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the casual sight of an old play bill, which i picked up the other day -- i know not by what ce it reserved so long -- tetsto call to nd a few of the players, who ke the principal figure in it. it presents the cast of parts iwelfth night, at the old drury-laheatre two-and-thirty years ago. there is sothioug in these old rerahey ke us think how we once used to read a play bill -- not, as now peradventure, singling out a favorite perforr, and casting a negligent eye over the rest; but spelling out every na, down to the very tes and servants of the se when it was a tter of no sll nt to us whether whitfield, or packer, took the part of fabian; when benson, and burton, and phillire -- nas of sll at -- had an iortance, beyond what webe tent to attribute now to the tis best actors.-&a;a;a;quot; orsino, by mr. barryre. &a;a;a;quot;what a full shakspearian sound it carries! how fresh to ry arise the ige, and the nner, of the geor!
those who have only seen mrs. jordan within the last ten or fifteen years,have no adequate notion of her perfornce of such parts as ophelia; helena, in alls well that ends well; and viola in this play. her voice had latterly acquired arseness, which suited well enough with her nells and hoydens, but in those days it sank, with her steady lting eye, into the heart. her joyous parts -- in which her ry now chiefly lives -- in her youth were outdone by her plaintive ohere is no giving an at how she delivered the disguised story of her love for orsino. it wasspeech, that she had foreseen, so as to weave it into an harnious period, line necessarily following lio ke up the sic -- yet i have heard it so spoken, or rather read, not without its grad beauty -- but, when she had declared her sisters history to be a &a;a;a;quot;blank,&a;a;a;quot; and that she &a;a;a;quot;old her love,&a;a;a;quot; there ause, as if the story had ended -- and then the ige of the &a;a;a;quot;worin the bud&a;a;a;quot; ca up as a new suggestion -- and the heightened ige of patieill followed after that, as by so growing (and not ical) process, thought springing up after thought, i would alst say, as they were watered by her tears. so in those fine lines -
write loyal tos of ned love --
hollow your o the reverberate hills -
there was no preparation de in the foing ige for that which was to follow. she used no rhetori her passion or it was natures oworic, st legitite then, when it seed altogether without rule or law.
mrs. powel (now mrs. renard), then in the pride of her beauty, de an adrable olivia. she articularly excellent in her unbending ses iion with the . i have seen so olivias -- and those very sensible actresses too -- who in these interlocutions have seed to set their wits at the jester, and to vie ceits with hiin dht elation. but she used hifor her sport, like what he was, to trifle a leisure sentence or two with, and then to be disssed, and she to be the great lady still. she touched the ierious fantastic huur of the character with y. her fine spacious person filled the se.
the part of malvolio has injudgnt been so often suood, and the general rits of the actor, who then played it, so unduly appreciated, that i shall hope for pardon, if i aa little prolix upon these points.
of all the actors who flourished inti -- a lancholy phrase if taken aright, reader -- bensley had st of the swell of soul, was greatest in the delivery of heroiceptions, the etions sequent upon the prese of a great idea to the fancy. he had the true poetical enthusias-- the rarest faculty ang players. hat i reer possessed even a portion of that fine dness which he threw out in hotspurs faus rant about glory, or the transports of the veian indiary at the vision of the fired city. his voice had the dissonance, and at tis the inspiriting effect of the truet. his gait was uth and stiff, hut no way earrassed by affectation; and the thh-bred gentlen perst in every vent. he seized the nt of passion with the greatest truth; like a faithful cloever striking before the ti; never anticipating or leading you to anticipate. he was totally destitute of trid artifice. he seed e upoage to do the poets ssage sily, and he did it with as genuine fidelity as the nuncios in hor deliver the errands of the gods. he let the passion or the se do its own work without prop or bolstering. he would have sed to untebank it; arayed none of that cleverness which is the bane of serious ag. for this reason, his iago was the only endurable one which i reer to have seen. no spectator frohis uld divine re of his artifice than othello was supposed to do. his fessions in soliloquy alo you in possession of the stery. there were no by-intitions to ke the audience fancy their own disnt so ch greater than that of the moor-who only stands like a