entitle him, and what is his contribution to the general sum of
instruction? We are often told that the art is ephemeral; that it
creates nothing; that when the actor's personality is withdrawn from
the public eye he leaves no trace behind. Granted that his art creates
nothing; but does it not often restore? It is true that he leaves
nothing like the canvas of the painter and the marble of the sculptor,
but has he done nought to increase the general stock of ideas? The
astronomer and naturalist create nothing, but they contribute much to
the enlightenment of the world. I am taking the highest standard of
my art, for I maintain that in judging any calling you should consider
its noblest and not its most ignoble products. All the work that is
done on the stage cannot stand upon the same level, any more than all
the work that is done in literature. You do not demand that your poets
and novelists shall all be of the same calibre. An immense amount of
good writing does no more than increase the gayety of mankind; but
when Johnson said that the gayety of nations was eclipsed by the death
of Garrick, he did not mean that a mere barren amusement had lost one
of its professors. When Sir Joshua Reynolds painted Mrs. Siddons as
the Tragic Muse, and said he had achieved immortality by putting his
name on the hem of her garment, he meant something more than a pretty
compliment, for her name can never die. To give genuine and wholesome
entertainment is a very large function of the stage, and without that
entertainment very many lives would lose a stimulus of the highest
value. If recreation of every legitimate kind is invaluable to the
worker, especially so is the recreation of the drama, which brightens
his faculties, enlarges his vision of the picturesque, and by taking
him for a time out of this work-a-day world, braces his sensibilities
for the labors of life. The art which does this may surely claim to
exercise more than a fleeting influence upon the world's intelligence.
But in its highest developments it does more; it acts as a constant
medium for the diffusion of great ideas, and by throwing new lights
upon the best dramatic literature, it largely helps the growth
of education. It is not too much to say that the interpreters of
Shakespeare on the stage have had much to do with the widespread
appreciation of his works. Some of the most thoughtful students of
the poet have recognized their indebtedness to actors, while for
multitudes the stage has performed the office of discovery. Thousands
who flock to-day to see a representation of Shakespeare, which is the
product of much reverent study of the poet, are not content to regard
it as a mere scenic exhibition. Without it Shakespeare might have been
for many of them a sealed book; but many more have been impelled
by the vivid realism of the stage to renew studies which other
occupations or lack of leisure have arrested. Am I presumptuous, then,
in asserting that the stage is not only an instrument of amusement,
but a very active agent in the spread of knowledge and taste? Some
forms of stage work, you may say, are not particularly elevating.
True; and there are countless fictions coming daily from the hands
of printer and publisher which nobody is the better for reading. You
cannot have a fixed standard of value in my art; and though there
are masses of people who will prefer an unintelligent exhibition to
a really artistic production, that is no reason for decrying the
theatre, in which all the arts blend with the knowledge of history,
manners, and customs of all people, and scenes of all climes, to
afford a varied entertainment to the most exacting intellect. I have
no sympathy with people who are constantly anxious to define the
actor's position, for, as a rule, they are not animated by a desire to
promote his interests. "'Tis in ourselves that we are thus and thus;"
and whatever actors deserve, socially or artistically, they are sure
to receive as their right. I found the other day in a well-circulated
little volume a suggestion that the actor was a degraded being because
he has a closely-shaven face. This is, indeed, humiliating, and I
wonder how it strikes the Roman Catholic clergy. However, there are
actors who do not shave closely, and though, alas! I am not one of
them, I wish them joy of the spiritual grace which I cannot claim.
It is admittedly unfortunate for the stage that it has a certain
equivocal element, which, in the eyes of some judges, is sufficient
for its condemnation. The art is open to all, and it has to bear the
sins of many. You may open your newspaper, and see a paragraph headed
"Assault by an Actress." Some poor creature is dignified by that title
who has not the slightest claim to it. You look into a shop-window and
see photographs of certain people who are indiscriminately described
as actors and actresses though their business has no pretence to be
art of any kind.
