an absence of some years, proved to his admirers that the vigor
and vivacity of his acting have lost none of their former
charms. In those personations which he has long since made his
own, he displayed the same excellence which ever characterized
his performance. To say that Mr. WALLACK stands at the head
of melo-dramatic actors, is not awarding him full praise. He
is immeasurably beyond all rivalry in this branch of the art.
Melo-dramatic performances by _other_ artists bear about the
same relation to the chaste acting of tragedy that the art of
scene-painting in water-colors does to that other art which embraces
alike the power of tracing upon canvass the most delicate as well as
the most magnificent works of nature, in the bold and imperishable
figures of a MICHAEL ANGELO or a CLAUDE LORRAINE. The outlines,
the sketchy prominences, of the landscape are what the best of
the melo-dramatic actors have delineated; but WALLACK has gone a
distance beyond them, and added a grace and a finish to the picture,
of which his subjects were before thought incapable of receiving.
And yet Mr. WALLACK is no tragedian. With the high regard which
we entertain for his talents, we have never seen them exerted in
tragedy, without lamenting their sad misdirection. In the enviable
station which he occupies as the first melo-dramatic actor of the
age, fearless of rivalry, he should be satisfied, and consider the
dignity of third-rate tragedian as entirely beneath his ambition.
Mr. MACREADY.--Sixteen years ago the American public were first
gratified by the performance of this great tragedian--great even
then; and those who remember the peculiar character of his style at
that time, have recognized it again with all its beauties improved
by long study and practice, and not entirely devoid of blemishes.
Mr. MACREADY'S acting presents the effect of great study; it shows
the result of sound judgment, and bears witness to the absence of
all feeling. Great as was EDMUND KEAN, and great as is the subject
of this notice, in the same department of the drama, never were two
artists, on or off the stage, more completely the antipodes of each
other. KEAN, all soul; reckless of art, and apparently despising
even the most common and long-received rules and usages of the
stage; rushed before his audience, embodying as he advanced the very
soul of the character which he had put on with his dress; warming
with it, _feeling_ the sensations which he expressed; with
'A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit.'
There was no study there; nothing farther than the mere committing
to memory of the words of his part. He identified _himself_ with the
character, and for the time _was_ that character, to all intents and
purposes; entering into its sensations, and actually feeling its
joys and its sorrows. And what are the effects of such _acting_?
Let those whose tears have flowed at his bidding, answer! KEAN did
not create _admiration_; he awakened _enthusiasm_. Mr. MACREADY
is so chaste and perfect, so artistical, to use a cant term, that
_admiration_ is the usual feeling which he creates. His acting is
like a beautiful piece of mechanism, where every wheel and spring
performs its perfect work. There is no jarring, no clog, to mar
the exquisite regularity of its movements. But it _is_ a piece of
machinery, after all. It is man's work, to say the best of it. The
power which KEAN possessed was no more a merit to the man, as being
the work of study, than the genius of BYRON was a creation of his
own. Nature made him an actor--a thing of feeling; and he could not
shut within himself the rays of that divine influence. It could
not be cribbed, narrowed down, or fashioned by study, but it shone
forth in all its native effulgence--dazzling and unshaded. Therefore
it is fairly maintained, that the high station which Mr. MACREADY
occupies as the first tragedian of his time is more to his honor
than would be the same position, if gained for him by nature alone.
The profession to which he belongs has reason to be proud of its
head. He has done more to elevate the drama to its true position
than any of his contemporaries, if JOHN KEMBLE alone be excepted.
We have observed during this engagement of Mr. MACREADY'S many new
and beautiful readings, many striking effects, and many bold points,
which together with the unusual care and fitness in the 'dressing'
of the stage, will form the subject of some future notice. We
can foresee much benefit that is to grow out of his visit to the
American stage. We can already perceive the good effects produced
both upon the actors and the stage-manager by Mr. MACREADY'S first
engagement at the Park; and we sincerely hope that any suggestions
which he may be induced to make, may be liberally and promptly acted
upon.
