Chapter III: Sophocles--Euripides--Dionysius (2)

As Betterton is the centre to which all my observations upon action tend, you will give me leave, under his character, to enlarge upon that head. In the just delivery of poetical numbers, particularly where the sentiments are pathetic, it is scarce credible upon how minute an article of sound depends their greatest beauty or inaffection. The voice of a singer is not more strictly tied to time and tune than that of an actor in theatrical elocution. The least syllable too long, or too slightly dwelt upon in a period, depreciates it to nothing; which very syllable, if rightly touched, shall, like the heightening stroke of light from a master’s pencil, give life and spirit to the whole. I never heard a line in tragedy come from Betterton wherein my judgment, my ear, and my imagination were not fully satisfied, which, since his time I cannot equally say of any one actor whatsoever; not but it is possible to be much his inferior with great excellencies, which I shall observe in another place. Had it been practicable to have tied down the clattering hands of the ill judges who were commonly the majority of an audience, to what amazing perfection might the English theatre have arrived, with so just an actor as Betterton at the head of it! If what was truth only could have been applauded, how many noisy actors had shook their plumes with shame, who, from the injudicious approbation of the multitude, have bawled and strutted in the place of merit! If, therefore, the bare speaking voice has such allurements in it, how much less ought we to wonder, however we may lament, that the sweeter notes of vocal music should so have captivated even the politer world into an apostacy from sense to an idolatry of sound. Let us inquire whence this enchantment rises. I am afraid it may be too naturally accounted for: for when we complain that the finest music, purchased at such vast expense, is so often thrown away upon the most miserable poetry, we seem not to consider that when the movement of the air and the tone of the voice are exquisitely harmonious, though we regard not one word of what we hear, yet the power of the melody is so busy in the heart, that we naturally annex ideas to it of our own creation, and, in some sort, become ourselves the poet to the composer; and what poet is so dull as not to be charmed with the child of his own fancy? So that there is even a kind of language in agreeable sounds, which, like the aspect of beauty, without words, speaks and plays with the imagination. While this taste, therefore, is so naturally prevalent, I doubt, to propose remedies for it were but giving laws to the winds, or advice to inamoratos. And however gravely we may assert that profit ought always to be inseparable from the delight of the theatre; nay, admitting that the pleasure would be heightened by the uniting them, yet, while instruction is so little the concern of the auditor, how can we hope that so choice a commodity will come to a market where there is so seldom a demand for it?

It is not to the actor, therefore, but to the vitiated and low taste of the spectator that the corruptions of the stage, of what kind soever, have been owing. If the public, by whom they must live, had spirit enough to discountenance and declare against all the trash and fopperies they have been so frequently fond of, both the actors and the authors, to the best of their power, must naturally have served their daily table with sound and wholesome diet.--But I have not yet done with my article of elocution.

As we have sometimes great composers of music, who cannot sing, we have as frequently great writers that cannot read; and though, without the nicest ear, no man can be master of poetical numbers; yet the best ear in the world will not always enable him to pronounce them. Of this truth Dryden, our first great master of verse and harmony, was a strong instance. When he brought his play of Amphytrion to the stage, I heard him give it his first reading to the actors, in which, though it is true, he delivered the plain sense of every period; yet the whole was in so cold, so flat, and unaffecting a manner, that I am afraid of not being believed when I affirm it.

On the contrary, Lee, far his inferior in poetry, was so pathetic a reader of his own scenes, that I have been informed by an actor who was present, that while Lee was reading to major Mohun, at a rehearsal, Mohun, in the warmth of his admiration, threw down his part and said, Unless I were able to play it as well as you read it, to what purpose should I undertake it? And yet this very author, whose elocution, raised such admiration in so capital an actor, when he attempted to be an actor himself, soon quitted the stage in an honest despair of ever making any profitable figure there.

From all this I would infer, that let our conception of what we are to speak be ever so just, and the ear ever so true, yet, when we are to deliver it to an audience (I will leave fear out of the question) there must go along with the whole a natural freedom and becoming grace, which is easier to conceive than to describe: for without this inexpressible somewhat, the performance will come out oddly disguised, or somewhere defectively unsurprising to the hearer. Of this defect too, I will give you yet a stranger instance, which you will allow fear could not be the occasion of. If you remember Estcourt, you must have known that he was long enough upon the stage, not to be under the least restraint from fear, in his performance. This man was so amazing and extraordinary a mimic, that no man or woman, from the coquette to the privy-counsellor, ever moved or spoke before him, but he would carry their voice, look, mein, and motion instantly into another company. I have heard him make long harangues, and form various arguments, even in the manner of thinking, of an eminent pleader at the bar, with every the least article and singularity of his utterance so perfectly imitated, that he was the very _alter ipse_, scarce to be distinguished from his original. Yet more; I have seen upon the margin of the written part of Falstaff, which he acted, his own notes and observations upon almost every speech of it, describing the true spirit of the humour, and with what tone of voice, look, and gesture each of them ought to be delivered; yet, in his execution upon the stage, he seemed to have lost all those just ideas he had formed of it, and almost through the character, laboured under a heavy load of flatness. In a word, with all his skill in mimickry, and knowledge of what ought to be done, he never, upon the stage, could bring it truly into practice, but was upon the whole, a languid unaffecting actor. After I have shown you so many necessary qualifications, not one of which can be spared in true theatrical elocution, and have at the same time proved, that with the assistance of them all united, the whole may still come forth defective, what talents shall we say will infallibly form an actor? This, I confess, is one of Nature’s secrets, too deep for me to dive into. Let us content ourselves, therefore, with affirming, that Genius, which Nature only gives, only can complete him. This genius then was so strong in Betterton, that it shone out in every speech and motion of him. Yet voice and person are such necessary supporters to it, that, by the multitude, they have been preferred to genius itself, or at least often mistaken for it. Betterton had a voice of that kind which gave more spirit to terror than to the softer passions; of more strength than melody. The rage and jealousy of Othello became him better than the sighs and tenderness of Castalio: for though in Castalio he only excelled others, in Othello he excelled himself, which you will easily believe, when you consider, that, in spite of his complexion, Othello has more natural beauties than the best actor can find in all the magazine of poetry, to animate his power and delight his judgment with.