I was told in Baltimore of a man in that city who was so diverted by
the performance of Tyrone Powar, the popular Irish comedian, that he
laughed uproariously till the audience was convulsed with merriment at
the spectacle. As soon as he could speak, he called out, "Do be quiet,
Mr. Showman; do'ee hold your tongue, or I shall die of laughter!" This
idea that the actor is a showman still lingers; but no one with any
real appreciation of the best elements of the drama applies this
vulgar standard to a great body of artists. The fierce light of
publicity that beats upon us makes us liable, from time to time, to
dissertations upon our public and private lives, our manners, our
morals, and our money. Our whims and caprices are discanted on with
apparent earnestness of truth, and seeming sincerity of conviction.
There is always some lively controversy concerning the influence of
the stage. The battle between old methods and new in art is waged
everywhere. If an actor were to take to heart everything that is
written and said about him, his life would be an intolerable burden.
And one piece of advice I should give to young actors is this: Do not
be too sensitive; receive praise or censure with modesty and patience.
Good honest criticism is, of course, most advantageous to an actor;
but he should save himself from the indiscriminate reading of a
multitude of comments, which may only confuse instead of stimulating.
And here let me say to young actors in all earnestness: Beware of the
loungers of our calling, the camp followers who hang on the skirts of
the army, and who inveigle the young into habits that degrade their
character, and paralyze their ambition. Let your ambition be ever
precious to you, and, next to your good name, the jewel of your souls.
I care nothing for the actor who is not always anxious to rise to
the highest position in his particular walk; but this ideal cannot be
cherished by the young man who is induced to fritter away his time and
his mind in thoughtless company.
But in the midst of all this turmoil about the stage, one fact stands
out clearly: the dramatic art is steadily growing in credit with the
educated classes. It is drawing more recruits from those classes. The
enthusiasm for our calling has never reached a higher pitch. There is
quite an extraordinary number of ladies who want to become actresses,
and the cardinal difficulty in the way is not the social deterioration
which some people think they would incur, but simply their inability
to act. Men of education who become actors do not find that their
education is useless. If they have the necessary aptitude--the inborn
instinct for the stage--all their mental training will be of great
value to them. It is true that there must always be grades in the
theatre, that an educated man who is an indifferent actor can never
expect to reach the front rank. If he do no more than figure in the
army at Bosworth Field, or look imposing in a doorway; if he never
play any but the smallest parts; if in these respects he be no
better than men who could not pass an examination in any branch of
knowledge--he has no more reason to complain than the highly-educated
man who longs to write poetry, and possesses every qualification--save
the poetic faculty. There are people who seem to think that only
irresistible genius justifies any one in adopting the stage as a
vocation. They make it an argument against the profession that many
enter it from a low sphere of life, without any particular fitness for
acting, but simply to earn a livelihood by doing the subordinate and
mechanical work which is necessary in every theatre. And so men and
women of refinement--especially women--are warned that they must do
themselves injury by passing through the rank and file during their
term of probation in the actors' craft. Now, I need not remind you
that on the stage everybody cannot be great, any more than students
of music can all become great musicians; but very many will do sound
artistic work which is of great value. As for any question of conduct,
Heaven forbid that I should be dogmatic; but it does not seem to me
logical that while genius is its own law in the pursuit of a noble
art, all inferior merit or ambition is to be deterred from the same
path by appalling pictures of its temptations.
If our art is worth anything at all, it is worth the honest,
conscientious self-devotion of men and women who, while they may not
achieve fame, may have the satisfaction of being workers in a calling
which does credit to many degrees of talent. We do not claim to be
any better than our fellows in other walks of life. We do not ask
the jester in journalism whether his quips and epigrams are always
dictated by the loftiest morality; nor do we insist on knowing that
the odor of sanctity surrounds the private lives of lawyers and
military men before we send our sons into law and the army. It
is impossible to point out any vocation which is not attended by
temptations that prove fatal to many; but you have simply to consider
whether a profession has in itself any title to honor, and then--if
you are confident of your capacity--to enter it with a resolve to do
all that energy and perseverance can accomplish. The immortal part of
the stage is its nobler part. Ignoble accidents and interludes come
and go, but this lasts on forever. It lives, like the human soul,
in the body of humanity--associated with much that is inferior, and
hampered by many hindrances; but it never sinks into nothingness, and
never fails to find new and noble work in creations of permanent and
memorable excellence. And I would say, as a last word, to the young
men in this assembly who may at any time resolve to enter the dramatic
profession, that they ought always to fix their minds upon the highest
examples; that in studying acting they should beware of prejudiced
comparisons between this method and that, but learn as much as
possible from all; that they should remember that art is as varied as
nature, and as little suited to the shackles of a school; and, above
all, that they should never forget that excellence in any art is
attained only by arduous labor, unswerving purpose, and unfailing
discipline. This discipline is, perhaps, the most difficult of all
tests, for it involves the subordination of the actor's personality in
every work which is designed to be a complete and harmonious picture.
