 
 Lucy lies dead. He disappears and comes 
 no more; but his old servant takes up from 
 the beach a single black plume — the feather 
 of a raven — which the tide has washed 
 ashore, and which is the last relic and em- 
 blem of the vanished master of Ravenswood. 
 
 The tragedy is kindred, as to its spirit, with 
 Romeo and Juliet, and like that represent- 
 ative poem of love and death it is intensely 
 passionate, sombre, and lamentable. The 
 first and second acts of it pass in almost 
 unrelieved shadow. It begins with a funeral, 
 it incorporates the ingredients of misery, 
 madness, and death; it culminates in a 
 fatal duel ; and it ends in a picture of mor- 
 tal desolation, qualified only by a mute 
 suggestion of spiritual happiness conveyed 
 py the pictorial emblem of the promise of 
 
236 HENRY IRVING AND 
 
 immortality. It is a poetical tragedy, con- 
 ceived in the spirit and written in the man- 
 ner of the old masters of the poetic art. 
 The treatment of Scott’s novel is marked 
 by scrupulous fidelity, not indeed to every 
 detail of that noble book, but to its essen- 
 tial quality and tone. The structure of the 
 play reproduces in action substantially the 
 structure of the original story. The scene 
 in which Edgar and Lucy avow their love 
 and pledge themselves to each other is 
 written with exquisite grace and. profound 
 tenderness. The picture presented upon 
 the stage when the lovers are parted was 
 one of astonishing animation. The scene 
 of the interrupted wedding and of Lucy 
 Ashton’s agony, distraction, and death was 
 one of intense power and dramatic effect. 
 The duel of Ravenswood and Bucklaw upon 
 the desolate, moon-lit sands was invested 
 with the excitement of suspense and with 
 weird horror. And the final exposition of 
 dramatic contrast, —when upon the wide, 
 bleak beach, with the waste of vacant sea be- 
 yond and the eastern heaven lit with the first 
 splendour of sunrise, the old man stooped 
 to take up the raven’s feather, the last relic 
 of Ravenswood — was so entirely beautiful 
 that the best of words can but poorly indi- 
 
id 
 
 ELLEN TERRY IN RAVENSWOOD. 237 
 
 cate its loveliness. For an audience able 
 to look seriously at a serious subject, and 
 not impatient of the foreground of gloom 
 in which, necessarily, the story is enveloped . 
 at its beginning, this was a perfect work. 
 The student of drama must go back many 
 years to find a parallel to it, in interest of 
 subject, in balance, in symmetry, and in 
 sympathetic interpretation of character. 
 
 ’ There is a quality of Hamlet in the char- 
 acter of Ravenswood. He is by nature a 
 man of a sad mind, and under the pressure 
 of afflicting circumstances his sadness has 
 become embittered. He takes life thought- 
 fully and with passionate earnestness. He 
 is a noble person, finely sensitive and abso- 
 lutely sincere, full of kindness at heart, but 
 touched with gloom; and his aspect and 
 demeanour are those of pride, trouble, self- 
 conflict — of an individuality isolated and 
 constrained by dark thoughts and painful ex- 
 perience. That is the mood in which Henry 
 Irving conceived and portrayed him. You 
 saw a picturesque figure, dark, strange, ro- 
 mantic —the gravity engendered by thought 
 and sorrow not yet marring the bronzed face 
 and the elastic movement of youth—and 
 this personality, in itself fascinating, was 
 made all the more pictorial by an investiture 
 
238 ' HENRY IRVING AND 
 
 of romance, alike in the scenery and the in- 
 cidents through which it moved. Around 
 such a figure funereal banners well might 
 . wave, and under dark and lowering skies 
 the chill wind of the sea might moan 
 through monastic ruins and crumbling bat- 
 tlements. Edgar of Ravenswood, standing 
 by his lonely hearth, beneath the groined 
 arches of his seaside tower, revealed by the 
 flickering firelight, looked the ideal of ro- 
 mantic manhood ; the incarnation of poetic 
 fancy and of predestinate disaster. Above 
 the story of Ravenswood there is steadily 
 and continuously impending, and ever grow- 
 ing darker and coming nearer, the vague 
 menace of terrible calamity. This element 
 of mystery and dread was wrought into the 
 structural fibre of Henry Irving’s perform- 
 ance of the part, and consistently coloured 
 it. The face of Edgar was made to wear 
 that haunted look which, —as in the coun- 
 tenance of Charles the First, in Vandyke’s 
 portraits, — may be supposed, and often 
 has been supposed, to foreshadow a violent 
 and dreadful death. His sudden tremor, 
 when at the first kiss of Lucy Ashton the 
 thunder is heard to break above his ruined 
 home, was a fine denotement of that subtle 
 quality ; and even through the happiness of 
 
ELLEN TERRY IN RAVENSWOOD. 239 
 
 the betrothal scene there was a hint of this 
 black presentiment — just as sometimes on 
 a day of perfect sunshine there is a chill in 
 the wind that tells of approaching storm. 
 All this is warranted by the prophetic 
 rhymes which are several times spoken, be- 
 ginning — ‘‘ When the last lord of Ravens- 
 wood to Ravenswood shall ride.’? A crone, 
 Ailsie Gourlay by name, embodied with grim 
 and grisly vigour by Alice Marriott, — whose 
 ample voice and exact elocution, together 
 with her formidable stature and her faculty 
 of identification with the character that she 
 assumes and with the spirit of the story, 
 made her of great value to this play — hov- 
 ered around Ravenswood, and aided to keep 
 this presage of evil doom fitfully present 
 in the consciousness of its victim. Henry 
 
 _ Irving gave to the part its perfectly distinct 
 
 individuality, and in that respect made as 
 fine a showing as he has ever made of his 
 authority as an actor. There was never the 
 least doubt as to what Ravenswood is and 
 what he means. The peculiar elocution of 
 Henry Irving, when %e is under the influ- 
 ence of great excitement, is not effective 
 upon all persons; but those who like it 
 consider it far more touching than a more 
 level, more sonorous, and more accurate 
 
240 HENRY IRVING AND 
 
 delivery. He wrought a great effect in the 
 scene of the marriage-contract. Indeed, so 
 powerful, sincere, and true was the acting 
 upon all sides, at this point, that not until 
 the curtain began to descend was it remem- 
 bered that we were looking upon a fiction 
 and not upon a fact. This points to the 
 peculiar power that Henry Irving and Ellen 
 Terry conspicuously possess — of creating 
 and maintaining a perfect illusion. 
 
 During the earlier scenes the character of 
 Lucy Ashton is chiefly marked by the quali- 
 ties of sweetness and of glee. No one ac- 
 quainted with the acting of Ellen Terry 
 would need to be told how well and with 
 what charming grace those qualities were 
 expressed by her. In the scene of the woo- 
 ing, at the Mermaiden’s Well, Lucy Ashton 
 was not a cold woman trying to make her- 
 self loved, — which is what most actresses 
 habitually proffer upon the stage, — but a 
 loving woman, radiant with the conscious- 
 ness of the love that she feels and has in- 
 spired. Nothing could be imagined more 
 delicate, more delicious, more enchanting 
 than the high-bred distinction and soft 
 womanlike tone of that performance. The 
 character, at the climax of this scene, is 
 made to manifest decision, firmness, and 
 
ELLEN TERRY IN RAVENSWOOD. 24I 
 
 force; and the superb manner in which she 
 set the maternal authority at naught and 
 stood by her lover might seem to denote a 
 nature that no*tyranny could subdue. Sub- 
 dued, however, she is, and forced to believe 
 ill of her absent lover, and so the fatal 
 marriage contract is signed and the crash 
 fojows. When Ellen Terry came on for 
 that scene the glee had all vanished; the 
 face was as white as the garments that en- 
 swathed her; and you saw a creature whom 
 the hand of death had visibly touched. The 
 ‘stage has not at any time heard from any 
 lips but her own such tones of pathos as 
 those in which she said the simple words :— 
 
 “May God forgive you, then, and pity me— 
 If God can pity more than mothers do.” 
 
 It is not a long scene, and happily not, — 
 for the strain upon the emotion of the actress 
 was intense. The momentary wild merri- 
 ment, the agony of the breaking ‘heart, the 
 sudden delirium and collapse, were not for 
 an instant exaggerated. All was nature — 
 or rather the simplicity, fidelity, and grace 
 of art that make the effect of nature. 
 Beautiful scenery, painted by Craven, 
 ‘framed the piece with appropriate magnifi- 
 cence. The several seaside pictures were 
 Q 
 
242 IRVING AND TERRY. 
 
 admirably representative of the grandeur, 
 the gaunt loneliness, and the glorious colour 
 for which Scotland is so much loved. 
 
 The public gain in that préduction was a 
 revival of interest in one of the most famous 
 novels in the language; the possession of 
 a scenical pageant that filled the eye with 
 beauty and strongly moved the imagina- 
 tion ; a play that is successful in the domain 
 of romantic poetry; a touching exemplifi- 
 cation of the great art of acting; and once 
 again the presentment of that vast subject, 
 — the relation of heart to heart, under the 
 dominion of love, in human society, — that 
 more absorbs the attention, affects the 
 character, and controls the destiny of the 
 human race than anything else that is be- 
 neath the sun. 
 
THE MERRY WIVES. 243 
 
 XV 
 THE MERRY, WIVES AND FALSTAFF. 
 
 HAKESPEARE wrote The Merry Wives 
 of Windsor in 1601, and during the 
 Christmas holidays of that year it was pre- 
 sented upon the stage, before Queen Eliza- 
 beth and her court, at Windsor Castle. In 
 1602 it was published in London in quarto 
 form, and in 1619 areprint of that quarto 
 was published there. The version that ap- 
 pears in the two quartos is considered by 
 Shakespeare scholars to be spurious. ‘The 
 authentic text, no doubt, is that of the 
 comedy as it stands in the first folio (1625). 
 Shakespeare had written Henry IV.—both 
 parts of it—and also Henry V., when this 
 comedy was acted, and therefore he had 
 completed his portrait of Falstaff, whose 
 life is displayed in the former piece and 
 whose death is described in the latter. 
 Henry IV. was first printed in 1598 (we 
 know not when it was first acted), and it 
 passed through five quarto editions prior to 
 
244 THE MERRY WIVES 
 
 the publication of it in the folio of 1623. In 
 the epilogue to the second part of that play 
 a promise is made that the story shall be 
 continued, ‘‘ with Sir John in it,’’ but it is 
 gravely doubted whether that epilogue was 
 written by Shakespeare. The continuation 
 of the story occurs in Henry V., in which 
 Falstaff does not figure, although he is men- 
 tioned in it. Various efforts have been 
 made to show a continuity between the 
 several plays in which Falstaff is impli- 
 cated, but the attempt always fails. The 
 histories contain the real Falstaff. The 
 Falstaff of the comedy is another and less 
 important man. If there really were a se- 
 quence of story and of time in the portrait- 
 ure of this character the plays would stand 
 in the following order: 1, Henry IV., Part 
 First ; 2, The Merry Wives of Windsor ; 
 3, Henry IV., Part Second; 4, Henry V. 
 As no such sequence exists, or apparently 
 was intended, the comedy should be viewed 
 by itself. Its texture is radically different 
 from that of the histories. One of the 
 best Shakespeare editors, Charles Knight, 
 ventures the conjecture that The Merry | 
 Wives of Windsor was written first. Shake- _ 
 speare invented the chief part of the plot, | 
 taking, however, a few things from Tarl- | 
 
AND FALSTAFF. 245 
 
 ton’s Newes out of Purgatorie, which in 
 turn was founded on a story called The 
 Lovers of Pisa. It is possible also that 
 he may have derived suggestions from a 
 German play by Duke Henry Julius of 
 Brunswick — a contemporary, who died in 
 1611 —to which The Merry Wives of Wind- 
 sor bears some resemblance, and of which 
 he may have received an account from Eng- 
 lish actors who had visited Germany, as 
 the actors of his time occasionally did. 
 Tradition declares that he wrote this 
 comedy at the command of Queen Eliza- 
 beth, who had expressed a wish to see Fal- 
 staff in love. This was first stated by John 
 Dennis, in the preface to an alteration of 
 The Merry Wives of Windsor which was 
 made by him, under the name of The Com- 
 ical Gallant, or the Amours of Sir John 
 Falstaff, and was successfully acted at 
 Drury Lane theatre. That piece, which is 
 paltry and superfluous, appeared in 1702. 
 No authority was given by Dennis for his 
 statement about Queen Elizabeth and 
 Shakespeare’s play. The tradition rests 
 exclusively on his word. Rowe, Pope, 
 Theobald, and other Shakespeare editors, 
 have transmitted it to the present day, 
 but it rests on nothing but supposition 
 
246 THE MERRY WIVES 
 
 and it is dubious, Those scholars who ac- 
 cept the story of Dennis, and believe that 
 Shakespeare wrote the piece ‘‘to order” 
 and within a few days, usually fortify their 
 belief by the allegation that the comedy 
 falls short of Shakespeare’s poetical stand- 
 ard, being written mostly in prose ; that it 
 degrades his great creation of Falstaff; 
 that it is, for him, a trivial production ; 
 and that it must have been written in 
 haste and without spontaneous impulse. If 
 judgment were to be given on the quarto 
 version of The Merry Wives, that reason- 
 ing would commend itself as at least plausi- 
 ble ; but it is foolish as applied to the version 
 in the folio, where the piece is found to be 
 remarkable for nimbleness of invention, 
 strength and variety of natural character, 
 affluent prodigality of animal spirits, de- 
 licious quaintness, exhilarating merriment, 
 a lovely pastoral tone, and many touches of 
 the transcendent poetry of Shakespeare. 
 Dennis probably repeated a piece of idle 
 gossip that he had heard, the same sort of 
 chatter that in the present day constantly 
 follows the doings of theatrical people, — 
 and is not accurate more than once in a 
 thousand times. The Merry Wives of Wind- 
 sor is a brilliant and delightful comedy, 
 
AND FALSTAFF. 247 
 
 quite worthy of its great author (though not 
 in his most exalted mood), who probably 
 wrote it because his mind was naturally 
 impelled to write it, and no doubt laboured 
 over it exactly as he did over his other writ- 
 ings: for we know, upon the testimony of 
 Ben Jonson, who personally knew him 
 and was acquainted with his custom as a 
 writer, that he was not content with the 
 first draught of anything, but wrote it a 
 second time, and a third time, before he 
 became satisfied with it. Dr. J ohnson, 
 who had studied Shakespeare as carefully 
 as any man ever studied him, speaking of 
 The Merry Wives of Windsor, says that 
 ‘¢its general power —that power by which 
 all works of genius should finally be tried 
 —jis such that perhaps it never yet had 
 reader or spectator who did not think it too 
 soon at an end.’”? A comedy that deserves 
 such praise as this — which assuredly is 
 not misplaced — need not be dismissed as a 
 pot-boiler. 
 
 Knight’s conjecture that The Merry 
 Wives was written before the histories 
 were written is a plausible conjecture, and 
 perhaps worthy of some consideration. It 
 
 ‘is not easy to believe that Shakespeare, 
 
 after he had created Falstaff and thoroughly 
 
248 THE MERRY WIVES 
 
 drawn him, was capable of lessening the — 
 character and making it almost despicable 
 with paltriness —as certainly it becomes in 
 The Merry Wives. 'That is not the natural 
 way of an artistic mind. But it is easier to 
 credit the idea that the Falstaff of The 
 Merry Wives was the first study of the 
 character, although not first shown, which 
 subsequently expanded into the magnifi- 
 cent humorous creation of the histories. 
 Falstaff in the comedy is a fat man with 
 absurd amorous propensities, who is be- 
 fooled, victimised, and made a laughing- 
 stock by a couple of frolicsome women, 
 who are so much amused by his preposter- 
 ous folly that they scarcely bestow the 
 serious consideration of contempt and 
 scorn upon his sensuality and insolence. 
 No creature was ever set in a more ludi- 
 crous light or made more contemptible, 
 — in a kindly, good-humoured way. ‘The 
 hysterical note of offended virtue is never 
 sounded, nor is anywhere seen the 
 averted face of shocked propriety. The 
 two wives are bent on a frolic, and they _ 
 will merrily punish this presumptuous sen- | 
 sualist —this silly, conceited, gross fellow, 
 ‘old, cold, withered, and of intolerable en- 
 trails.” If we knew no more of Falstaff 
 
AND FALSTAFF. 249 
 
 than the comedy tells us of him we should 
 by no means treasure him as we do now ; 
 but it is through the histories that we 
 learn to know and appreciate him, and it is 
 of the man portrayed there that we always 
 unconsciously think when, in his humiliat- 
 ing discomfiture, we hear him declare that 
 ‘wit may be made a Jack-a-lent when ’tis 
 upon ill employment.’? For the Falstaff 
 of the histories is a man of intellect, 
 wisdom, and humour, thoroughly expe- 
 rienced in the ways of the world, fascinat- 
 _ ing in his drollery, human, companionable, 
 infinitely amusing, and capable of turning 
 all life to the favour of enjoyment and 
 laughter —a man who is passionate in the 
 sentiment of comradeship, and who, with 
 all his faults (and perhaps because of some 
 of them, for faultless persons are too good 
 for this world), inspires affection. ‘‘ Would 
 I were with him,”’’ cries the wretched Bar- 
 dolph, ‘‘wheresome’er he is, either in 
 heaven or in hell.”” It is not Bardolph 
 only whose heart has a warm corner for 
 the memory of the poor old jovial sinner, 
 wounded to death by the falling off of 
 friendship —the implacable hardness of 
 new-born virtue in the regenerated royal 
 mind. 
 
260 THE MERRY WIVES 
 
 A comprehensive view of Falstaff—a 
 view that includes the afflicting circum- 
 stances of his humiliation and of his for- 
 
 lorn and pathetic death not less than the . 
 
 roistering frolics and jocund mendacity of 
 his life and character —is essential to a 
 
 right appreciation of the meaning of him, - 
 
 Shakespeare is never a prosy moralist, but 
 he constantly teaches you, if you have 
 eyes to see and ears to hear, that the 
 moral law of the universe, working con- 
 tinually for goodness and not for evil, oper- 
 ates in an inexorable manner. Yet it is 
 not of any moral consideration that the 
 spectator of Falstaff upon the stage ever 
 pauses to think. It is the humour of the 
 fat knight that is perceived, and that alone. 
 The thoughtful friends of Falstaff, how- 
 
 ever, see more in him than this, and espe- . 
 
 cially they like not to think of him in a 
 deplorable predicament. The Falstaff of 
 
 The Merry Wives is a man to laugh at; 
 
 but he is not a man to inspire the com- 
 
 rade feeling, and still less is he a man. 
 
 to impress the intellect with the sense of 
 
 a stalwart character and of illimitable . 
 
 jocund humour. Falstaff’s friends — 
 
 whose hearts are full of kindness for | 
 the old reprobate—have sat with him _ 
 
AND FALSTAFF. 251 
 
 “in my Dolphin chamber, at the round 
 table, by a sea-coal fire,’’ and ‘‘ have heard 
 the chimes at midnight’’ in his society, 
 and they know what a jovial companion he 
 is— how abundant in knowledge of the 
 world; how radiant with animal spirits ; 
 how completely inexhaustible in cheerful- 
 ness ; how copious in comic invective ; how 
 incessantly nimble and ludicrous in wit 
 and in waggery ; how strange a compound 
 of mind and sensuality, shrewdness and 
 folly, fidelity and roguery, brazen men- 
 dacity, and comic selfishness! They do 
 not like to think of him as merely a fat old 
 fool, bamboozled by a pair of sprightly, 
 not over-delicate women, far inferior to 
 him in mental calibre, and made a laugh- 
 ing-stock for Fenton and sweet Anne Page, 
 and the lads and lassies of Windsor, and 
 the chattering Welsh parson. ‘Have I 
 lived,”’ cried Falstaff, in the moment of his 
 discomfiture, ‘‘ to stand at the taunt of one 
 
 that makes fritters of English?’ He is 
 a hard case, an inveterate sinner, as worth- 
 
 less as any man well could be, in the eyes 
 of decorum and respectability ; but those 
 
 who know him well grow to be fond of him, 
 
 even if they feel that they ought to be 
 ashamed of it, and they do not quite for- 
 
252 THE MERRY WIVES 
 
 give the poet for making him contempt- 
 ible. 
 
 You can find many other figures that will 
 make you laugh, but you can find no other 
 figure that makes you laugh with such 
 good reason. It seems incredible that 
 Shakespeare, with his all-embracing mind 
 and his perfect instinct of art, should de- 
 liberately have chosen to lessen his own 
 masterpiece of humour. For Shakespeare 
 rejoiced in Falstaff, even while he respected 
 and recorded the inexorable justice of the 
 moral law that decrees and eventually ac- 
 complishes his destruction. There is no 
 one of his characters whose history he has 
 traced with such minute elaboration. The 
 conception is singularly ample. You may 
 see Falstaff, as Shallow saw him, when he 
 was a boy and page to Thomas Mowbray, 
 Duke of Norfolk; you may see him all 
 along the current of his mature years ; his’ 
 highway robberies on Gadshill; his brag- 
 ging narrative to Prince Henry ; his frolic- 
 some, paternal, self-defensive lecture to. 
 the prince ; his serio-comic association with 
 the ragamuffin recruits at Coventry ; his. 
 adroit escape from the sword of Hotspur; 
 his mendacious self-glorification over the. 
 body of Harry Percy; his mishaps as a. 
 
AND FALSTAFF. 253 
 
 suitor to Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Page; his 
 wonderfully humorous interviews with 
 the Chief-Justice and with Prince John 
 of Lancaster ; his junketings with Justice 
 Shallow in Gloucestershire, and his rebuff 
 and consternation at his first and last meet- 
 ing with King Henry V.; and finally you 
 may see him, as Mrs. Quickly saw him, on 
 his death-bed, when ‘‘’a cried out God! 
 God! God! three or four times,’’ and when 
 ‘his nose was as sharp as a pen, and ’a 
 babbled o’ green fields.”’ 
 A good and faithful study of King Henry 
 IV., and especially of the second part of 
 that play, is essential for a right apprecia- 
 ‘tion of Falstaff. Those scenes with the 
 Chief-Justice are unmatched in literature. 
 The knight stands royally forth in them, 
 clothed with his entire panoply of agile 
 intellect, robust humour, and boundless 
 comic effrontery. But the arrogant and 
 expeditious Falstaff of The Merry Wives 
 _—so richly freighted with rubicund sensu- 
 ality, so abundant in comic loquacity, and 
 so ludicrous in his sorry plights—is a 
 much less complex person, and therefore 
 he stands more level than the real Falstaff 
 does with the average comprehension of 
 mankind. The American stage, accord- 
 
254 THE MERRY WIVES 
 
 ingly, by which more than by the printed 
 book he has become known to our people, 
 has usually given its preference to the Fal- 
 staff of the comedy. The Merry Wives was 
 first acted in New York on October 5, 1788 
 at the John Street theatre, with Harper 
 as Falstaff. On April 1, 1807 it was pro- 
 duced at the old Park, and the Falstaff 
 then was John E. Harwood. The same 
 stage offered it again on January 15, 1829, 
 with Hilson as Falstaff. A little later, 
 about 1852, James H. Hackett took up the 
 character of Falstaff, and from that time 
 onward performances of The Merry Wives 
 occurred more frequently in different cities 
 of America. Nor was the historical play 
 neglected. On August 7, 1848 a remark- 
 ably fine production of the comedy was 
 accomplished at the Astor Place Opera- 
 house, New York, with Hackett as Falstaff, 
 who never in his time was equalled in that 
 character, and has not been equalled since. 
 Another Falstaff, however, and a remark- 
 ably good one, appeared at Burton’s thea- 
 tre on August 24, 1850, in the person of 
 Charles Bass. On March 14, 1853 The 
 Merry Wives was again given at Burton’s 
 theatre, and Burton himself played Fal- 
 staff, with characteristic humour ; but Bur- 
 
SS 
 1 
 
 AND FALSTAFF. 255 
 
 ton never acted the part as it stands in 
 Henry IV. Hackett, who used both the 
 history (Part I.) and the comedy, continued 
 to act Falstaff almost to the end of his life 
 and Hackett did not die till 1871. A dis- 
 tinguished representative of Falstaff in the 
 early days of the American theatre — the 
 days of the renowned Chestnut in Philadel- 
 phia — was William Warren (1767-1882), 
 who came from England in 1796. In 
 recent years the part has been acted by 
 Benedict De Bar and by John Jack. The 
 latest Falstaff in America was that embodied 
 by Charles Fisher, who first assumed the 
 character on November 19, 1872, at Daly’s 
 theatre, and whose performance was pic- 
 turesque and humorous. 
 