The person of this excellent actor was suitable to his voice, more manly than sweet, not exceeding the middle stature, inclining to the corpulent; of a serious and penetrating aspect; his limbs nearer the athletic than the delicate proportion; yet however formed, there arose from the harmony of the whole a commanding mein of majesty, which the fairer faced, or as Shakspeare calls them, the curled darlings of his time, ever wanted something to be equal masters of. There was some years ago to be had, almost in every print-shop, a mezzotinto, from Kneller, extremely like him.

In all I have said of Betterton, I confine myself to the time of his strength, and highest power in action, that you may make allowances from what he was able to execute at fifty, to what you might have seen of him at past seventy: for though to the last he was without his equal, he might not then be equal to his former self; yet so far was he from being ever overtaken, that for many years after his decease, I seldom saw any of his parts in Shakspeare supplied by others, but it drew from me the lamentation of Ophelia upon Hamlet’s being unlike what she had seen him.

Ah! wo is me!
T’ have seen what I _have_ seen, see what I see!

The last part this great master of his profession acted was Melantius, in the Maid’s Tragedy, for his own benefit, when being suddenly seized by the gout, he submitted, by extraordinary applications, to have his foot so far relieved, that he might be able to walk on the stage, in a slipper, rather than wholly disappoint his auditors. He was observed that day, to have exerted a more than ordinary spirit, and met with suitable applause; but the unhappy consequence of tampering with his distemper was, that it flew into his head, and killed him in three days, I think, in the seventy-fourth year of his age.

That Betterton was as good an actor as ever lived, and that he shone most conspicuously in parts of dignity and fire, is pretty certain; yet his externals were such as would at first sight be thought very unfavourable. The famous TONY ASTON, in a work called “A brief Supplement to Colley Cibber,” gives the following picture of Mr. Betterton, the fidelity of which has never been questioned.

“Mr. Betterton though a superlative good actor, laboured under ill figure, being clumsily made, having a great head, a short thick neck, stooped in the shoulders, and had fat short arms, which he rarely lifted higher than his stomach. His left hand frequently lodged in his breast, between his coat and waistcoat, while with his right he prepared his speech. His actions were FEW, BUT JUST. He had little eyes and a broad face, a little pock-frecken, a corpulent body, and thick legs, with large feet. He was better to meet than to follow; for his aspect was serious, venerable and majestic. In his latter time he was a little paralytic. His voice was naturally low and grumbling; yet he could tune it by an artful _climax_, which enforced universal attention, even from the fops and orange-girls. He was incapable of dancing even in a country dance, as was Mrs. Barry; but their good qualities were more than equal to their deficiencies. Betterton was the most extensive actor from Alexander to sir John Falstaff.”

“His younger cotemporary, Powel, who was only forty, when Betterton was sixty-three, attempted several of Betterton’s parts, as _Alexander_, _Jaffier_, &c. but lost his credit, as in Alexander he maintained not the dignity of a king, but out-heroded Herod; and in his poisoned mad scene out-raved all probability, while Betterton kept his passion under, and showed it most, as fume smokes most when stifled. If I was to write of him all day, I should still remember fresh matter in his behalf.”

The following facetious story of Betterton and a country tenant of his is related by Aston.

Mr. Betterton had a small farm near Reading, in Berkshire, and the countryman came, in the time of Bartholomew fair, to pay his rent. Mr. Betterton took him to the fair, and going to one Crawley’s puppet-show, offered two shillings for himself and Roger, his tenant. “No, no, sir,” said Crawley, “_we never take money from one another_.” This affronted Mr. Betterton, who threw down the money, and they entered. Roger was hugely diverted with Punch, and bred a great noise, saying that he would drink with him, for he was a merry fellow. Mr. Betterton told him he was only a puppet, made up of _sticks and rags_. However Roger still cried out that he would go and drink with Punch. When Master took him behind where the puppets hung up, he swore he thought Punch had been alive. However, said he, though he be but _sticks and rags, I’ll give him sixpence to drink my health_. At night Mr. Betterton went to the theatre, when was played the Orphan, Mr. Betterton acting Castalio, Mrs. Barry Monimia. “Well,” said Master, “how dost like this play, Roger?” “Why, I don’t know,” said Roger, “_it’s well enough for sticks and rags_.”