great helpless rk set up for ne a, and a quantity of barreors, to shoot their bolts at. the iago of bensley did not go to work so grossly. there was a triuhant tone about the character, natural to a general sciousness of power; but none of that petty vanity which chuckles and ot tain itself upon any little suessful stroke of its knavery -- as is on with your sll villains, and green probationers in schief. it did not clap or crow before its ti. it was not a ing his wits at a child, and winking all the while at other children who are ghtily pleased at bei into the secret; but a te villairapping a ure into toils, against whio disnt was available, where the nner was as fathoess as the purpose seed dark, and without tive. the part of malvolio, iwelfth night, erford by bensley, with a riess and a dignity, of which (to judge froso ret castings of that character) the very tradition st be worn out frothe stage. no nager in those days would have dread of giving it to mr. baddeley, or mr. parsons: when bensley was oasionally absent frothe theatre, john kele thought it nation to sueed to the part. malvolio is not essentially ludicrous. he bees ic but by act. he ild, austere, repelling; but dignified, sistent, and, for pears, rather of aretched rality. maria describes hias a sort of puritan; and he ght have worn his goldwith honour in one of our old round-head falies, in the service of a laert, or a lady fairfax. but his rality and his nners are splaced in illyria. he is opposed to the proper levities of the piece, and falls in the unequal test. still his pride, or his gravity, (call it which you will) is i, and native to the n, not ck or affected, which latter only are the fit objects to excite laughter. his quality is at the best unlovely, but her buffoon nor ptible. his bearing is lofty, a little above his station, but probably not ch above his deserts. we see no reason why he should not have been brave, honourable, aplished. his careless ittal of the ring to the ground (which he was issioo restore to cesario), bespeaks a generosity of birth and feeling. his diale all oasions is that of a gentlen, and a n of education. we st not found hiwith the eternal old, low steward of edy. he is ster of the household to a great princess; a dignity probably ferred upon hifor other respects than age or length of service. olivia, at the first indication of his supposed dness, declares that she &a;a;a;quot;would not have hiscarry for half of her dowry.&a;a;a;quot; does this look as if the character was ant to appear little or insignifit? once, indeed, she auses hito his face -- of what ? -- of being &a;a;a;quot;sick of self-love,&a;a;a;quot; -- but with a gentleness and siderateness whiculd not have been, if she had not thought that this particular infirty shaded so virtues. his rebuke to the knight, and his sottish revellers, is sensible and spirited; and wheake into sideration the unprotected dition of his stress, and the strict regard with which her state of real or disseled would draw the eyes of the world upon her house-affairs, malvolio ght feel the honour of the faly in so sort in his keeping; as it appears not that olivia had any re brothers, or kio look to it -- for sir toby had dropped all suice respects at the buttery hatch. that malvolio was ant to be represented as possessiible qualities, the expression of the duke in his ao have hireciled, alst infers. &a;a;a;quot;pursue hi areat hito a peace.&a;a;a;quot; even in his abused state of s and darkness, a sort of greatness see o desert hi he argues highly and well with the supposed sir topas, and philosophises gallantly upon his straw.* there st have been so shadow of worth about the n; he st have been sothing re than a re vapour -- a thing of straw, or ja office -- before fabian and mariuld have ventured sending hiupon a c-errand to olivia. there was so sonancy (as he would say) in the uaking, or the jest would have been too bold even for that house of srule.
bensley, aly, threw over the part an air of spanish loftiness. he looked, spake, and ved like an old castilian. he was starch, spruce, opinionated, but his superstructure of pride seed bottod upon a sense of worth. there was sothing in it beyond the b. it was big and swelling, but yould not be sure that it was hollow. you ght wish to see it taken down, but you felt that it on aion. he was gnifit frothe outset; but whe sobrieties of the character began to give way, and the poison of self-love, in his ceit of the tesss affe, gradually to work, you would have thought that the hero of la mancha in person stood before you. how he went sling to hielf with what ineffable carelessness would he twirl his gold ! what a dreait was! you
*. what is the opinion of pythagoras ing wild fowl?
mal. that the soul of randaght haply inhabit a bird.