Dramatic art nowadays is more coherent, systematic, and comprehensive
than it has sometimes been. And to the student who proposes to fill
the place in this system to which his individuality and experience
entitle him, and to do his duty faithfully and well, ever striving
after greater excellence, and never yielding to the indolence that is
often born of popularity--to him I say, with every confidence, that
he will choose a career in which, if it does not lead him to fame,
he will be sustained by the honorable exercise of some of the best
faculties of the human mind.
And now I can only thank you for the patience with which you have
listened while, in a slight and imperfect way, I have dwelt with some
of the most important of the actor's responsibilities, I have been an
actor for nearly thirty years, and what I have told you is the fruit
of my experience, and of an earnest and conscientious belief that the
calling to which I am proud to belong is worthy of the sympathy and
support of all intelligent people.
ADDRESS
AT THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD
26 JUNE 1886
ADDRESS AT THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.
When I was honored by the request of your distinguished
Vice-Chancellor to deliver an address before the members of this
great University, I told him I could only say something about my own
calling, for that I knew little or nothing about anything else.
I trust, however, that this confession of the limitations of
my knowledge will not prejudice me in your eyes, members as you
are--privileged members I may say--of this seat of learning. In an age
when so many persons think they know everything, it may afford a not
unpleasing variety to meet with some who know that they know nothing.
I cannot discourse to you, even if you wished me to do so, of the
respective merits of Æschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides; for if I
did, I should not be able to tell you anything that you do not know
already. I have not had the advantage--one that very few of the
members of my profession in past, or even in present times have
enjoyed--of an University education. The only _Alma Mater_ I ever knew
was the hard stage of a country theatre.
In the course of my training, long before I had taken, what I may
call, my degree in London, I came to act in your city. I have a very
pleasant recollection of the time I passed here, though I am sorry
to say that, owing to the regulation which forbade theatrical
performances during term time, I saw Oxford only in vacation, which
is rather like--to use the old illustration--seeing _Hamlet_ with the
part of Hamlet left out. There was then no other building available
for dramatic representations than the Town Hall. I may, perhaps, be
allowed to congratulate you on the excellent theatre which you now
possess--I do not mean the Sheldonian--and at the same time to express
a hope that, as a more liberal, and might I say a wiser, _régime_
allows the members of the University to go to the play, they will not
receive any greater moral injury, or be distracted any more from their
studies, than when they were only allowed the occasional relaxation of
hearing comic songs. Macready once said that "a theatre ought to be
a place of recreation for the sober-minded and intelligent." I trust
that, under whatsoever management the theatre in Oxford may be, it
will always deserve this character.
You must not expect any learned disquisition from me; nor even in the
modified sense in which the word is used among you will I venture to
style what I am going to say to you a lecture. You may, by the way,
have seen a report that I was cast for _four_ lectures; but I assure
you there was no ground for such an alarming rumor; a rumor quite as
alarming to me as it could have been to you. What I do propose is, to
say to you something about four of our greatest actors in the past,
each of whom may be termed the representative of an important period
in the Annals of our National Drama. In turning over the leaves of
a history of the life of Edmund Kean, I came across the following
sentence (the writer is speaking of Edmund Kean as having restored
Nature to the stage): "There seems always to have been this
alternation between the Schools of Nature and Art (if we may so term
them) in the annals of the English Theatre." Now if for _Art_ I may be
allowed to substitute _Artificiality_, which is what the author really
meant, I think that his sentence is an epitome of the history of our
stage; and it struck me at once that I could not select anything more
appropriate--I will not say as a text, for that sounds as if I were
going to deliver a sermon--but as the _motif_, or theme of the remarks
I am about to address to you. The four actors of whom I shall attempt
to tell, you something--Burbage, Betterton, Garrick, and Kean--were
the _four_ greatest champions, in their respective times, on the stage
of Nature in contradistinction to Artificiality.