 On the English stage the historical play 
 of Henry IV. was exceedingly popular in 
 Shakespeare’s time. ‘The first Falstaff, ac- 
 cording to Malone, whom everybody has 
 followed as to this point, was John Hem- 
 inge (1555-1630). After him came John 
 Lowin (1572-1654), who is thought to have 
 acted the part in the presence of Charles I. 
 His successor seems to have been Lacy, 
 who died in 1681. Next came Cartwright, 
 and in 1699 or 1700 the great Betterton 
 (1635-1710) assumed the fat knight, acting 
 
256 THE MERRY WIVES 
 
 him in both parts of the history and in the 
 comedy. Genest records twenty-two re- 
 vivals of the first part of Henry IV. upon 
 the London stage, at five different theatres, 
 between 1667 and 1826; fifteen revivals of 
 the second part between 1720 and 1821; 
 and sixteen revivals of The Merry Wives of 
 Windsor between 1667 and 1811. Many 
 English actors have played Falstaff since 
 Betterton’s time, an incomplete though suf- 
 ficiently ample list of them comprising Est- 
 court, 1704; F. Bullock, 1713; J. Evans 
 and J. Hall, 1715; Mills, 1716: . Qui 
 ‘¢dionity and declamation,’’ 1738; Berry, 
 1747; Love (whose true name was James 
 Dance), 1762; Shuter, 1774; John Hen- 
 derson, one of the greatest actors that ever 
 lived, 1774; Mrs. Webb (once only), 1776; 
 Ryder, 1786; Palmer, 1788; King, 1792; 
 Fawcett, 1795; Stephen Kemble, who was 
 so fat that he could play it without stuffing 
 or bladder, 1802; Blissett, 1803; George 
 Frederick Cooke, 1804; Bartley, 1812; 
 Charles Kemble, 1824; Dowton, 1824; 
 Elliston, 1826; and Samuel Phelps, 1846. 
 The latest representative of Falstaff in 
 England was H. Beerbohm-Tree, who, 
 although a man of slender figure, con- 
 trived to simulate corpulence, and who 
 
AND FALSTAFF. 257 
 
 manifested in his acting a fine instinct 
 as to the meaning of the character and 
 considerable resources of art in its ex- 
 pression, although the predominant indi- 
 viduality and the copious luxuriance of 
 Falstafi’s rosy and juicy humour were not 
 within his reach. Upon the American stage 
 the part is practically disused ; and this is 
 a pity, seeing that a source of great enjoy- 
 ment and one of the most suggestive and 
 fruitful topics that exist in association with 
 the study of human nature are thus in a 
 ereat degree sequestered from the public 
 mind. Still it is better to have no Falstaff 
 on the stage than to have it encumbered 
 with a bad one ; and certainly for the pecul- 
 iar and exacting play of Henry JV. there 
 are now no actors left: at least they are 
 not visible in America. 
 
 R 
 
258 ADA REHAN. 
 
 XVII. 
 ADA REHAN. 
 
 N browsing over the fragrant evergreen 
 
 pages of Cibber’s delightful book about 
 the stage, and especially in reflecting upon 
 the beautiful and brilliant women who, 
 drawn by his magic pencil, dwell there, 
 perpetual, in life, colour, and charm, the 
 reflective reader may perhaps be prompted 
 to remember that the royal line of stage 
 beauties is not extinct, and that stage hero- 
 ines exist in the present day who are quite 
 as well worthy of commemoration as amy 
 that graced the period of Charles the Sec. 
 ond or of good Queen Anne. Our age 
 indeed, has no Cibber to describe thei 
 loveliness and celebrate their achievements | 
 but surely if he were living at this how 
 that courtly, characteristic, and sensuous 
 writer — who saw so clearly and could por 
 tray so well the peculiarities of the femi 
 nine nature— would not deem the perio¢ 
 of Ellen Terry and Marie Wilton, of Ad: 
 
ADA REHAN. 259 
 
 Rehan and Sarah Bernhardt and Genevieve 
 Ward, of Clara Morris and Jane Had- 
 ing, unworthy of his pen. As often as 
 fancy ranges over those bright names and 
 others that are kindred with them— a glit- 
 tering sisterhood of charms and talents — 
 the regret must arise that no literary artist 
 with just the gallant spirit, the chivalry, 
 the sensuous appreciation, the fine insight, 
 and the pictorial touch of old Cibber is 
 extant to perpetuate their glory. The hand 
 that sketched Elizabeth Barry so as to 
 make her live forever in a few brief lines, 
 the hand that drew the fascinating and 
 memorable portrait of Susanna Mountfort 
 (** Down goes her dainty diving body to 
 the ground, as if she were sinking under 
 the conscious load of her own attractions ”’”) 
 —what might it not have done to preserve 
 for the knowledge of future generations the 
 queens of the theatre who are crowned and 
 regnant to-day! Cibber could have caught 
 and reflected the elusive charm of such an 
 actress as Ada Rehan. No touch less 
 adroit and felicitous than his can accom- 
 plish more than the suggestion of her pecul- 
 iar allurement, her originality, and her fas- 
 Cinating because sympathetic and piquant 
 mental and physical characteristics. 
 
260 ADA REHAN. 
 
 Ada Rehan, born at Limerick, Treland, 
 on April 22, 1860, was brought to America 
 when five years old, and at that time she 
 lived and went to school in Brooklyn. No 
 one of her progenitors was ever upon the 
 stage, nor does it appear that she was pre- 
 disposed to that vocation by early reading. 
 or training. Her elder sisters had adopted 
 that pursuit, and perhaps she was impelled. 
 toward it by the force of example and. 
 domestic association, readily affecting her 
 innate latent faculty for the dramatic art. 
 Her first appearance on the stage was made 
 at Newark, New Jersey, in 1873, in a play 
 entitled Across the Continent, in which she 
 acted a small part, named Clara, for one 
 night only, to fill the place of a performer 
 who had been suddenly disabled by illness. 
 Her readiness and her positive talent were 
 clearly revealed in that effort, and it wat 
 thereupon determined in a family counci. 
 that she should proceed; so she was Soo! 
 regularly embarked upon the life of ar 
 actress. Her first appearance on the Nev 
 York stage was made a little later, in 1873, 
 
 { 
 
 at Wood’s museum (it became Daly’ 
 theatre in 1879), when she played a sma, 
 part in a piece called Thorough-bred. Du 
 
 ing the seasons of 1873-74-75 she wa) 
 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 | 
 
ADA REHAN. 261 
 
 associated with the Arch Street theatre, 
 Philadelphia, —that being her first regular 
 
 professional engagement. (John Drew, 
 
 with whom, professionally, Ada Rehan 
 
 has been long associated, made his first 
 
 appearance in the same season, at the 
 same house.) She then went to Macau- 
 lay’s theatre, Louisville, where she acted 
 
 for one season. From Louisville she went 
 to Albany, as a member of John W. Al- 
 _baugh’s company, and with that manager 
 _ she remained two seasons, acting sometimes 
 in Albany and sometimes in Baltimore. 
 _ After that she was for a few months with 
 Fanny Davenport. The earlier part of 
 her career involved professional endeavy- 
 
 ours in company with the wandering stars, 
 
 _and she acted in a variety of plays with 
 Edwin Booth, Adelaide Neilson, John Mc- 
 
 Cullough, Mrs. Bowers, Lawrence Barrett, 
 John Brougham, Edwin Adams, Mrs. Lan- 
 der, and John T. Raymond. From the first 
 she was devotedly fond of Shakespeare, and 
 all the Shakespearian characters allotted to 
 her were studied and acted by her with 
 eager interest and sympathy. While thus 
 employed in the provincial stock she enacted 
 Ophelia, Cordelia, Desdemona, Celia, Olivia, 
 and Lady Anne, and in each of those parts 
 
262 ADA REHAN. 
 
 she was conspicuously good. The attention 
 of Augustin Daly was first attracted to her 
 in December 1877, when she was acting 
 at Albaugh’s theatre in Albany, the play 
 being Katharine and Petruchio (Garrick’s 
 version of the Taming of the Shrew), and 
 Ada Rehan appearing as Bianca; and sub- 
 sequently Daly again observed her as an 
 actress of auspicious distinction and marked 
 promise at the Grand Opera House, New 
 York, in April 1879. Fanny Davenport 
 was then acting in that theatre in Daly’s 
 strong American play of Pique—one of 
 the few dramas of American origin that 
 aptly reflect the character of American 
 domestic life—and Ada Rehan appeared 
 in the part of Mary Standish. She was 
 immediately engaged under Daly’s man- 
 agement, and in May 1879 she came forth 
 at the Olympic theatre, New York, as 
 Big Clemence in that author’s version 
 of L’Assommoir. On September 17, 1879, 
 Daly’s theatre (which had been suspended 
 for about two years) was opened upon 
 its present site, the southwest corner of 
 Thirtieth Street and. Broadway, and Ada 
 Rehan made her first appearance there, 
 enacting the part of Nelly Beers in a 
 play called Love’s Young Dream. ‘The 
 
x ; ADA REHAN. 263 
 
 opening bill on that occasion comprised 
 that piece, together with a comedy by Olive 
 Logan, entitled Newport. On September 
 30 a revival of Divorce, one of Daly’s 
 most fortunate plays, was effected, and 
 Ada Rehan impersonated Miss Lu Ten 
 Eyck —a part originally acted (1873) by 
 Fanny Davenport. From that time to this 
 (1892) Ada Rehan has remained the lead- 
 ing lady at Daly’s theatre; and there she 
 has become one of the most admired figures 
 upon the contemporary stage. In five pro- 
 fessional visits to Europe, acting in Lon- 
 don, Paris, Edinburgh, Dublin, Berlin, and 
 other cities, she pleased judicious audi- 
 ences and augmented her renown. Daly 
 took his company of comedians to London 
 for the first time in 1884, where they ful- 
 filled an engagement of six weeks at Toole’s 
 theatre, beginning July 19. The second 
 visit to London was made two seasons later, 
 when they acted for nine weeks at the 
 Strand theatre, beginning May 27, 1886. 
 At that time they also played in the Eng- 
 lish provinces, and they visited Germany 
 —acting at Hamburg and at Berlin, where 
 they were much liked and commended. 
 _ They likewise made a trip to Paris. Their 
 third season abroad began at the Lyceum 
 
264 ADA REHAN, : . 
 
 theatre, London, May 3, 1888, and it in- 
 cluded another expedition to the French 
 capital, which was well rewarded. Ada 
 Rehan at that time impersonated Shake- 
 speare’s Shrew. It was in that season also 
 that she appeared at Stratford-upon-Avon, 
 where Daly gave a performance (August 
 53, 1888) in the Shakespeare Memorial 
 theatre, for the benefit of that institution. 
 The fourth season of Daly’s comedians 
 in London began on June 10, 1890, at the 
 Lyceum theatre, and lasted ten weeks; and 
 this was signalised by Ada Rehan’s imper- 
 sonation of Rosalind. The fifth London 
 season extended from September 9 to No- 
 vember 18, 1891. 
 
 This is an outline of her professional 
 story ; but how little of the real life of an 
 actor can be imparted in a record of the 
 surface facts of a public career! Most 
 expressive, aS a comment upon the inade- 
 quacy of biographical details, is the excla- 
 
 mation of Dumas, about Aimée Desclée: | 
 ‘‘Une femme comme celle-la n’a pas de 
 
 biographie! Elle nous a émus, et elle en 
 
 est morte. Voila toute son historie!’? Ada 
 Rehan, while she has often and deeply 
 moved the audience of her riper time, is 
 happily very far from having died of it. 
 
ADA REHAN. 265 
 
 There is deep feeling beneath the luminous 
 and sparkling surface of her art ; but it is 
 chiefly with mirth that she has touched the 
 
 public heart and affected the public experi- 
 
 ence. Equally of her, however, as of her 
 pathetic sister artist of the French stage, it 
 may be said that such a woman has no his- 
 tory. In a civilisation and at a period 
 wherein persons are customarily accepted 
 for what they pretend to be, instead of 
 being seen and understood for what they 
 are, she has been content to take an unpre- 
 
 —tentious course, to be original and simple, 
 
 and thus to allow her faculties to ripen and 
 her character to develop in their natural 
 manner. She has not assumed the position 
 of a star, and perhaps the American com- 
 munity, although favourable and friendly 
 toward her, may have been somewhat slow to 
 understand her unique personality and her 
 superlative worth. The moment a thought- 
 ful observer’s attention is called to the fact, 
 however, he perceives how large a place 
 Ada Rehan fills in the public mind, how 
 conspicuous a figure she is upon the con- 
 temporary stage, and how difficult it is to 
 explain and classify her whether as an artist 
 ora woman. That blending of complexity 
 with transparency always imparts to indi- 
 
266 ADA REHAN. 
 
 vidual life a tinge of piquant interest, 
 because it is one denotement of the tem- 
 perament of genius. 
 
 The poets of the world pour themselves 
 through all subjects by the use of their 
 own words. In what manner they are 
 affected by the forces of nature —its in- 
 fluences of gentleness and peace or its vast 
 pageants of beauty and terror — those words 
 denote ; and also those words indicate the 
 action, upon their responsive spirits, of the 
 passions that agitate the human _ heart. 
 The actors, on the other hand, assuming 
 to be the interpreters of the poets, must 
 pour themselves through all subjects by the 
 use of their own personality. They are to 
 be estimated accordingly by whatever the 
 competent observer is able to perceive of 
 the nature and the faculties they reveal 
 under the stress of emotion, whether tragic 
 or comic. Perhaps it is not possible — 
 mind being limited in its function— for 
 any person to form a full, true, and defi- 
 nite summary of another human creature. 
 To view a dramatic performance with a 
 consciousness of the necessity of forming 
 a judicial opinion of it is often to see 
 one’s own thought about it rather than 
 the thing itself. Yet, when all allowance 
 
— 
 
 ADA REHAN. 265 
 
 is made for difficulty of theme and for in- 
 firmity of judgment, the observer of Ada 
 Rehan may surely conclude that she has 
 a rich, tender, and sparkling nature, in 
 which the dream-like quality of sentiment 
 and the discursive faculty of imagination, 
 intimately blended with deep, broad, and 
 accurate perceptions of the actual, and 
 with a fund of keen and sagacious sense, 
 are reinforced with strong individuality 
 and with affluent and extraordinary vital 
 force. Ada Rehan has followed no tradi- 
 tions. She went to the stage not because 
 of vanity but because of spontaneous im- 
 pulse ; and for the expression of every part 
 that she has played she has gone to nature 
 and not to precept and precedent. The 
 stamp of her personality is upon every- 
 thing that she has done ; yet the thinker who 
 looks back upon her numerous and various 
 impersonations is astonished at their diver- 
 sity. The romance, the misery, and the 
 fortitude of Kate Verity, the impetuous 
 passion of Katharine, the brilliant raillery 
 of Hippolyta, the enchanting womanhood of 
 Rosalind — how clear-cut, how distinct, how 
 absolutely dramatic was each one of those 
 personifications! and yet how completely 
 characteristic each one was of this individual 
 
268 ADA REHAN,. 
 
 (actress! Our works of art may be subject 
 ‘to the application of our knowledge and 
 skill, but we ourselves are under the domi- 
 nance of laws which operate out of the 
 inaccessible and indefinable depths of the 
 spirit. Alongside of most players of this 
 period Ada Rehan is a prodigy of original 
 force. Her influence, accordingly, has been 
 felt more than it has been understood, and, 
 being elusive and strange, has prompted 
 wide differences of opinion. The sense 
 that she diffuses of a simple, unselfish, 
 patient nature, and of impulsive tenderness 
 of heart, however, cannot have been missed 
 by anybody with eyes to see. And she 
 | crowns all by speaking the English lan- 
 | guage with a beauty that has seldom been 
 | equalled. 
 
TENNYSON’S FORESTERS. 269 
 
 x Vili. 
 TENNYSON’S COMEDY OF THE FORESTERS, 
 
 ‘‘ EP) ESIDES, the King’s name is a tower 
 
 of strength.’ Thousands of people 
 all over the world honour, and ought to 
 honour, every word that falls from the pen 
 of Alfred Tennyson. He is a very great 
 man. No poet since the best time of Byron 
 has written the English language so well — 
 that is to say, with such affluent splendour 
 of imagination; such passionate vigour ; 
 such nobility of thought ; such tenderness 
 of pathos; such pervasive grace, and so! 
 much of that distinctive variety, flexibility, 
 and copious and felicitous amplitude which 
 are the characteristics of an original style. 
 No poet of the last fifty years has done 
 so much to stimulate endurance in the 
 human soul and to clarify spiritual vision 
 in the human mind. It does not signify 
 that now, at more than fourscore, his hand 
 sometimes trembles a little on the harp- 
 strings, and his touch falters, and his 
 
270 TENNYSON’S COMEDY OF 
 
 music dies away. It is still the same ha 
 and the same hand. This fanciful, kindly, 
 visionary, drifting, and altogether romantic 
 comedy of Robin Hood is not to be tried 
 by the standard that its author reared when 
 he wrote Ulysses and Tithonus and The 
 Passing of Arthur — that imperial, unap- 
 proachable standard that no other poet has 
 satisfied. 
 
 “‘Cold upon the dead voleano Sleeps the gleam 
 of dying day.” 
 
 But though the passion be subdued and the 
 splendour faded, the deep current of feeling 
 flows on and the strong and tender voice 
 can still touch the heart and charm the ear, 
 That tide of emotion and that tone of mel- 
 ody blend in this play and make it beauti- 
 ful. .The passion is no longer that of Enone 
 and Lucretius and Guinevere and Locksley 
 Halli and Maud and The Vision of Sin. 
 The thought is no longer that of In Memo- 
 riam, with its solemn majesty and infinite 
 pathos. The music is no longer that of 
 The May Queen and the Talking Oak and 
 Idle Tears. But why should these be ex- 
 pected ? He who struck those notes strikes 
 now another ; and as we listen our wonder 
 stows, and cannot help but grow, that a 
 
THE FORESTERS. 271 
 
 bard of fourscore and upward should write 
 in such absolute sympathy with youth, 
 love, hope, happiness, and all that is free 
 and wandering and martial and active in 
 the vicissitudes of adventure, the exploits 
 of chivalry, and the vagabondish spirit of 
 eypsy frolic. The fact that he does write 
 in that mood points to the one illuminative 
 truth now essential to be remembered. 
 The voice to which we are privileged to 
 listen, perhaps for the last time, is the 
 voice of a great poet — by which is meant 
 a poet who is able, not through the medium 
 of intellect but through the medium of 
 emotion, to make the total experience of 
 mankind his own experience, and to ex- 
 press it not only in the form of art but 
 with the fire of nature. The element of 
 power, in all the expressions of such a 
 mind, will fluctuate ; but every one of its 
 expressions will be sincere and in a greater 
 or less degree will be vital with a univer- 
 sal and permanent significance. That vir- 
 tue is in Alfred Tennyson’s comedy of 
 Robin Hood, and that virtue will insure 
 for it an abiding endurance in affectionate 
 public esteem. 
 
 The realm into which this play allures 
 its auditor is the realm of Ivanhoe — 
 
272 TENNYSON’S COMEDY OF 
 
 the far-off, romantic region of Sherwood 
 forest, in the ancient days of stout king 
 Richard the First. The poet has gone to 
 the old legends of Robin Hood and to the 
 ballads that have been made upon them, 
 and out of those materials —using them 
 freely, according to his fancy — he has 
 chosen his scene and his characters and 
 has made his story. It is not the England 
 of the mine and the workshop that he 
 represents, and neither is it the England of 
 the trim villa and the formal landscape ; 
 it is the England of the feudal times — of 
 gray castle towers, and armoured knights, 
 and fat priests, and wandering minstrels, 
 and crusades and_ tournaments; England 
 in rush-strewn bowers and under green 
 boughs; the England in which Wamba 
 jested and Blondel sung. To enter into 
 that realm is to leave the barren world of 
 prose ; to feel again the cool, sweet winds 
 of summer upon the brow of youth; to 
 catch, in fitful glimpses, the shimmer of 
 the Lincoln green in the sunlit, golden 
 glades of the forest, and to hear the merry 
 note of the huntsman commingled, far 
 away, with ‘‘horns of Elfland faintly blow- 
 ing.’’ The appeal is made to the primitive, 
 elemental, poetical instinct of mankind 3 
 
. .r&rai 
 
 THE FORESTERS. 273 
 
 and no detail of realism is obtruded, no 
 question of probability considered, no agony 
 of the sin-tortured spirit subjected to an- 
 alysis, no controversy promoted and no 
 moral lesson enforced. For once the pub- 
 lic is favoured with a serious poetical play, 
 which aims simply to diffuse happiness by 
 arousing sympathy with pleasurable scenes 
 and picturesque persons, with virtue that 
 is piquant and humour that is refined, with 
 the cheerful fortitude that takes adversity 
 with a smile, and with that final fortunate 
 triumph of good over evil which is neither 
 ensanguined with gore nor saddened with 
 tears, nor made acrid with bitterness. The 
 play is pastoral comedy, written partly in 
 plank verse and partly in prose, and cast 
 almost wholly out of doors —in the open 
 
 air and under the greenwood tree —and, 
 
 in order to stamp its character beyond 
 doubt or question, one scene of it is frankly 
 
 - devoted to a convocation of fairies around 
 
 Titania, their queen. 
 