. what thihou of his opinion?
mal. i think nobly of the soul, and no rove of his opinion.
were ied with the illusion, and did not wish that it should be reved! you had no roofor laughter! if an unseasonable refle of rality obtruded itself it was a deep sense of the pitiable infirty of ns nature, thatlay hiopen to such frenzies -- hut in truth you rather adred than pitied the lunacy while it lasted -- you felt that an hour of such stake was worth ah the eyes open. who would not wish to live but for a day in the ceit of such a ladys love as olivia? why, the duke would have given his principality but for a quarter of a nute, sleeping or waking to have been so deluded. the n seed to tread upon air, to taste nna, to walk with his head in the clouds, to te hyperion. o! shake not the castles of his pride -- e for a seasht nts of fidence -- &a;a;a;quot;stand still ye watches of the elent,&a;a;a;quot; that malvolio y be still in fancy fair olivias lord -- but fate aribution say no -- i hear the schievous titter of maria -- the witty taunts of sir toby -- the still re insupportable triuh of the foolish knight -- the terfeit sir topas is unsked -- and &a;a;a;quot;thus the whirligig of ti,&a;a;a;quot; as the truehath it, &a;a;a;qus in his revenges.&a;a;a;quot; i fess that i never saw the catastrophe of this character, while bensley played it, without a kind iterest. there was good foolery too. few now reer dodd. what an aguecheek the stage lost in hi lovegrove, who ca o the old actors, revived the character so few seasons ago, and de it suffitly grotesque; but dodd was it, as it ca out of natures hands. it ght be said to rein in puris naturalibus. in expressing slowness of apprehension this actor surpassed all others. yould see the first dawn of aealing slowly over his tenance, cliing up by little and little, with a painful process, till it cleared up at last to the fulness of a twilight ception -- its highest ridian. he seed to keep back his intellect, as so have had the power to retard their pulsation. the balloon takes less ti in filling than it took tver the expansion of his broad ony face over all its quarters with expression. a glier of uanding would appear in a er of his eye, an for lack of fuel go out again. a part of his forehead would catch a little intelligence, and be a long ti in unig it to the reinder
.
i aill at dates, but i think it is now better than five and twenty years ago that walking in the gardens of grays inn -- they were then far fihan they are now -- the aursed verulabuildings had not encroached upon all the east side of the cutting out delicate green kles, and shouldering away one of two of the stately ves of the terrace -- the survivor stands gaping aionless as if it reered its brother -- they are still the best gardens of any of the inns of court,beloved tele not fotten have the gravest character, their aspect being altogether reverend and law-breathing -- ba has left the iress of his foot upon their gravel walks--takingafternoon sola a suer day upon the aforesaid terrace, a ely sad personage ca towards , who frohis grave air ant, i judged to he one of the old benchers of the inn. he had a serious thoughtful forehead, and seed to be iations of rtality. as i have an instinctive awe of old benchers, i assing hiwith that sort of subindicative token of respect whie is apt to denstrate towards a venerable stranger, and which rather denotes an ination to greet hi than any positive tion of the body to that effect -- a species of hulity and will-worship which i observe, is out of ten, rather puzzles than pleases the person it is offered to -- when the face turning full upely identified itself with that of dodd. upon close iion i was not staken. buuld this sad thoughtful tenance be the sa vat face of folly which i had hailed so often under circutances of gaiety; which i had never seen without a sle, nised but as the ush&a;a;lt;var&a;a;gt;&a;a;lt;/var&a;a;gt;er of rth; that looked out so forlly flat in foppington, so frothily pert in tattle, so iotently busy in backbite; so blankly divested of all aning, or resolutely expressive of none, in acres, in fribble, and a thousand agreeable iertinences? was this the face -- still of thought and carefulness -- that had so often divested itself at will of every trace of either to givediversion, to clearcloudy face for two or three hours at least of its furrows? was this the face -- nly, sober, intelligent, which i had so often despised, de cks at, de rry with? the rerance of the freedo which i had taken with it ca upoh a reproach of insult. uld have asked it pardon. i thought it looked upoh a sense of injury. there is sothing strange as well as sad in seeing actors -- your pleasant fellows