C.
* * * * *
APROPOS of the foregoing: Here is our friend the 'MAIL-ROBBER,' with
a most timely and apposite paper, in his
FIFTH POETICAL EPISTLE.
TO J. VANDENUOFF, ESQUIRE, OF COVENT-GARDEN THEATRE, LONDON.
MACREADY'S come! I met him, just at dark,
Crossing the yard these Yankees call 'the Park:'
Full on his figure gleamed th' obtrusive gas,
As I beheld the 'great tragedian' pass;
His decent person, neatly built and straight,
His air abrupt and grenadier-like gait;
His Irish face, which doth not much resemble
The more expressive front of KEAN or KEMBLE,
All for an instant, as my glance they caught,
Brought you and either green-room to my thought.
From him I turned my meditative gaze,
Where through the trees the play-house lanterns blaze;
But not the multitude that nightly throng
To feast their ears with Ethiopian song,
Nor all the gaudy neighborhood around,
Where nuts and noise and courtesans abound,
Nor all the glitter of the gay saloons
Where oyster-lovers ply their midnight spoons,
Nor all the crowd of coaches waiting nigh,
Could check my mind's involuntary sigh.
Alas! how dwindled from her brighter years
The buskin'd nymph, the goddess-queen appears,
Who deigned a little while in yonder dome
To fix her throne, her altar and her home;
Securely trusting in a land so young,
Whose native speech was her own SHAKSPEARE'S tongue,
To see restored the glories of her reign,
And other GARRICKS born, _this side_ the main.
Delightful dream! delightful as untrue;
Poor DRAMA! this was no domain for you.
Here never shall return that early time
When the fresh heart can vulgar life sublime,
And all the prose of our existence change
By magic power to something rich and strange;
Not here, among this bargain-making tribe,
Whose tricks the Muse would sicken to describe,
Shall the dull genius of a sordid age
Bring an 'all hallow'n summer' of the Stage.
They grossly err this thrifty race who call
A youthful nation; 'youthful!' not at all!
What though some trace of the barbarian state
Betrays at times the newness of their date;
What though their dwellings rose but yesterday?
The mind, the nature of the land, is gray.
Old Europe holds not in its oldest nook
A race less juvenile in thought and look;
There is no childhood here, no child-like joy;
Since first I landed I've not seen a boy:
For all the children in their aspect wear
The lines of sorrow and corrosive care;
Each babe, as soon as babyhood is past,
Is a grown man, and withers just as fast.
Oh my dear England! merry land! GOD bless you!
Though taxes, corn-laws, fogs, and beer oppress you,
Still, as of old, a jocund little isle,
Still once a year at least allowed a smile;
When, spite of virtue, cakes and ale abound,
And laughter rings, and glasses clink around.
Nor quite extinct is that robust old race
(Autumn's last roses blooming on their face,)
Whom, spite of silver hairs and trembling knees,
At Christmas-time a pantomime can please.
Still some bald heads adorn the lower row,
Green, lusty lads of three-score years or so;
Nor is the veteran yet ashamed to sit,
Three times a year, with Tommy, in the pit.
But vain your hope, ye gentle sisters twain,
Who hold of Passion's realm the double rein!
Mirth-moving maid! and thou who wak'st the tear!
Vain was your hope to build an empire here:
Not ev'n _your_ slaves will freemen deign to be--
Fly to some region where the soul is free.
Find some fat soil of indolence and rest,
With some good-natured, easy tyrant blest,
Who to himself the toil of ruling takes,
And his own laws and his own blunders makes;
Leaving his people only to obey,
And sleep the noon and sing the night away.
Or waste in tawdry theatres the hours
Which here the service of the State devours.
Here nobler cares enlightened man engage
Than the poor fictions of a trifling stage.
Perhaps her sons th' alarmed Republic calls
To solemn _caucus_ in her council halls,
Wherein her trembling destiny awaits
The awful issue of their high debates.