 The impulse that underlies this piece is 
 the old, incessant, undying aspiration, that 
 men and women of the best order feel, for 
 some avenue of escape, some relief, some 
 refuge, from the sickening tyranny of con- 
 vention and the commonplace, and from 
 
 s 
 
274 TENNYSON'S COMEDY OF 
 
 the overwhelming mystery with which all 
 human life is haunted and oppressed. A 
 man who walks about in a forest is not 
 necessarily free. He may be as great a 
 slave as anybody. But the exalted imag- 
 ination dwells upon his way of life as eman- 
 cipated, breezy, natural, and right. That 
 way, to the tired thinker, lie peace and 
 joy. There, if anywhere —as he fancies — 
 he might escape from all the wrongs of the 
 world, all the problems of society, all the 
 dull business of recording, and analysing, 
 and ticketing mankind, all the clash of 
 selfish systems that people call history, 
 and all the babble that they call literature. 
 In that retreat he would feel the rain upon 
 his face, and smell the grass and the 
 flowers, and hear the sighing and whisper- 
 ing of the wind in the green boughs; and 
 there would be no need to trouble himself 
 any more, whether about the past or the 
 future. Every great intellect of the world 
 has felt that wild longing, and has re- 
 corded it—the impulse to revert to the 
 vast heart of Nature, that knows no doubt, 
 and harbours no fear, and keeps no regret, 
 and feels no sorrow, and troubles itself not 
 at ail. Matthew Arnold dreamily and per- 
 
 haps austerely expressed it in The Scholar 
 
THE FORESTERS. 275 
 
 Gypsy. Byron more humanly uttered it 
 in four well-remembered lines, of Childe 
 Harold - 
 
 Oh, that the desert were my dwelling-place, 
 With one fair spirit for my minister, 
 That I might all forget the human race, 
 And, hating nothing, love but only her.”’ 
 
 Robin Hood, as technical drama, is frail. 
 Its movement, indeed, is not more indolent 
 than that of its lovely prototypes in Shake- 
 speare, As You Like It and A Midsummer 
 Night's Dream. With all the pastorals 
 Time ambles. But, on the other hand, 
 Tennyson’s piece is not a match for either 
 of those Shakespearean works, in massive- 
 ness of dramatic signification or in the 
 element of opportunity for the art of acting. 
 Character, poetry, philosophy, humour, and 
 suggestion it contains; but it contains no 
 single scene in which its persons can amply 
 put forth their full histrionic powers with 
 essentially positive dramatic effect. Its 
 charm resides more in being than in doing, 
 and therefore it is more a poem than a play, 
 and perhaps more a picture than a poem. 
 Tt is not one of those works that arouse, 
 agitate, and impel. It aims only to create 
 and sustain a pleased condition ; and that 
 
276 TENNYSON’S COMEDY OF 
 
 aim it has accomplished. No spectator will 
 be deeply moved by it, but no spectator will 
 look at it without delight. While, however, 
 Robin Hood as a drama is frail, it is not des- 
 titute of the dramatic element. It depicts a 
 central character in action, and it tells a 
 representative love story —a story in which 
 the oppressive persecutor of impoverished 
 age is foiled and discomfited, in which faith- 
 ful affection survives the test of trial, and in 
 which days of danger end at last in days of 
 blissful peace. Traces of the influence of 
 Shakespeare — exerted by his pastoral com- 
 edies and by the Merry Wives of Windsor 
 —are obvious in it. There is no imitation; 
 there is only kinship. The sources that 
 Scott explored for some of the material 
 used in Jvanhoe also announce themselves. 
 Many stories could be derived from the old 
 Robin Hood ballads. The poet has only 
 chosen and rearranged such of their inci- 
 dents as would suit his purpose — using 
 those old ballads with perfect freedom, but 
 also using them with faultless taste. 
 
 Robin Hood was born at Locksley, in the 
 county of Nottingham, about 1160, when 
 Henry the Second was king. Histrue name 
 was Robert Fitzooth—a name, that popu- 
 lar mispronunciation converted into Robin 
 
THE FORESTERS. 277. 
 
 Hood — and he was of noble lineage. Old 
 records declare him to have been the Earl 
 
 of Huntingdon. He was extravagant and 
 adventurous, and for reasons that are un- 
 known he preferred to live in the woods. 
 His haunts were chiefly Sherwood Forest, 
 in Nottinghamshire, and Barnsdale, in 
 Yorkshire. Among his associates were 
 William Scadlock, commonly called Scarlet ; 
 Much, a miller’s son; Friar Tuck, a vaga- 
 bond monk; and Little John, whose name 
 was Nailor. Robin Hood and his band 
 were kind to the poor; but they robbed the 
 rich and they were: specially hard on the 
 clergy. There is a tradition that a woman 
 named Maid Marian went with Robin into 
 the forest, but nothing is known about her. 
 Robin lived till the age of eighty-seven, and 
 he might have lived longer but that a 
 treacherous relative, the prioress of Kirkley 
 —to whose care he had entrusted himself 
 
 in order that he might be bled — allowed 
 
 him to bleed to death. At the time indi- 
 cated in Tennyson’s comedy —the year 
 1194, which was the year of King Richard’s 
 return from captivity in Germany — he was 
 thirty-four years old. It is the year of 
 Iwanhoe, and in the play as in the novel, 
 the evil agent is the usurper Prince John. 
 
278 TENNYSON’S COMEDY OF 
 
 Fifteen characters take part in this 
 comedy. Act first is called ‘‘The Bond 
 and the Outlawry.’’ The action begins in 
 a garden before Sir Richard Lea’s castle 
 —or rather the dialogue begins there, by 
 which the basis of the action is revealed. 
 Maid Marian is Marian Lea, the daughter 
 of Sir Richard. Walter Lea, the son of Sir 
 Richard, has been captured by the Moors, 
 and in order to pay the boy’s ransom Sir 
 Richard has borrowed a large sum of money 
 from the Abbot of York. That debt must 
 presently be paid; but Sir Richard does 
 not see his way clear to its payment, and 
 if he does not pay it he must forfeit his 
 land. The Sheriff of Nottingham, a wealthy 
 suitor for the hand of Marian, is willing to 
 pay that debt, in case the girl will favour 
 his suit. But Marian loves the Earl of 
 Huntingdon and is by him beloved; and 
 all would go well with those lovers, and 
 with Sir Richard, but that the Earl of 
 Huntingdon is poor. Poor though he be, 
 however, he makes a feast, to celebrate his 
 birthday, and to that festival Sir Richard 
 and his daughter are bidden. Act first’ 
 displays the joyous proceedings of that 
 good meeting and the posture of those 
 characters toward each other. The Sheriff 
 
THE FORESTERS. 279 
 
 of Nottingham intrudes himself upon the 
 scene, accompanied by Prince John, who 
 is disguised as a friar. The Prince has 
 cast a covetous eye upon Marian, and, 
 although le outwardly favours the wish 
 of the Sheriff, he is secretly determined 
 to seize her for himself. The revellers 
 at Huntingdon’s feast, unaware of the 
 Prince’s presence, execrate his name, and 
 at length he retires, in a silent fury. Robin 
 gives to Marian a remarkable ring that he 
 has inherited from his mother. Later a 
 herald enters and reads a proclamation 
 from Prince John, declaring the Earl of 
 Huntingdon.to be a felon, and command- 
 ing his banishment. Robin cannot forcibly 
 oppose that mandate, and he therefore de- 
 termines to cast in his lot with Scarlet and 
 Friar Tuck and other ‘‘minions of the 
 moon,’? and thenceforward to live a free 
 and merry life under the green boughs of 
 Sherwood Forest. A year is supposed to 
 pass. Act second, called ‘The Flight of 
 Marian,’’ begins with a song of the For- 
 esters, in the deep wood—‘‘ There is no 
 land like England.’’ That is a scene of 
 much gentle beauty, enhanced by Robin 
 Hood’s delivery of some of the finest poetry 
 in the play, and also by the delicious music 
 
280 TENNYSON’S COMEDY OF 
 
 of Sir Arthur Sullivan. Robin descants 
 upon freedom, and upon the advantage of 
 dwelling -beneath the sky rather than be- 
 neath a groined roof that shuts out all the 
 meaning of heaven. ‘There is a colloquy 
 between Little John, who is one of Robin’s 
 men, and Kate, who is Marian’s maid. 
 Those two are lovers who quarrel and 
 make it up again, as lovers will. Kate has 
 come to the forest, bringing word of the 
 flight of her mistress. Prince John has 
 tried to seize Marian, and that brave girl 
 has repulsed and struck him; and she and 
 her father have fled — intending to make 
 for France, in which land the old knight 
 expects to find a friend who will pay his 
 debt and save his estate. While Robin is 
 considering these things he perceives the 
 approach of Prince John and the Sheriff of 
 Nottingham, and, thereupon, he takes refuge 
 in the hut of an old witch and disguises 
 himself in some of her garments. Prince 
 John and the Sheriff, who are in pursuit of 
 Sir Richard and Marian, find Robin in this 
 disguise, and for a time they are deceived 
 by him; but soon they penetrate his mas- 
 querade and assail him— whereupon some 
 of his people come to his assistance, and’ 
 he is reinforced by Sir Richard Lea. Prince 
 
THE FORESTERS. 281 
 
 John and his party are beaten and driven 
 away. Sir Richard is exhausted, and 
 Robin commits him to the care of the 
 Foresters. Marian, arrayed as a boy, and 
 “pretending to be her brother Walter, has 
 
 been present at this combat, as a spec- 
 tator, and a sparkling scene of equivoke, 
 mischief, and sentiment ensues between 
 Marian and Robin. That scene Tenny- 
 son wrote and inserted for Ada Rehan, 
 
 to whose vivacious temperament it is fit- 
 
 ted, and whose action in it expressed with 
 
 equal felicity the teasing temper of the 
 
 coquette and the propitious fondness of 
 the lover. Robin discovers Marian’s iden- 
 tity by means of the ring that he gave 
 her, and, after due explanation, it is agreed 
 that she and her father will remain under 
 
 his protection. Act third is called ‘‘ The 
 
 Crowning of Marian,’’ and is devoted to 
 pictures, colloquies, and incidents, now 
 serious and now comical, showing the life 
 of the Foresters and the humorous yet 
 discriminative justice of their gypsy chief. 
 Sir Richard Lea is ill and he cannot be 
 moved. The outlaws crown Marian, with 
 
 an oaken chaplet, and declare her to be 
 
 their queen. Robin Hood vindicates his 
 yocation, and in a noble speech on freedom 
 
282 TENNYSON’S COMEDY OF 
 
 — deriving his similes from the giant oak 
 tree, as Tennyson has ever loved to do— 
 declares himself the friend of the poor and 
 the servant of the king, the absent Richard 
 of the Lion Heart, for whose return all 
 good men are eager. Various beggars, 
 friars, and other travellers are halted on 
 the road, in practical illustration of Robin’s 
 doctrine ; comic incidents from the old bal- 
 lads are reproduced; and so the episode 
 ends merrily of these frolics in the wood. 
 At that point a delicious fairy pageant is in- 
 troduced, presenting Queen Titania and her 
 elves and illustrating at once the grievance 
 of the fairies against the men whose heavy 
 feet have crushed their toads and bats and 
 flowers and mystic rings, and Marian’s 
 dream of love. Sir Arthur Sullivan’s music 
 is here again used, and again it is felt to. 
 be characteristic, melodious, and uncom- 
 monly sweet and tender. Act fourth be- 
 gins in a forest bower at sunrise. Marian 
 and Robin meet there and talk of Sir Rich- | 
 ard and of his bond to the Abbot of York 
 — soon to fall due and seemingly to remain 
 unpaid. Robin has summoned the Abbot 
 and his justiciary to come into the forest 
 and to bring the bond. King Richard, un- 
 recognised, now arrives, and in submission 
 
THE FORESTERS. 283 
 
 to certain laws of the woodland he engages 
 in an encounter of buffets, and prevails 
 over all his adversaries. At the approach 
 of the Abbot, however, fearing premature 
 recognition, the monarch will flit away ; 
 but his gypsy friends compel him to accept 
 a bugle, upon which he is to blow a blast 
 when in danger. The Abbot and his fol- 
 lowers arrive, and Robin Hood offers the 
 money to redeem Sir Richard’s bond ; but, 
 upon a legal quibble, the Abbot declines to 
 receive it — preferring to seize the forfeited 
 land. Prince John and the Sheriff of Not- 
 tingham appear, and Robin and his For- 
 esters form.an ambuscade. Sir Richard 
 Lea has been brought in, upon his litter, 
 and Marian stays beside him. Prince John 
 attempts to seize her, but this time he is 
 frustrated by the sudden advent of King 
 Richard —from whose presence he slinks 
 away. ‘The myrmidons of John, however, 
 attack the King, who would oppose them 
 single-handed; but Friar Tuck snatches 
 the King’s bugle and blows a blast of sum- 
 ‘mons — whereupon the Foresters swarm 
 into the field and possess it. John’s fac- 
 tion is dispersed, Marian is saved, the 
 absent Walter Lea reappears, Sir Richard 
 is assured of his estate, the Abbot and the 
 
284 TENNYSON’S COMEDY OF 
 
 Sheriff are punished, and Robin Hood and 
 Maid Marian may wed — for now the good 
 King Richard has come again to his own. 
 The lyrics in the piece possess the charm 
 of fluent and unaffected sweetness, and of 
 original, inventive, and felicitous fancy, and 
 some of them are tenderly freighted with 
 that indescribable but deeply affecting un- 
 dertone of pathetic sentiment which is a 
 characteristic attribute of Tennyson’s po- 
 etry. 
 The characters in the comedy were crea- 
 tures of flesh and blood to the author, and 
 they come out boldly, therefore, on the stage. 
 Marian Lea is a woman of the Rosalind 
 order—handsome, noble, magnanimous, 
 unconventional, passionate in nature, but 
 sufficient unto herself, humorous, playful, 
 and radiant with animal spirits. Ada Rehan 
 embodied her according to that ideal. The 
 chief exaction of the part is simplicity — 
 which yet must not be allowed to degener- 
 ate into tameness. The sweet affection of 
 a daughter for her father, the coyness yet 
 the allurement of a girl for her lover, the 
 refinement of high birth, the blithe bearing 
 and free demeanour of a child of the woods, 
 and the predominant dignity of purity and 
 honour — those are the salient attributes of 
 
THE FORESTERS. 285 
 
 the part. Ada Rehan struck the true note 
 at the outset —the note of buoyant health, 
 rosy frolic, and sprightly adventure — and 
 she sustained it evenly and firmly to the 
 last. Every eye was pleased with the 
 frank, careless, cheerful beauty of her pres- 
 ence, and every ear was soothed and 
 charmed with her fluent and expressive de- 
 livery of the verse. In this, as in all of the 
 important representations that Ada Rehan 
 has given, the delightful woman-quality was 
 conspicuously present. She can readily im- 
 personate a boy. No actress since Adelaide 
 Neilson has done that so well. But the 
 crowning excellence of her art was its ex- 
 pression of essential womanhood. Her act- 
 ing was never trivial and it never obtruded 
 the tedious element of dry intellect. It re- 
 freshed —and the spectator was happier for 
 having seen her. Many pleasant thoughts 
 were scattered in many minds by her per- 
 formance of Maid Marian, and no one who 
 saw it will ever part with the remembrance 
 of it. 
 
286 ELLEN TERRY: 
 
 XIX. 
 ELLEN TERRY: THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 
 E was perhaps an auspicious portent, it 
 certainly is an interesting fact, that the 
 first play that was ever acted in America at 
 a regular theatre and by a regular theatri- 
 cal company was Shakespeare’s comedy of 
 The Merchant of Venice. Such at least is 
 the record made by William Dunlap, the 
 first historian of the American theatre, who 
 names Williamsburg, Virginia, as the place 
 and September 5, 1752 as the date of that 
 production. It ought to be noted, however - 
 (so difficult is it to settle upon any fact in 
 this uncertain world), that the learned an- 
 tiquarian Judge C. P. Daly, fortified like- - 
 wise by the scrupulously accurate Ireland, 
 dissents from Dunlap’s statement and de- 
 clares that Cibber’s alteration of Shake- 
 speare’s Richard the Third was acted by a 
 regular company in a large room in Nassau 
 Street, New York, at an earlier date, 
 namely, on March 5, 1750. All the same, 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 287 
 
 a 
 
 it appears to have been Shakespeare’s mind 
 ‘that started the dramatic movement in 
 America. The American stage has under- 
 gone great changes since that time, but 
 both The Merchant of Venice and Richard 
 the Third are still acted, and in the Mer- 
 ‘chant, if not in Richard, the public interest 
 vis still vital. In New York, under Edwin 
 Booth’s management, at the Winter Gar- 
 den theatre, January 28, 1867, and subse- 
 quently at Booth’s theatre, and in London, 
 under Henry Irving’s management, at the 
 Lyceum theatre, November 1, 1879, sump- 
 tuous productions of the Merchant have 
 brilliantly marked the dramatic chronicle 
 of our times. Discussion of the great char- 
 acter of Shylock steadily proceeds and 
 seems never to weary either the disputants 
 orthe audience. The sentiment, the fancy, 
 and the ingenuity of artists are often ex- 
 pended not only upon the austere, pictur- 
 esque, and terrible figure of the vindictive 
 Jew, but upon the chief related characters 
 in the comedy — upon Bassanio and Portia, 
 Gratiano and Nerissa, Lorenzo and Jessica, 
 the princely and pensive Antonio, the 
 august Duke and his stately senators, and 
 the shrewd and humorous Gobbo. More 
 than one painting has depicted the ardent 
 
288: ELLEN TERRY: 
 
 Lorenzo and his fugitive infidel as they 
 might have looked on that delicious sum- 
 mer night at Belmont when they saw 
 ‘‘how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid 
 with patines of bright gold,’’? and when the! 
 blissful lover, radiant with happiness and 
 exalted by the sublime, illimitable, unfath- 
 omable spectacle of the star-strewn firma- 
 ment, murmured, in such heaven-like ca- 
 dence, of the authentic music of heaven. 
 
 It is not to be denied that lovely words 
 are spoken to Jessica, and that almost 
 equally lovely words are spoken by her. 
 Essayists upon the Merchant have gener- 
 ally accepted her without a protest —so 
 much do youth and beauty in a woman 
 count in the scale when weighed against 
 duty and integrity. There is no indication 
 that Shylock was ever unjust or unkind to 
 Jessica. Whatever he may have been to’ 
 others he seems always to have been good 
 to her; and she was the child of that lost 
 Leah of his youthful devotion whom he 
 passionately loved and whom he mourned 
 tothelast. Yet Jessica not only abandoned 
 her father and his religion, but robbed him 
 of money and jewels (including the be- 
 trothal ring, the turquoise, that her mother | 
 had given to him), when she fled with the 
 
THE MERCHANT OF. VENICE. -289 
 
 young Christian who had won her heart. 
 It was a basely cruel act; but probably 
 ‘some of the vilest and cruelest actions that 
 are done in this world are done by persons 
 ee are infatuated by the passion of love. 
 Mrs. Jameson, who in her beautiful essay 
 on Portia extenuates the conduct of Jessica, 
 would have us believe that Shylock valued 
 his daughter far beneath his wealth, and 
 therefore deserved to be deserted and ae 
 dered by her ; and she is so illogical as to 
 ‘derive his sentiments on this subject from 
 his delirious outcries of lamentation after 
 he learned of her predatory and ignomini- 
 ous flight. The argument is not a good 
 one. Fine phrases donot make wrong deeds 
 right. It were wiser to take Jessica for 
 ‘the handsome and voluptuous girl that cer- 
 { tainly she is, and to leave her rectitude out 
 { of the question. Shakespeare in his draw- 
 ba of her was true to nature, as he always 
 
 ; but the student who wants to know 
 rere Shakespeare’s heart was placed when 
 he drew women must look upon creatures 
 very different from Jessica. The women 
 that Shakespeare seems peculiarly to have 
 loved are Imogen, Cordelia, Isabella, Rosa- 
 lind, and Portia — Rosalind, perhaps, most 
 of all; for although Portia is finer than 
 * 
 
2990 ELLEN TERRY: 
 
 Rosalind, it is extremely. probable that 
 Shakespeare resembled his fellow-men suffi- 
 ciently to have felt the preference that Tom 
 Moore long afterward expressed : 
 
 ‘‘Be an angel, my love, in the morning, 
 But, oh! be a woman to-night.” 
 
 When Ellen Terry embodied Portia — in 
 Henry Irving’s magnificent revival of The 
 Merchant of Venice — the essential woman- 
 hood of that character was for the first time 
 in the modern theatre adequately inter- 
 preted and conveyed. Upon many play- 
 going observers indeed the wonderful wealth | 
 of beauty that is in the part —its winsome 
 grace, its incessant sparkle, its alluring be-| 
 cause piquant as well as luscious sweetness, | 
 its impetuous ardour, its enchantment of 
 physical equally with emotional condition, its, 
 august morality, its perfect candour, and its 
 noble passion — came like a surprise. Did 
 the great actress find those attributes in 
 the part (they asked themselves), or did) 
 she infuse them into it? Previous repre: 
 sentatives of Portia had placed the emphasis) 
 chiefly, if not exclusively, upon morals anc) 
 mind. The stage Portia of the past ha: 
 usually been a didactic lady, self-contained 
 formal, conventional, and oratorical. Eller 
 
 | 
 \ 
 | 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 291 
 
 | Terry came, and Portia was figured exactly | 
 _ as she lives in the pages of Shakespeare — an 
 
 imperial and yet an enchanting woman, daz- 
 
 _azling in her beauty, royal in her dignity, as 
 
 ardent in temperament as she is fine in 
 
 brain and various and splendid in personal 
 | peculiarities and feminine charm. After 
 
 / seeing that matchless impersonation it 
 
 seemed strange that Portia should ever have 
 been represented in any other light, and it 
 
 was furthermore felt that the inferior, 
 
 mechanical, utilitarian semblance of her 
 could not again be endured. Ellen Terry’s 
 achievement was a complete vindication. of 
 the high view that Shakespearean study has 
 almost always taken of that character, and 
 it finally discredited the old stage notion 
 
 that Portia is a type of decorum and decla- 
 
 “mation. 
 
 Aside from Hazlitt, who thought that Por- 
 tia is affected and pedantic, and who did not 
 like her because he did not happen to appre- 
 ciate her, the best analytical thinkers about 
 Shakespeare’s works have taken the high 
 
 view of that character. Shakespeare him- 
 self certainly took it ; for aside from her own 
 
 ' 
 
 ‘charming behaviour and delightful words 
 
 it is to be observed that everybody in the 
 play who speaks of her at all speaks her 
 
292 ELLEN TERRY: 
 
 praise. It is only upon the stage that she. 
 has been made artificial, prim, and preachy. | 
 That misrepresentation of her has, perhaps, 
 been caused, in part, by the practice long 
 prevalent in our theatre of cutting and com- 
 pressing the play so as to make Shylock the 
 chief figure in it. In that way Portia is 
 shorn of much of her splendour and her. 
 meaning. The old theatrical records dwell 
 almost exclusively upon Shylock, and say | 
 little if anything about Portia. In Shake- 
 speare’s time, no doubt, The Merchant of 
 Venice was acted as it is written, the female 
 persons in it being played by boys, or by 
 men who could *‘ speak small.’? Alexander 
 Cooke (1588-1614) played the light heroines 
 of Shakespeare while the poet was alive. 
 All students of the subject are aware that 
 Burbage was the first Shylock, and that 
 when he played the part he wore a red wig, 
 a red beard, and a long false nose. No 
 record exists as to the first Portia. The 
 men who were acting female characters | 
 upon the London stage when that institu- 
 tion was revived immediately after the 
 Restoration were Kynaston, James Nokes, 
 Angel, William Betterton, Mosely, and, 
 Floid. Kynaston, it is said, could act a | 
 woman so well that when at length women 
 
| 
 } 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 293 
 
 themselves began to appear as actors it was 
 
 for some time doubted whether any one of 
 them could equal him. ‘The account of his 
 life, however, does not mention Portia as 
 one of his characters. 
 
