to attempt to draw a parallel between her performances and
those of Miss O'NEIL; the unapproachable grandeur and dignity
of the one and the feminine tenderness and endearment of the
other exhibiting widely different expressions, not formed by
the same code. You approached Mrs. SIDDONS with a feeling of
awe, bordering on reverence. With Miss O'NEIL, all your hopes
and fears were excited, and certain to meet with a response.
Her bursts of agony and distress agitated every nerve, and
would plunge her audience in tears; while the power of SIDDONS
would choke your very utterance, and deny you all relief. What
Miss O'NEIL required in strong expression, she made up in
exaggeration. Every nerve was strained, and her whole frame
convulsed; in short, her great fault was exuberance; yet nothing
could be more quietly (though distressingly) beautiful, than her
performance of 'Mrs. Haller.'
The reader should have _heard_ Mr. ABBOTT present the subjoined
'limning from life,' and _seen_ him imitate the snuff-taking of
the noble tragedian. The story loses much of its force in being
transferred to paper. The anecdote is of HARLOWE, who painted the
celebrated trial-scene of 'Henry the Eighth,' in which the KEMBLE
family figured so conspicuously:
'HE had, by his ill conduct, lost the esteem of his great
master, Sir THOMAS LAWRENCE, who was the intimate friend of JOHN
KEMBLE; and the latter had in consequence resolutely refused to
sit to him for his portrait as 'Cardinal Wolsey' in the picture
alluded to. 'Mrs. SIDDONS and CHARLES and STEPHEN KEMBLE had
sat to the artist, but the great tragedian was immovable. At
length a friend of the painter (Mr. THOMAS WELSH, the celebrated
singing-master,) who had received many marks of attention and
kindness from Mr. KEMBLE, and who had great confidence in the
force of his influence with him, waited upon Mr. KEMBLE at
his residence in Great Russel-street. He was shown into the
library, and was most cordially received: 'My dear TOM, to
what am I indebted for the favor of this visit?' 'My dear Sir,
I come a humble suppliant to you, and I really don't know how
to commence.' 'Well, well; make excuses for your modesty: and
then, my good friend, come to the point.' The commencement was
auspicious; but the first plunge in a cold-bath is always hard
to take. 'I assure you, Mr. KEMBLE, I feel most grateful for
your kind reception; and if I could only hope the favor I am
going to ask----' 'Pooh! pooh! you know, Tom, I always told you,
from a boy, there was nothing you could ask of me that I would
refuse you. Now say what it is you wish; consider it as done;
and I really am very much occupied; so, to the point, to the
point, TOM.' 'Oh, Sir, you have made me the happiest person in
the world. Will you be kind enough to sit to Mr. HARLOWE for
your portrait?' In an instant a deep cloud passed over the noble
countenance of the great actor; and deliberately taking up his
snuff-box, he applied a large pinch to his nose, and quickly
replied: 'My dear TOM I'll see you d--d first!' Notwithstanding
his denial, however, the Cardinal is one of the best portraits,
and was caught only by occasional glances from the orchestra,
during Mr. KEMBLE'S performance.'
At Edinburgh, Mr. ABBOTT would seem to have attained great
popularity. He mingled in the best circles of the Northern
metropolis, and was for some days a guest of Sir WALTER SCOTT. He
narrates many pleasant anecdotes connected with his engagements in
'Auld Reekie;' and among them is the following, which is capital:
'I HAD no personal knowledge of STEPHEN KEMBLE, but I cannot
refrain from mentioning a circumstance which happened when
he was manager of the Edinburgh Theatre. The exiled family
of the Bourbons were residing at the Palace of Holyrood, and
great respect and attention were shown by the nobility in
the neighborhood to the unfortunate descendants of a long
line of kings. Mr. KEMBLE thought the patronage of the Comte
D'ARTOIS, afterward CHARLES the Tenth, would be a source of
great attraction. Application was made at the palace, and with
success. His Royal Highness left the selection of the play
to the manager, who fixed upon 'Henry the Fourth,' for the
purpose of exhibiting himself in his own popular character of
Sir JOHN FALSTAFF. One can scarcely conceive a duller play
for a Frenchman, almost ignorant of the English language, and
wholly unable to enter into the subtilties of such a being as
the Fat Knight. The great desideratum, however, was obtained.