What time have they the ravings to endure
Of any mad young Prince or horn-mad Moor,
When Duty calls them to contrive a way
To pay the nation's debt--or not to pay?
Or when perchance upon a single voice
Depends an alderman's defeat or choice?
Why should they care to hear a greedy Jew,
With cut-throat air, insisting on his due,
When they, by far more naturally, play
Shylock themselves, in Wall-street, every day?
Yet should, by hap, a genial evening spare
The flaming patriot from his country's care,
Or Business loose his limbs and tortured brain
From the long thraldom of her golden chain,
Why then his tireless energies demand
A dish of knowledge, sold at second-hand:
With indefatigable ears and eyes
To look profound in lecture-rooms he tries,
And picks Philosophy's delightful scraps
From fossils, gases, diagrams and maps.
For Science now is easy grown, and cheap,
Keeps modest hours, nor interferes with sleep;
And much there is to wonder at and know
In all the 'ologies, from _aer_ to _zo_.
What power against such rivalry could stand?
Farewell, poor DRAMA! seek another land.
Fancy ev'n now anticipates the day
When your last pageant shall have passed away:
I see, I see the auctioneer profane
Each inmost recess of your hallowed reign;
While crowds of clergymen and deacons pour
Your violated horrors to explore.
Nightly no more the magic foot-lights rise,
Nor oil-cloth moons ascend the canvass skies.
BRAGALDIS'S brush, poor Queen! is dry for you,
Doomed now to deck the pulpit and the pew.
Yes; the same art which whilom could transport
The lost beholder to king DUNCAN'S court,
Or bid him stand upon the 'blasted heath,'
Where the weird women, low'ring, hailed MACBETH,
Is now your only cheap cathedral-builder,
With some small aid from carver and from gilder:
What masons cannot build, the painter paints
In water-colors, to delight the saints.
'Tis true: I've witnessed in the house of prayer
Shows that had made a pious Pagan stare;
A lie bedaubed upon the walls, forsooth,
Where true believers come to worship Truth!
Lo! Gothic shafts their taper heads exalt
Arch above arch, and vault supporting vault;
Around the chancel, marble to the eye,
Seraphs and cherubs in distemper fly,
While far beyond a seeming choir extends
Whose awful depth a mimic window ends.
Through the dim panes (so well the scenes are done)
For ever streams a never-setting sun,
And all appears the work of hands divine,
Another Westminster--of varnished pine!
Nor only so; the very violins
Are now atoning for their ancient sins,
By sweetly blending with the organ's roar,
And winning souls as ORPHEUS did of yore.
Sure, flutes and hautboys and Italian skill
May with fresh crowds the 'anxious-benches' fill,
And many a heart an orchestra may move,
Past all the power of preaching to improve.
Herein observe how modes and tastes recur,
And all things _are_ precisely what they were;
For all the changes of our history seem
Infinite eddies in the sweeping stream,
Down which, while gliding whither we are bound,
Our course eternally is round and round;
Or why life's progress may I not compare
To a long passage up a winding stair;
We turn and turn again, as we ascend,
For ever climbing toward the unknown end,
Where one impenetrable veil of clouds
The aim and summit of our being shrouds;
And on our state bestowing but a glance,
We seem to move, but never to advance;
Ev'n as old Earth, obedient planet! rolls
Poised on the balanced spindle of her poles,
Yet duly fills her more extended sphere,
Circling the central orb with every year,
Thus we our double journey still pursue,
Revolving still, yet ever onward too.
Think how the stage in piety began,
When early players played the 'fall of man;'
Or showed the Lord High Admiral of the Ark
Eyeing the clouds, about to disembark.
Now the Church borrows what it lent before,
And the just actors all her own restore:
Again Devotion asks the help of Art,
And paint and music rouse the torpid heart.
The self same vein which bade old bards rehearse
The book of Exodus in tragic verse,
Reveals itself in operas that mingle
Religious hist'ry with dramatic jingle.