 Indeed the play of The Merchant of 
 Venice, after it languished out of sight in 
 that decadence of the stage which ensued 
 upon the growth of the Puritan movement 
 in England, did not again come into use 
 until it was revived in Lord Landsdowne’s 
 alteration of it: produced at the theatre in 
 Lincoln’s Inn Fields in 1701, and even then 
 it. was grossly perverted. Forty years later, 
 however, on St.. Valentine’s Day 1741, at 
 Drury Lane, when Macklin regenerated the 
 character of Shylock, thé-eriginal: piece was 
 restored to the theatre. Women in ‘the 
 meantime had come upon: the stage... The 
 garrulous and delightful Pepys, who had 
 seen Kynaston play a female part, records 
 in his marvellous Diary that he first saw 
 women as actors on January 3, 1661. Those 
 were members of Killigrew’s company, 
 which preceded that of Davenant by several 
 months, if not by a year; and therefore the 
 common statement in theatrical: books that 
 the first woman that ever appeared on the 
 English stage was Mrs. Sanderson, of Dave- 
 
294 ELLEN TERRY: 
 
 nant’s company, at Lincoln’s Inn Fields, is 
 erroneous: and indeed the name of the first 
 English actress is as much unknown as the 
 name of the first Portia. When Macklin 
 restored Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice 
 to the stage it is not likely that the character 
 of Portia was dwarfed, for its representative 
 then was Kitty Clive, and that actress was 
 a person of strong will. With Clive the 
 long list begins of the Portias of the stage. 
 She was thirty years old when she played 
 the part with Macklin, and it is probable 
 that she played it with dignity and certain 
 that she played it with sparkling animation 
 and piquant grace. The German Ulrici, 
 whose descriptive epithets for Portia are 
 ‘¢récuish and intellectual,’’ would doubtless 
 have found his ideal of the part fulfilled in 
 Clive. The Nerissa that night was Mrs. 
 Pritchard, then also thirty years old, but 
 not so famous as she afterward became. 
 The greatest actress on the British stage 
 in the eighteenth century undoubtedly was 
 Margaret Woffington (1719-1760). Sarah 
 Siddons, to whom the sceptre passed, was 
 only five years old when Woffington died. 
 Both those brilliant names are associated 
 with Portia. Augustin Daly’s Life of Wof- 
 Jington —the best life of her that has been 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 295 
 
 written, and one of the most sumptuous 
 
 books that have been made — contains this 
 reference to her performance of that part: 
 ¢ All her critics agree that her declamation 
 
 “was accurate and her gesture grace and 
 
 nature combined ; but in tragic or even dra- 
 matic speeches her voice probably had its 
 limits, and in such scenes, being overtaxed, 
 told against her. As Portia she appeared 
 to great advantage ; but when Lorenzo says, 
 ‘This is the voice, or Iam much deceived, 
 of Portia,’ and Portia replies, ‘He knows 
 me, as the blind man knows the cuckoo, by 
 the bad voice,’ the audience laughed out- 
 right, and Woffington, conscious of her 
 deficiency, with great good-humour joined 
 with them in their merriment.’’? The inci- 
 dent is mentioned in the Table Talk (1825) 
 of Richard Ryan, to which book Daly 
 refers. Mrs. Siddons made her first appear- 
 ance on the London stage as Portia Decem- 
 ber 29, 1775, and conspicuously failed in 
 the part on that occasion, but she became 
 distinguished in it afterward; yet it is 
 probable that Mrs. Siddons expressed its 
 
 nobility more than its tenderness, and much 
 more than its buoyant and glittering glee, 
 
 _ which was so entirely and beautifully given 
 
 by Ellen Terry. After Peg Woffington and 
 
296 ELLEN TERRY: 
 
 before Mrs. Siddons the most conspicuous 
 Portia was Mrs. Dancer, whom Hugh Kel- 
 ley, in his satirical composition of Thespis, 
 calls a ‘‘moon-eyed idiot,’? —from which 
 barbarous bludgeon phrase the reader de- 
 rives a hint as to her aspect. Some of the 
 tones of Mrs. Dancer’s voice were so tender 
 that no one could resist them. Spranger 
 Barry could not, for he married her, and 
 after his death she became Mrs. Crawford. 
 Miss Maria Macklin, daughter of the first 
 true Shylock of the stage, acted Portia, 
 April 18, 1776, with her father. She is 
 recorded as an accomplished woman but 
 destitute of genius —in which predicament 
 she probably was not lonesome. On June 
 11, 1777 Portia was acted at the Haymar- 
 ket by Miss Barsanti, afterward Mrs. Lister, 
 an actress who, since she excelled in such 
 parts as were customarily taken by Fanny 
 Abington (the distinct opposite of Portia- 
 like characters), must have been unsuited 
 for it. The names of Miss Younge, Miss 
 Farren, Miss E. Kemble, Miss Ryder, Mrs. 
 Pope, Miss De Camp, and Miss Murray 
 are in the record of the stage Portias that 
 comes down to 1800. Probably the best of 
 all those Portias was Mrs. Pope. 
 
 The beautiful Mrs. Glover played Portia 
 
SS 
 
 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 297 
 
 in 1809 at the Haymarket theatre. Mrs. 
 Ogilvie played it, with Macready as Shy- 
 lock (his first appearance in that part), on 
 May 18, 1823. ‘Those figures passed and 
 left no shadow. Two English actresses of 
 great fame are especially associated with 
 Portia — Ellen Tree, afterward Mrs. Charles 
 Kean, and Helen Faucit, now Lady Martin ; 
 and no doubt their assumptions of the part 
 should be marked as exceptions from the 
 hard, didactic, declamatory, perfunctory 
 method that has customarily characterised 
 the Portia of the stage. Lady Martin’s 
 written analysis of Portia is noble in 
 thought and.subtle and tender in penetra- 
 tion and sympathy. Charlotte Cushman 
 read the text superbly, but she was much 
 too formidable ever to venture on assuming 
 the character. Portia is a woman who 
 deeply loves and deeply rejoices and exults 
 in her love, and she is never ashamed of 
 her passion or of her exultation in it; and 
 she says the finest things about love that 
 are said by any of Shakespeare’s women ; 
 the finest because, while supremely passion- 
 ate, the feeling in them is perfectly sane. 
 It is as a lover that Ellen Terry embodied 
 her, and while she made her a perfect wo- 
 man, in all the attributes that fascinate, 
 
298 ELLEN TERRY: 
 
 she failed not, in the wonderful trial scene, 
 to invest her with that fine light of celestial 
 anger—that momentary thrill of moral 
 austerity — which properly appertains to 
 the character at the climax of a solemn and 
 almost tragical situation. { 
 On the American stage there have been 
 many notable representatives of the chiei 
 characters in The Merchant of Venice. In 
 New York, when the comedy was done at 
 the old John Street theatre in 1773, Hallam 
 was Shylock and Mrs. Morris Portia. 
 Twenty years afterward, at the same house, 
 Shylock was played by John Henry, and 
 Portia by Mrs. Henry, while the brilliant 
 Hodgkinson appeared as Gratiano. Cooper, 
 whose life has been so well written by that 
 ripe theatrical scholar Joseph N. Ireland, in 
 one of the books of the Dunlap Society, as- 
 sumed Shylock in 1797 at the theatre just 
 then opened in Greenwich Street. The 
 famous Miss Brunton (then Mrs. Merry), 
 was the Portia, and the cast included More-. 
 ton as Bassanio, Warren as Antonio, Ber- 
 nard as Gratiano, and Blissett as Tubal. 
 How far away and how completely lost and 
 forgotten those once distinguished and 
 admired persons are! Yet Cooper in his | 
 day was idolised: he had a fame as high, if 
 
 5 | 
 
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 299 
 
 ‘not as widely spread, as that of Henry Irv- 
 
 ing or Edwin Booth at present. William 
 Creswick—lately dead at an advanced age 
 in London— was seen upon the New York 
 stage as Shylock in 1840; Macready in 
 1841; Charles Kean in 1845. With the 
 latter, Ellen Tree played Portia. Charles 
 W. Couldock enacted Shylock on Septem- 
 ber 6, 1852, at the Castle Garden theatre, 
 in a performance given to commemorate the 
 alleged centenary of the introduction of the 
 drama into America. The elder Wallack, 
 the elder Booth, Edwin Forrest, G. V. 
 Brooke, George Vandenhoff, Wyzeman 
 Marshall, and E. L. Davenport are among 
 the old local representatives of the Jew. 
 Madam Ponisi used to play Portia, and so 
 did Mrs. Hoey. 
 
 In December 1858, when The Merchant 
 of Venice was finely: revived at Wallack’s 
 theatre, with the elder Wallack as Shy- 
 lock, the cast included Lester Wallack as 
 Bassanio, John Brougham as Gratiano, A. 
 W. Young—a quaintly comic actor, too 
 soon cut off—as Launcelot Gobbo, Mary 
 Gannon —the fascinating, the irresistible 
 —as Nerissa, and handsome Mrs. Sloan as 
 Jessica. The eminent German actor Day- 
 ison played Shylock, in New York, in his 
 
300 ELLEN TERRY. 
 
 own language ; and many German actors, 
 no one of them comparable with him, have 
 been seen in it since. Lawrence Barrett 
 often played it, and with remarkable force 
 and feeling. The triumphs won in it by 
 Edwin Booth are within the remembrance 
 of many playgoers of this generation. 
 When he last acted the Jew Helena 
 Modjeska was associated with him as 
 Portia. Booth customarily ended the piece 
 with the trial scene, omitting the last 
 act; and indeed that was long the stage 
 custom ; but with the true Portia of Ellen 
 Terry and a good cast in general the last 
 act went blithely and with superb effect. 
 The comedy was not written for Shylock 
 alone. He is a tremendous identity, but 
 he is not the chief subject. The central 
 theme is Portia and her love. That theme 
 takes up a large part of the play, — which 
 is like a broad summer landscape strewn 
 with many-coloured flowers that flash and 
 glitter in the sun, while slowly a muttering 
 thunder-storm gathers and lowers, and 
 presently sweeps overhead, casting one 
 black shadow as it passes, and leaving the 
 fragrant and glistening plain all the brighter 
 and sweeter for the contrast with its de- 
 feated menace and vanishing gloom. 
 
RICHARD MANSFIELD. 301 
 
 XX. 
 
 RICHARD MANSFIELD AS RICHARD THE 
 THIRD. 
 
 hee ideal of Richard that was expressed 
 by this actor did not materially differ 
 from that which has been manifested by 
 ereat tragic actors from Garrick to Booth. 
 He embodied a demoniac scoffer who, never- 
 theless, is a human being. The infernal 
 wickedness of Richard was shown to be 
 impelled by tremendous intellect but slowly 
 enervated and ultimately thwarted and 
 ruined by the cumulative operation of re- 
 morse — corroding at the heart and finally 
 blasting the man with desolation and frenzy. 
 That, undoubtedly, was Shakespeare’s de- 
 sign. But Richard Mansfield’s expression 
 of that ideal differed from the expression to 
 which the stage has generally been accus- 
 tomed, and in this respect his impersonation, 
 was distinctive and original. c 
 
 The old custom of playing Righard .was 
 to take the exaggerated stateménts of the 
 
 ¥ 
 
302 RICHARD MANSFIELD 
 
 opening soliloquy in a literal sense, to pro- 
 vide him with a big hump, a lame leg, and 
 a fell of straight black hair, and to make 
 him walk in, scowling, with his lower lip 
 protruded, and declare with snarling vehe- 
 mence and guttural vociferation his amiable 
 purpose of specious duplicity and miscel- 
 laneous slaughter. The opening speech, 
 which is in Shakespeare’s juvenile manner — 
 an orotund, verbose manner, which perhaps 
 he had caught from Marlowe, and which 
 he outgrew and abandoned—was thus 
 utilised for displaying the character in a 
 massed aspect, as that of a loathsome hypo- 
 crite and sanguinary villain ; and, that being 
 done, he was made to advance through about 
 two-thirds of the tragedy, airily yet fero- 
 ciously slaying everybody who came in his 
 way, until at some convenient point, defin- 
 able at the option of the actor, he was sud- 
 denly smitten with a sufficient remorse to 
 account for his trepidation before and dur- 
 ing the tent-scene; and thereafter he was 
 launched into combat like a meteoric butcher, 
 all frenzy and all gore, and killed, amid gen- 
 eral acclamation, when he had fenced him- 
 self out of breath. 
 
 That’treatment of the character was, 
 doubtless, in part a necessary consequence 
 
AS RICHARD THE THIRD. 303 
 
 of Shakespeare’s perfunctory adoption of 
 the Tudor doctrine that Richard was a 
 blood-boltered monster; but in a larger 
 degree it was the result of Cibber’s vul- 
 
 gar distortion of the original piece. The | 
 actual character of the king, — who seems 
 to have been one of the ablest and wisest 
 monarchs that ever reigned in England — 
 has never recovered, and it never will re- 
 cover, from the odium that was heaped 
 upon it by the Tudor historians and ac- 
 cepted and ratified by the great genius of 
 Shakespeare. The stage character of the 
 king has been almost as effectually danined 
 by the ingenious theatrical claptrap with 
 which Cibber misrepresented and vulgar- 
 ised Shakespeare’s conception, assisted by 
 the efforts of a long line of blood-and-thun- 
 der tragedians, only too well pleased to de- 
 pict a gory, blathering, mugging miscreant, 
 such as their limited intelligence enabled 
 them to comprehend. The stage Richard, 
 however, may possibly be redeemed. In 
 Cibber he is everything that Queen Mar- 
 
 _garet calls him, and worse than a brute. 
 
 In Shakespeare, although a miscreant, he 
 is a man. The return to Shakespeare, 
 accordingly, is a step in the right direc- 
 
 tion. That step was taken some time ago, 
 
304 RICHARD MANSFIELD 
 
 although not maintained, first by Macready, 
 then by Samuel Phelps, then by Edwin 
 Booth, and then by Henry Irving. Their 
 good example was followed by Richard 
 Mansfield. He used a version of the trag- 
 edy, made by himself, — a piece indicative of 
 thoughtful study of the subject as well as a 
 keen intuitive grasp of it. He did not stop 
 short at being a commentator. Aiming to 
 impersonate a character he treated Shake- 
 speare’s prolix play in such a manner 
 as to make it a practicable living picture 
 of a past age. The version was in five 
 acts, preserving the text of the original, 
 much condensed, and introducing a few 
 lines from Cibber. }/ It began with a bright 
 processional scene before the Tower of Lon- 
 don, in which Elizabeth, Queen of Edward 
 IV., was conspicuous, and against that 
 background of “ glorious summer’? it placed 
 the dangerous figure of the Duke of Gloster. 
 It comprised the murder of Henry VL. the 
 wooing of Lady Anne, —not in a London 
 street, but in a rural place, on the road to 
 Chertsey ; the lamentation for King Edward 
 IV.; the episode of the boy princes; the 
 condemnation of Hastings,—a scene that 
 brilliantly denotes the mingled artifice and 
 savagery of Shakespeare’s Gloster; the 
 Buckingham plot; the priest and mayor 
 
AS RICHARD THE THIRD. 305 
 
 scene ; the temptation of Tyrrel ; the fall of 
 _ Buckingham ; the march to battle ; the epi- 
 sode of the spectres ; and the fatal catastro- 
 phe on Bosworth Field. Enough of the story 
 was thus related to satisfy the Shakespeare 
 scholar. 
 The notable peculiarity was the assump- 
 tion that there are considerable lapses of 
 time at intervals during the continuance of 
 the story. The effort to reconcile poetry 
 with history produced little if any appre- 
 ciable practical result upon the stage, — see- 
 ing that an audience would not think of 
 lapses of time unless those lapses were 
 mentioned in the play-bill. An incessant 
 continuity of action, a ceaseless rush and 
 whirl of events, is the essential life of the 
 play. No auditor can feel that Richard 
 has waited twelve years before making any 
 movement or striking any blow, after his 
 aspiration that heaven will take King Ed- 
 ward and leave the world for him ‘‘to bus- 
 tle in.’’? That word ‘‘ bustle ”’ is a favourite 
 word with Richard. And furthermore there 
 is no development of his character in Shake- 
 Speare’s play: there is simply the presenta- 
 tion of it, complete and rounded at the 
 outset, and remaining invariably and in- 
 flexibly the same to the close. 
 U 
 
306 RICHARD MANSFIELD 
 
 Mansfield, however, deduced this effect 
 from his consideration of the flight of 
 time: a contrast between Richard at nine- 
 teen and Richard at thirty-three, a con- 
 trast strongly expressive of the reactionary 
 influence that an experience of evil deeds 
 has produced upon a man who at first was 
 only a man of evil thoughts and evil will. 
 This imported into the performance a diver- 
 sity of delineation without, however, affect- 
 ing the formidable weight of the figure of 
 Richard, or its brilliancy, or its final sig- 
 nificance. The embodiment was splendid 
 with it, and would be just as splendid with- 
 out it. The presence of heart and con- 
 science in that demoniac human creature 
 is denoted by Shakespeare and must be 
 shown by the actor. Precisely at what 
 point his heaven-defying will should begin 
 to waver is not defined. Mansfield chose 
 to indicate the operation of remorse and 
 terror in Richard’s soul as early as the 
 throne scene and before yet the king has 
 heard that the royal boys have been mur- 
 dered. The effect of his action, equally 
 with the method of it, was magnificent. 
 You presently saw him possessed of the 
 throne for which he had so terribly toiled 
 and sinned, and alone upon it, bathed in 
 
AS RICHARD THE THIRD. 307 
 
 blood-red light, the pitiable personification 
 of gorgeous but haunted evil, marked off 
 from among mankind and henceforth deso- 
 late. Throughout that fine scene Mans- 
 field’s portrayal of the fearful struggle 
 between wicked will and human weakness 
 was in a noble vein of imagination, pro- 
 found in its sincerity, affecting in its pathos, 
 and pictorial in its treatment. In the 
 earlier scenes his mood and his demeanour 
 had been suffused with a cool, gay, mock- 
 ery of elegant cynicism. He killed King 
 Henry with a smile, in a scene of gloomy 
 mystery that might have come from the 
 pencil of Gustave Dore. He looked upon 
 the mourning Lady Anne with cheerful 
 irony and he wooed her with all the fervour 
 that passion and pathos can engender in the 
 behaviour of a hypocrite. His dissimula- 
 tion with the princes and with the mayor 
 and the nobles was to the last degree spe- 
 cious. One of his finest points was the 
 temptation of Buckingham to murder the 
 princes. There, and indeed at all points, 
 was observed the absence of even the faint- 
 est reminiscence of the ranting, mouthing, 
 flannel-jawed king of clubs who has so 
 generally strutted and bellowed as Shake- 
 ‘speare’s Gloster. All was bold and telling 
 
 | 
 } 
 { 
 
308 RICHARD MANSFIELD 
 
 in the manner, and yet the manner was reti- 
 cent with nature and fine with well-bred 
 continence. 
 
 With the throne scene began the spiritual 
 conflict. At least it then began to be dis- 
 closed; and from that moment onward 
 the state of Richard was seen to be that 
 of Orestes pursued by the furies. But 
 Mansfield was right, and was consistent, | 
 in making the monarch faithful in his de- 
 votion to evil. Richard’s presentiments, 
 pangs, and tremors are intermittent. In 
 the great, empty, darkening throne-room, 
 with its shadowy nooks and dim corners, 
 shapeless and nameless spectres may mo- 
 mentarily come upon him and shake his 
 strong spirit with the sinister menace of 
 hell. Along the dark plains, on the fateful 
 night before the battle, the sad ghosts may 
 drift and wander, moaning and wailing in 
 the ghastly gloom; and in that hour of 
 haunted desolation the doomed king may 
 feel that, after all, he is but mortal man, 
 and that his pre-ordered destruction is close 
 at hand and not to be averted ; but Richarc’ 
 never deceives himself; never palters with | 
 the goodness that he has scorned. He dies 
 as he has lived, defiant and terrible. 
 
 Mansfield’s treatment of the ghost scenei’ 
 
 i 
 4 
 } 
 \ 
 : 
 | 
 , 
 
AS RICHARD THE THIRD. 309 
 
 at Bosworth was novel, original, and po- 
 etic, and his death scene was not only a 
 display of personal prowess but a repro- 
 duction of historical fact. With a detail 
 like this the truth of history becomes use- 
 ful, but in general the actor cannot safe- 
 ly go back of the Shakespearean scheme. 
 To present Richard as he probably was 
 would be to present a man of some virtue 
 as well as great ability. Mansfield’s act- 
 ing revealed an amiable desire to infuse 
 as much goodness as possible into the 
 Shakespearean conception, but he obtained 
 his chief success by acting the part sub- 
 stantially according to Shakespeare and by 
 ‘setting and dressing the play with ex- 
 eeptional if not altogether exact fidelity to 
 the time, the places, and the persons that 
 are implicated in the story. 
 
 Shakespeare’s Richard is a type of colos- 
 ‘sal will and of restless, inordinate, terrific 
 activity. The objects of his desire and his 
 effort are those objects which are incident 
 tO supreme power; but his chief object is 
 ‘that assertion of himself which is irresistibly 
 incited and steadfastly compelled by the 
 overwhelming, seething, acrid energy of his 
 feverish soul, burning ‘and raging in his 
 fiery body. He can no more help pro- 
 
310 RICHARD MANSFIELD 
 
 jecting himself upon the affairs of the 
 world than the malignant cobra can help 
 darting upon its prey. He is a vital, ele- 
 mental force, grisly, hectic, terrible, im- 
 pelled by volcanic heat and electrified and 
 made lurid and deadly by the infernal 
 purpose of restless wickedness. No actor 
 can impersonate Richard in an adequate 
 manner who does not possess transcendent 
 force of will, combined with ambitious, 
 incessant, and restless mental activity. 
 Mansfield in those respects is qualified for 
 the character, and out of his professional 
 resources he was able to supply the other 
 elements that are requisite to its consti- 
 tution and fulfilment. He presented as 
 Richard a sardonic, scoffing demon, who 
 nevertheless, somewhere in his complex 
 nature, retains an element of humanity, 
 He embodied a character that is tragic in 
 its ultimate effect, but his method was 
 that of the comedian. His portrayal o} 
 Richard, except at those moments wher 
 it is veiled with craft and dissimulation, 0) 
 at those other and grander moments, in 
 frequent but awful and agonising, when i) 
 is convulsed with terror or with the anguisl 
 of remorse, stood forth boldly in the sun 
 shine, a crystallised and deadly sarcasm 
 
AS RICHARD THE THIRD. 311 
 
 equally trenchant upon itself and all the 
 world, equally scornful of things human 
 and things divine. That deadly assumption 
 of keen and mordant mockery, that cool, 
 glittering, malignant lightness of manner, 
 was consistently sustained throughout the 
 performance, while the texture of it was 
 made continuously entertaining by diver- 
 sity of colour and inflection, sequent on 
 changing moods; so that Richard was 
 shown as a creature of the possible world 
 of mankind and not as a fiction of the 
 stage. 
 
