Italy! land of love and maccaroni, of pathos and puppets--tomb of Romeo and
Juliet--birth-place of Punch and Judy--region of romance--country of the
concentrated essences of all these;--carnivals--I, PUNCH, the first and
last, the alpha and omega of fun, adore thee! From the moment when I was
cast upon thy shores, like Venus, out of the sea, to this sad day, when I
am forced to descend from my own stage to mere criticism; have I preserved
every token that would endear my memory to thee! My nose is still Roman, my
mouth-organ plays the "genteelest of" Italian "tunes"--my scenes represent
the choicest of Italian villas--in "choice Italian" doth my devil swear--to
wit, "_shal-la-bella!_"
Longing to be still more reminded of thee, dear Italy, I threw a large
cloak over my hunch, and a huge pair of spectacles over my nose, and
ensconced myself in a box at the Haymarket Theatre, to witness the fourth
appearance of my rival puppet, Charles Kean, in Romeo. He is an actor! What
a deep voice--what an interesting lisp--what a charming whine--what a
vigorous stamp, he hath! How hard he strikes his forehead when he is going
into a rage--how flat he falls upon the ground when he is going to die! And
then, when he has killed Tybalt, what an attitude he strikes, what an
appalling grin he indulges his gaping admirers withal!
This is real acting that one pays one's money to see, and not such an
unblushing imposition as Miss Tree practises upon us. Do we go to the play
to see nature? of course not: we only desire to see the actors playing at
being natural, like Mr. Gallot, Mr. Howe, Mr. Worral, or Mr. Kean, and
other actors. This system of being too natural will, in the end, be the
ruin of the drama. It has already driven me from the Stage, and will, I
fear, serve the great performers I nave named above in the same manner. But
the Haymarket Juliet overdoes it; she is more natural than nature, for she
makes one or two improbabilities in the plot of the play seem like
every-day matters of fact. Whether she falls madly in love at the first
glance, agrees to be married the next afternoon, takes a sleeping draught,
throws herself lifeless upon the bed, or wakes in the tomb to behold her
poisoned lover, still in all these situations she behaves like a sensible,
high-minded girl, that takes such circumstances, and makes them appear to
the audience--quite as a matter of course! What let me ask, was the use of
the author--whose name, I believe, was Shakspere--purposely contriving
these improbabilities, if the actors do not make the most of them? I do
hope Miss Tree will no longer impose upon the public by pretending to _act_
Juliet. Let her try some of the characters in Bulwer's plays, which want
all her help to make them resemble women of any nation, kindred, or
country.
Much as I admire Kean, I always prefer the acting of Wallack; there is more
variety in the tones of his voice, for Kean tunes his pipes exactly as my
long-drummer sets his drum;--to one pitch: but as to action, Wallack--more
like my drummer--beats him hollow; he points his toes, stands a-kimbo,
takes off his hat, and puts it on again, quite as naturally as if he
belonged to the really legitimate drama, and was worked by strings cleverly
pulled to suit the action to _every_ word. Wallack is an honest performer;
_he_ don't impose upon you, like Webster, for instance, who as the
Apothecary, speaks with a hungry voice, walks with a tottering step, moves
with a helpless gait, which plainly shows that he never studied the
part--he must have starved for it. Where will this confounded naturalness
end?
The play is "got up," as we managers call it, capitally. The dresses are
superb, and so are the properties. The scenery exhibited views of different
parts of the city, and was, so far as I am a judge, well painted. I have
only one objection to the balcony scene. Plagiarism is mean and
contemptible--I despise it. I will not apply to the Vice-Chancellor for an
injunction, because the imitation is so vilely caricatured; but the balcony
itself is the very counterpart of PUNCH'S theatre!--PUNCH.
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