The house was crowded, and the manager was satisfied. His Royal
Highness bore the infliction in a most exemplary manner, and
retired amidst the respectful greetings of the audience. A
week had hardly elapsed, when KEMBLE (probably not from any
selfish motive, but with the laudable view of affording some
amusement to the illustrious exile,) again presented himself at
Holyrood, and suggested another visit to his theatre. The Comte
D'ARTOIS received him most graciously; indeed, it was not in his
nature to do otherwise, for he was one of the most accomplished
gentlemen in Europe. He declined the invitation, however, in
nearly the following words: 'I am vara mosh oblige, Monsieur
KEMBLE; it was vara nice, indeed; I laugh mosh; _bot von sosh
fun, it ees enoff_!'
This dubious compliment of the Count is not unlike the praise
awarded by a polite French officer to a battalion of rather inferior
provincial volunteers in England. He was pressed for his opinion,
which he gave as follows: 'Gentlemens, I 'av seen de Garde-Royal and
de Garde-NAPOLEON; I 'av seen de Russ and de Pruss; _but by Gar!
I 'av nevare see such troops as dese!--no, nevare!_' With the two
passages annexed, the one describing an annoyance to which popular
actors are not unfrequently exposed, and the other the tricks of
which they are sometimes made the subjects, we take our leave of Mr.
ABBOTT'S 'experiences' at Edinburgh:
'IN passing through the gallery at Holyrood, where the miserable
daubs of the Scottish kings are exhibited, I was accosted by
a legitimate cockney, whom I discovered to be a traveller
for some furniture-maker's establishment. He had not been
long enough in his vocation to acquire the shrewdness for
which that class of persons are celebrated, but made up in
unsophisticated simplicity what they possess in assurance. He
recognized me immediately, having, as he said, 'frequently seen
me at Covent-Garden Theatre;' and without any extra ceremony
he fastened himself upon me. When he came to the portrait of
MACBETH, he turned quickly round upon our cicerone, and said:
'LORD bless you! that's not a bit like him; for I saw JOHN
KEMBLE _do it_, and it isn't so much like him as the moon is
like a Cheshire cheese.' But the climax of his sage remarks
occurred when the old woman came to the spot where DAVID RIZZIO
was murdered, and pointed out the stain of his blood, which
still remains, and which neither time nor soap, she said, would
ever efface. Our cockney rubbed his hands with delight, and
said: 'Why, my good woman, _I'll give you some stuff that will
take it out in half an hour_!' * * * One morning I lounged into
the box-office, which was crowded with persons taking places;
and on looking at the playbill of the night's performance, I saw
the tragedy of Isabella announced, 'Carlos by Mr. ABBOTT, _with
his celebrated hornpipe in fetters_, as performed by him at the
Theatre-Royal, Covent-Garden!' This was one of the practical
jokes of my friend MURRAY, (who married a sister of THOMAS
MOORE.) He had given the printer directions to strike off some
half a dozen bills of _this_ stamp, for the purpose of raising a
laugh against me!'
Soon after the retirement of JOHN KEMBLE from the London stage, a
great event, and well described by Mr. ABBOTT, that great tragedian
gave a memorable dinner to some eighteen or twenty of the most
distinguished members of the _corps-dramatique_ of Covent-Garden
Theatre. Among the guests, also, was TALMA, of whom we have this
graphic account:
'ON this occasion we had a fine trait of the tragic powers of
TALMA; not a bombastic display of French acting, but a grand
and simple narrative of facts, connected with that frightful
epoch, the French Revolution. He himself was suspected, watched;
and his profession alone saved him from the blood-hounds who
were on his track. During the most terrific period, he did
not dare to sleep at his hotel, but lived in the outskirts of
the metropolis; and when called in town by his professional
avocations, he would steal like a culprit to the gate of his
residence, and in an under tone inquire of the old Swiss porter
the bloody news of the day. On one occasion he was told that
some thirty or forty of his most intimate friends had that very
morning perished by the guillotine. Feeling that the crisis of
his own fate had arrived, he went tremblingly to the theatre;
and during the performance the overwhelming anguish of his soul
was relieved only by the tears coursing down his cheeks; and the
very expression of which feeling every moment endangered his
life. There was a cold, creeping chilliness about the hearts of
all present as he spoke, which was perfectly thrilling; and not
a sound was heard till he had ceased.'