 The part was acted by him: it was not de- 
 claimed. He made, indeed, a skilful use of 
 his uncommon voice— keeping its tones light, 
 sweet, and superficial during the earlier 
 scenes (while yet, in accordance with his 
 theory of development, Gloster is the per- 
 sonification of evil purpose only beginning 
 to ripen into evil deed), and then permit- 
 ting them to become deeper and more sig- 
 nificant and thrilling as the man grows old 
 in crime and haggard and convulsed in 
 self-conflict and misery. But it was less 
 with vocal excellence that the auditor was 
 impressed than with the actor’s identifica- 
 tion with the part and his revelation of the 
 soul of it. When first presented Gloster 
 
312 RICHARD MANSFIELD 
 
 was a mocking devil. The murder of King 
 Henry was done with malice, but the mal- 
 ice was enwrapped with glee. In the woo- 
 ing of Lady Anne there was both heart and 
 passion, but the mood was that of light- 
 some duplicity. It is not until years of 
 scheming and of evil acts, engendering, pro- 
 moting, and sustaining a condition of men- 
 tal horror and torture, have ravaged his 
 person and set their seal upon him, in 
 sunken cheek and hollow eye, in shattered 
 nerves and deep and thrilling voice, sur- 
 charged at once with inveterate purpose 
 and with incessant agony, that this light 
 manner vanishes, and the demeanour and 
 action of the wicked monarch becomes ruth- 
 less, direct, and terrible. Whether, upon 
 the basis of a play so discursive, so episod- 
 ical, so irresolutely defined as Shakespeare’s 
 Richard the Third, that theory of the devel- 
 opment of its central character is logically 
 tenable is a dubious question. In Shake- 
 speare the character is presented full-grown 
 at the start, and then, through a confused 
 tangle of historical events, is launched into 
 action. Nevertheless in his practical ap- 
 plication of it Mansfield made his theory 
 effective by a novel, powerful, interesting 
 performance. You could not help perceiv- 
 
AS RICHARD THE THIRD. 313 
 
 ing in Mansfield’s embodiment that Glos- 
 ter was passing through phases of expe- 
 rience —that the man changed, as men 
 do change in life, the integral character re- 
 maining the same in its original fibre, but 
 the condition varying, in accordance with 
 the reaction of conduct upon temperament 
 and conscience. 
 
 Mansfield deeply moved his audience in 
 the repulse of Buckingham, in the moody 
 menace of the absent Stanley, in the de- 
 nunciation of Hastings, and in the awaken- 
 ing from the dream on the night before the 
 battle. Playgoers have seldom seen a dra- 
 matic climax so thrilling as his hysterical 
 recognition of Catesby, after the moment 
 of doubt whether this be not also a phan- 
 tom of his terrific dream. It was not so 
 much by startling theatrical effects, how- 
 ever, as by subtle denotements, now of the 
 tempest and now of the brooding horror 
 in the king’s heart, that the actor gained 
 his victory. The embodiment lacked in- 
 cessant fiery expedition—the explosive, 
 meteoric quality that astounds and daz- 
 zles. Chief among the beauties was im- 
 agination. The attitude of the monarch 
 toward his throne — the infernal triumph, 
 and yet the remorseful agony and wither- 
 
314 RICHARD MANSFIELD. 
 
 ing fear—in the moment of ghastly lone- 
 liness when he knows that the innocent 
 princes have been murdered and that his 
 imperial pathway is clear, made up one of 
 the finest spectacles of dramatic illumina- 
 tion that the stage has afforded. You saw 
 the murderer’s hideous exultation, and 
 then, in an instant, as the single ray of 
 red light from the setting sun streamed 
 through the Gothic window and fell upon 
 his evil head, you saw him shrink in abject 
 fear, cowering in the shadow of his throne; 
 and the dusky room was seemingly peopled 
 with gliding spectres. That treatment was 
 theatrical, but in no derogatory sense the- 
 atrical—for it comports with the great 
 speech on conscience ; not the fustian of 
 Cibber, about mutton and short-lived pleas- 
 ure, but the speech that Shakespeare has 
 put into Richard’s mouth; the speech that 
 inspired Mansfield’s impersonation — the 
 brilliant embodiment of an _ intellectual 
 man, predisposed to evil, who yields to that 
 inherent impulse, and thereafter, although 
 intermittently convulsed with remorse, 
 fights with tremendous energy against the 
 goodness that he scorns and defies, till at 
 last he dashes himself to pieces against the 
 adamant of eternal law. 
 
GENEVIEVE WARD. 315 
 
 5. OG 
 GENEVIEVE WARD: FORGET ME NOT, 
 
 N the season of 1880-81 Genevieve Ward 
 made a remarkably brilliant hit with 
 her embodiment of Stephanie De Mohrivart, 
 in the play of Forget Me Not, by Herman 
 Merivale, and since then she has acted that 
 part literally all round the world, It was 
 an extraordinary performance — potent 
 with intellectual character, beautiful with 
 refinement, nervous and steel-like with in- 
 domitable purpose and icy glitter, intense 
 with passion, painfully true to an afflicting 
 ideal of reality, and at last splendidly tragic : 
 and it was a shining example of ductile and 
 various art. Such a work ought surely to 
 be recorded as one of the great achievements 
 of the stage. Genevieve Ward showed her- 
 self to possess in copious abundance pecul- 
 iar qualities of power and beauty upon 
 which mainly the part of Stephanie is 
 reared. The points of assimilation between 
 the actress and the part were seen to consist 
 
316 GENEVIEVE WARD: 
 
 in an imperial force of character, intellectual 
 brilliancy, audacity of mind, iron will, per- 
 fect elegance of manners, a profound self- 
 knowledge, and unerring intuitions as to 
 the relation of motive and conduct in that 
 vast network of circumstance which is the 
 social fabric. Stephanie possesses all those 
 attributes ; and all those attributes Gene- 
 vieve Ward supplied, with the luxuriant 
 adequacy and grace of nature. But Ste- 
 phanie superadds to those attributes a bitter, 
 mocking cynicism, thinly veiled by artificial 
 suavity and logically irradiant from natural 
 hardness of heart, coupled with an insensi- 
 bility that has been engendered by cruel 
 experience of human selfishness. This, 
 together with a certain mystical touch of 
 the animal freedom, whether in joy or 
 wrath, that goes with a being having neither 
 soul nor conscience, the actress had to sup- 
 ply — and did supply — by her art. As in- 
 terpreted by Genevieve Ward the character 
 was reared, not upon a basis of unchastity 
 but upon a basis of intellectual perversion. 
 Stephanie has followed — at first with self- 
 contempt, afterward with sullen indiffer- 
 ence, finally with the bold and brilliant 
 hardihood of reckless defiance — a life of 
 crime. She is audacious, unscrupulous, 
 
FORGET ME NOT. 317 
 
 cruel ; a consummate tactician ; almost sex- 
 less, yet a siren in knowledge and capacity 
 to use the arts of her sex; capable of any 
 wickedness to accomplish an end, yet trivial 
 enough to have no higher end in view than 
 the reinvestiture of herself with social recog- 
 nition ; cold as snow; implacable as the 
 grave ; remorseless ; wicked; but, beneath 
 all this depravity, capable of self-pity, ca- 
 pableof momentary regret, capable of alittle 
 human tenderness, aware of the glory of 
 the innocence she has lost, and thus not 
 altogether beyond the pale of compassion. 
 And she is, in externals,—in everything 
 visible and audible,—the ideal of grace 
 and melody. 
 
 In the presence of an admirable work of 
 art the observer wishes that it were entirely 
 worthy of being performed and that it 
 were entirely clear and sound as to its 
 applicability —in a moral sense, or even 
 in an intellectual sense—to human life. 
 Art does not go far when it stops short at 
 the revelation of the felicitous powers of 
 the artist; and it is not altogether right 
 when it tends to beguile sympathy with an 
 unworthy object and perplex a spectator’s 
 perceptions as to good and evil. Genevieve 
 Ward’s performance of Stephanie, brilliant 
 
318 GENEVIEVE WARD: 
 
 though it was, did not redeem the character 
 from its bleak exile from human sympathy. 
 The actress managed, by a scheme of treat- 
 ment exclusively her own, to make Stephanie, - 
 for two or three moments, piteous and for- 
 lorn; and her expression of that evanes- 
 cent anguish — occurring in the appeal to ~ 
 Sir Horace Welby, her friendly foe, in the 
 strong scene of the second act — was won- 
 derfully subtle. That appeal, as Genevieve 
 Ward made it, began in artifice, became 
 profoundly sincere, and then was stunned 
 and startled into a recoil of resentment by a 
 harsh rebuff, whereupon it subsided through 
 hysterical levity into frigid and brittle sar- 
 casmand gay defiance. Fora while, accord- 
 _ ingly, the feelings of the observer were 
 deeply moved. Yet this did not make 
 the character of Stephanie less detestable. - 
 The blight remains upon it —and always 
 must remain — that it repels the interest of © 
 the heart. The added blight likewise rests . 
 upon it (though this is of less consequence. 
 
 to a spectator), that it is burdened with ~ 
 moral sophistry. Vicious conduct in a 
 woman, according to Stephanie’s logic, is 
 not more culpable or disastrous than vicious 
 conduct in a man: the woman, equally with 
 the man, should haye a social license to sow 
 
FORGET ME NOT. 319 
 
 the juvenile wild oats and effect the middle- 
 aged reformation ; and it is only because 
 there are gay young men who indulge in 
 profligacy that women sometimes become 
 adventurers and moral monsters. All this 
 is launched forth in speeches of singular 
 terseness, eloquence, and vigour; but all 
 this is specious and mischievous perversion 
 of the truth — however admirably in char- 
 acter from Stephanie’s lips. Every observer 
 who has looked carefully upon the world is 
 aware that the consequences of wrongdoing 
 by a woman are vastly more pernicious than 
 those of wrongdoing by a man ; that society 
 could not exist in decency, if to its already 
 inconvenient coterie of reformed rakes it 
 were to add a legion of reformed wantons ; 
 and that it is innate wickedness and evil 
 propensity that makes such women as 
 Stephanie, and not the mere existence of 
 the wild young men who are willing to 
 become their comrades — and who generally 
 end by being their dupes and victims. It 
 is natural, however, that this adventurer — 
 who has kept a gambling-hell and ruined 
 many aman, soul and body, and who now 
 wishes to reinstate herself in a virtuous 
 social position — should thus strive to pal- 
 liate her past proceedings. Self-justifica- 
 
320 GENEVIEVE WARD: 
 
 tion is one of the first laws of life. Even 
 Jago, who never deceives himself, yet an- 
 nounces one adequate motive for his fear- 
 ful crimes. Even Bulwer’s Margrave — 
 that prodigy of evil, that cardinal type of 
 infernal, joyous, animal depravity — can yet 
 paint himself in the light of harmless love- 
 liness and innocent gayety. 
 
 Forget Me Not tells a thin story, but its 
 story has been made to yield excellent 
 dramatic pictures, splendid moments of in- 
 tellectual combat, and affecting contrasts of 
 character. The dialogue, particularly in 
 the second act, is as strong and as brilliant 
 as polished steel. In that combat of words 
 Genevieve Ward’s acting was delicious with 
 trenchant skill and fascinating variety. 
 The easy, good-natured, bantering air with 
 which the strife began, the liquid purity of 
 the tones, the delicate glow of the arch 
 satire, the icy glitter of the thought and 
 purpose beneath the words, the transition 
 into pathos and back again into gay indiffer- 
 ence and deadly hostility, the sudden and 
 terrible mood of menace, when at length 
 the crisis had passed and the evil genius 
 had won its temporary victory — all those 
 were in perfect taste and consummate har- 
 mony. Seeing that brilliant, supple, relent- 
 less, formidable figure, and hearing that 
 
FORGET ME NOT. 321 
 
 incisive, bell-like voice, the spectator was 
 repelled and attracted at the same instant, 
 and thoroughly bewildered with the sense 
 of a power and beauty as hateful as they 
 were puissant. Not since Ristori acted 
 Lucretia Borgia has the stage exhibited 
 such an image of imperial will, made radi- 
 ant with beauty and electric with flashes of 
 passion. The leopard and the serpent are 
 fatal, terrible, and loathsome; yet they 
 scarcely have a peer among nature’s su- 
 preme symbols of power and grace.’ Into 
 the last scene of Forget Me Not, — when 
 at length Stephanie is crushed by physical 
 fear, through beholding, unseen by him, 
 the man who would kill her as a malignant 
 and dangerous reptile, — Genevieve Ward 
 introduced such illustrative ‘‘ business,” not 
 provided by the piece, as greatly enhanced 
 the final effect. The backward rush from 
 the door, on seeing the Corsican avenger 
 on the staircase, and therewithal the inci- 
 dental, involuntary cry of terror, was the 
 invention of the actress: and from that mo- 
 ment to the final exit she was the incarna- 
 tion of abject fear. The situation is one 
 of the strongest that dramatic ingenuity 
 has invented: the actress invested it with a 
 eolouring of pathetic and awful truth. 
 Vv 
 
422 EDWARD 8S. WILLARD IN 
 
 X XI. 
 
 EDWARD §S. WILLARD IN THE MIDDLEMAN 
 AND JUDAH. 
 
 S. WILLARD accomplished his first 
 
 4¢ appearance upon the American stage 
 (at Palmer’s theatre, November 10, 1890), 
 in the powerful play of The Middleman, by 
 Henry Arthur Jones. <A _ representative 
 audience welcomed the modest and gentle 
 stranger and the greeting that hailed him 
 was that of earnest respect. Willard had 
 long been known and esteemed in New 
 York by the dramatic profession and by 
 those persons who habitually observe the 
 changeful aspects of the contemporary stage 
 on both sides of the ocean; but to the 
 American public his name had been com- 
 paratively strange. The sentiment of kind- 
 ness with which he was received deepened 
 into admiration as the night wore on, and 
 before the last curtain fell upon his per- 
 formance of Cyrus Blenkarn he had gained 
 an unequivocal and auspicious victory. In 
 
THE MIDDLEMAN AND JUDAH. 323 
 
 no case has the first appearance of a new 
 actor been accompanied with a more bril- 
 liant exemplification of simple worth; and 
 in no case has its conquest ot the public en- 
 thusiasm been more decisive. Not the least 
 impressive feature of the night was the stead- 
 ily increasing surprise of the audience as the 
 performance proceeded. It was the actor’s 
 way to build slowly, and at the opening of 
 the piece the poor inventor’s blind igno- 
 rance of the calamity that is impending is 
 chiefly trusted to create essential sympathy. 
 Through those moments of approaching sor- 
 row the sweet unconsciousness of the lov- 
 ing father was expressed by Willard with 
 touching truth. In this he astonished even 
 as much as he pleased his auditors; for 
 they were not expecting it. 
 
 One of the most exquisite enjoyments 
 provided by the stage is the advent of a 
 new actor who is not only new but good. 
 It is the pleasure of discovery. It is the 
 pleasure of contact with a rich mind hith- 
 erto unexplored. The personal appearance, 
 the power of the eye, the variety of the 
 facial expression, the tones of the voice, 
 the carriage of the person, the salient attri- 
 butes of the individual character, the alti- 
 tude of the intellectual development, the 
 
324. EDWARD S. WILLARD IN, 
 
 quality of the spirit, the extent and the na- 
 ture of those artistic faculties and resources 
 that constitute the professional equipment, 
 —all those things become the subject first 
 of interested inquiry and next of pleased 
 recognition. Willard is neither of the 
 stately, the weird, the mysterious, nor the 
 ferocious order of actor. There is nothing 
 in him of either Werner, Manfred, or Sir 
 Giles Overreach. He belongs not to either 
 the tradition of John Kemble or of Edmund 
 Kean. His personality, nevertheless, is of 
 a distinctive and interesting kind. He has 
 the self-poise and the exalted calm of im- 
 mense reserve power and of tender and 
 tremulous sensibility perfectly controlled. 
 His acting is conspicuously marked by two 
 of the loveliest attributes of art — simplicity 
 and sincerity. He conceals neither the face 
 nor the heart. His figure is fine and his de- 
 meanour is that of vigorous mental author- 
 
 ity informed by moral purity and by the 
 
 self-respect of a manly spirit: Goodness, — 
 
 although a quality seldom taken into the 
 
 critical estimate, nevertheless has its part | 
 
 in spiritual constitution and in consequent | 
 effect. It was, for instance, an element of | 
 artistic potentiality in the late John McCul- | 
 lough. It operated spontaneously; and just | 
 
THE MIDDLEMAN AND JUDAH. 325 
 
 so it does in the acting of Willard, who, 
 first of all, gives the satisfying impression 
 of being genuine. A direct and thorough 
 method of expression naturally accompa- 
 nies that order of mind and that quality 
 of temperament. Every movement that 
 Willard makes upon the stage is clear, free, 
 open, firm, and of an obvious significance. 
 Every tone of his rich and resonant voice is 
 distinctly intended and is distinctly heard. 
 There are no ‘flaws and starts.’’ He has 
 formed a precise ideal. He knows exactly 
 how to embody and to utter it, and he makes 
 the manifestation of it sharp, defined, posi- 
 tive, and cogent. His meaning cannot be 
 missed. He has an unerring sense of pro- 
 portion and symmetry. The character that 
 he represents is shown, indeed, all at once, 
 as a unique identity; but it is not all at 
 once developed, the manifestation of it being 
 made gradually to proceed under the stress 
 of experience and of emotion. He rises 
 with the occasion. His feelings are deep, 
 and he is possessed of extraordinary power 
 for the utterance of them — not simply vocal 
 power, although that, in his case, is excep- 
 tional, but the rare faculty of becoming 
 corvulsed, inspired, transfigured, by passion, 
 and of being swept along by it, and of 
 
326 EDWARD 8. WILLARD IN 
 
 sweeping along his hearers. His manner 
 covers, without concealing, great intensity. 
 This is such a combination of traits as must 
 have existed —if the old records are read 
 aright — in that fine and famous actor, John 
 Henderson, and which certainly existed in 
 the late Benjamin Webster. It has, however, 
 always been rare upon the stage, and, like all 
 rare jewels, it is precious. The actor who, 
 from an habitual mood of sweet gravity and 
 patient gentleness, can rise to the height of 
 delirious passion, and there sustain him- 
 self at a poise of tempestuous concentra- 
 tion which is the fulfilment of nature, and 
 never once seem either ludicrous or extrava- 
 gant, is an actor of splendid power and ex- 
 traordinary self-discipline. Such an actor is 
 Willard. The blue eyes, the slightly olive 
 complexion, the compact person, the pic- 
 turesque appearance, the melodious voice, 
 the flexibility of natural action, and the 
 gradual and easy ascent from the calm level 
 of domestic peace to the stormy summit of 
 passionate ecstasy recall personal pecul- 
 jiarities and artistic methods long passed 
 away. The best days of Edwin L. Daven- 
 port and the younger James Wallack are 
 brought to mind by them. 
 
 In the drama of The Middleman Wil- 
 
THE MIDDLEMAN AND JUDAH. 327 
 
 lard had to impersonate an inventor, of 
 the absorbed, enthusiastic, self-regardless, 
 fanatical kind. Cyrus Blenkarn is a pot- 
 ter. His genius and his toil have enriched 
 two persons named Chandler, father and 
 son, who own and conduct a porcelain 
 factory in an English town of the present 
 day. Blenkarn has two daughters, and 
 one of them is taken from him by the 
 younger Chandler. The circumstances of 
 that deprivation point at disgrace, and the 
 
 inventor conceives himself to have suffered 
 
 an odious ignominy and irreparable wrong. 
 Young Chandler has departed and so has 
 Mary Blenkarn, and they are eventually to 
 return as husband and wife; but Cyrus 
 Blenkarn has been aroused from his revy- 
 eries over the crucible and furnace, — 
 wherein he is striving to discover a lost 
 secret in the potter’s art that will make 
 him both rich and famous, — and he utters 
 a prayer for vengeance upon these Chand- 
 lers, and he parts from them. A time of 
 destitution and of pitiful struggle with dire 
 necessity, sleepless grief, and the madden- 
 ing impulse of vengeance now comes upon 
 him, so that he is wasted almost to death. 
 He will not, however, abandon his quest 
 
 for the secret of his art. He may die of 
 
328 EDWARD 8S. WILLARD IN 
 
 hunger and wretchedness ; he will not yield. 
 At the last moment of his trial and his mis- 
 ery — alone — at night — in the alternate 
 lurid blaze and murky gloom of his firing- 
 house — success is conquered: the secret is 
 found. This climax, to which the prelimi- 
 naries gradually and artfully lead, affords 
 a great opportunity to an actor; and Wil- 
 lard greatly filled it. The old inventor 
 has been bowed down almost to despair. 
 Grief and destitution, the sight of his re- 
 maining daughter’s poverty, and the con- 
 flict of many feelings have made him a 
 wreck. But his will remains firm. It is 
 not, however, until his last hope has been 
 abandoned that his success suddenly comes 
 —and the result of thisisadelirium. That 
 situation, one of the best in modern drama, 
 has been treated by the author in such a 
 manner as to sustain for a long time the 
 feeling of suspense and to put an enor- 
 mous strain upon the emotion and the re- 
 sources of an actor. Willard’s presentment 
 of the gaunt, attenuated figure of Cyrus 
 Blenkarn — hollow-eyed, half-frantic, hys- 
 terical with grief and joy — was the com- 
 plete incarnation of a dramatic frensy ; 
 and this, being sympathetic, and moving 
 to goodness and not to evil, captured the 
 
THE MIDDLEMAN AND JUDAH. 329 
 
 heart. It was a magnificent exhibition, 
 not alone of the physical force that some- 
 times is so essential in acting but of that 
 fervour of the soul without which acting is 
 a mockery. 
 
 The skill with which Willard reserved 
 his power, so that the impersonation might 
 gradually increase in strength, was one of 
 the best merits of his art. Blenkarn’s 
 prayer might readily be converted into the 
 climax of the piece, and it might readily be 
 spoken in such a way that no effect would 
 be left for the culmination in the furnace- 
 room. Those errors were avoided, and dur- 
 ing three out of the four acts the movement 
 of the piece was fluent, continuous, and 
 cumulative. In this respect both the drama 
 and the performance were instructive. Henry 
 Arthur Jones has diversified his serious 
 scenes with passages of sportive humour and 
 he has freighted the piece with conventional 
 didacticism as to the well-worn question of 
 capital and labour. The humour is good: 
 the political economy need not detain atten- 
 tion. The value of the play does not reside 
 in its teaching but in its dramatic presen- 
 tation of strong character, individual ex- 
 perience, and significant story. The effect 
 produced by Vhe Middleman is that of 
 
330 EDWARD 8. WILLARD IN 
 
 moral elevation. Its auditor is touched 
 and ennobled by a spectacle of stern trial, 
 pitiable suffering, and stoical endurance. 
 In the purpose that presides over human 
 destiny —if one may accept the testimony 
 equally of history and of fiction — it appears 
 to be necessary first to create strong char- 
 acters and then to break them; and the 
 manner in which they are broken usually 
 involves the elements alike of dramatic 
 effect and of pathos. That singular fact in 
 mortal éxperience may have been noticed 
 by this author. His drama is a forcible 
 exposition of it. The Middleman was set 
 upon Palmer’s stage in such a way as to 
 strengthen the dramatic illusion by the fidel- 
 ity of scenery. The firing-house, with its 
 furnaces in operation, was a copy of what 
 may be seen at Worcester. The picture of 
 English life was excellent. 
 