'Moses in Egypt,' blazoned on the bill,
Night after night the galleries can fill,
While crowds of Sunday amateurs admire
The tale of 'David,' chanted by a choir.
Already, I foresee, the time is nigh,
When concert-rooms our worship will supply,
And sacred oratorios combine
(To suit all tastes) the play-house and the shrine.
But soft--the bell! the steamboat sails at noon;
Rest thee, my goose-quill, till another moon.
T. W. P.
* * * * *
Mr. PLACIDE, the _universal_ favorite, who requires not a word of
praise from any one who has ever seen him upon the stage, leaves us
soon, we learn, for the South-west. As an actor and a gentleman,
we commend him to the especial regards of our play-going readers,
and editorial and personal friends, in that meridian. Gentlemen,
he is 'a trump!' Mr. CHIPPENDALE is cordially welcomed back to the
Park. In his rôle, by no means a limited one, he is not second to
any of his confréres. How admirably he personated the 'Intendant' in
'Werner!' It was a _faultless_ performance, by common consent of his
gratified auditors. The same may be said, and _was_ said, indeed,
and very unanimously, of his excellent representation of 'Col.
DAMAS' in the 'Lady of Lyons.' Mr. CHIPPENDALE has been greatly
missed, during his absence; and he 'can't be spared' again. We are
glad of an opportunity to pay a deserved tribute to the talents of
Mr. WHEATLEY. 'That first appeal which is to the _eye_' is most
satisfactorily sustained by the manly person and fine features
of this gentleman; and we know of no one in the profession whose
improvement has been more marked. To our fancy, his performance of
'Ulrick,' in 'Werner,' was a study. The last scene won the most
applause, perhaps; but the previous conception and execution of the
actor, though less _outwardly_ manifested, were certainly not less
felicitous. As 'Icilius,' in 'Virginius,' also, Mr. WHEATLEY won
golden opinions. Indeed, it seems quite certain, that with continued
study and attention to the _minutiæ_ of his characters, this young
gentleman is destined to attain a high rank in his profession. Mr.
VACHE, the new Charleston acquisition, seems a very self-possessed,
correct, and gentleman-like performer. All that we have seen him
essay, has been well sustained. His success is no longer doubtful.
* * * * *
'AMERICAN THEATRE,' BOWERY.--We have nothing but abundant success
to chronicle of this spacious establishment. It has been crowded
nightly, we are informed, to its utmost capacity, by admiring
audiences, to witness the representation of SHAKSPEARE'S heroes and
heroines by Mr. HAMBLIN, and that gifted actress, Mrs. SHAW. This
_fact_ sufficiently bespeaks the _character_ of the personations of
these two popular performers.
* * * * *
MITCHELL'S OLYMPIC.--Full, every night, of wide-mouthed laughers,
who go grinning homeward 'by the light of the moon' or the
gas-lamps. What could we say more? The only thing necessary to add
is, 'Go early, if you desire to enjoy with comfort the capital
acting of MITCHELL, in the amusing travestie of 'MACBETH,' the
charming voice of Miss TAYLOR, or the clever personations of
WALCOTT.'
* * * * *
THE CHATHAM.--'E'yah! yah! yah!--e'look-o'-'ere!' JAMES CROW,
Esquire, has recently delighted his 'friends and fellow-citizens'
at this commodious and well-appointed establishment, which
has partaken, during the month, of the general prosperity of
theatricals in the metropolis. Mr. BURTON, a low comedian, formerly
of Philadelphia, followed him in his round of characters, with
satisfaction to his admirers; and 'at this present writing,' YANKEE
HILL is amusing crowded audiences with his unique representations of
'down-east' life and manners.