Here is a brace of anecdotes of an absent-minded brother-actor,
which will perhaps 'agitate the risible organs' of some of our
readers:
'HENRY,' in 'Speed the Plough,' was a character in which he had
gained some reputation. At the closing scene of the play, he
rushes into a wing of the castle, which is in flames, in quest
of papers likely to disclose the secret of his birth. He returns
in fearful agitation, with his right hand concealed in his
bosom, and which in fact should contain the bloody _dénouement_
of the plot, a towel dipped in blood, _alias_ rose-pink, and a
knife, also properly stained for the occasion. The climax of
his speech ran thus: 'In vain the angry flames flashed their
vengeance around me! Among many other evidences of blood and
guilt, I found _these_!'--producing his fingers and hand! He had
entirely forgotten the essential accompaniments * * * His first
appearance was before Mr. DIMOND had quitted the stage, and
who enacted the part of 'Belcour' in 'The West Indian.' In the
scene with his sister the debutant should say: 'Are you assured
that Mr. BELCOUR gave you no diamonds?' The question however
was rendered thus: 'Are you assured that Mr. DIMOND gave you no
BELCOURS?'
Such errors, we believe, are not infrequent upon the stage. The
reader will perhaps remember the blunder of the Ghost in Hamlet, on
one occasion; who, instead of saying that the 'knotted and combinéd
locks' of the young prince would 'stand on end like quills upon the
fretful porcupine,' reversed the terms in this ludicrous manner:
'Your twisted and combinéd locks shall stand up straight, like forks
upon the _fretful quillcopine_!' A single passage more must close
our extracts from this delightful autobiography. It is a short
story, touching 'the immortal TOWNSEND, the first of Bow-street
officers, the favorite of Royalty, and the dread of all coachmen and
flambeau'd footmen:'
'I THINK I see him now, with his flaxen wig, his low-crowned
hat, long gaiters, and half-Quaker suit,' discoursing most
eloquent music.' It was a source of great amusement to the young
sprigs of nobility to extract from him in conversation some
of his most characteristic slang expressions; nor did Royalty
itself disdain to be amused at his expense. About the period of
the connection between the Duke of Clarence and Mrs. JORDAN,
public opinion was rife on the subject. His Royal Highness was
at the opera, surrounded by the world of fashion; and when he
encountered TOWNSEND, who was on duty there, he said, in his
brusque, off-hand manner: 'Ah! Townsend, Townsend, how d' ye do,
Townsend?' 'Why, your Royal Highness, pretty bobbish, I thank
you,' replied the functionary. 'Well, Townsend, what news, what
news?' 'Why, nothink, your Royal Highness, of any consequence.'
'Oh, nonsense! nonsense! The people must have something to talk
about.' 'Why then, if your Royal Highness pleases, the talk is
principally about you and Mrs. JORDAN.' The sailor-prince was
here a little thrown 'aback.' 'Never mind, never mind; let them
talk; I don't care.' Observe the simplicity of the answer: 'Your
Royal Highness is a d--d fool if you do!'
The foregoing is the result of a merely casual dipping, here and
there, into the teeming pages of Mr. ABBOTT'S manuscript volume.
Whoever the fortunate publisher of the work may be, he may calculate
with certainty upon its acquiring instant popularity.
'THE DIAL' for the October quarter is a very excellent and lifeful
number of that greatly-improved journal. Among the articles which
most attracted our attention and admiration, are the 'Youth of the
Poet and Painter,' 'A Winter Walk,' an essay on 'The Comic,' and the
'Letter' of the Editor to his correspondents. The first of these
papers is characterized by several thrusts of a trenchant satire. We
should rather infer, from the recorded 'experiences' of the writer,
that when he first entered college, his bump of reverence for
collegiate institutions and men of learning could hardly have been
developed. Hear him, how he saith:
'I SAW that in reciting our lessons to the conceited tutors, who
think College is the Universe, and the President Jupiter, they
had the impudence to give us marks for what we did, as if we,
paying them for so much aid in our lessons, were therefore to be
rewarded by them with a couple of pencil scratches. I found we
were treated, not only as machines, but to be set up or down, at
the discretion of these tutors, who had merely to scratch down a
mark, and thus decide our fates. This foolery I felt I could not
agree to.' 'I found here no scholars whatever. Some young men
deficient in grace, were wearing out the elbows of their coats,
in getting by heart some set lessons of some little text-books,
and striving which should commit them the most perfectly to
memory. This perfection lay in the point of a tutor's pencil,
and was at last decided on by the votes of a band of professors,
who loved wine and puddings better than literature or art, and
whose chief merit lay in keeping their feet dry.'
