We fully endorse the judgment of a critic who has said that with the worst of tempers Macready had the best of hearts. Some of the tenderest of his actions are not registered in the volumes of his life, but they are recorded in grateful bosoms. There were married actresses in his company, when he managed the ‘Garden,’ and afterwards the ‘Lane,’ whom he would rate harshly enough for inattention; but there were certain times when he was prompted to tell them that their proper place, for a while, was home; and that till they recovered health and strength their salary would be continued, and then run on as usual. The sternest moralist will forgive him for knocking down Mr. Bunn, when he remembers this tender part in the heart of Macready.
Towards women that heart may be said to have been sympathetically inclined. His early life led him into many temptations; he had, as he confesses, many loves in his time, real and imaginary; but the first true and ever-abiding one was that which ended in his marriage with a young actress, Miss Atkins. The whole story is touchingly told. We feel the joys and the sorrows of the April time of that love. We share in the triumph of the lovers; and throughout the record of their union Macready inspires us with as much respectful affection for that true wife as in other pages he stirs us to honour the memory of his mother. He was singularly happy in the women whom it was his good fortune to know. Early in life, after his mother’s death, he found wise friends in some of them, whose wisdom ‘kept him straight,’ as the phrase goes, when crooked but charming ways opened before him. At his latest in life, the inestimable good of woman’s best companionship was vouchsafed to him; and further than this it would be impertinent to speak.
The dignity of the departed actor was his attribute, which in his busy days atoned for such faults as cannot be erased from his record. How he supported the dignity of the drama, and, we may say, of its patrons, may be seen in the registry of the noble dramas he produced, and in his purification of the audience side of the house. No person born since his time can have any idea of the horrible uncleanness that presented itself in the two patent theatres in the days before Macready’s management commenced. When he found that he was bound by the terms of his lease to provide accommodation and refreshment for women who had no charm of womanhood left in them, Macready assigned a dingy garret and a rush-light or two for that purpose, and the daughters of joy fled from it, never to return.
It is a strange and repulsive thing to look back at the sarcasm flung at him by the vile part of the press at that time, for his enabling honest-minded women to visit a theatre without feeling ashamed at their being there, in company with those who had no honest-mindedness. In this, as in many other circumstances, he was worth all the Lord Chamberlains—silly, intruding, inconsistent, unreasonable beings—that have ever existed.
The career of the actor—we may say, of the actor and of the private gentleman—was a long one. Among the great dramatic personages whom Macready saw in the course of that career, were ‘a glimpse of King dressed as Lord Ogilvy,’ his original character, ‘and distinguished for its performance in Garrick’s day;’ Lewis, whose face he never forgot, but he never saw that restless, ever-smiling actor on the stage. Macready was struck with the beauty and deportment of Mrs. Siddons, long before he acted with her; and he was enthralled by Mrs. Billington, though he could in after years only recall the figure of a very lusty woman, and the excitement of the audience when the orchestra struck up the symphony of Arne’s rattling bravura, ‘The Soldier Tired,’ in the opera of ‘Artaxerxes.’ One of the most remarkable of these illustrious persons was seen by him at the Birmingham Theatre, 1808. The afterpiece was ‘Alonzo the Brave and the Fair Imogene,’ a ballet pantomime. The lady fair was acted by the manager’s wife, Mrs. Watson—ungainly, tawdry, and as fat as a porpoise, an enormous hill of flesh. Alonzo the Brave was represented by ‘a little mean-looking man in a shabby green satin dress ... the only impression I carried away was that the hero and heroine were the worst in the piece’ (a ballet of action, without words). Macready adds that he neither knew nor guessed that ‘under that shabby green satin dress was hidden one of the most extraordinary theatrical geniuses that have ever illustrated the dramatic poetry of England!’ In half a dozen years more, what was Macready’s astonishment to find this little, insignificant Alonzo the Brave had burst out into the grandly impassioned personator of Othello, Richard, and Shylock—Edmund Kean!
Macready’s testimony to Kean’s marvellous powers is nearly always highly favourable. Macready saw the great master act Richard III. at Drury Lane in his first season, 1814. ‘When,’ he tells us, ‘a little keenly-visaged man rapidly bustled across the stage, I felt there was meaning in the alertness of his manner and the quickness of his step.’ The progress of the play increased the admiration of the young actor in his box, who was studying the other young actor on the stage. He found mind of no common order in Edmund Kean. ‘In his angry complaining of Nature’s injustice to his bodily imperfections, as he uttered the line, “To shrink my arm up like a withered shrub,” Kean remained looking on the limb for some moments with a sort of bitter discontent, and then struck it back in angry disgust.’ To his father’s whisper, ‘It’s very poor,’ the son replied readily, ‘Oh, no! it is no common thing.’ Macready praises the scene with Lady Anne, and that in which Richard tempts Buckingham to the murder of the young princes. In the latter, he found Kean’s interpretation ‘consistent with his conception, proposing their death as a political necessity, and sharply requiring it as a business to be done.’ Cooke interpreted the scene in another way. In Cooke’s Richard, ‘the source of the crime was apparent in the gloomy hesitation with which he gave reluctant utterance to the deed of blood.’ If Cooke was more effective than Kean on one or two solitary points, Kean was superior in the general portraiture. As Macready remarks, Kean ‘hurried you along in his resolute course with a spirit that brooked no delay. In inflexibility of will and sudden grasp of expedients he suggested the idea of a feudal Napoleon.’
With respect to the characters enacted by the greatest actor of the present century, Macready’s testimony of Kean is that in none of Kean’s personations did he display more masterly elocution than in the third act of ‘Richard III.’ In Sir Edward Mortimer, Kean was unapproachable, and Master Betty (whom Macready praises highly) next to him, though far off. In Sir Edward, Kean ‘subjected his style to the restraint of the severest taste. Throughout the play the actor held absolute sway over his hearers; and there is no survivor of those hearers who will not enjoy a description which enables them to live over again moments of a bygone delight which the present stage cannot afford. There are, perhaps, not so few who remember Kean’s Sir Edward Mortimer as of those who remember his ‘Oroonoko.’ Those who do will endorse all that Macready says of that masterly representation of the African Prince in slavery, where Kean, with a calm submission to his fate, still preserved all his princely demeanour. There was one passage which was ‘never to be forgotten’—the prayer for his Imoinda. After replying to Blandford, ‘No, there is nothing to be done for me,’ he remained, says Macready, ‘for a few moments in apparent abstraction; then, with a concentration of feeling that gave emphasis to every word, clasping his hands together, in tones most tender, distinct, and melodious, he poured out, as if from the very depths of his heart, his earnest supplication:—
Thou God ador’d, thou ever-glorious Sun!
If she be yet on earth, send me a beam
Of thy all-seeing power to light me to her!