This anecdote is falsely related of Garrick.

DRAMATIC CENSOR.

I have always considered those combinations which are formed in the playhouse as acts of fraud or cruelty. He that applauds him who does not deserve praise, is endeavouring to deceive the public. He that hisses in malice or in sport is an oppressor and a robber.

_Dr. Johnson’s Idler, No. 25._

_Master Payne’s performances concluded._

Of the characters represented by this young gentleman, those in which he has evinced greatest powers are Douglas, Tancred, and Romeo, while that in which he is least exceptionable, is Frederick in Lover’s Vows. In his Octavian, which followed next after Douglas, some of the pathetic passages were beautifully expressed. Mrs. Inchbald, in her prefatory remarks to the play of the Mountaineers, says, “_This true lover requires such peculiar art, such consummate skill in the delineation_, that it is probable his representative may have given an impression of the whole drama unfavourable to the author. Nor is this a reproach to the actor who fails; for such a person as Octavian would never have been created, had not Kemble been born some years before him. But, notwithstanding the difference of their ages, it is likely they will both depart this life at the same time.” While the difficulty of delineating Octavian, and the merit of a living performer of it are such, that it is scarcely possible to think of the play without thinking of Kemble, it has so happened that scarcely any character has been attempted by so many actors of all qualities--nor is there one in which so few have come off with actual disgrace. Men who could scarcely be endured in third or fourth rate parts, have selected Octavian to figure in, on their benefit nights. One man who was laughed at in every other character, was supposed by a misjudging audience to play Octavian well; nay, to our knowledge, was preferred to Hodgkinson and Cooper in it. The reason is plain: to the portraying of madness, the injudicious can imagine no limits. The more a madman raves and roars, the better; rags, slovenliness, and matted hair, and beard too, are the usual associates of awkwardness and vulgarity. Any man, therefore, who can rant and play the extravagant, no matter how ungracefully, may pass with some audiences for a very natural Octavian--an abominable absurdity! For these two reasons, Octavian is a very hazardous part for a performer who aims at substantial fame, to attempt. In Master Payne’s performance of it, there was no extravagance to censure; nothing that had the least tendency to enrol him among the Bedlamite butchers of the character, nor was there, on the other hand, a complete uniform delineation of Octavian to afford him the same rank in that, which criticism willingly allows him in some other characters.

Not so Frederick, his performance of which was one consistent piece of natural, affecting, and indeed skilful acting. In the scenes of filial tenderness with his mother, and in the solemn but spirited remonstrances with the baron Wildenheim, he displayed such equal excellence that criticism might incur the charge of injustice by giving the preference to either. The character, as Master Payne acted it, was made up by him from the two antecedent translations of Mrs. Inchbald and Mr. Thompson;--by a union of both of which this youth has produced a better acting play than either. He lately published it at Baltimore with an advertisement prefixed, written by himself, to which we refer our readers, with a strong recommendation to them to peruse it.

In the characters selected by Master Payne there are but four which we can think judiciously chosen. For the whole selection we should find it difficult to account, if we did not know that they had before been chosen for Master Betty; by thus closely walking in the steps of whom, Master Payne has, in our opinion, wronged himself. It is evident that in choosing characters for the infant Roscius of England, his instructors had it more in view to exhibit the boy as a prodigy, than the characters well acted. The people were to be treated to an anomalous exhibition, and the greater the anomaly the better the treat. What but a determination to inflame public curiosity to the highest pitch by a contrast as absurd as unnatural, could have induced them to put forward a little boy of twelve years old in the formidable tyrant Richard? like modern composers of music, their object was not to produce harmony or natural sweetness, but to execute difficulties. As the actor was a boy loitering on the verge of childhood, the plan, if not correct, was at least politic. But the public do not look on Master Payne in that light, and therefore, he ought to have selected parts more suitable to his time of life and talents. Parts calculated to aid and not depress him. What judicious actor is there now living who would not think it injurious to him to be put forward by a manager in Selim or in Zaphna? The united powers of Mossop in Barbarosa, and Garrick in Selim could barely keep that play alive. We have seen Mossop play it to a house of not ten pound, though aided by the first Zaphira in the world, Mrs. Fitzhenry. From either of those characters Master Payne could not derive the least aid. His Hamlet we put out of the question--we did not see it.

On his Tancred we can dwell with very different sensations. Considering the materials he had to work upon, his delineation of the character was highly creditable to his talents. For the love part, little more can be done by a good actor, than by a good reader;--as poetry, it is soft, and sweet, and flowing; as a practical representation of that passion it is mawkish: yet, in the performance of Master Payne, it was not entirely destitute of interest. In all the rest; in every scene with Siffredi, particularly in his warm expostulations with the honest, but mistaken old statesman; in his subsequent indignation and despair; in his lofty bearing and menaces to Osmond, and thence onward to his death, he was truly excellent, seemed perfect master of the scene, and in depicting the tumult of passions which struggle in the bosom of the lordly Tancred, evinced that he possesses the legitimate genius, and true spirit that should inform the actor.