 When Willard played the part of Judah 
 Llewellyn for the first time in America 
 (December 29, 1890), he gained from a 
 sympathetic and judicious audience a ver- 
 dict of emphatic admiration. Judah Llew- 
 ellyn is a good part in one of the most 
 striking plays of the period —a play that 
 tells an interesting and significant story by 
 expressive, felicitous, and incessant action ; 
 
ae 
 
 THE MIDDLEMAN AND JUDAH. 331 
 
 affects the feelings by situations that are 
 vital with dramatic power; inspires useful 
 thought upon a theme of psychological im- 
 portance; cheers the mind with a fresh 
 breeze of satirical humour ; and delights the 
 instinct of taste by its crisp and pungent 
 style. Alike by his choice of a compara- 
 tively original subject and his deft method 
 in the treatment of it Henry Arthur Jones 
 has shown a fine dramatic instinct; and 
 equally in the evolution of character and 
 the expression of experience and emotion he 
 has wrought with feeling and vigour. Most 
 of the plays that are written, in any given 
 period, pass away with the period to which 
 they appertain. Judah is one of the excep- 
 tions; for its brilliantly treated theme is 
 one of perennial interest, and there seems 
 reason to believe, of a work so vital, that 
 long after the present generation has van- 
 ished it still will keep its place in the 
 theatre, and sometimes be acted, not as a 
 quaint relic but as a living lesson. 
 
 That theme is the psychic force in human 
 organism. The author does not obtrude 
 it; does not play the pedant with it; does 
 not lecture upon it; and above all does 
 not bore with it. He only uses it; and he 
 has been so true to his province as a drama- 
 
gles EDWARD 8. WILLARD IN 
 
 tist and not an advocate that he never once 
 assumes to decide upon any question of 
 doctrine that may be involved in the asser- 
 tion of it. His heroine is a young woman 
 who thinks herself to be possessed of a cer- 
 tain inherent restorative power of curing 
 the sick. This power is,of psychic origin 
 and it operates through the medium of 
 personal influence. This girl, Vashti Deth- 
 ick, has exerted her power with some 
 success. Other persons, having felt its 
 good effect, have admitted its existence. 
 The father of Vashti, an enterprising scamp, 
 has thereupon compelled the girl to trade 
 upon her peculiar faculty ; little by little to 
 assume miraculous powers; and finally to 
 pretend that her celestial talent is refreshed 
 and strengthened by abstinence from food, 
 and that her cures are wrought only after 
 she has fasted for many days. He has 
 thus converted her into an impostor; yet, 
 as her heart is pure and her moral princi- 
 ple naturally sound, she is ill at ease in 
 this false position, and her mental distress 
 has suddenly become aggravated, almost to 
 the pitch of desperation, by the arrival of 
 love. She has lost her heart to a young 
 clergyman, Judah Llewellyn, the purity of 
 whose spirit and the beauty of whose life 
 
THE MIDDLEMAN AND JUDAH. 333 
 
 are a bitter and burning rebuke to her en- 
 forced deceitfulness of conduct. Here is a 
 woman innocently guilty, suddenly aroused 
 by love, made sensitive and noble (as that 
 passion commonly makes those persons who 
 really feel it), and projected into a con- 
 dition of aggrieved excitement. In this 
 posture of romantic and pathetic circum- 
 stances the crisis of two lives is suddenly 
 precipitated in action. 
 
 Judah Llewellyn also is possessed of spir- 
 itual sensibility and psychic force. In boy- 
 hood a shepherd, he has dwelt among the 
 mountains of his native Wales, and his im- 
 agination has heard the voices that are in 
 rocks and trees, in the silence of lonely 
 places, in the desolation of the bleak hills, 
 and in the cold light of distant stars. He is 
 now a preacher, infatuated with his mis- 
 sion, inspired in his eloquence, invincible 
 in his tremendous sincerity. He sees Vashti 
 and he loves her. It is the first thril] of 
 mortal passion that ever has mingled with 
 his devotion to his Master’s work. The 
 attraction between these creatures is hu- 
 man; and yet it is more of heaven than of 
 earth. It is a tie of spiritual kindred that 
 binds them. They are beings of a different 
 order from the common order—and, as 
 
334 EDWARD 8. WILLARD IN 
 
 happens in such cases, they will be tried by 
 exceptional troubles and passed through a 
 fire of mortal anguish. For what reason 
 experience should take the direction of mis- 
 ery with fine natures in human life no phi- 
 losopher has yet been able to ascertain ; 
 but that it does take that direction all com- 
 petent observation proves. ‘To Vashti and 
 Judah the time speedily comes when their 
 love is acknowledged, upon both sides — 
 the preacher speaking plainly; the girl, 
 conscious of turpitude, shrinking from a 
 spoken avowal which yet her whole person- 
 ality proclaims. Yielding to her father’s 
 malign will she has consented to make one 
 more manifestation of curative power, to go 
 through once more, — and for the last time, 
 —the mockery of a pretended fast. The 
 scene is Lord Asgarby’s house; the patient 
 is Lord Asgarby’s daughter — an only child, 
 - cursed with constitutional debility, the fore- 
 doomed victim of premature decline. This 
 frail creature has heard of Vashti and be- 
 lieves in her, and desires and obtains her 
 society. To Professor Dethick this is, in 
 every sense, a golden opportunity, and he 
 insists that the starvation test shall be thor- 
 oughly made. Lord Asgarby, willing to do 
 anything for his idolised daughter, assents 
 
THE MIDDLEMAN AND JUDAH. 335 
 
 to the plan, and his scientific friend, cynical 
 
 <= 
 
 Professor Jopp, agrees, with the assistance 
 of his erudite daughter, to supervise the 
 experiment. Vashti will fast for several 
 days, and the heir of Asgarby will then be 
 healed by her purified and exalted influence. 
 
 The principal scene of the play shows the 
 exterior of an ancient, unused tower of As- 
 garby House, in which Vashti is detained 
 during the fast. The girl is supposed to 
 be starving. Her scampish father will 
 endeavour to relieve her. Miss Jopp is 
 vigilant to prevent fraud. The patient is 
 confident. Judah, wishful to be near to the 
 object of his adoration, has climbed the outer 
 wall and is watching, beneath the window, 
 unseen, in the warder’s seat. The time is 
 summer, the hour midnight, and the irrev- 
 ocable vow of love has been spoken. At 
 that supreme instant, and under conditions 
 so natural that the picture seems one of 
 actual life, the sin of Vashti is revealed 
 and the man who had adored her as an 
 angel knows her for a cheat. With a dif- 
 ference of circumstances that situation —in 
 the fibre of it—is not new. Many a lover, 
 male and female, has learned that every 
 idol has its flaw. But the situation is new 
 in its dramatic structure. For Judah the 
 
336 EDWARD S. WILLARD IN 
 
 discovery is a terrible one, and the result- 
 ant agony is convulsive and lamentable. 
 He takes, however, the only course he could 
 be expected to take: he must vindicate the 
 integrity of the woman whom he loves, and 
 he commits the crime of perjury in order to 
 shield her reputation from disgrace. 
 
 What will a man do for the woman whom 
 he loves ? The attributes of individual char- 
 acter are always to be considered as forces 
 likely to modify passion and to affect con- 
 duct. But in general the answer to that 
 question may be given in three words— 
 anything and everything! The history of 
 nations, as of individuals, is never rightly 
 read until it is read in the light of knowl- 
 edge of the influence that has been exerted 
 over them by women. Cleopatra, in ancient 
 Egypt, changed the history of Rome by the 
 ruin of Mare Antony. Another heroine re- 
 cently toppled Ireland down the fire-escape 
 into the back-yard. So goes the world. In 
 Judah, however, the crime that is done for 
 love is pursued to its consequence of ever- 
 accumulative suffering, until at length, when 
 it has been expiated by remorse and repent- 
 ance, it is rectified by confession and oblit- 
 erated by pardon. No play ever taught a 
 lesson of truth with more cogent dramatic 
 
THE MIDDLEMAN AND JUDAH. 327 
 
 force. The cynical, humorous scenes are 
 delightful. 
 
 Willard’s representation of Cyrus Blen- 
 karn stamped him as one of the best actors 
 of the age. His representation of Judah 
 Llewellyn deepened that impression and 
 reinforced it with a conviction of marked 
 versatility. In his utterance of passion 
 Willard showed that he has advanced far 
 beyond the Romeo stage. The love that he- 
 expressed was that of a man — intellectual, 
 spiritual, noble, a moral being and one es- 
 sentially true. Man’s love, when it is real, 
 adores its object ; hallows it ; invests it with 
 celestial attributes ; and beholds it as a part 
 of heaven. ‘That quality of reverence was 
 distinctly conveyed by the actor, and there- 
 fore to observers who conceive passion to 
 be delirious abandonment (of which any 
 animal is capable), his ardour may have 
 seemed dry and cold. It was nevertheless 
 true. He made the tempestuous torrent of 
 Judah’s avowal the more overwhelming 
 by his preliminary self-repression and his 
 thoughtful gentleness of reserve; for thus 
 the hunger of desire was beautiful with 
 devotion and tenderness; and while the 
 actor’s feelings seemed borne away upon 
 a whirling tide of irresistible impulse his 
 
 - 
 
338 EDWARD 8. WILLARD 
 
 exquisite art kept a perfect control of face, 
 voice, person, demeanour, and delivery, and 
 not once permitted a lapse into extrava- 
 gance. The character thus embodied will 
 long be remembered as an image of dignity, 
 sweetness, moral enthusiasm, passionate fer- 
 vour, and intellectual power; but, also, 
 viewed as an effort in the art of acting, it 
 will be remembered as a type of consum- 
 mate grace in the embodiment of a beauti- 
 ful ideal clearly conceived. The effect of 
 spiritual suffering, as conveyed in the pallid 
 countenance and ravaged figure, in the last 
 act, was that of noble pathos. The delivery 
 of all the speeches of the broken, humili- 
 ated, haunted minister was deeply touching, 
 not alone in music of voice but in denote- 
 ment of knowledge of human nature and 
 human suffering and endurance. The actor 
 who can play such a part in such a manner 
 is not an experimental artist. Rather let 
 him be called —in the expressive words of 
 one of his country’s poets — 
 
 ‘Sacred historian of the heart 
 And moral nature’s lord.’’ 
 
SALVINI. 339 
 
 ATI. 
 SALVINI AS KING SAUL AND KING LEAR. 
 
 ALVINI was grander and finer in King 
 Saul than in any other embodiment that 
 he presented. He seized the idea wholly, 
 and he executed it with affluent power. 
 He brought to the part every attribute nec- 
 essary to its grandeur of form and its af- 
 flicting sympathy of spirit. His towering 
 physique presented, with impressive accu- 
 racy, the Hebrew monarch, chosen of God, 
 who was ‘‘ lifted a head and shoulders above 
 the people.’? His tremulous sensibility, his 
 knowledge of suffering, his skill in depict- 
 ing it, his great resources of voice, his vigour 
 and fineness of action, his exceptional com- 
 mingling of largeness and gentleness —all 
 these attributes combined in that perform- 
 ance, to give magnificent reality to one 
 of the most sublime conceptions in litera- 
 ture. By his personation of Saul Salvini 
 added a new and an immortal figure to the 
 stage pantheon of kings and heroes. 
 
340 SALVINI AS 
 
 Alfieri’s tragedy of Saul was written in 
 1782-83, when the haughty, impetuous, and 
 passionate poet was thirty-four years old, 
 and at the suggestion of the Countess of 
 Albany, whom heloved. He had suffered a 
 bereavement at the time, and he was in 
 deep grief. The Countess tried to con- 
 sole him by reading the Bible, and when 
 they came upon the narrative of Saul 
 the idea of the tragedy was struck out be- 
 tween them. The work was written with 
 vigorous impulse and the author has 
 left, in his autobiography, the remark 
 that none of his tragedies cost him so little 
 labour. Saul is in five acts and it contains 
 1567 lines —of that Italian versi sciolti 
 which inadequately corresponds to the 
 blank verse of the English language. The 
 scene is laid in the camp of Saul’s army. 
 Six persons are introduced, namely, Saul, 
 Jonathan, David, Michel, Abner, and 
 Achimelech. The time supposed to be 
 occupied by the action—or rather, by the 
 suffering — of the piece is a single day, 
 the last in the king’s life. Act first is de- 
 voted to explanation, conveyed in warn- 
 ings to David, by Jonathan, his friend, 
 and Michel, his wife. Act second presents 
 the distracted monarch, who knows that 
 
KING SAUL AND KING LEAR. 341 
 
 God has forsaken him and that death is 
 at hand. In a speech of terrible inten- 
 sity he relates to Abner the story of the 
 apparition of Samuel and the doom that 
 the ghost has spoken. His children hu- 
 mour and soothe the broken old man, 
 and finally succeed in softening his mind 
 toward David—whom he at once loves, 
 dreads, and hates, as the appointed instru- 
 ment of his destruction and the successor 
 to his crown. Act third shows David play- 
 ing upon the harp before Saul, and chanting 
 Saul’s deeds in the service and defence of Is- 
 rael — so that he calms the agonised delirium 
 of the haunted king and wins his blessing ; 
 but at last a boastful word makes discord 
 in the music’s charm, and Saul is suddenly 
 roused into a ghastly fury. Acts fourth 
 and fifth deal with the wild caprices and 
 maddening agonies of the frenzied father ; 
 the ever-varying phenomena of his mental 
 disease ; the onslaught of the Philistines ; 
 the killing of his sons ; the frequent recur- 
 rence, before his mind’s eye, of the shade 
 of the dead prophet; and finally his sui- 
 cidal death. It is, in form, a classical 
 tragedy, massive, grand, and majestically 
 simple ; and it blazes from end to end with 
 the fire of a sublime imagination. 
 
342 SALVINI AS 
 
 Ardent lovers of Italian literature are 
 fond of ranking Saul with Lear. The 
 claim is natural but it is not valid. In 
 Lear — not to speak of its profound revela- 
 tions of universal human nature and its 
 vast philosophy of human life—there is a 
 tremendous scope of action, through which 
 mental condition and experience are dra- 
 matically revealed ; and there is the deepest 
 deep of pathos, because the highest height 
 of afflicted goodness. In Saul there is 
 simply —upon a limited canvas, without 
 adjuncts, without the suggestion of re- 
 sources, without the relief of even mourn- 
 ful humour, and with a narrative rather 
 than a dramatic background — the portrai- 
 ture of a condition ; and, because the man 
 displayed is neither so noble nor so human, 
 the pathos surcharging the work is neither 
 so harrowing nor so tender. Yet the two 
 works are akin in majesty of ideal, in the 
 terrible topic of mental disease that shat- 
 ters a king, and in the atmosphere of deso- 
 lation that trails after them like a funeral 
 pall; and it is not a wonder that Alfieri’s 
 Saul should be deemed the greatest tragedy 
 ever originated in the Italian language. It 
 attains a superb height, for it keeps an 
 equal pace with the severe simplicity of the 
 
KING SAUL AND KING LEAR. 343 
 
 Bible narrative on which it is founded. It 
 depicts the condition of an imaginative 
 mind, a stately and robust character, an 
 arrogant, fiery spirit, a kind heart, and 
 a royal and regally poised nature, that 
 have first been undermined by sin and the 
 consciousness of sin, and then crazed by 
 contact with the spirit world and by a 
 nameless dread of the impending anger of 
 an offended God. It would be difficult to 
 conceive of a more distracting and piteous 
 state. Awe and terror surround that au- 
 gust sufferer, and make him both holy and 
 dreadful. In his person and his condi- 
 tion, as those are visible to the imaginative 
 mind, he combines elements that irresistibly 
 impress and thrill. He is of vast physical 
 stature, that time has not bent, and of 
 great beauty of face, that griefs have rav- 
 aged but not destroyed. He is a valiant 
 and sanguinary warrior, and danger seems 
 to radiate from his presence. He is a mag- 
 nanimous king and a loving father, and he 
 softens by generosity and wins by gentle- 
 ness. He is a maniac, haunted by spectres 
 and scourged with a whip of scorpions, and 
 his red-eyed fury makes all space a hell 
 and shatters silence with the shrieks of the 
 damned. He is a human soul, burdened 
 
344 ; SALVINI AS 
 
 with the frightful consciousness of Divine 
 wrath and poised in torment on the preci- 
 pice that overhangs the dark, storm-beaten 
 ocean of eternity. His human weakness is 
 frighted by ghastly visions and indefinite 
 horrors, against which his vain struggle 
 only makes his forlorn feebleness more 
 piteous and drear. The gleams of calm 
 that fall upon his tortured heart only light 
 up an abyss of misery —a vault of dark- 
 ness peopled by demons. He is already cut — 
 off from among the living, by the doom 
 of inevitable fate, and while we pity him 
 we fear him. His coming seems attended 
 with monstrous shapes; he diffuses disso- 
 nance ; his voice is a cry of anguish or a 
 wail of desolation ; his existence is a tem- 
 pest; there can be no relief for him save 
 death, and the death that ends him comes 
 like the blessing of tears to the scorched 
 eyelids of consuming misery. That is the 
 Saul of the Bible and of Alfieri’s tragedy ; 
 and that is the Saul whom Salvini embodied, 
 It was a colossal monument of human suf- 
 fering that the actor presented, and no one 
 could look upon it without being awed and 
 chastened. 
 
 Salvini’s embodiment of King Lear was a 
 remarkable manifestation of physical re- 
 
KING SAUL AND KING LEAR. 345 
 
 sources and of professional skill. The 
 lofty stature, the ample and resonant voice, 
 the copious animal excitement, the fluent 
 elocution and the vigorous, picturesque, 
 and often melodramatic movements, ges- 
 tures, and poses of Salvini united to ani- 
 mate and embellish a personality such as 
 would naturally absorb attention and dif- 
 fuse excitement. Every artist, however, 
 moves within certain specific and positive 
 limitations — spiritual, mental, and physi- 
 cal. No actor has proved equal to every 
 kind of character. Salvini, when he acted 
 Hamlet, was unspiritual — giving no effect 
 to the haunted tone of that part or to its 
 weird surroundings; and when he acted 
 Macbeth he was unimaginative, obscure, 
 common, and therefore inadequate. The 
 only Shakespearean character that he ex- 
 celled in is Othello, and even in that 
 his ideal displayed neither the magna- 
 nimity nor the tenderness that are in 
 Shakespeare’s conception. The chief at- 
 tributes of the Moor that he interpreted 
 were physical; the loftiest heights that 
 he reached were terror and distracted 
 grief; but he worked with a pictorial 
 method and a magnetic vigour that en- 
 thralled the feelings even when they did not 
 command the judgment. 
 
 —_— 
 ee 
 
346 SALVINI AS 
 
 His performance of King Lear gave new 
 evidence of his limitations. During the 
 first two acts he made the king a merely 
 restless, choleric, disagreeable old man, 
 deficient in dignity, destitute of grandeur, 
 and especially destitute of inherent per- 
 sonal fascination-—of the suggestiveness 
 of ever having been a great man. Lear 
 is a ruin—but he has been a Titan; the 
 delight of all hearts no less than the mon- 
 arch of all minds. The actor who does not 
 invest him with that inherent, overwhelm- 
 ing personal fascination does not attain to 
 his altitude. The cruel afflictions that oc- 
 cur in the tragedy do not of themselves 
 signify: the pity is only that they should 
 occur to him. ‘That is the spring of all the 
 pathos. In Salvini’s Lear there were beau- 
 tiful moments and magnificent bits of ac- 
 tion. ‘I gave .you all” and “I’mcold 
 myself’? were exquisite points. He missed 
 altogether, however, the more subtle signif- 
 icance of the reminiscent reference to Cor- 
 delia—as in ‘‘No more of that, I have 
 noted it well’? —and he gave, at the begin- 
 ning, no intimation of impending madness. 
 In fact he introduced no element of lunacy 
 till he reached the lines about ‘red-hot 
 spits’? in Edgar’s first mad scene, 
 
KING SAUL AND KING LEAR. 347 
 
 Much of Salvini’s mechanism in Lear was 
 crude. He put the king behind a table, in 
 the first scene — which had the effect of 
 preparation for a lecture; and it pleased 
 him to speak the storm speech away back 
 at the upper entrance, with his body almost 
 wholly concealed behind painted crags, 
 With all its moments of power and of ten- 
 derness the embodiment was neither royal, 
 lovable, nor great. It might be a good 
 Italian Lear: it was not the Lear of Shake- 
 speare. Salvini was particularly out of the 
 character in the curse scene and in the 
 frantic parting from the two daughters, 
 because there the quality of the man, be- 
 hind the action, seemed especially common. 
 The action, though, was theatrical and had 
 its due effect. 
 
348 HENRY IRVING 
 
 EVE 
 HENRY IRVING AS EUGENE ARAM. 
 
 if ENRY IRVING’S impersonation of 
 
 Eugene Aram — given in a vein that is 
 distinctly unique — was one of strange and 
 melancholy grace and also of weird poetical 
 and pathetic power. 
 
 More than fifty years ago, just after Bul- 
 wer’s novel on the subject of Eugene Aram 
 was published, that character first came 
 upon the stage, and its first introduction 
 to the American theatre occurred at the 
 Bowery, where it was represented by John 
 R. Scott. Aram languished, however, as a 
 dramatic person, and soon disappeared. 
 He did not thrive in England, neither, till, 
 in 1873, Henry Irving, who had achieved 
 great success in The Bells, prompted W. G. 
 Wills to effect his resuscitation in a new 
 play, and acted him ina newmanner. The 
 part then found an actor who could play it, 
 — investing psychological subtlety with ten- 
 der human feeling and romantic grace, and 
 
AS EUGENE ARAM. 349 
 
 making an imaginary experience of suffer- 
 ing vital and heartrending in its awful 
 reality. The performance ranks with the 
 best that Henry Irving has given — with 
 Mathias, Lesurques, Dubosc, Louis XTI., and 
 Hamlet ; those studies of the night-side of 
 human nature in which his imagination and 
 intellect and his sombre feeling have been 
 revealed and best exemplified. 
 
 Kugene Aram was born at Ramsgill, in 
 Nidderdale, Yorkshire, in 1704. His father, 
 Peter Aram, was a man of good family but 
 becoming reduced in circumstances he took 
 service as a gardener on the estate of Sir 
 Edward Blackett, of Newby Hall. In 1710 
 Peter Aram and his family were living at 
 _ Bondgate, near Ripon, and there Eugene 
 went to school and learned to read the New 
 Testament. At a considerably later period 
 he was instructed, during one month, by 
 the Rev. Mr. Alcock, of Burndall. This 
 was the extent of the tuition that he ever 
 received from others. For the rest he was 
 self-taught. He had a natural passion for 
 knowledge and he displayed wonderful 
 industry in its acquisition. When sixteen 
 years old he knew something of Latin, 
 Greek, and Hebrew, and later he made him- 
 self acquainted with Chaldaic and Arabic. 
 