particularly -- subjected to and suffering the on lot -- their fortuheir casualties, their deaths, seeto belong to the se, their as to be ao poetic justily. wehardly ect thewith re awful responsibilities. the death of this fior took place shortly after this eting. he had quitted the stage so nths; and, as i learned afterwards, had been in the habit of res daily to these gardens alst to the day of his decease. in these serious walks probably he was divesting hielf of ny sid so real vanities -- weaning hielf frothe frivolities of the lesser and the greater theatre -- doile penance for a life of no very reprehensible fooleries, -- taking off by degrees the buffoon sk which he ght feel he had worn too long -- and rehearsing for a re sole cast of part. dying he &a;a;a;quot;put on the weeds of donic.&a;a;a;quot; *
if fewreer dodd,living will not easily fet he pleasant creature, who in those days ehe part of theto dodds sir andrew. -- richard, or rather dicky suett -- for so in his life-ti he delighted to be called, and ti hath ratified the appellation -- lieth buried on the north side of the cetery of holy paul, to whose service his nonage and tender y&a;a;lt;u&a;a;gt;９９lib?&a;a;lt;/u&a;a;gt;ears were dedicated. there are who do yet reer hiat that period -- his pipe clear and harnious. he would often speak of his chorister days, when he was &a;a;a;quot;cherub dicky.&a;a;a;quot;
what clipped his wings, or de it expedient that he should exge the holy for the profaate; whether he had lost his good voice (his best reendation to that office), like sir john, &a;a;a;quot;with hallooing and singing of anthe;&a;a;a;quot; or whether he was adjudged to laething, even in those early years, of the gravity indispensable to an oupation which professeth to &a;a;a;quot;erce with the skies &a;a;a;quot; -- uld never rightly learn; but we find hi after the probation of a twelventh or so, reverting to a secular dition, and bee one of us. i think he was not altogether of that tier, out of which cathedral seats and sounding boards are hewed. but if a glad heart -- kind and thereflad -- be any part of sanctity, then ght the robe of motley, with which he ied hielf with so ch hulity after his deprivation, and which he wore so long with so ch blaless satisfa to hielf and to the public, be aepted for a surplice -- his white stole, and albe. the first fruits of his secularization was an e upon the boards of old drury, at which theatre he enced, as i have been told, with adopting the nner of parsons in old ns characters. at the period in which st of us knew hi he was no re an itator than he was in any true sense hielf itable.
he was the robin good-fellow of the stage. he ca in to trouble all things with a wele perplexity, hielf no whit troubled for the tter. he was known, like puck, by his note -- ha! ha! ha ! -- sotis deepening to ho! ho! ho! with an irresistible aession, derived perhaps retely frohis elesiastical education, fn to his prototype of, -- o la! thousands of
*dodd was a n of reading, a at his death a choiclle of old english literature. i should judge hito have been a n of wit. i know one instance of an irotu whio length of studuld have bettered. my rry friend, jewhite, had seen hione evening in aguecheek, and reising dodd theday i street, was irresistibly ielled to take off his hat and salute hias the identical knight of the preg evening with a &a;a;a;quot;save you, sir andre;quot; dodd, not at all discerted at this unusual address froa stranger, with urteous half.rebuking wave of the hand, put hioff with an &a;a;a;quot;away, fool.&a;a;a;quot;
hearts yet respond to the chug o la! of dicky suett, brought back to their rerance by the faithful transcript of his friend mathewss cry. the &a;a;a;quot;force of naturuld no further go.&a;a;a;quot; he drolled upoock of these two syllables richer than the cuckoo.
care, that troubles all the world, was fotten in his position. had he had but two grains (nay, half a grain) of it, huld never have supported hielf upon those two spiders strings, which served hi(iter part of his unxed existence) as legs. a doubt or a scruple st have de hitotter, a sigh have puffed hidown; the weight of a frown had staggered hi a wrinkle de hilose his balance. but on he went, scraling upon those airy stilts of his, with robin good-fello;quot;thh brake, thh briar,&a;a;a;quot; reckless of a scratched face or a torn doublet.
shakspeare foresaw hi when he frad his fools aers. they have all the true suett sta, a loose and shaling gait, a slippery tohis last the ready dwife to a without-pain-delivered jest; in words, light as air, venting truths deep as the tre; with idlest rhys taggi when busiest, singing with lear ieest, or sir toby at the buttery-hatch.