For his benefit he personified Romeo. The house was so crowded, and in all places that were accessible after the doors were opened, there was so much pressing, confusion, ill-mannered noise and struggle, and rudeness, that few but those who had places taken in the front boxes could see or hear the play out. From the upper gallery, where with difficulty we at last got a seat, we indistinctly saw what passed on the stage, and could hear a little by snatches. What we did hear and see induced us to lament our not hearing and seeing more, and to wish that we may speedily have another opportunity of witnessing a performance respecting which there is but one opinion, and that highly favourable to Master Payne’s reputation.

MR. COOPER.

Scarcely had master Payne disappeared in his transit southward, when Mr. Cooper followed, and, in describing his annual orbit, was seen here for nine nights; during which he performed the following characters.

Friday 29th Dec.--Richard the Third.
Saturday 30th.--Zanga in the Revenge.
Monday 1st Jan.--Leon in Rule a Wife and have a Wife.
Wednesday 3d.--Othello.
Friday 5th.--Macbeth.
Saturday 6th.--Pierre in Venice Preserved.
Monday 8th.--Hamlet.
Wednesday 10th.--Hotspur.
Friday 12th.--Michael Ducas in Adelgitha.
Saturday 13th.--Penruddock--and after it Petruchio.

Of all the actors we have ever seen in the old world or in the new, he who imposes the most difficult task upon the critic is Mr. Cooper. It is scarcely possible to generalize his acting. The great inequality of his performance, the defects of some parts, the doubtfulness of others, and the amazing beauties which he frequently displays, forbid the critic, if he have a due regard to truth, to give to the different parts of any one character Mr. Cooper performs the same measure of praise or disapprobation.

Hardly have our nerves ceased to vibrate, and our hearts to leap in consequence of perhaps a series of electrical strokes of irresistible effect and beauty, when our patience is put to trial by some defect, or our feelings left to grow cold and languid for want of an appropriate continuous excitement. To walk step by step with him through those alternations, and to decide in circumstantial detail upon this gentleman’s title to critical applause, would require a minuteness of description incompatible with the scheme of this publication; yet, since the high rank which he very deservedly holds in his profession renders it important that just opinions should be formed upon the subject of his performances, and that his merits should be as closely as possible canvassed, and as precisely ascertained, it would be inconsistent with the duty of a public critic wholly to decline the task, however difficult and laborious he may find it.

We have now before us a criticism upon Mr. Cooper which once appeared in a periodical publication at Charleston S. C. and in which I find the following passage.

“Nature husbands her gifts so carefully that where equality appears in all the parts of any object, supreme excellence is rarely seen; where great beauties are found, they are generally mixed with some considerable alloy. Of all the actors we have ever seen, Mr. Mossop was the one whom Mr. Cooper, in this respect, most resembles. With him, when it was not a blaze, it was a cloud. No man, not Garrick himself ever equalled his beauties; but his defects were great. The beauties, however, were so far superior in numbers to the defects, and in quality, to the excellencies of all other men, that he obtained from the greatest critic of that day, the tide of the _Tragedy Sheet Anchor_.” All this is strictly true; but there is this difference between that great actor and Mr. Cooper, Mossop never committed a fault from negligence; studiously, I might almost say superstitiously, devoted to the cultivation of his professional talents, he left nothing undone which industry could accomplish, and whenever he went wrong, failed from an almost pedantic desire to do too much--from a stiffness and stateliness of deportment, and an embarrassment of which he had begun to get rid but a few years before his death. Mr. Cooper labours under no obstruction of this kind.

The natural talents displayed by Mr. Cooper in most of his performances forbid it to be believed that his failures result from incompetency; or that there is any excellence, to which the actors of the present day attain, too great for his grasp, if his industry were nearly equal to his personal endowments. But the honest and zealous critic loses all patience, when he sees _first talents_ supinely contenting themselves with less than _first honours_. What are the natural or acquired endowments of Kemble or Cooke, whether mental or corporeal? Certainly not superior to those of Mr. Cooper. How do they respectively stand in the records of professional fame? It would be invidious to give the answer.

If one could, with certainty, estimate a player’s actual performance from his untried talents, and were asked what disqualifying circumstance exists to prevent Mr. Cooper from playing Richard, Othello, Zanga or Hotspur as well as any man--we should answer none! But when, having seen him act, we come in the capacity of public critics to adjudge him his rights, we feel the mortifying necessity of speaking other language.

In Othello and Zanga, the inequality of Mr. Cooper’s acting is strikingly conspicuous. Of the great distinction between the colloquial familiarity suitable to ordinary dialogue, and the solemn, dignified, and lofty delivery becoming the orator in a great public assembly, Mr. Cooper seems to have entirely lost sight in the celebrated speech to the senate, the first lines of which may serve as a lesson how the whole should be spoken.

“Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,
My very worthy and approved good masters.”

The pompous sound of these words, as well as the awfulness of the place, and the august character of the assembly to which they are addressed, sufficiently indicate the manner in which they ought to be uttered. Instead of this Mr. Cooper (no doubt with the view to avoid pomposity and bombast) threw into them an air of familiarity like that of a person narrating a private transaction to an intimate friend or acquaintance: Yet no sooner does he come to the impassioned parts, where strong emotions call forth the manly energies, than he flames up with the character. In the third scene of the second act, he displays much force and dignity in the following lines:

He that stirs next to carve for his own rage,
Holds his soul light; he dies upon his motion.
Silence that dreadful bell, it frights the isle
From her propriety.