Perhaps 'these be truths.' Certain it is, that the annexed passage
partakes of the veritable. It is a 'picture in little' of the
morning routine of a briefless lawyer; and the sitter has many a
counterpart in this metropolis of Gotham:
'IN the morning, you enter your office at half-past eight,
read the paper till nine, and then, if you feel able, walk as
far as the court-house. There you are provided with a seat by
the sheriff, and cold water by the deputy-sheriff. You next
stare at the Court, consisting of one or more judges, twelve
jurymen, a criminal or civil case, four baize tables, and a lot
of attorneys. You next begin to make motions, which consists
in getting a case put off, or put on, as you happen to feel,
and run your eye over the docket, which is kept at the clerk's
table, in a ledger, for the accommodation of the county, and the
clerk's family. If it is your case which comes on, you open your
eyes wide, talk a great deal about nothing, and dine with the
bar. Occasionally you will feel sleepy after dinner, but awake
yourself by smoking a cigar, or driving into the country.'
Here is an extract which will be appreciated for its graceful
diction, the love and observation of nature which it displays, and
the pensive train of thought which its tone engenders:
'TO-DAY has been pure golden sun-shine since morning; and how
the day-god played with the trunks of the trees, as if the
forest were one great harp! In the morning, as I sat among
golden-rods, under the shade of a pine, where on every side
these sunny flowers grew, it seemed as if the sunlight had
become so thickly knotted and intertwined with the roots and
stems of the plants and grasses, that it could not escape, but
must remain and shine forever; yet the pine tree's shadow, at
sunset and before, fell long across the place, and the gay light
had fled, like the few bright days of life, which fly so rapid
by. The old tell us we are young, and can know nothing of life;
to me it seems I have lived centuries, out of which I can reckon
on my fingers the days of pleasure, when my heart beat high. I
fancy there is a race of men born to know only the loss of life
by its joys; to live by single days, and to pass their time for
the most part in shadowy vistas, where there is neither darkness
nor light, but perpetual mist. I am one of these; and though I
love nature; the river, the forest, the clouds, she is only a
phantom, like myself, and passes slowly, an unexplained mystery,
like my own consciousness, which shows through a want of perfect
knowledge. I see myself, only as what I do not know, and others,
as some reflection of this ignorance, an iceberg among other
icebergs, slowly drifting from the frozen pole of birth to the
frozen pole of death, through a sunny sea.'
Well pleased should we have been to accompany our observant and
thoughtful essayist, when he fetched his 'Winter Walk.' Mark his
delicate appreciation of the little accessories of the season. We
thank him for awakening vivid glimpses of the past, that go strait
to the fresh scenes of boyhood:
'THERE is a slumbering subterranean fire in nature which
never goes out, and which no cold can chill. It finally melts
the great snow, and in January or July is only buried under
a thicker or thinner covering. In the coldest day it flows
somewhere, and the snow melts around every tree. This field of
winter rye, which sprouted late in the fall, and now speedily
dissolves the snow, is where the fire is very thinly covered. We
feel warmed by it. In the winter, warmth stands for all virtue,
and we resort in thought to a trickling rill, with its bare
stones shining in the sun, and to warm springs in the woods,
with as much eagerness as rabbits and robins. The steam which
rises from swamps and pools, is as dear and domestic as that of
our own kettle. What fire could ever equal the sunshine of a
winter's day, when the meadow mice come out by the wall-sides,
and the chicadee lisps in the defiles of the wood? The warmth
comes directly from the sun, and is not radiated from the
earth, as in summer; and when we feel his beams on our back
as we are treading some snowy dell, we are grateful as for a
special kindness, and bless the sun which has followed us into
that by-place. This subterranean fire has its altar in each
man's breast, for in the coldest day, and on the bleakest hill,
the traveller cherishes a warmer fire within the folds of his
cloak than is kindled on any hearth. A healthy man, indeed, is
the complement of the seasons, and in winter, summer is in his
heart.' * * * 'In winter we lead a more inward life. Our hearts
are warm and merry, like cottages under drifts, whose windows
and doors are half concealed, but from whose chimneys the smoke
cheerfully ascends. The imprisoning drifts increase the sense
of comfort which the house affords, and in the coldest days we
are content to sit over the hearth and see the sky through the
chimney top, enjoying the quiet and serene life that may be had
in a warm corner by the chimney side, or feeling our pulse by
listening to the low of cattle in the street, or the sound of
the flail in distant barns all the long afternoon. No doubt a
skilful physician could determine our health by observing how
these simple and natural sounds affected us.'