* * * * *
GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CORRESPONDENTS.--It is many years since
we first perused the thoughtful '_Vision of Mirza_.' We have been
pondering it again this wailing autumn evening; and as we read,
we remembered how many companions, who went hand-in-hand with us
through the valley of youth, had entered upon the bridge which
spans the stream of time, and one after another disappeared in the
ever-flowing tide below. Amidst the beating of the 'sorrowing rains'
against the window-panes, and the fitful sighing of the night-wind,
we thought of _One_ who held with Nature an affectionate fellowship,
and who loved this melancholy season as a poet only could love
it; of one who stepped upon that bridge at the same moment with
ourselves, but who, while yet in the first stages of his journey,
growing weary and faint with the toil and strife, reached with
gradually-faltering pace one of the concealed pit-falls, and was
'lost for ever to time;' leaving his companion _alone_, to press on
toward the dark cloud which ever broods over the onward distance.
Strange power of memory!
'In thoughts which answer to our own,
In words which reach the inward ear
Like whispers from the void Unknown,
We feel his living presence here!'
_Something_ there is in the autumn season which reaches back into
those recesses of the spirit, where lie the sources whence well out
the bitter or the sweet waters; recollections of the hopes, the
fears, the sorrows and the happinesses, of our incomprehensible
being! Enter with us, reader, upon MIRZA'S Bridge, and listen to
the teachings of this matchless allegory of the mysterious shepherd:
'CAST thy eyes eastward,' said he, 'and tell me what thou
seest.' 'I see,' said I, 'a huge valley, and a prodigious tide
of water rolling through it.' 'The valley that thou seest,'
said he, 'is the Vale of Misery, and the tide of water that
thou seest is part of the great tide of Eternity.' 'What is the
reason,' said I, 'that the tide and sea rise out of a thick
mist at one end, and again lose themselves in a thick mist at
the other?' 'What thou seest,' said he, 'is that portion of
eternity which is called time, measured out by the sun, and
reaching from the beginning of the world to its consummation.
Examine now,' said he, 'this sea that is thus bounded with
darkness at both ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in
it.' 'I see a bridge,' said I, 'standing in the midst of the
tide.' 'The bridge thou seest,' said he, 'is Human Life;
consider it attentively.' Upon a more leisurely survey of it, I
found that it consisted of three-score and ten arches, which,
added to those that were entire, made up the number about an
hundred. As I was counting the arches, the genius told me that
this bridge consisted at first of a thousand arches, but that
a great flood swept away the rest, and left the bridge in the
ruinous condition I now beheld it. 'But tell me farther,' said
he, 'what discoverest thou on it?' 'I see multitudes of people
passing over it,' said I, 'and a black cloud hanging on each
end of it.' As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the
passengers dropping through the bridge into the great tide that
flowed underneath it; and upon farther examination, I perceived
that there were innumerable trap-doors that lay concealed in the
bridge, which the passengers no sooner trod upon but they fell
through them into the tide, and immediately disappeared. These
hidden pit-falls were set very thick at the entrance of the
bridge, so that throngs of people no sooner broke through the
cloud but many of them fell into them. They grew thinner toward
the middle, but multiplied and lay close together toward the end
of the arches that were entire. There were indeed some persons,
but then their number was very small, that continued a kind of
hobbling march on the broken arches, but fell through, one after
another, being quite tired and spent with so long a walk.
'I passed some time in the contemplation of this wonderful
structure, and the great variety of objects which it presented.
My heart was filled with a deep melancholy to see several
dropping unexpectedly in the midst of mirth and jollity, and
catching at every thing that stood by, to save themselves.
Some were looking toward the heavens, in a thoughtful posture,
and in the midst of a speculation stumbled and fell out of
sight. Multitudes were very busy in the pursuit of bubbles that
glittered in their eyes, and danced before them, but often, when
they thought themselves within the reach of them, their footing
failed, and down they sank. In this confusion of objects I
observed some with cimetars in their hands, who ran to and fro
upon the bridge, thrusting several persons on trap-doors which
did not seem to lie in their way, and which they might have
escaped, had they not been thus forced upon them.'