When we consider the original of the Drama, or perhaps I should say
of the higher class of Drama, we see that the style of acting must
necessarily have been artificial rather than natural. Take the Greek
Tragedy, for instance: the actors, as you know, wore masks, and had to
speak, or rather intone, in a theatre more than half open to the air,
and therefore it was impossible they could employ facial expression,
or much variety of intonation. We have not time now to trace at length
the many vicissitudes in the career of the Drama, but I may say that
Shakespeare was the first dramatist who dared to rob Tragedy of her
stilts; and who successfully introduced an element of comedy which
was not dragged in by the neck and heels, but which naturally evolved
itself from the treatment of the tragic story, and did not violate the
consistency of any character.
It was not only with regard to the _writing_ of his plays
that Shakespeare sought to fight the battle of Nature against
Artificiality. However naturally he might write, the affected or
monotonous _delivery_ of his verse by the actors would neutralize all
his efforts. The old rhyming ten-syllable lines could not but lead to
a monotonous style of elocution, nor was the early blank verse much
improvement in this respect; but Shakespeare fitted his blank verse to
the natural expression of his ideas, and not his ideas to the trammels
of blank verse.
In order to carry out these reforms, in order to dethrone Artifice and
Affectation, he needed the help of actors in whom he could trust,
and especially of a leading actor who could interpret his greatest
dramatic creations; such a one he found in Richard Burbage.
Shakespeare came to London first in 1585. Whether on this, his first
visit, he became connected with the theatres is uncertain. At any
rate it is most probable that he saw Burbage in some of his favorite
characters, and perhaps made his acquaintance; being first employed
as a kind of servant in the theatre, and afterwards as a player of
inferior parts. It was not until about 1591-1592, that Shakespeare
began to turn his attention seriously to dramatic authorship. For five
years of his life we are absolutely without any evidence as to what
were his pursuits. But there can be little doubt that during this
interval he was virtually undergoing a special form of education,
consisting rather of the study of human nature than that of books,
and was acquiring the art of dramatic construction--learnt better in
a theatre than anywhere else. Unfortunately, we have no record of the
intercourse between Shakespeare and Burbage; but there can be little
doubt that between the dramatist, who was himself an actor, and the
actor, who gave life to the greatest creations of his imagination, and
who, probably, amazed no less than delighted the great master by the
vividness and power of his impersonations, there must have existed a
close friendship. Shakespeare, unlike most men of genius, was no bad
man of business; and, indeed, a friend of mine, who prides himself
upon being a practical man, once suggested that he selected the part
of the Ghost in _Hamlet_ because it enabled him to go in front of the
house between the acts and count the money. Burbage was universally
acknowledged as the greatest tragic actor of his time. In Bartholomew
Fair, Ben Jonson uses Burbage's name as a synonym for "the best
actor"; and Bishop Corbet, in his _Iter Boreale_, tells us that his
host at Leicester--
"when he would have said King Richard died,
And call'd, 'A horse! A horse!' he, Burbage, cried,"
In a scene, in which Burbage and the comedian Kemp (the J.L. Toole
of the Shakespearean period) are introduced in _The Return from
Parnassus_--a satirical play, as you may know, written by some of
the Members of St. John's College, Cambridge, for performance
by themselves on New Year's Day, 1602--we have proof of the high
estimation in which the great tragic actor was held. Kemp says to the
scholars who are anxious to try their fortunes on the stage: "But be
merry, my lads, you have happened upon the most excellent vocation
in the world for money; they come north and south to bring it to our
playhouse; and for honors, who of more report than _Dick Burbage_
and _Will Kempe_; he is not counted a gentleman that knows not _Dick
Burbage_ and _Will Kempe_; there's not a country wench that can
dance 'Sellenger's Round,' but can talke of _Dick Burbage_ and _Will
Kempe_."
