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.”