We commend the following to those who seem to think that a thorough
love of the comic or the burlesque argues an ill-regulated mind
or a perverted taste. That there _are_ such persons, the reader
who has done us the honor to peruse our late confabulations with
correspondents, will not need to be informed:
'A PERCEPTION of the comic seems to be a balance-wheel in our
metaphysical structure. It appears to be an essential element
in a fine character. Wherever the intellect is constructive,
it will be found. We feel the absence of it as a defect in the
noblest and most oracular soul. It insulates the man, cuts
down all bridges between him and other men. The perception of
the comic is a tie of sympathy with other men, is a pledge of
sanity, and is a protection from those perverse tendencies and
gloomy insanities into which fine intellects sometimes lose
themselves. A man alive to the ludicrous is still convertible.
If that sense is lost, his fellow-men can do little for him.'
In the subjoined, which we take from the 'Letter' of the Editor,
already alluded to, may be seen one beneficial result of the 'hard
times,' which, driving men out of cities and trade, forced them to
take off their coats and go to work on the land, which has rewarded
them not only with wheat, but with habits of labor:
'SPECULATION is no succedaneum for life. What we would know, we
must do. As if any taste or imagination could take the place of
fidelity! The old Duty is the old God. And we may come to this
by the rudest teaching. A friend of ours went five years ago to
Illinois to buy a farm for his son. Though there were crowds
of emigrants in the roads, the country was open on both sides,
and long intervals between hamlets and houses. Now after five
years he has just been to visit the young farmer and see how he
prospered, and reports that a miracle has been wrought. From
Massachusetts to Illinois, the land is fenced in and builded
over, almost like New-England itself, and the proofs of thrifty
cultivation every where abound.'
There is much less of the new style of verbal affectations in the
present than in preceding numbers of 'The Dial,' and it is just in
this proportion the more readable and attractive. We see something
indeed of 'externality.' 'reäction inward,' 'unitive ideas;' and
certain compound terms, which are meant to be forcible, but are only
foolish; such as 'flesh-meat' for meat, 'foot-tread' for tread, and
other the like words; but they are scarcely worth mentioning; the
infrequency of their occurrence being a sufficient proof of the
decadence into which they are already falling.
* * * * *
'MEMOIRS OF THE COURT OF ENGLAND.'--We have in three handsome
volumes, from the press of Messrs. LEA AND BLANCHARD, Philadelphia,
an accurate memoir of the Court of England, from the Revolution
in 1668 to the death of GEORGE the Second. The work proceeds from
the pen of JOHN HENEASE JESSE, author of 'Memoirs of the Court of
England during the Reign of the STUARTS.' There are numerous and
fruitful themes of instruction and warning in these volumes; lessons
which have not been lost upon the world, and which are of especial
interest to the citizens of a republic; aside from which, the
details of the private history of some score of eminent persons, who
left their impress on the eras in which they flourished, must needs
have attraction for the general reader, who may only peruse them
with an eye to lively entertainment. We observe, by the journals of
the day, that the work is heartily welcomed and duly appreciated by
the public.
THE DRAMA.
PARK THEATRE.--We congratulate the friends of the drama upon the
bright auspices under which this establishment has commenced the
present season. Those who have long predicted the downfall of things
theatrical, and the utter extinction of the legitimate drama, find
but little in the present aspect of affairs at this house to flatter
their spirit of prophecy. So long as we continue upon the civilized
side of barbarism, so long will a true taste for the drama remain
with us. It is the natural food of an intellectual society, and as
such will be cherished wherever that society exists; the vagaries
of fashion on the one hand, and the railings of fanaticism on the
other, to the contrary notwithstanding.