And afterwards:

Now by heaven
My blood begins my safer guides to rule;
And passion, having my best judgment collied,
Assays to lead the way: If I once stir
Or do but lift this arm, the best of you
Shall sink in my rebuke, &c. &c.

And indeed through the whole of that scene he was impressive and important: nor, with the exception of those occasional lapses which we have to regret in almost every character he plays, even in his Macbeth, and the liberties he occasionally takes with the text, was there any reason to complain, while every now and then, he emitted some of those splendid scintillations of light which distinguish his acting from that of every competitor in America.

In the last act, his performance was superlatively great. So great indeed, that if all the other parts had been _nearly equal_ to it, we should not at all hesitate to put it in competition with the Othello of any man now living. As it was, we pay it no compliment in saying that it was in every part much superior to that of Pope, the _quondam_ Othello of Covent Garden.

ZANGA.

The character of Zanga would at first sight seem to be well calculated for Mr. Cooper’s talents: yet we cannot say that we very much admire him in it. That in his _execution_ of the part Mr. Cooper goes beyond Mr. Kemble is certain, while his conception of it is nearly the same. In the latter, both are deficient. If there ever was a character which only one man in the world could play perfectly, Zanga is that character, and Mossop was that man. In a mixed company some years ago at Mr. Foote’s, the celebrated doctor John Hill lanched out in praise of Mossop. Foote likewise admired him, but could not refrain from ridiculing and mimicking some of that great actor’s stately singularities; upon which Richard Malone said, and Garrick was present, “You must own this one truth, however, because I have it from the highest authority (bowing to Garrick) that Mossop is the only man who was ever known so to act a character that the judgment of a nation has not been able to mark a fault in it.” “I have often said,” replied Garrick, “that Mossop’s Zanga is perfectly faultless--but that is too little to say of it--it is a brilliant without a speck.”

Upon that extraordinary actor’s performance of Zanga, every word and action of which Fancy, while we are writing this, whispers in our ears and figures to our eyes, we build our conception of the character; and, in conformity to that conception, pronounce Mr. Cooper and Mr. Kemble to be both wrong in material points, chiefly in the first part of it. In the year 1800 we saw Kemble attempt the Moor, and endured great pain from his efforts; for not only his _reading_ (as it is called) of the part was erroneous, but his organs were too feeble for the character; a defect of which Mr. Cooper has not to complain.

Of Mossop’s Zanga, there was not one line from the beginning to the end which, while he was uttering it, a spectator would not believe to be the best. In every part the grandeur of Zanga’s character broke through the clouds of horror and humiliation that surrounded him; and in the very first scene the magnanimity of the poet’s Moor, was exalted to something of more than human sublimity, by the player. In the disclosing of his discontent to Isabella, the painting to her of his mental agonies, and the avowal of his hatred to Alonzo, the emotions which Mossop excited in the spectators were too awful and interesting to be imagined by those who have not felt them. The deep and affecting solemnity of his narrative, interrupted by the occasional flashes of passion which burst from him, was in strict congeniality with the dreadful elementary storm in which it is introduced. In the hands of other actors this part makes little impression.

Hear then. ’Tis twice three years since that great man,
(_Great let me call him for he conquered me_)
Made me the captive of his arm in fight.

The loftiness of the Moor’s nature, and his conscious pride were by the peculiar delivery of the second line, as perfectly unfolded as they could be by volumes. Again:

One day (_may that returning day be night,
The stain, the curse, of each succeeding year!_)
For something, or for nothing, in his pride
He struck me. (_While I tell it do I live?_)
He smote me on the cheek.

The words comprehended in parentheses, are occasional starts of digression dictated by rage, and should be uttered passionately, we do not mean loudly, but with vehement indignation! So Mossop uttered them, changing his key and speaking the words with the rapidity expressive of rage--and then, after a struggle, falling down to the solemn level of his narrative again. These, however, Mr. Kemble spoke rather in a tone of whining lamentation. The limited organs of Mr. K. might make it policy in him to do so; but Mr. Cooper has not that plea to offer. Be that as it may, the character is defaced by it. The Moor’s fire is not supposed to be extinguished; it is only covered up, to break out with more terrible fury, when the accomplishment of his purpose will allow it. In going over the sad recital of his woes, to a confidential friend, the poet, in order the more perfectly to unfold his character, makes the hidden fire burst forth in momentary blazes. To sink this is to deprive the character of one of its most essential beauties; to give it the directly opposite expression of piteous lamentation is, indeed, reversing the noble character of the Moor.

One of the wonderful excellencies of Mossop in this part was his artful display of hypocrisy in the words and purpose, while his external port silently asserted his superiority, and the native majesty of his looks and manner bespoke the magnitude of the sacrifice he was making to vengeance, thereby giving a deeper colouring to the inexorable vindictiveness of his nature, and more forcibly illustrating the inflexible firmness of his soul. All other actors that we have ever seen reduce Zanga to a mere slavish croucher in all points; and destroy the very basis of the character by an overacted humiliation, highly improper because too glaring not to excite Alonzo’s suspicions. He must be a dull Alonzo indeed, if he could not look through such flimsy dissimulation.