That Burbage's fame as an actor outlived his life may be seen from the
description given by Flecknoe:--
"He was a delightful Proteus, so wholly transforming himself into his
part, and putting off himself with his clothes, as he never (not so
much as in the 'tiring house) assumed himself again until the play was
done.... He had all the parts of an excellent orator, animating his
words with speaking, and speech with acting, his auditors being never
more delighted than when he spake, nor more sorry than when he held
his peace. Yet even then he was an excellent actor still, never
failing in his part when he had done speaking, but with his looks and
gestures maintaining it still to the height."
It is not my intention, even if time permitted, to go much into the
private life of the four actors of whom I propose to speak. Very
little is known of Burbage's private life, except that he was married;
perhaps Shakespeare and he may have been drawn nearer together by the
tie of a common sorrow; for, as the poet lost his beloved son Hamlet
when quite a child, so did Burbage lose his eldest son Richard.
Burbage died on March 13th, 1617, being then about 50 years of age:
Camden, in his _Annals of James I._, records his death, and calls him
a second Roscius. He was sincerely mourned by all those who loved
the dramatic art; and he numbered among his friends Shakespeare, Ben
Jonson, Beaumont, and Fletcher, and other "common players," whose
names were destined to become the most honored in the annals of
English literature. Burbage was the first great actor that England
ever saw, the original representative of many of Shakespeare's noblest
creations, among others, of Shylock, Richard, Romeo, Hamlet, Lear,
Othello, and Macbeth. We may fairly conclude Burbage's acting to have
had all the best characteristics of Natural, as opposed to Artificial
acting. The principles of the former are so clearly laid down by
Shakespeare, in Hamlet's advice to the players, that, perhaps, I
cannot do better than to repeat them:--
Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you,
trippingly on the tongue: but if you mouth it, as many of your
players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor
do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but use all
gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may
say, the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a
temperance that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me to
the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a
passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the
groundlings, who for the most part are capable of nothing but
inexplicable dumb-show and noise: I would have such a fellow
whipped for o'erdoing Termagant; it out-herods Herod; pray
you, avoid it. Be not too tame neither, but let your own
discretion be your tutor; suit the action to the word, the
word to the action; with this special observance, that you
o'erstep not the modesty of nature: for anything so overdone
is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first
and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to
nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image,
and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure.
Now this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the
unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve; the
censure of the which one must in your allowance o'erweigh a
whole theatre of others. O, there be players that I have seen
play, and heard others praise, and that highly, not to speak
it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians
nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted
and bellowed that I have thought some of Nature's journeymen
had made men and not made them well, they imitated humanity so
abominably.
When we try to picture what the theatre in Shakespeare's time was
like, it strikes us that it must have been difficult to carry out
those principles. One would think it must have been almost impossible
for the actors to keep up the illusion of the play, surrounded as they
were by such distracting elements. Figure to yourselves a crowd of
fops, chattering like a flock of daws, carrying their stools in their
hands, and settling around, and sometimes upon the stage itself, with
as much noise as possible. To vindicate their importance in their own
eyes they kept up a constant jangling of petty, carping criticism on
the actors and the play. In the intervals of repose which they allowed
their tongues, they ogled the ladies in the boxes, and made a point
of vindicating the dignity of their intellects by being always most
inattentive during the most pathetic portions of the play. In front
of the house matters were little better: the orange girls going to and
fro among the audience, interchanging jokes--not of the most delicate
character--with the young sparks and apprentices, the latter cracking
nuts or howling down some unfortunate actor who had offended their
worships; sometimes pipes of tobacco were being smoked. Picture all
this confusion, and add the fact that the female characters of the
play were represented by shrill-voiced lads or half-shaven men.
Imagine an actor having to invest such representatives with all the
girlish passion of a Juliet, the womanly tenderness of a Desdemona,
or the pitiable anguish of a distraught Ophelia, and you cannot but
realize how difficult under such circumstances _great_ acting
must have been. In fact, while we are awe-struck by the wonderful
intellectuality of the best dramas of the Elizabethan period, we
cannot help feeling that certain subtleties of acting, elaborate
by-play, for instance, and the finer lights and shades of intonation,
must have been impossible. Recitation rather than impersonation would
be generally aimed at by the actors.