jack bannister and he had the fortuo be re of personal favourites with the town than any actors before or after. the difference, i take it, was this : -- jack was re beloved for his sweet, good-natured, ral pretensions. dicky was re liked for his sweet, good-natured, no pretensions at all. your whole sce stirred with bannisters perfornce of walter in the children in the wood -- but dick seed like a thing, as shakspeare says of love, too young to know what sce is. he put us into vestas days. evil fled before hi-- not as frojack, as froan antagonist, -- but because iuld not touch hi any re than a on-ball a fly. he was delivered frothe burthen of that death; and, wheh ca hielf, not iaphor, to fetch dicky, it is rded of hiby robert palr, who kindly watched his exit, that he received the last stroke, her varying his aced tranquillity, nor tune, with the sile exclation, worthy to have been rded in his epitaph -- o la! o la! bobby!
the elder palr (of stage-treading celebrity) only played sir toby in those days; but there is a solidity of wit in the jests of that half-falstaff which he did not quite fill out. he was as ch too showy as moody (who sotis took the part) was dry and sottish. in sock or buskin there was an air of swaggeriility about jack palr. he was a gentlen with a slight infusion of the footn. his brother bob (of reter ry) who was his shadow ihing while he lived, and dwindled into less than a shadow afterwards -- was a gentlen with a little stronger infusion of the latter ingredient; that was all. it is azing how a little off the re or less kes a differehings. when you saw bobby in the dukes servant,* you said, what a pity such a pretty fellow was only a servant. when you saw jack figuring in captain absolute, you thought yould trace his protion to so lad of quality who fahe handso fellow in his top-knot, and had bought hia ission. therefore ja dick aet was insuperable.
[footnote] * high life below stairs.
jack had two voices, -- both plausible, hypocritical, and insinuating; but his sedary or supplental voice still re decisively histrionic than his o was reserved for the spectator; and the dratis personae were supposed to know nothing at all about it. the lies of young wilding, and the ses in joseph surface, were thus rked out in a sort of italics to the audiehis secrerrespohe pany before the curtain (which is the bane ah edy) has arely happy effe so kinds of edy, in the re highly artificial edy of greve or of sheridan especially, where the absolute sense of reality (so indispensable to ses of i) is not required, or would rather interfere to dinish your pleasure. the fact is, you do not believe in such characters as surface -- the villain of artificial edy -- even while you read or see the if you did, they would shod not divert you. when ben, in love for love, returns frosea, the following exquisite dialogue ours at his first eting with his father -
sir sason. thou hast been ny a weary league, ben, since i saw thee.
ben. ey, ey, been! been far enough, an that be all. -- well, father, and how do all at ho? how does brother dick, and brother val?
sir sason. dick! body o , dick has beehese two years. i writ you word when you were at leghorn.
ben. mess, thats true; marry, i had fot. dicks dead, as you say -- well, and how ? -- i have a ny questions to ask you -
here is an instance of insensibility whi real life would be revolting, or rather in real lifuld not hav-existed with the warhearted teerant of the character. but when you read it in the spirit with which such playful seles and specious binations rather than strict taphrases of nature should be taken, or when you saw bannister play it, it her did, nor does wound the ral se all. for what is ben -- the pleasant sailor which bannister gives us -- but a piece of satire -- a creation of greves fancy -- a drea bination of all the acts of a sailors character -- his pt of ney -- his credulity to won -- with that necessary estra froho which it is just within the verge of credibility to suppose ght produce su halluation as is here described. we hink the worse of ben for it, or feel it as a stain upon his character. but when an actor es, and instead of the delightful phanto-- the creature dear to half-belief -- which bannister exhibited -- displays before our eyes a dht cretion of a ing sailor -- a jolly warhearted jack tar -- and nothing else -- when instead of iing it with a delicious fusedness of the head, and a veering ued goodness of purpose -- he gives to it a dht daylight uanding, and a full sciousness of its as; thrusting forward the sensibilities of the character with a pretence as if it stood upon nothing else, and was to be judged by thealone -- we feel the drd of the thing; the se is disturbed; a real n has got in ang the dratis personae, and puts theout. we want the sailor turned out. we feel that his true place is not behind the curtain but in the first or sed gallery.
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