Yet with all these defects, for which, as well as many other transgressions, the modern crop of young actors are indebted to the example of Mr. Kemble, Mr. Cooper gave us in several places as great satisfaction as with our remembrance of “THE Zanga,” we ever hoped to experience. From the time he avows his villany to Alonzo, on to the end, he deserved unqualified praise; nor can we imagine how any one who had not made up his mind upon the great original, to whom we have alluded, could wish or conceive it to be more happily performed.

Mr. Wood’s Alonzo was an animated and respectable piece of acting.

RICHARD III.

Mr. Cooper conceives that crookbacked usurper with sufficient accuracy, reads it with tolerable correctness, and acts it with great spirit. In this character he evidently has the greatest model extant [Cooke] in his eye. When first, some five years ago, we saw Mr. Cooper perform Richard, we thought he played it tolerably, but wanted weight. He is much improved in this respect since that time, and has acquired in those few years a sufficiency of the personal importance requisite for the character of Richard.

VENICE PRESERVED.

PIERRE is a character admirably suited to Mr. Cooper’s talents. There are but few of his performances to which we sit with more pleasure. Few in which he is so little exceptionable. On this occasion he was supported by his friend JAFFIER in a manner that reflects much credit on Mr. Wood. And Mr. Wood is not a little indebted to _his_ Belvidera also. Could we speak as favourably of his Iago, we should have introduced him in the proper place. Mr. Cooper’s grenadier’s cap, added nothing, to say no worse of it, to his appearance.

A fashion has prevailed for some years (introduced by the doctors of the perspective and statuary school of action) which sometimes increases the difficulty of giving verisimility to the scene, or rather destroys it altogether. We allude to the actors, in all possible cases, entering from the back, or near it. This though sometimes right, is peculiarly improper when the entering character is to speak _aside_ as he enters, and is supposed by the cunning of the scene not to be heard by the character who is on the stage before him. It was particularly observable in the performances of Othello and Venice Preserved. In the third scene of the third act, when Othello, followed by Iago, enters to Desdemona, Emilia, and Cassio, (which last takes his leave suddenly on the Moor’s approach) and Iago, in prosecution of his plan, exclaims, so as to be heard _by Othello only_, “HA! I LIKE NOT THAT,” Mr. Cooper and Mr. Wood entering too far from the stage, rendered it necessary for the latter to utter those words (_aside_) so loud, that they must necessarily have been heard by _all_ the other characters on the stage.

Again, in Venice Preserved, in the night-scene on the Rialto, Jaffier being on the stage in his proper place, soliloquizing, Pierre enters and says what certainly neither Jaffier nor any but the audience should be presumed to hear. Mossop, Sheridan, Henderson, _et id genus omne_, entered so near the stage, that the voice of Pierre might be supposed to reach the audience, without passing through Jaffier’s ear. Side speaking ought always to be done in that way. Mr. Cooper, on the contrary, entered from the wing next the back scene, so that Jaffier stood between him and the audience, and must of course be supposed to have heard him, if the audience heard him; as they did, very distinctly too, from the remote end of the stage, say aloud,

“Sure I’ve staid too long:
The clock has struck, _and I may lose my proselyte_.”

Exclusive of which a great injury to the necessary illusion arises from the _side_ speaker being obliged to speak so high that not only the characters on the stage, but the people in the neighbouring houses must be supposed to be all let into the secret, and he cannot, therefore, be thought to intend to speak aside. In the good old times they were as scrupulously exact in these matters, as they are now most blamably lax.

HAMLET.

Many of Mr. Cooper’s admirers set down his Hamlet as the best of his performances; a proposition to which we can never accede. Some parts of it, no doubt, are excellent, and in the play scene before the court, he is scarcely surpassed by any one. But in our opinion his Hamlet fades from the sight, when put in competition with his

MACBETH,

in which he unquestionably takes the lead of all the actors that have ever appeared in this country; and is in our judgment preferable, in many parts, to either Kemble or Cooke; far, very far, superior to Holman. His dagger-scene is inimitably fine; but by following Mr. Kemble’s idea, he loses much in his return from the scene of murder. Before Mr. Kemble every actor followed the plan of Garrick with more or less success; and from them, viz. Sheridan, Mossop, Reddish, Henderson, all of whom we have seen, we can state the difference between the old and new school in this most trying scene. We have never witnessed the performance of Garrick; but have seen pictures of him in that very part, one particularly by Sir Joshua Reynolds, of which there is an engraving, and which exactly corresponds with the action of all of his whole school, of whom the best was certainly Mr. Sheridan. Just as lady Macbeth, who is waiting his return from the chamber of blood, says, in soliloquy,

“Hark! I laid their daggers ready,
He could not miss them,”

the noise of a hasty foot was heard within, she paused, and then proceeded,

“Had he not resembled
My father as he slept, I had done’t.”

