Actors are rather generally esteemed to be what is commonly called "good
company." For our part, we think the companionable qualities of the
members of the _corps drámatique_ are much overrated. There are
many of them, we know full well, as pleasant and agreeable spirits as
any extant; but the great mass of actors are too outrageously
professional to please. Their conversation is too much tainted with
theatricals--they do not travel off the stage in their discourse--their
gossip smacks of the green-room--their jests and good things are, for
the most part, extracts from plays--they lack originality--the drama is
their world, and they think nothing worthy of argument but men and
matters connected with it. They are the weakest of all critics, their
observations on characters in plays are hereditary opinions of the
corps, which descend as heir looms with the part to its successive
representatives. There are, doubtless, some splendid exceptions--we
could name several performers, who talk finely on general subjects, who
are not confined to the foot-lights in their fancies, who utter jests of
the first water, whose sayings are worth hearing, and whose anecdotes
are made up of such good materials, and are so well told withal, that
our "lungs have crowed like chanticleer" to hear them. Others, we have
met with, who are the antipodes of those drama-doating gentlemen whom
we have noticed above, who rarely, unless purposely inveigled into it,
mention the stage or those who tread it. One highly gifted individual,
when alive, enjoyed a discourse on the merits of Molyneux, the small
talk of the P.C., or a vivid description of an old-school fight;
another has a keen relish for all matters connected with the Great
St. Ledger--the state of the odds against the outside fillies for the
Oaks--the report of those deep versed in veterinary lore, upon the
cough of the favourite for the Derby; you cannot please a certain
excellent melo-dramatic actor better than by placing him alongside of
an enthusiastic young sailor, who will talk with him about maintops
and mizens--sky-scrapers and shrouds--
of gallant ships,
Proudly floating o'er the dark blue ocean.
The eternal theme of one old gentleman is his parrot, and another
chatters incessantly about his pupils. Some of the singers--the serious
order of singers--are as namby-pamby off the stage as they are on it,
unless revelling in "sweet sounds;" they are too fond of humming tunes,
solfaing, and rehearsing graces in society; they have plenty to sing,
but nothing to say for themselves; they chime the quarters like "our
grandmother's clock," and at every revolution of the minute index,
strike up their favourite tune. This is as bad as being half-smothered
in honey, or nearly
Washed to death in fulsome wine.
There is one actor on the stage who is ever attempting to show the
possibility of achieving impossibilities; he is one of the most pleasant
visionaries in existence; his spirit soars aloft from every-day matters,
and delights in shadowy mysteries; a matter-of-fact is a gorgon to him;
he abhors the palpable, and doats upon the occult and intangible; he
loves to speculate on the doings of those in the dogstar, to discuss on
immortal essences, to dispute with the disbeliever on gnomes--a paradox
will be the darling of his bosom for a month, and a good chimera be
his bedfellow by night and theme by day for a year. He is fickle, and
casts off his menial mistress at an hour's notice--his mind never weds
any of the strange, fantastic idealities, which he woos for a time so
passionately--deep disgust succeeds to the strongest attachment for
them--he is as great a rake among the wayward "rebusses of the brain"
which fall under his notice as that "wandering melodist--the bee of
Hybla"--with the blossoms of spring. He has no affection for the
schemes, or "vain imaginations" of other men--no one can ridicule
them more smartly--he loves only "flowers of his own gathering"--he
places them in his breast, and wears them there with miraculous
constancy--flaunts them in the eyes of his friends--woos the applause,
the admiration of every one at their charms--and the instant he
discovers that another feels a budding fondness for their beauties,
he dashes them from him, and abuses them for ever after, _sans_
mercy.--_Every Night Book_.
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