350 HENRY IRVING 
 
 His occupation, up to this time, was that of 
 assistant to his father, the gardener ; but 
 about 1720 he was employed in London as 
 a clerk to a merchant, Mr. Christopher 
 Blackett, a relative to his father’s patron, 
 Sir Edward. He did not remain there long. 
 A serious illness prostrated him, and on 
 recovering he returned to Nidderdale, with 
 which romantic region his fate was to be 
 forever associated. He now became a 
 tutor, and not long after he was employed 
 as such at a manor-house, near Ramsgill, 
 called Gowthwaite Hall, a residence built 
 early in the seventeenth century by Sir 
 John Yorke, and long inhabited by his 
 descendants. While living there he met 
 and courted Anna Spance, the daughter of 
 a farmer, at the lonely village of Lofthouse, 
 and in 1731 he married her. The Middles- 
 moor registry contains the record of this 
 marriage, and of the baptism and death of 
 their first child. In 17384 Eugene Aram 
 removed to Knaresborough, where he kept 
 a school. He had, all this while, sedulously 
 pursued his studies, and he now was a 
 scholar of extraordinary acquirements, not 
 only in the languages but in botany, her- 
 aldry, and many other branches of learn- 
 ing. His life seemed fair and his future 
 
AS EUGENE ARAM. 351 
 
 bright: but achange was at hand. He had 
 not resided long at Knaresborough before 
 he became acquainted with three persons 
 most unlike himself in every way. These 
 men were Henry Terry, Richard House- 
 man, and Daniel Clarke. Houseman was 
 a flax-dresser. Clarke was a travelling 
 jeweller. All of them were intemperate ; 
 and it is supposed that the beginning of 
 Eugene Aram’s downfall was the appetite 
 for drink. The confederacy that he formed 
 with these men is not easily explicable, and 
 probably it never has been rightly explained. 
 The accepted statement is that it was a con- 
 federacy for fraud and theft. Clarke was 
 reported to be the heir presumptive to a 
 large fortune. He purchased goods, was 
 punctual in his payments, and established 
 his credit. He was supposed to be making 
 purchases for a merchant in London. He 
 dealt largely in gold and silver plate and in 
 watches, and soon he made a liberal use of 
 his credit to accumulate valuable objects. 
 In 1744 he disappeared, and he never was 
 seen or heard of again. His frauds became 
 known, and the houses of Aram and House- 
 man, suspected as his associates, were 
 searched, but nothing was found to impli- 
 cate either of them. 
 
352 HENRY IRVING 
 
 Soon after this event Aram left Knares- 
 borough — deserting his wife —and pro- | 
 ceeded to London, where for two years he 
 had employment as a teacher of Latin. 
 He was subsequently an usher at the 
 boarding school of the Rev. Anthony Hin- 
 ton, at Hayes, in Middlesex, and there it 
 was observed that he displayed an extraor- 
 dinary and scrupulous tenderness and solici- 
 tude as to the life and safety of even worms 
 and insects — which he would remove from 
 the garden walks and put into places of 
 security. At a later period he found em- 
 ployment as a transcriber of acts of Parlia- 
 ment, for registration in chancery. Still 
 later he became an usher at the Free 
 School of Lynn, in Norfolk, where, among 
 other labours, he undertook to make a com- 
 parative lexicon, and with this purpose col- 
 lated over 3000 words in English, Latin, 
 Greek, Hebrew, and Celtic. He had ample 
 opportunity to leave England but he never 
 didso. At length, in 1759, a labourer who 
 was digging for limestone, at a place known 
 as St. Robert’s Cave, Thistle Hill, near 
 Knaresborough, came upon a human skele- 
 ton, bent double and buried in the earth. 
 Suspicion was aroused. These bones, it 
 was surmised, might be those of Daniel 
 
AS EUGENE ARAM. 353 
 Clarke. His mysterious disappearance and 
 his associates were remembered. The 
 authorities sent forth and arrested Terry, 
 Houseman, and Eugene Aram, and those 
 persons were brought to their trial at York. 
 A bold front would have saved them, for 
 the evidence against them was weak. Aram 
 stood firm, but Houseman quailed, and pres- 
 ently he turned ‘‘state’s evidence’’ and 
 denounced Aram as the murderer of Clarke. 
 The accused scholar spoke in his own de- 
 fence, and with astonishing skill, but he 
 failed to defeat the direct and decisive evi- 
 dence of his accomplice. Houseman de- 
 ‘clared that on the day of the murder Clarke, 
 Aram, and himself were in company, and 
 were occupied in disposing of the property 
 which they had obtained; that Aram 
 proposed to walk in the fields, and that 
 they proceeded, thereupon, at nightfall, 
 to the vicinity of St. Robert’s Cave. 
 Clarke and Aram, he said, went over 
 the hedge and advanced toward the cave, 
 and Aram struck Clarke several times 
 upon the breast and head, and so killed him. 
 It was a dark night, and in the middle of 
 winter, but the moon was shining through 
 drifting clouds, and Houseman said he 
 could see the movement of Aram’s hand 
 ra 
 
354 HENRY IRVING 
 
 but not the weapon that it held. He was 
 about twelve yards from the spot of the 
 murder. He testified that the body of 
 Clarke was buried in the cave. The presid- 
 ing justice charged against the prisoner and 
 Eugene Aram was convicted and con- 
 demned. He subsequently, it is said, con- 
 fessed the crime, alleging to the clergyman 
 by whom he was attended that his wife had 
 been led into an intrigue by Clarke, and 
 that this was the cause of the murder. 
 Here, doubtless, is the indication of the 
 true nature of this tragedy. Aram, prior to 
 his execution, was confined in York Castle, 
 where he wrote a poem of considerable 
 length and some merit, and also several 
 shorter pieces of verse. On the morning of 
 his execution it was found that he had. 
 opened a vein in his arm, with the intent 
 to bleed to death, but the wound was 
 staunched, and he was taken to Knares- 
 borough and there hanged, and afterward 
 his body was hung in chains in Knares- 
 borough Forest. His death occurred on 
 August 13, 1759, in the fifty-fifth year of 
 his age. On the night before his execution 
 he wrote a rhythmical apostroplue to 
 death ; — . 
 
AS EUGENE ARAM. 355 
 
 **Come, pleasing rest! eternal slumber fall! 
 Seal mine, that once must sea] the eyes of 
 all! 
 Calm and composed my soul her journey 
 takes} . 
 No guilt that troubles and no heart that 
 aches.” 
 
 Such is the story of Eugene Aram—a 
 story that has furnished the basis of vari- 
 ous fictions, notably of Bulwer’s famous 
 novel, and which inspired one of the best 
 of the beautiful poems of Thomas Hood. 
 Wills gathered hints from it, here and 
 there, in the making of his play; but he 
 boldly departed from its more hideous and 
 repulsive incidents and from the theory of 
 the main character that might perhaps be 
 justified by its drift. In the construction of 
 -the piece Henry Irving made many material 
 suggestions. The treatment of the charac- 
 ter of Aram was devised by him, and the 
 management of the close of the second act 
 denotes his felicity of invention. 
 
 The play opens in the rose-garden of a 
 rural rectory in the sweet, greén valley of . 
 the shining Nidd. The time is twilight ; 
 the season summer; and here, in a haven 
 of peace and love, the repentant murderer 
 has found a refuge. Many years have 
 
356 HENRY IRVING | 
 
 passed since the commission of his crime, 
 and all those years he has lived a good life, 
 devoted to study, instruction, and works of 
 benevolence. He has been a teacher of the 
 young, a helper of the poor, and he has 
 gained respect, affection, and honourable 
 repute. He is safe in the security of 
 silence and in the calm self-poise of his 
 adamantine will. His awful secret sleeps 
 in his bosom and is at rest forever. He 
 has suffered much and he still suffers ; 
 yet, lulled into a false security by the un- 
 eventful lapse of years and by that drift- 
 ing, desolate, apathetic recklessness which 
 is sequent on the subsiding storm of pas.. 
 sionate sorrow, he has allowed himself to 
 accept a woman’s love and to love her in 
 return, and half to believe that his long 
 misery has expiated his sin and that even 
 for him there may be a little happiness yet 
 possible on earth. Eugene Aram, the vil- 
 lage school-master, and Ruth Meadows, the 
 vicar’s daughter, are betrothed lovers; and 
 now, on the eve of their wedding morning, 
 _ they stand together among the roses, while 
 the sun is going down and the sweet sum- 
 mer wind plays softly in the leaves, and 
 from the little gray church close by a solemn 
 strain of music —the vesper hymn — floats © 
 
AS EUGENE ARAM. 357 
 
 out upon the stillness of the darkening day. 
 The woman is all happiness, confidence, 
 and hope ; the man, seared and blighted by 
 conscious sin and subdued by long years of 
 patient submission to the sense of his own 
 unworthiness, is all gentleness, solicitude, 
 reverence, and sorrow. At this supreme 
 moment, when now it seems that everything 
 is surely well, the one man in the world 
 who knows Eugene Aram’s secret has be- 
 come, by seeming chance, a guest in the 
 vicarage ; and even while Ruth places her 
 hand upon her lover’s heart and softly 
 whispers, ‘‘ If guilt were there, it still should 
 be my pillow,’’ the shadow of the gathering 
 night that darkens around them is deep- 
 ened by the blacker shadow of impending 
 doom. The first act of the play is simply 
 a picture. It involves no action. It only 
 introduces the several persons who are 
 implicated in the experience to be dis- 
 played, denotes their relationship to one 
 another, and reveals a condition of feel- 
 ing and circumstance which is alike roman- 
 tic, pathetic, and perilous, ana which is soon 
 to be shattered by the disclosure of a fatal 
 secret. The act is a preparation for a 
 catastrophe. 
 
 In the second act the opposed charac- 
 
358 HENRY IRVING 
 
 ters clash: the movement begins, and the 
 catastrophe is precipitated. The story 
 opens at nightfall, proceeds the same even- 
 ing, and ends at the dawn of the ensu- 
 ing day. The scene of act second is a 
 room in the vicarage. Aram and Parson 
 Meadows are playing chess, and Ruth is 
 hovering about them and roguishly im- 
 peding their play. The purpose accom- 
 plished here is the exhibition of domestic 
 comfort and content, and this is further 
 emphasised by Ruth’s recital of a written 
 tribute that Aram’s pupils have sent to him, 
 on the eve of his marriage. Wounded by 
 this praise the conscience-stricken wretch 
 breaks off abruptly from his pastime and 
 rushes from the room —an act of desperate 
 grief which is attributed to his modesty. 
 The parson soon follows, and Ruth is left 
 alone. Houseman, their casual guest, hay- 
 ing accepted the vicar’s hospitable offer of 
 a shelter for the night, has now a talk with 
 Ruth, and he is startled to hear the name 
 of Eugene Aram, and thus to know that he 
 has found the man whose fatal secret he 
 possesses, and upon whose assumed dread 
 of exposure his cupidity now purposes to 
 feed. Ina coarsely jocular way this brutish 
 creature provokes the indignant resentment 
 
AS EUGENE ARAM. 359 
 
 of Ruth, by insinuations as to her betrothed 
 lover’s past life; and when, a little later, 
 Ruth and Aram again meet, she wooingly 
 begs him to tell her of any secret trouble 
 that may be weighing upon his mind. At 
 this moment Houseman comes upon them, 
 and utters Aram’s name. From that point 
 to the end of the act there is a sustained 
 and sinewy exposition, strong in spirit and 
 thrilling in suspense,—of keen intellect 
 and resolute will standing at bay and 
 making their last battle for life, against the 
 overwhelming odds of heaven’s appointed 
 doom. Aram defies Houseman and is de- 
 “nounced by him; but the ready adroitness 
 and iron composure of the suffering wretch 
 still give him supremacy over his foe — till, 
 suddenly, the discovery is announced of 
 the bones of Daniel Clarke in St. Robert’s 
 Cave, and the vicar commands Aram and 
 Houseman to join him in their inspection. 
 Here the murderer suffers a collapse. There 
 has been a greater strain than even he can 
 bear; and, left alone upon the scene, he 
 stands petrified with horror, seeming, in an 
 ecstasy of nameless fear, to look upon the 
 spectre of his victim. Henry Irving’s man- 
 agement of the apparition effect was such 
 as is possible only to a man of genius, and 
 
360 | HENRY IRVING 
 
 such as words may record but never can 
 describe. 
 
 The third act passes in the churchyard. 
 Aram has fled from the sight of the skele~ 
 ton, and has fallen among the graves. It 
 is almost morning. The ghastly place is 
 silent and dark. The spirit of the murderer 
 is broken, and his enfeebled body, long 
 since undermined by the grief of remorse 
 and now chilled by the night dews, is in 
 the throes of death. The incidents of the 
 closing scene are simple, but they are heart- 
 breaking in their pathos and awful in their 
 desolation. The fugitive Houseman finds 
 Aram here, and spurns him as a whimper- 
 ing lunatic. Then, in this midnight hour 
 and this appalling place, alone in the pres- 
 ence of God, the murderer lifts his hands 
 toward heaven, confesses his crime, and 
 falls at the foot of the cross. Here Ruth 
 finds him, and to her, with dying lips, he 
 tells the story of the murder and of all that 
 he has since endured. And just as his 
 voice falters into silence and his heart 
 ceases to beat, the diamond light of morn- 
 ing gleams in the eastern sky and the glad 
 music of an anthem floats softly from the 
 neighbouring church. Upon that beauti- 
 fully significant picture the final curtain 
 fell. 
 
AS EUGENE ARAM. 361 
 
 Wills’s literary framework for the dis- 
 play of character and experience is scarce- 
 ly to be considered a perfect play. It 
 begins by assuming on the part of its 
 auditor a knowledge of the mystery upon 
 which it is based. Such a knowledge the 
 auditor ought certainly to have, but in 
 presence of an exact drama he derives it 
 from what he sees and not from remem- 
 brance of what he has read. The piece is, 
 perhaps, somewhat irrational in making 
 Aram a resident, under his own name, of 
 the actual neighbourhood of his crime. It 
 lowers the assumed nobility of his char- 
 acter, furthermore, by making this remorse- 
 ful and constantly apprehensive murderer 
 willing to yoke a sweet, innocent, and idol- 
 ised woman to misery and shame by making 
 her his wife. And it mars its most pathetic 
 scene—the awful scene of the midnight 
 confession in the churchyard — by making 
 Eugene Aram declare, to the woman of his 
 love, the one human being who comforts 
 and sustains him on the brink of eternity, 
 that he has loved another woman for whose 
 sake he did the murder. Since the whole 
 story was to be treated in a fanciful man- 
 ner, a still wider license in the play of 
 fancy would, perhaps, have had a more 
 
362 HENRY IRVING 
 
 entirely gracious and satisfying effect. The 
 language is partly blank verse and. partly 
 prose ; and, while its tissue is rightly and 
 skilfully diversified by judicious allowance - 
 for the effect of each character upon the 
 garment of individual diction, and while 
 its strain, here and there, rises to eloquence ~ 
 of feeling and beauty of imagery, there is 
 a certain lack of firmness in its verbal fibre. 
 The confession speech that has to be spoken 
 by Aram comprises upward of ninety lines 
 —and that is a severe and perilous strain 
 upon an actor’s power of holding the 
 public interest. The beaquties of the play, 
 however, are many and strong. Its crown- 
 ing excellence is that it gives dramatic 
 permanence to a strangely interesting char- 
 acter. 
 
 The knowledge of human nature that - 
 Henry Irving revealed in this part and 
 the manner in which he revealed it were ~ 
 nothing less than wonderful. The mo- . 
 ment he walked upon the scene you 
 saw the blighted figure of a man who - 
 has endured, and is enduring, spiritual 
 torment. The whole personality was suf- 
 fused with a mournful strangeness. The 
 man was isolated and alone. It was a 
 purely ideal view of the character that 
 
AS EUGENE ARAM. 363 
 
 the actor denoted; for he made Eugene 
 Aram a noble, tender, gentle person, 
 whom ungovernable passion, under circum- 
 stances of overwhelming provocation, had 
 once impelled to an act of half-justifiable 
 homicide, and who had for years. been 
 slowly dying with remorse. He touched 
 no chord of terror, but only the chord of 
 pity. Like his portrayal of Mathias, the 
 picture showed the reactionary effect of 
 hidden sin in the human soul; but the 
 personality of the sufferer was entirely dif- 
 ferent. Each of those men has had experi- 
 ence of crime and.of resultant misery, but 
 no two embodiments could possibly be more 
 dissimilar, alike in spiritual quality and 
 in circumstances. Mathias is dominated 
 by paternal love and characterised by a 
 half-defiant, ever-vigilant, and often self- 
 approbative pride of intellect, in being able 
 to guard and keep a terrible and dangerous 
 secret. Eugene Aram is dominated by a 
 saint-like tenderness toward a sweet woman 
 who loves him, and characterised by a pro- 
 found, fitful melancholy, now humble and 
 submissive, now actively apprehensive and 
 almost frenzied. Only once does he stand 
 at bay and front his destiny with a defiance 
 of desperate will; and even then it is for 
 
364 HENRY IRVING 
 
 the woman’s sake rather than for his own. 
 Henry Irving’s acting made clear and beau- 
 tiful that condition of temperament. <A 
 noble and affectionate nature, shipwrecked, 
 going to pieces, doomed, but making one 
 last tremendous though futile effort to avert 
 the final and inevitable ruin —this ideal 
 was made actual in his performance. 
 The intellectual or spiritual value of such 
 a presentment must depend upon the 
 auditor’s capacity to absorb from a trag- 
 edy its lessons of insight into the rela- 
 tions of the human soul to the moral 
 government of the world. Many spectators 
 would find it merely morbid and gloomy; 
 others would find it superlatively illumina- 
 tive and eloquent. Its artistic value the 
 actor himself made evident to every com- 
 prehension. There is a moment of the 
 performance when the originally massive 
 and passionate character of Eugene Aram 
 is suddenly asserted above his meek- 
 ness, contrition, and sorrow; when, at the 
 sound of his enemy’s voice, he first be- 
 comes petrified with the sense of peril, and 
 then calmly gathers all his powers to meet 
 and conquer the danger. The splendid 
 concentration, the perfect poise, the sus- 
 tained intensity, the copious and amazing 
 
AS EUGENE ARAM. 365 
 variety and force of emotion, and the posi- 
 tive, unerring, and brilliant art with which 
 Henry Irving met that emergency and dis- 
 played that frightful and piteous aspect of 
 assailed humanity, desperate and fighting 
 for life, made up such an image of genius 
 as Seldom is seen and never will be forgot- 
 ten. Rapid transition has ever been one 
 of the commonest and most effective expe- 
 dients used in histrionic art. This, on the 
 contrary, was an example of sustained, 
 prolonged, cumulative, artistic expression 
 of the most harrowing and awful emotions 
 with which the human soul can be con- 
 vulsed ; and it was a wonder of consum- 
 mate acting. The same thoroughness of 
 identification and the same astonishing 
 _adequacy of feeling pervaded the scene in 
 the churchyard. At first, in the dusky 
 starlight, only a shapeless figure, covered 
 with a black cloak, was seen among the 
 gravestones, crouched upon a tomb; but 
 the man that rose, as if out of the grave, 
 pallid, emaciated, ghastly, the spectre of 
 himself, was the authentic image of majes- 
 tic despair, not less sublime than pitiable, 
 and fraught with a power that happiness 
 could never attain. Not in our time upon 
 the stage has such a lesson been taught, 
 
366 HENRY IRVING. 
 
 with such overwhelming pathos, of the utter 
 helplessness of even the strongest human 
 will, when once the soul has been vitiated 
 by sin and the eternal law of right defied by 
 mortal passion. In the supplication to his 
 astonished accomplice the actor seemed like 
 one transfigured, and there the haunted 
 effect was extremely awful. 
 
CHARLES FISHER. 367 
 
 eV. 
 CHARLES FISHER. 
 
 N old times Charles Fisher often figured 
 in the old comedies, and he was one of 
 the last of the thin and rapidly lessening 
 group of actors capable of presenting those 
 pieces — wherein, although the substance 
 be human nature, the manner is that of 
 elaborate and diversified artifice. When 
 he played Lieutenant Worthington, in The 
 Poor Gentleman, he was a gentleman in- 
 deed — refined, delicate, sensitive, simply 
 courageous, sustained by native integrity, 
 and impressive with a dignity of manner 
 that reflected the essential nobility of his 
 mind; so that when he mistook Sir Robert 
 Bramble for a bailiff,.and roused that be- 
 nevolent baronet’s astonishment and rage, 
 he brought forth all the comic humour of a 
 delightful situation with the greatest ease 
 and nature. He played Littleton Coke, Sir 
 Harcourt Courtly, old Laroque — in which 
 he gave a wonderful picture of the working 
 
368 CHARLES FISHER. 
 
 of remorse in the frail and failing brain of 
 age—and Nicholas Rue, in Secrets worth 
 Knowing, a sinister and thrilling embodi- 
 ment of avarice and dotage. He played 
 Dr. Bland, the elegant medical cynic of 
 Nos Intimes ; De la Tour, the formidable, 
 jealous husband of Henriette, in Le Patte 
 de Mouche; Horace, in The Country Squire ; 
 Goldfinch, in which he was airy, sagacious, 
 dashing, and superb, in The Road to Ruin ; 
 and Captain Cozzens, the nonchalant rascal 
 of The Knights of the Round Table, which 
 he embodied in a style of easy magnifi- 
 cence, gay, gallant, courageous, alert, im- 
 perturbable, and immensely comic. He 
 was the original Matthew Leigh in Les- 
 ter Wallack’s romantic play of Rosedale 
 (1863). He acted Joseph Surface in the 
 days when Lester Wallack used to play 
 Charles, and he always held his own in 
 that superior part. He was equally fine in 
 Sir Peter and Sir Oliver. When the good 
 old play of The Wife's Secret was revived 
 in New York, in 1864, he gave a dignified 
 and impetuous performance of Sir Walter 
 Amyott. I remember him in those parts, 
 with equal wonder at his comprehensive 
 variety of talent and admiration for his 
 always adequate skill. I saw him as the 
 
CHARLES FISHER. 369 
 
 volatile Ferment, in The School of Reform, 
 and nothing could be more comic than his 
 unwitting abuse of General Tarragon, in 
 that blustering officer’s presence, or his 
 equally ludicrous scene of cross purposes 
 with Bob Tyke. He was a perfect type, as 
 Don Manuel Velasco, in The Compact, of 
 the gallant, stately Spanish aristocrat. He 
 excelled competition when, in a company 
 that included George Holland, W. Holston, 
 A. W. Young, Mark Smith, Frederick C. 
 P. Robinson, and John Gilbert, he enacted 
 the convict in Never Too Late to Mend. 
 He was equally at home whether as the 
 King in Don Cesar de Bazan or as Tom 
 Stylus the literary hack, in Society. He 
 passed easily from the correct and senti- 
 mental Sir Thomas Clifford, of The Hunch- 
 back, to the frivolous Mr. Willowear, of 
 To Marry or Not to Marry. No one could 
 better express than he did, when playing 
 Wellborn, both pride of birth and pride of 
 character. One of his most characteristic 
 works was Hyssop, in The Rent Day. His 
 scope and the rich resources of his experi- 
 ence are denoted in those citations. It is 
 no common artist who can create and sus- 
 tain a perfect illusion, and please an audi- 
 ence equally well, whether in such a part 
 > 
 
gyi. CHARLES FISHER. 
 
 as Gilbert Featherstone, the villain, in Lost 
 in London, or old Baptista, in The Taming 
 of the Shrew. The playgoer who never 
 saw Charles Fisher as Triplet can scarcely 
 claim that he ever saw the part-at all. The 
 quaint figure, the well-saved but thread- 
 bare dress, the forlorn air of poverty and 
 suffering commingled with a certain jaun- 
 tiness and pluck, the profound feeling, the 
 unconscious sweetness and humour, the 
 spirit of mind, gentility, and refinement 
 struggling through the confirmed wretched- 
 ness of the almost heart-broken hack — 
 who that ever laughed and wept at sight of 
 him in the garret scene, sitting down, ‘all. 
 joy and hilarity,’’ to write his comedy, can 
 ever forget those details of a true and touch- 
 ing embodiment? His fine skill in playing 
 the violin was touchingly displayed in that 
 part, and gave it an additional tone of 
 reality. I once saw him acting Mercutio, 
 and very admirable he was in the guise of 
 that noble, brave, frolicsome, impetuous 
 young gentleman. The intense vitality, 
 the glancing glee, the intrepid spirit — all 
 were preserved ; and the brilliant text was 
 spoken with faultless fluency. It is diffi- 
 cult to realise that the same actor who 
 set before us that perfect image of comic 
 