At that moment the door opened and Macbeth appeared, a frightful figure of horror, rushing out sideways with one dagger, and his face in consternation, presented to the door, as if he were pursued, and the other dagger lifted up as if prepared for action. Thus he stood as if transfixed, seeming insensible to every thing but the chamber, unconscious of any presence else, and even to his wife’s address of “my husband.” In this breathless state, he hastily said in a whisper, as if to himself,

“I have done the deed.”

then, after a pause, in a tone of anguish and trepidation, without ever taking his eyes from the chamber, he still whispered in a quick, sharp tone,

“Didst thou not hear a noise?”

Nor did he quit this attitude, but with eyes still fixed upon the chamber door continued to carry on the broken dialogue that follows, in fearful whispers.

“L. M. Did not you speak?
M. When?
L. M. Now.
M. As I descended?
L. M. Ay.
M. Hark!
Who lies in the second chamber.
L. M. Donaldbain.”

Then for the first time he drew his hands together with the daggers in them, and in the most heart-rending accents exclaimed,

“This is a sorry sight.”

Thus represented by Mr. Sheridan, this scene was perhaps the most interesting in the drama. What then must it have been when done by Garrick. A critic now before us speaking of Garrick and Mrs. Pritchard in this part, says, “His distraction of mind and agonizing horrors were finely contrasted by her apathy, tranquillity, and confidence. _The beginning of the scene, after the commission of the murder, was conducted in terrifying whispers._ Their looks and action supplied the place of words. The poet here gives only an outline of the consummate actor-- “I have done the deed,” &c. “Didst thou not hear,” &c. The dark colouring given by Garrick to these abrupt speeches made the scene tremendous to the auditors. The wonderful expression of heart-felt horror which Garrick felt when he viewed his bloody hands, can only be conceived by those who saw him.” MURPHY, who confirms this account by Davies, says that when Garrick reentered the scene with the bloody daggers in his hands, he [Murphy] was absolutely _scared out of his senses_. It is but fair to add, that the great dramatic censor who wrote in 1770 says “Without any exaggeration of compliment to Mr. Sheridan, we must place him in a very respectable degree of competition with Mr. Garrick in the dagger-scene; and confess a doubt whether any man ever spoke the words “this is a sorry sight,” better.”

How vapid, meagre, frigid, and unaffecting has been the performance of this part since Mr. Kemble’s reign. According to his institutes, Macbeth closes the door with the cold unfeeling caution of a practised house-breaker, then listens, in order to be secure, and addresses lady Macbeth as if, in such a conflict, Macbeth could be awake to the suggestions of the lowest kind of cunning.

In his entrance to the witches in the cauldron scene, Mr. Cooper suffers the character to sink. This is one of the parts with which the audience, at one time, used to be most gratified by the powers of their great actors. The critic from whom we have cited above, adverting to Henderson’s Macbeth, which was astonishingly great, says, “In the _masterly conjuration of the witches_, in the cavern, _so idly omitted by Kemble_, he was wonderfully impressive.”

Yet there is upon the whole so little exceptionable, and such abundant beauties in Mr. Cooper’s Macbeth, that we think he ought there to plant his standard. Imagination figures to us the magnificent exhibition he might make of it, by studying from the best authorities and descriptions, the various attitudes and action of Garrick in the scenes alluded to, which are recorded not only in several books and portraits, but in the memory of many men living.

HENRY IV.

Of Mr. Cooper’s Hotspur we do not wish to speak in depreciation, nor are we prepared greatly to praise it. To compensate, however, for this, to our own wishes, we confess our inability to say too much of his performance of Leon. And we feel pleasure in adding that in

ADELGITHA,

he reaped a whole harvest of laurels. His Michael Ducas, being not only a masterly, but an original performance, one which we cannot reasonably hope to see excelled, and which we may in vain, perhaps, expect to see equalled.

We have a long arrear against us on account of the theatre. But we hope to discharge it in regular order and in due time. Meantime we cannot refrain from expressing by forestallment our great satisfaction at the successful run and favourable reception of “The Foundling of the Forest.” If the manager and actors are indebted to the public for the great encouragement and approbation bestowed upon that play, the public are no less indebted to the manager for his zeal, unsparing expense, and judicious arrangements in the casting of the parts, and to the actors, particularly Mr. Wood, for their excellent performance of it. But upon that subject we shall enlarge hereafter.

THEATRICAL INTELLIGENCE.

_Mr. Dwyer._

The American stage has received, in the person of Mr. Dwyer, one of the greatest acquisitions that it has ever had to boast of. We have never had the pleasure of seeing this gentleman’s performance; but we have collected from the periodical publications of Great Britain sufficient to convince us that he is an actor of great merit, and, in his line, of the first promise. No man treads so closely on the heels of the inimitable Lewis as Mr. Dwyer. “Light dashing comedy,” says a judicious British critic, “is his forte, and in it he is almost faultless.” In Belcour, Charles Surface, and characters of that cast, he excels, and his Liar is acknowledged to be the first on the British boards.

From a professional gentleman of this city of acknowledged taste and erudition, who saw him in England, we have had a description of Mr. Dwyer. He says that nature has been uncommonly bountiful to this actor. That he is very handsome, has a fine person, and might, in lively, bustling, genteel comedy, be as great as any man, if his industry were equal to his natural endowments.

