'A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit.'
There was no study there; nothing farther than the mere committing to memory of the words of his part. He identified himself with the character, and for the time was that character, to all intents and purposes; entering into its sensations, and actually feeling its joys and its sorrows. And what are the effects of such acting? Let those whose tears have flowed at his bidding, answer! Kean did not create admiration; he awakened enthusiasm. Mr. Macready is so chaste and perfect, so artistical, to use a cant term, that admiration is the usual feeling which he creates. His acting is like a beautiful piece of mechanism, where every wheel and spring performs its perfect work. There is no jarring, no clog, to mar the exquisite regularity of its movements. But it is a piece of machinery, after all. It is man's work, to say the best of it. The power which Kean possessed was no more a merit to the man, as being the work of study, than the genius of Byron was a creation of his own. Nature made him an actor—a thing of feeling; and he could not shut within himself the rays of that divine influence. It could not be cribbed, narrowed down, or fashioned by study, but it shone forth in all its native effulgence—dazzling and unshaded. Therefore it is fairly maintained, that the high station which Mr. Macready occupies as the first tragedian of his time is more to his honor than would be the same position, if gained for him by nature alone. The profession to which he belongs has reason to be proud of its head. He has done more to elevate the drama to its true position than any of his contemporaries, if John Kemble alone be excepted. We have observed during this engagement of Mr. Macready's many new and beautiful readings, many striking effects, and many bold points, which together with the unusual care and fitness in the 'dressing' of the stage, will form the subject of some future notice. We can foresee much benefit that is to grow out of his visit to the American stage. We can already perceive the good effects produced both upon the actors and the stage-manager by Mr. Macready's first engagement at the Park; and we sincerely hope that any suggestions which he may be induced to make, may be liberally and promptly acted upon.
C.
Apropos of the foregoing: Here is our friend the 'Mail-Robber,' with a most timely and apposite paper, in his
FIFTH POETICAL EPISTLE.
TO J. VANDENUOFF, ESQUIRE, OF COVENT-GARDEN THEATRE, LONDON.
Macready's come! I met him, just at dark,
Crossing the yard these Yankees call 'the Park:'
Full on his figure gleamed th' obtrusive gas,
As I beheld the 'great tragedian' pass;
His decent person, neatly built and straight,
His air abrupt and grenadier-like gait;
His Irish face, which doth not much resemble
The more expressive front of Kean or Kemble,
All for an instant, as my glance they caught,
Brought you and either green-room to my thought.
From him I turned my meditative gaze,
Where through the trees the play-house lanterns blaze;
But not the multitude that nightly throng
To feast their ears with Ethiopian song,
Nor all the gaudy neighborhood around,
Where nuts and noise and courtesans abound,
Nor all the glitter of the gay saloons
Where oyster-lovers ply their midnight spoons,
Nor all the crowd of coaches waiting nigh,
Could check my mind's involuntary sigh.
Alas! how dwindled from her brighter years
The buskin'd nymph, the goddess-queen appears,
Who deigned a little while in yonder dome
To fix her throne, her altar and her home;
Securely trusting in a land so young,
Whose native speech was her own Shakspeare's tongue,
To see restored the glories of her reign,
And other Garricks born, this side the main.
Delightful dream! delightful as untrue;
Poor Drama! this was no domain for you.
Here never shall return that early time
When the fresh heart can vulgar life sublime,
And all the prose of our existence change
By magic power to something rich and strange;
Not here, among this bargain-making tribe,
Whose tricks the Muse would sicken to describe,
Shall the dull genius of a sordid age
Bring an 'all hallow'n summer' of the Stage.