CHARLES FISHER. yh 
 
 perplexity, the bland and benevolent Dean, 
 in Dandy Dick, could ever have been 
 the bantering companion of Romeo and 
 truculent adversary of fiery Tybalt. Yet 
 this contrast but faintly indicates the ver- 
 satile character of his mind. Fisher was 
 upon the American stage for thirty-eight 
 years, from August 30, 1852, when he came 
 forth at Burton’s theatre as Ferment. 
 Later he went to Wallack’s, and in 1872 
 he joined Daly’s company, in which he 
 remained till 1890. It may be conjectured 
 that in some respects he resembled that 
 fine comedian Thomas Dogget, to whom 
 Sir Godfrey Kneller, the painter, said, ‘I 
 can only copy Nature from the originals 
 before me, while you vary them at pleas- 
 ure and yet preserve the likeness.’’ Like 
 Dogget he played, in a vein of rich, hearty, 
 jocose humour, and with great breadth of 
 effect and excellent colour, the sailor Ben, 
 in Love for Love. The resemblance was 
 in mental characteristics, not physique— 
 for Dogget was a slight and sprightly 
 man, whereas Fisher could represent maj- 
 esty as well as frolic. After he went to 
 Daly’s theatre he manifested a surpris- 
 ing range of faculty. He first appeared 
 there on October 28, 1872, as Mr. Dorn- 
 
372 CHARLES FISHER. 
 
 ton, in The Road to Ruin, and on No- 
 vember 19, following, he acted Falstaff for 
 the first time. He presented there the 
 other Shakespearean parts of Leonatus, Ar- 
 mado, and Malvolio—the last of these 
 being a model of fidelity to the poet, and 
 now a classic in reputation. He also as- 
 sumed Adam and Jaques. He presented 
 the living image of Shakespeare himself, in 
 Yorick, and his large, broad, stately style 
 gave weight to Don Manuel, in She Would 
 and She Wouldn’t; to that apt type of 
 he refined British aristocrat, Sir Geoffrey 
 Champneys, in Our Boys; and to many a 
 noble father or benevolent uncle of the 
 adapted French society drama. Just as 
 Dogget was supreme in such parts as Fon- 
 dlewife, so was Fisher superb in the uxori- 
 ous husband whom the demure child-wife 
 bamboozles, in the comedies of Moliére. 
 No man has ever better depicted than he 
 did a sweet nature shocked by calamity 
 and bowed down with grief, or, as in Joe 
 Chirrup, in E/fie, manliness chastened by 
 affliction and ennobled by true love: yet 
 his impersonation of Fagin was only second 
 to that of J. W. Wallack, Jr. ; his Moody, 
 in The Country Girl, was almost tragic in 
 its grim and grizzled wretchedness and 
 
CHARLES FISHER. 37/3 
 
 snarling wrath; and I have seen him as- 
 sume to perfection the gaunt figure and 
 crazy mood of Noah Learoyd, in The Long 
 Strike, and make that personality a terrible 
 embodiment of menace. From the time he 
 first acted the comic Major Vavasour, in 
 Henry Dunbar, no actor of equal quaint- 
 ness has trod our stage. He died on June 
 11, 1891, and was buried at Woodlawn. ° 
 
374 MRS. G. H. GILBERT. 
 
 XXVI. 
 MRS. G. H. GILBERT. 
 
 ‘TUDENTS of the English stage find in 
 books on that subject abundant infor- 
 mation about the tragedy queens of the 
 early drama, and much likewise, though 
 naturally somewhat less (because comedy 
 is more difficult to discuss than tragedy), 
 about the comedy queens. Mrs. Cibber 
 still discomfits the melting Mrs. Porter by 
 a tenderness even greater than the best of 
 Belvideras could dispense. Mrs. Brace- 
 girdle and Mrs. Oldfield still stand con- 
 fronted on the historic page, and still their 
 battle continues year after year. All read- 
 ers know the sleepy voice and horrid sigh 
 of Mrs. Pritchard in Lady Macbeth’s awful 
 scene of haunted somnambulism ; the unex- 
 ampled and unexcelled grandeur of Mrs. 
 Yates in Medea; the infinite pathos of 
 Mrs. Dancer (she that became in succession 
 Mrs. Spranger Barry and Mrs. Crawford) 
 and her memorable scream, as Lady Ran- 
 
MRS. G. H. GILBERT. 375 
 
 dolph, at ‘‘ Was he alive ?’’; the compara- 
 tive discomfiture of both those ladies by 
 Mrs. Siddons, with her wonderful, wailing 
 cry, as Isabella, ‘‘O, my Biron, my Biron,’’ 
 her overwhelming Lady Macbeth and her 
 imperial Queen Katharine. The brilliant 
 story of Peg Woffington and the sad fate 
 of Mrs. Robinson, the triumphant career 
 of Mrs. Abington and the melancholy 
 collapse of Mrs. Jordan —all those things, 
 and many more, are duly set down in the 
 chronicles. But the books are compara- 
 tively silent about the Old Women of the 
 stage —an artistic line no less delightful 
 -than useful, of which Mrs. G. H. Gilbert 
 is a sterling and brilliant representative. 
 Mrs. Jefferson, the great-grandmother of 
 the comedian Joseph Jefferson, who died 
 of laughter, on the stage (1766-68), might 
 fitly be mentioned as the dramatic ancestor 
 of such actresses as Mrs. Gilbert. She was 
 a woman of great loveliness of character 
 and of great talent for the portrayal of “old 
 women,”’ and likewise of certain “ old men”’ 
 _ incomedy. ‘She had,’’ says Tate Wilkin- 
 son, ‘‘ one of the best dispositions that ever 
 harboured in a human breast’’?; and he 
 adds that ‘‘she was one of the most ele- 
 gant women ever beheld.’? Mrs. Gilbert 
 
 m 
 tM 
 
376 MRS. G. H. GILBERT. 
 
 has always suggested that image of grace, 
 goodness, and piquant ability. Mrs. Ver- 
 non was the best in this line until Mrs. 
 Gilbert came; and the period which has 
 seen Mrs. Judah, Mrs. Vincent, Mrs. Ger- 
 mon, Mary Carr, Mrs. Chippendale, Mrs. 
 Stirling, Mrs. Billington, Mrs. Drew, Mrs. 
 Phillips, and Madam Ponisi, has seen no 
 superior to Mrs. Gilbert in her special walk. 
 She was in youth a beautiful dancer, and 
 all her motions have spontaneous ease and 
 grace. She can assume the fine lady, with- 
 out for an instant suggesting the parvenu. 
 She is equally good, whether as the formal 
 and severe matron of starched domestic 
 life, or the genial dame of the pantry. She 
 could play Temperance in The Country 
 Squire, and equally she could play Mrs. 
 Jellaby. All varieties of the eccentricity of 
 elderly women, whether serious or comic, 
 are easily within her grasp. Betsy Trot- 
 wood, embodied by her, becomes a living 
 reality ; while on the other hand she suf- 
 fused with a sinister horror her stealthy, 
 gliding, uncanny personation of the dumb, 
 half-insane Hester Dethridge. That was the 
 first great success that Mrs. Gilbert gained, 
 under Augustin Daly’s management. She 
 has been associated with Daly’s company 
 
MRS. G. H. GILBERT. 377 
 
 since his opening night as a manager, 
 August 16, 1869, when, at the Fifth Avenue 
 theatre, then in Twenty-fourth Street, she 
 took part in Robertson’s comedy of Play. 
 The first time I ever saw her she was acting 
 the Marquise de St. Maur, in Caste, on 
 the night of its first production in America, 
 August 5, 1867, at the Broadway theatre, 
 the house near the southwest corner of 
 Broadway and Broome Street, that had 
 been Wallack’s but now was managed by 
 Barney Williams. The assumption of that 
 character, perfect in every particular, was 
 instinct with pure aristocracy ; but while 
 brilliant with serious ability it gave not 
 the least hint of those rich resources of 
 humour that since have diffused so much 
 innocent pleasure. Most of her successes 
 have been gained as the formidable lady 
 who typifies in comedy the domestic pro- 
 prietics and the Nemesis of respectability. 
 It was her refined and severely correct de- 
 meanour that gave soul and wings to the 
 wild fun of A Night Off. From Miss Garth 
 to Mrs. Laburnum is a far stretch of imi- 
 tative talent for the interpretation of the 
 woman nature that everybody, from Shake- 
 speare down, has found it so difficult to 
 treat. This actress has never failed to 
 
378 MRS. G. H. GILBERT. 
 
 impress the spectator by her clear-cut, bril- 
 liant identification with every type of char- 
 acter that she has assumed; and, back of 
 this, she has denoted a kind heart and a 
 sweet and gentle yet never insipid tem- 
 perament — the condition of goodness, sym- 
 pathy, graciousness, and cheer that is the 
 flower of a fine nature and a good life. 
 Scenes in which Mrs. Gilbert and Charles 
 Fisher or James Lewis have participated, 
 as old married people, on Daly’s stage, will 
 long be remembered for their intrinsic 
 beauty — suggestive of the touching lines: 
 
 “‘ And when with envy Time, transported, 
 Shall think to rob us of our joys, 
 You’ll in your girls again be courted, 
 And I’ll go wooing with my boys.” 
 
JAMES LEWIS. 279 
 
 XXVIT. 
 JAMES LEWIS. 
 
 PROMINENT representative type of 
 
 character is ‘‘the humorous man,”’ 
 and that is Shakespeare’s phrase to describe 
 him. Wit is a faculty ; humour an attri- 
 bute. Joseph Addison, Laurence Sterne, 
 Washington Irving — whatever else they 
 -might have been they were humourists. 
 Sir Roger'de Coverley, Tristram Shandy, 
 Uncle Toby, Diedrich Knickerbocker, Icha- 
 bod Crane—these and other creations of 
 their genius stand forth upon their pages 
 to exemplify that aspect of ‘their minds. 
 But the humourist of the pen may, person- 
 ally, be no humourist at all. Addison’s 
 character was austere. Irving, though 
 sometimes gently playful, was essentially 
 grave and decorous. 
 
 Comical quality in the humorous man 
 whom nature destines for the stage must 
 be personal. His coming brings with it a 
 sense of comfort. His presence warms the 
 
380 JAMES LEWIS. 
 
 heart and cheers the mind. The sound of 
 his voice, ‘‘ speaking off,’’ before he emerges 
 upon the scene, will set the theatre in a 
 roar. This was notably true of Burton and 
 of William Warren. The glance, motion, 
 carriage, manner, and the pause and still- 
 ness of such a man, instil merriment. Cib- 
 ber says that Robert Nokes had a palpable 
 simplicity of nature which was often as 
 unaccountably diverting in his common 
 speech as on the stage. John E. Owens, 
 describing the conduct of a big bee in an 
 empty molasses barrel, once threw a circle 
 of his hearers, of whom I was one, almost 
 into convulsions of laughter. Artemas 
 Ward made people laugh the moment 
 they beheld him, by his wooden composure 
 and indescribable sapience of demeanour. 
 The lamented Daniel E. Setchell, a come- 
 dian who would have been as famous as he 
 was funny had he but lived longer, pre- 
 sented a delightful example of spontaneous 
 humour. It is ludicrous to recall the sim- 
 ple gravity, not demure but perfectly sol- 
 emn, with which, on the deck of a Hudson 
 River steamboat, as we were passing West 
 Point, he indicated to me the Kosciuszko 
 monument, saying briefly, ‘‘That’s the 
 place where Freedom shrieked.’’ It was 
 
JAMES LEWIS. 381 
 
 the quality of his temperament that made 
 his playfulness delicious. Setchell was the 
 mental descendant of Burton, as Burton 
 was of Reeve and as Reeve was of Liston. 
 Actors illustrate a kind of heredity. Each 
 species is distinct and discernible. Lester 
 Wallack maintained the lineage of Charles 
 Kemble, William Lewis, Elliston, and Mount- 
 fort —a line in which John Drew has gained 
 auspicious distinction. John Gilbert’s artis- 
 tic ancestry could be traced back through 
 Farren and Munden to King and Quin, and 
 perhaps still further, to Lowin and Kempe. 
 
 The comedian intrinsically comical, while 
 in his characteristic quality eccentric and 
 dry, has been exemplified by Fawcett, Blis- 
 set, Finn, and Barnes, and is conspicuously 
 presented by James Lewis. No one ever 
 saw him without laughter — and it is kindly 
 laughter, with a warm heart behind it. The 
 moment he comes upon the stage an eager 
 gladness diffuses itself throughout the house. 
 His refined quaintness and unconscious droll- 
 ery capture all hearts. His whimsical in- 
 dividuality never varies; yet every charac- 
 ter of the many that he has portrayed 
 stands clearly forth among its companions, 
 a distinct, unique embodiment. The grace- 
 ful urbanity, the elaborate yet natural 
 
382. * JAMES LEWIS. 
 
 manner, the brisk vitality, the humorous 
 sapience of Sir Patrick Lundy — how com- 
 pletely and admirably he expressed them! 
 How distinct that fine old figure is in the 
 remembrance of all who saw it! But he 
 has never played a part that he did not 
 make equally distinct. A painter might 
 fill a gallery with odd, characteristic crea- 
 tions by merely copying his compositions 
 of ‘*make-up.’? The amiable professor in 
 A Night Of, the senile Gunnion in The’ 
 Squire, Lissardo in The Wonder, Grumio 
 in The Shrew —those and many more he 
 has made his own; while in the actor’s 
 province of making comic characters really 
 comical to others there is no artist who 
 better fulfils the sagacious, comprehensive 
 injunction of Munden (imparted to a youth. 
 ful actor who spoke of being ‘‘natural” - 
 in order to amuse), ‘‘ Nature be d d! 
 Make the people laugh!’? That, aside © 
 from all subtleties, is not a bad test of the . 
 comic faculty, and that test has been met 
 and borne by the acting of James Lewis. 
 
A LEAF FROM MY JOURNAL. 383 
 
 XXVIII. 
 A LEAF FROM MY JOURNAL. 
 
 [November 23, 1867.] 
 
 HIRTY years hereafter many who are 
 
 now active and honoured in dramatic 
 life will be at rest — their work concluded, 
 their achievements a fading tradition. But 
 they will not be wholly forgotten. The 
 same talisman of memory that has pre- 
 served to our time the names and the 
 deeds of the actors of old will preserve to 
 future times the names and the deeds that 
 are distinguished now in the mimic world 
 of the stage. Legend, speaking in the 
 voice of the veteran devotee of the drama, 
 will say, for example, that of all the actors 
 of this period there was no light comedian 
 comparable with Lester Wallack; that he 
 could thoroughly identify himself with 
 character, — though it did not always please 
 him to do so; that his acting was so im- 
 aginative and so earnest as to make reality 
 of the most gossamer fiction; and that his 
 
384. A LEAF FROM MY JOURNAL. 
 
 vivacity —the essential element and the 
 crown of comedy-acting — was like the 
 dew on the opening rose. And therewithal 
 the veteran may quaff his glass to the 
 memory of another member of the Wallack 
 family, and speak of James Wallack as Cas- 
 sius, and Fagin, and the Man-in-the-Iron- 
 Mask, and the King of the Commons, and 
 may say, with truth, that a more winning 
 embodiment of bluff manliness and humour 
 was never known to our stage than the ver- 
 satile actor who made himself foremost in 
 those characters. It will be impossible to 
 remember him without recalling his inti- 
 mate professional associate, Edwin L. 
 Davenport. He was the only Brutus of 
 his time, our old friend will say, and in 
 his prime the best Macbeth on the American 
 stage ; and he could play almost any part in 
 the drama, from the loftiest tragedy to 
 mere trash; and he was an admirable ar- 
 tist in all that he did. There will be 
 plenty of evidence to fortify that statement ; 
 and if the veteran shall also say that Wal- 
 lack’s company contained, at the same 
 time, the best ‘‘ old men’? in the profession, 
 no dissentient voice, surely, will challenge 
 the names of George Holland, John Gil- 
 bert, James H. Stoddart, and Mark Smith. 
 
A LEAF FROM MY JOURNAL. 385 
 
 Cibber could play Lord Foppington at 
 seventy-three ; but George Holland played 
 Tony Lumpkin at seventy-seven. A young 
 part, — but the old man was as joyous as 
 a boy and filled it with a boisterous, mis- 
 chievous humour at once delightful and 
 indescribable. You saw him to the best ad- 
 vantage, though, in Mr. Sulky, Humphrey 
 Dobbin, and kindred parts, wherein the fine- 
 ness of his temperament was veiled under a 
 crabbed exterior and some scope was allowed 
 for his superb skill in painting character. 
 So the discourse will run; and, when it 
 touches upon John Gilbert, what else than 
 _ this will be its burden ? —that he was per- 
 fection as the old fop; that his Lord Ogleby 
 had no peer; that he was the oddest con- 
 ceivable compound of dry humour, quaint 
 manners, frolicsome love of mischief, hon- 
 est, hearty mirth, manly dignity, and 
 tender pathos. To Mark Smith it will 
 render a kindred tribute. Squire Broad- 
 lands, Old Rapid, Sir Oliver Surface — 
 they cannot be forgotten. Extraordinary 
 truthfulness to nature, extraordinary pre- 
 cision of method, large humanity, strong 
 intellect, and refined and delicate humour 
 that always charmed and never offended — 
 those were the qualities that enrolled him 
 Z 
 
386 A LEAF FROM MY JOURNAL. 
 
 among the best actors of histime. And it will 
 not be strange if Old Mortality passes then 
 into the warmest mood of eulogium, as he 
 strives to recall the admirable, the incompar- 
 able ‘‘old woman’’ Mrs. Vernon. She was 
 a worthy mate of those worthies, he will ex- 
 claim. She could be the sweet and loving 
 mother, gentle and affectionate ; the stately 
 lady, representative of rank and proud of 
 it and true to it; and the most eccentric 
 of ludicrous old fools. She was the ideal 
 Mrs. Malaprop, and she surpassed all com- 
 petitors in the character of Mrs. Hardcas- 
 tle. Mary Gannon was her stage-companion 
 and her foil, he will add —the merriest, 
 most mischievous, most bewitching player 
 of her time, in her peculiar line of art. 
 As Hester, in To Marry or Not to Mar- 
 ry, and as Sophia, in The Road to Ruin, 
 she was the incarnation of girlish grace 
 and delicious ingenuousness, and also of 
 crisp, well-flavoured mirth. No taint of 
 tameness marred her acting in those kin- 
 dred characters, and no air of effort made 
 it artificial. Nor was Fanny Morant less 
 remarkable for the glitter of comedy and 
 for an almost matchless precision of method. 
 So will our friend of the future prose on, in 
 a vein that will be tedious enough to mat- 
 
A LEAF FROM MY JOURNAL. 387 
 
 ter-of-fact people; but not tedious to 
 gentle spirits who love the stage, and sym- 
 pathise with its votaries, and keep alive 
 its traditions — knowing that this mimic 
 world is as real and earnest as the strife 
 that roars and surges around it ; that there 
 as everywhere else humanity plays out 
 its drama, whereof the moral is always the 
 same — that whether on the stage or in 
 the mart, on the monarch’s throne or in 
 the peasant’s cot, 
 
 ‘We are such stuff 
 As dreams are made on, and our little life 
 Is rounded with a sleep.” 
 
 THE END. 
 
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GRAY DAYS #94. > 
 AND GOLD. 
 
 18MO, CLOTH, 75, CENTS. 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Classic Shrines. 
 Haunted Glens and Houses. 
 The Haunts of Moore. Old York. 
 Beautiful Bath. 
 The Lakes and Fells of Wordsworth. 
 Shakespeare Relics at Worcester. 
 Byron and Hucknall Torkard. 
 Historic Nooks and Corners. 
 Up and Down the Avon. _ Shakespeare’s Town * 
 Rambles in Arden. * P 
 The Stratford Fountain. 
 Bosworth Field. 
 The Home of Dr. Johnson. 
 From London to Edinburgh. 
 Into the Highlands. 
 Highland Beauties. 
 The Heart of Scotland. 
 Elegiac Memorials. Sir Walter Scott. 
 Scottish Pictures. 
 Imperial Ruins. 
 The Land of Marmion. 
 At Vesper Time. 
 
 This book, which is intended as a companion to 
 Shakespeare's England, relates to the gray days of an 
 American wanderer in the British Isles, and to the gold 
 of thought and fancy that can be found there, 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., 
 
 112 FourTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 
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GRAY DAYS 
 AND GOLD. 
 
 18MO, CLOTH, 75 CENTS. 
 
 PRESS NOTICES. 
 
 “Mr, Winter’s graceful and meditative ‘style in his 
 English sketches has recommended his earlier volume 
 upon (Shakespeare’s) England to many readers, who 
 will not need urging to make the acquaintance of this 
 ’ companion book, in which the traveller guides us 
 through the quiet and romantic scenery of the mother- 
 country with a mingled affection and sentiment of 
 which we have had no example since Irving’s day.” — 
 ‘The Nation. 
 
 * As friendly and good-humoured a book on English 
 - scenes as any American has written since Washington 
 Irving.” — Daily News, London. 
 
 ‘Much that is bright and best in our literature is 
 brought once more to our dulled memories. Indeed, 
 we know of but few volumes containing so much of 
 observation, kindly comment, philosophy, and artistic 
 weight as this unpretentious little book.” — Chicago 
 Herald. 
 
 “They who have never visited the scenes which Mr. 
 Winter so charmingly describes will be eager to do so 
 in order to realize his fine descriptions of them, and they 
 who have already visited them will be incited by his 
 eloquent recital of their attractions to repeat their 
 former pleasant experiences.” — Public Ledger, 
 Philadelphia. 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., 
 
 x12 FourRTH AVENUE, NEW YORK, 
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THe Nove: 
 
 WHAT IT IS. 
 By F. MARION CRAWFORD, 
 
 AUTHOR OF ‘‘CHILDREN OF THE KING,” ‘*A ROMAI 
 SINGER,” ‘* SARACINESCA,”” ETC. 
 With Photogravure Portrait of the Author, 
 
 18mo. Cloth. 75 cents. 
 ' THE 
 CHOICE OF Books, 
 
 AND OTHER LITERARY PIECES. 
 By FREDERIC HARRISON, 
 
 AUTHOR OF ‘* OLIVER CROMWELL,” ETC. 
 18mo,. Cloth. 75 cents. 
 
 “ Mr. Harrison isan able and conscientious critic, 
 a good logician, and a clever man; his faults are 
 superficial, and his book will not fail to be valu- 
 able.” —. VY. 7zmes. 
 
 Mr. Joun Mortey, in his speech on the study of 
 literature at the Mansion House, 26th February, 
 1887, said : 
 
 “Those who are curious as to what they should 
 read in the region of pure literature will do well to 
 peruse my friend Frederic Harrison’s volume called 
 The Choice of Books. You will find there as much 
 wise thought, eloquently and brilliantly put, as in 
 any volume of its size.” 
 
 ‘‘ Mr, Harrison furnishes a valuable contribution 
 to the subject. It is full of suggestiveness and 
 shrewd analytical criticism. It contains the fruits of 
 wide reading and rich research,’—Loxdon Times. 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., Publishers, 
 NEW YORK. 
 
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