Mr. Dwyer has played Hamlet and other tragic characters; but the critics we have read seem so intent upon his excellence in the sock, that they forget to say anything particular of his merits in the buskin.

In this dearth of theatrical talents, every lover of the drama will rejoice at this new acquisition to the American theatre. Mr. Dwyer is said to be an Irishman. His name says it for him. No doubt his countrymen will be not a little proud of him; for he is reported to possess, in no common measure, all the recommendations to the eye on which they nationally set such value--stature, bone, muscle, symmetry, and comeliness.

_State of the British stage._

Notwithstanding the losses sustained by the death of some actors, and the defection of others, the stock of talents is not likely to be entirely exhausted. Though nothing has for years appeared that has a tendency to fill up the void which succeeded the Augustan age of acting, which ended with the death of Garrick, Barry, and Mossop, still meritorious performers, both male and female, arise, who promise to preserve the stage from sinking into utter disrepute.

Foremost among these is a Mr. Young, who bids fair to outstrip all competitors, as a general actor. The extent of his powers, the versatility of his talents, and the advantages of his face and person are stated by the critics, in the public prints, to be very extraordinary; and we feel great pleasure in having it in our power to say that the opinions of those are amply confirmed by the verbal reports of American gentlemen of taste and discernment, who, in the course of the last year, frequently saw Mr. Young perform. Some think he excels in comedy; the majority prefer his tragedy. Admitting the Stranger to fall under the latter denomination, Mr. Young must stand higher in the buskin than in the sock, since that is allowed to be his most perfect performance. In confirmation of which little more need be advanced than that it is admitted he very seldom, if ever, falls short of the great original, Mr. Kemble, in that character, and sometimes goes beyond him.

In Don Felix, Belcour, Charles Surface, and characters of that cast, he stands conspicuous for ease, elegant hilarity, gayety of manners, and vivacity of action. In tragic characters, not only in the fiery, the impassioned, and the grand, but in those of pomp and solemnity, he is said to be original, great, and striking. On his Hamlet and Macbeth the critics seem to have dwelt with peculiar attention and pleasure.

Speaking of Mr. Y’s Hamlet, a learned and perspicuous critic says “A performance exhibiting stronger marks of genius, finer animation, or happier display of intellect we have seldom witnessed. Mr. Young has studied this masterpiece of Shakspeare with infinite care, not merely as to the text and general scope of the character, but throughout all its shades and gradations, discriminating with the utmost truth and nicety, each particular feature of Hamlet, and presenting a whole so finished and forcible, as to leave the strongest impressions on the mind of his audience.” The same critic enters, with a spirit derived from a lively admiration of his subject, into the whole of Mr. Young’s Hamlet, of which he speaks in a strain of warm eulogy. Adverting to the instructions given by Hamlet to the players, he pays Mr. Y. this elegant compliment: “The instructions to the players could not be better delivered. His own sensible performance was an apposite illustration of the excellent lesson which Shakspeare has in this scene bequeathed to the profession.” And he concludes thus: “He is indeed an acquisition of importance. Of _intellectual_ actors we have very few. _Strutters_ and _bellowers_ we have in abundance. We therefore hail Mr. Young’s appearance with more than usual satisfaction; and the more so, since we hear that his manners are highly estimable in private life. _On_ and _off_ the stage he will thus prove an ornament to his profession.”

Mr. Young has played, besides the characters already named, Rolla, Penruddock, Lothaire, Othello, George Barnwell, Octavian, Osmond (Castle Spectre) Hotspur, Frederick in Lovers Vows, Petruchio, Gondebert, and many others, if not all with equal excellence, at least with so much as to rank him among the first masters of the art.

Mr. Young’s face and person are said to be of a superior order. A good height, his figure is well formed; his features expressive and flexible; his voice, from the lowest note to the top of its compass, excellent, and his action and deportment gentlemanly and graceful.

An actress of as great promise as any that has appeared on the British theatre in the memory of man, has lately come forth at Covent Garden, in the arduous character of Lady Macbeth, in which, if we are to trust the London critics, she at once started to a level with Mrs. Siddons. Her name is Smith. She has, like Mrs. Siddons, been on the stage from childhood, without being noticed by any but the happy few, some of whom augured highly of her from the first, and she has fully accomplished their prognostications. The first impressive trace we find of her in theatrical annals is in an Edinburgh criticism. “As I think most highly of this juvenile performer,” says that writer, “and entertain most sanguine hopes of seeing her soon at the head of her profession, I will not insult her by indiscriminate panegyric or mawkish praise. Her comedy is by no means satisfactory to me. The disadvantage of a _petite_ figure is not, in this department compensated by any high excellencies. Her comedy is generally speaking, rather meagre and unadorned, and in a degree pointless and ineffective.--But her tragedy merits every praise. In richness and variety of tone; in propriety and justness of action and gesture; in picturesque and impressive attitude, in a nervous mellowed modulation; in appropriate deportment--above all in the discriminating delicacy of taste, by which she distinguishes and expresses the feelings and workings of the heart, she is above praise.”

Miss Smith next meets us in London in 1808, playing lady Macbeth at Covent Garden, and is spoken of as follows: