^-^^^ '^Af^. f ^ fer^ *: i ^ 1 ■■ •<-, > .'1^ L^f^ ^h^ .ih *■ '#' ,**la>^ ^^ ^•4^^.:.. ;'i '^^^' FN A 3 CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY ENGUSH COLLECTION THE GIFT OF JAMES MORGAN HART PROFESSOR OF ENGUSH ,. Stage, 3 1924 027 234 529 Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924027234529 THE STAGE — OE- fi^COLLECTIONS OF ACTORS AND -BY- Jnglidh golleetion THE GIFT OF 3ame5 Morgan Hart THE STAGE Vy^yir^ i^HiAi -'ff 1/ j-iy ^ ^0t^ tyf T^^f^l^c^^^ ' THE STAGE Recollections of Actors and Acting -F FROM AN EXPERIENCE OF FIFTY YEARS A SERIES OF DRAMATIC SKETCHES BY JAMES E. MURDOCH IWITH AN APPENDIX'] " AH the world's a stage ! And all the men and women merely players " Shakespeare PHILADELPHIA J. M. STODDART & CO 1880 © Ab.-J2A J^:.:^. Copyright, 1880, BY JAMES E. MURDOCH. Westcott & Thomson, Sherman & Co Stereotypeyi and Etectrntypers, Phitada. Printers Philada d3 A long association, in the spirit of a friendly and literary sym- pathy, -wherein the Author has realized that grateful conamunion of kindred souls whieh makes men brothers— ** Not in the fashion that the world puts on, but brothers in the heart" — impels hinri to dedicate these "Recollections" to Francis de Haes Janvier, A firm and fearless advocate of the National Integrity, and a. true exponent of the noble, the bright, and the beautiful in the realm of Nature. PREFACE. "Custom exacts — and who denies her sway? — An epilogue to every five-act play." — Dr. Pangloss. So does custom warrant an author, in intro- ducing his work to the public, to offer a few words concerning its intent and purpose. In the first place, I do not think it necessary to apologize for this publication of my book, nor for the nature and form of its contents. I have often been strongly impressed with the lively interest manifested by the public in matters relating to the stage, not only before but also "behind the curtain;" and as my public and pri- vate recitals, depicting the varied features of dramatic action and the peculiar traits of actors, have always met with favor from my auditors, I have been induced to transfer my professional impressions to the printed page. "The Stage" is a phrase of very comprehen- sive character. I have not attempted to cover all the territory which it may indicate, but have 8 PREFACE. reserved to myself the privilege of adhering to or departing from its literal meaning, as far as has been necessary for the development of my plan, or, more properly speaking, the arrange- ment of my subject-matter. I need not inform my readers that I am in- experienced in the art of book-making. If they should have confidence enough in the author and interest enough in the title of his book to undertake the reading of the accompanying pages, they will have sufficient reason, I feel, to conclude that it is the work of a novice. And now, having appeared before the public to introduce these " Recollections " to those who were my constant and liberal patrons in my old vocation, I retire to private life and, in the language of stage-apology for " short-comings," I throw myself and my book upon "the indul- gence of a generous public." CONTENTS. PAGE Biographical Sketch of the Author 13 CHAPTER I. The Tragedian, and his Relations to the Poet 25 CHAPTER II. Imitation and Mimicry 42 CHAPTER III. The Players of a Hundred Years Ago 59 CHAPTER IV. John Philip Kemble, Charles Kean, and Cooke 72 CHAPTER V. Anecdotes of Actors 87 CHAPTER VI. Shakespeare AND Dramatic Art. — Macready's Werner, iio lO CONTENTS. CHAPTER VII. PAGE Edmund Kean and his Critics.— His son Charles an Imitator 129 CHAPTER VIII. Shakespeare and his Critics 1 54 CHAPTER IX. Booth and Kean in London. — Booth in America 172 CHAPTER X. Miss DeCamp. — Incidents and Anecdotes of the De- Camp and Kemble Families 194 CHAPTER XI. Sketch of a Galaxy of Stars 213 CHAPTER XII. Miss Cushman, and her Early Studies 233 CHAPTER XIII. Differences in the Early Training of Two Great Tragedians, William Macready and Edwin For- rest 252 CHAPTER XIV. Junius Brutus Booth and Edwin Forrest as Readers.. 273 CONTENTS. 1 1 CHAPTER XV. PAGE Forrest and his Social Relations 294 CHAPTER XVI. FoiiREST AS A Youthful Amateur 317 CHAPTER XVn. London Theatrical Sensations 338 CHAPTER XVHI. London Experiences 359 CHAPTER XIX. Peculiarities of Some Great Actors 380 CHAPTER XX. Some Reminiscences of Actors, Actresses, and Man- agers 398 1 2 CONTENTS. APPENDIX. I. PAGE The Drama (from Southern Literary Messenger) 423 II. Theatrical Affairs previous to Garrick ... 439 III. David Garrick's First Appearance — Bill of Play .... 454 IV. Dissertation on Theatrical Subjects, by Theophilus Gibber, Comedian (London, 1759) 455 V. Strictures upon the Acting and Personal Traits of David Garrick 490 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. By J. BUNTING, James Edward Murdoch, one of the most generally ad- mired of American actors, was born in the city of Philadel- phia on January 25, 1811. He was not of that stock from which actors or intellectual workers of any class usually ap- pear. His parents were Thomas and Elizabeth Murdoch. The father was engaged in mechanical pursuits, finding time also to indulge somewhat in local politics, and in that close kinship with local politics which was even then, as afterward, manifested in the associations of the volunteer fire department. He was also a volunteer soldier, having served as an ofiScer of artillery in the war of 181 2. The business calling of Thomas Murdoch was that of a book- binder and paper-ruler. Those were the good old-fashioned times when the apprentice system prevailed — a system which produced so much hardship to boys, but which reared so many sturdy men. To avoid the hardships, and yet retain the ad- vantages of the system, Thomas Murdoch took all of his four sons, one after another, into his own establishment, and taught them himself Of these, James Edward was the eldest. He had obtained but a very moderate share of common-school education at the time of his entering upon the duties of his father's busi- ness, but the active, inquiring spirit of an American lad helped, in large measure, to supply this deficiency, which was still fur- ther improved upon by the systematic studies of a later period. It is always interesting, when reviewing a public life which has won its honors in any special department, to trace, wher 2 13 14 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. ever it is practicable, the circumstances which led to such a result. It is, fortunately, quite possible to do so in Murdoch's case. The apprentice-boy, reared by the father in childhood and working at his side in youth, naturally imbibed his habits and associations. What Philadelphia boy of fifty years ago was there who did not long for the time to come when he might wear a painted hat and cape and carry a speaking- trumpet? As Murdoch grew up, but before he was yet old enough to join a fire company, he had become a member of a volunteer company of youthful militiamen. Not one of them was over fifteen years of age. Murdoch, at thirteen, was asso- ciated with the company when they were detailed to form part of the escort assigned to La Fayette at his grand recep- tion in 1824. Following thus after his father in military proclivities, he copied him also in due time by becoming a volunteer fire- man, and it was in the engine-house of the old Vigilant Com- pany that young Murdoch made his first speech, at a company meeting. The firemen in those days drew to their ranks some of the most intelligent classes of the community. In the hall of the Vigilant a debating-school was in full blast during Mur- doch's membership. He entered its ranks with his accustomed enthusiasm, but soon demonstrated — to his own satisfaction at least — that he was not a debater. He next proceeded to profit by the discovery ; and profited so well that, after a few of his spirited specimens of declamation, the debating-club resolved itself into an association of amateur actors, and found it neces- sary to secure a larger hall. It was here that Murdoch first presented an actual dramatic part entire, performing in the play of Douglas as Glenalvon, the villain. At this period he placed himself regularly under the tuition of the late Lemuel G. White, an elocutionist who had previ- ously taught another pupil destined to obtain great distinc- tion — Edwin Forrest. Mr. White introduced Murdoch to the late Dr. James Rush, from whom he studied the science of the human voice and gathered many valuable principles which aided largely in adding to the charm of his readings and recitations. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. I 5 It is a very strong evidence of Murdoch's progress in this amateur way that, before he was eighteen years of age, his efforts had won a circle of admirers who were not only the first to rec- ognize his histrionic talents, but who never ceased to urge his claims as a national actor — one whose talents were destined to add lustre to the brilliant history of the American Drama. In the year 1829 the Arch Street Theatre was already one of the chief places of amusement in Philadelphia. At that time the fraternity of actors was chiefly composed of perform- ers brought from England. The manager of the Arch was the late Aaron Phillips. In October, 1829, he was playing an Eng- lish company. Murdoch was already yearning for a place be- fore the footlights, and youthful friends in large numbers were urging him forward. At last the matter-of-fact bookbinder, his father, so far succumbed to outside pressure that he en- gaged the Arch Street Theatre, company and all, from Man- ager Phillips for a single night, and on the 13th of October, 1829, James E. Murdoch made his first dramatic appearance in public as Frederick in Kotzebue's play of Lovers^ Vows. A large number of friends were in attendance that evening, among whom were some whose names afterward became locally prominent — those of Joseph Harrison, Jr., Andrew Kitchen, Ferdinand J. Dreer, and several others. Few of them yet sur- vive. At the close of the play loud calls were made for the manager, and, upon his appearance, a formal request was made that Murdoch should be offered a standing engagement. As the company then playing was only under engagement for the time being, this demand could not be complied with. He was permitted, however, to play several characters, without pay, during the season, among them. Young Norval, Jaffier in Venice Preserved, and Octavian in The Mountaineers. At the close of the theatrical season a benefit was arranged for him, he ap- pearing as Selim in a play called Barbarossa. Although the audiences received all of these efforts with de- cided favor, they had no appreciable effect on the actor's for- tunes, nor in elevating his position in the profession. This was owing to the peculiar etiquette which prevailed, prevent- ing new players from assuming parts which were in possession 1 6 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. of established actors. But the results did have an effect on his father's mind. Thomas Murdoch said to the future actor, "You are choosing a new field. You cannot serve two mas- ters, nor succeed in two callings. I know nothing about this stage business, but I do know that to prosper in it you must study and work. All the assistance I can give I will, but you must trust in the main to your own resources." While this was really only a sort of moral endorsement, it had a practical effect and stimulated the young actor to fresh exertions. Influential friends greatly encouraged him. One promised to secure for him a scholarship at Princeton, in the secret hope, as was afterward learned, that he might become a great pulpit orator. But Murdoch's realm was destined to be the stage, and the stage looked too far away when seen over such a horizon. A more active career was offered. In the spring of 1830 he accepted an engagement as "walking gentleman " to play in Halifax, Nova Scotia. The salary was to be eight dollars a week, and his father paid his travelling expenses to reach his destination. Even in this subordinate position Murdoch's abilities became so apparent that he was soon tendered a benefit, producing therein the dramatic sen- sation of the season. The company, however, came to grief before the year was out, the manager going into bankruptcy. Murdoch was penniless, and his father wrote to a correspond- ent at Halifax enclosing the means, as he said, to "send the vagrant home." At this critical moment the chances of making a good book- binder and losing a promising actor seemed very fair indeed in Murdoch's case. However, it happened that Mr. John Sefton, himself an actor, was then in Philadelphia, looking up recruits for the travelling company of Vincent DeCamp. De- Camp was a brother-in-law of Charles Kemble, an actor of considerable ability, and a manager of experience. His com- pany was then playing engagements in the South and West. Murdoch accepted a position in the same humble line as that at Halifax, but with the pay — or the promise of it at least — in- creased to eighteen dollars per week. He appeared in Charles- ton, Savannah, and other cities during the winter of 1830-31. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 1 7 At Augusta, Georgia, he played his first leading part with this company at the special request of Edwin Forrest, who was then starring with the company. Forrest, being engaged to play Damon, was so dissatisfied with the Pythias offered by the management that he flatly refused to appear with him. De- Camp insisted that it was the best that could be done with the company then at his command. "No," said Forrest imperi- ous'ly, " it is not. You have a man named Murdoch in your company whom I once saw act in Philadelphia. Give the part to him." The dramatic result was highly satisfactory to all parties. The financial result of this engagement was less satisfactory. It ended, as the other had done, with a break-up. Murdoch managed to get home to Philadelphia, but with hardly a whole suit to his back. His affairs were the more desperate in that, anticipating from his DeCamp engagement a paying business, he had made arrangements to marry. He carried out this in- tention during the same year (1831), the wife of his choice being Miss Eliza Middlecott, the daughter of a London sil- versmith. At this time he was enjoying a precarious connec- tion with the Arch Street Theatre. Robert T. Conrad, who was about his own age, proposed to write him a play. They were then, as afterward, warm friends and companions, and Murdoch of course favored the idea. Mr. Conrad's produc- tion was entitled Conrad of Naples, the part of the hero having been written expressly for Murdoch, and it was played with marked success at his benefit on the night of its initial per- formance. But a difficulty afterward arose from the fact, just alluded to, that no subordinate actor could be assigned a lead- ing part save at his own benefit. The leading man took no interest in it, and the play of Conrad of Naples was shelved. Soon afterward the manager of the Park Theatre, New York, hearing of the circumstances attending its performance in Phil- adelphia, offered to bring it out there, but Murdoch could not gain permission to leave his unfinished engagement. Neither he nor Conrad had the necessary means to risk the venture, entailing, as it would, considerable expense for rehearsals and travelling bills. Years afterward an adaptation of Conrad by 2» B 1 8 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. the then eminent author's hand became known over the length and breadth of the country as Jack Cade. It was during the year 1832 that Murdoch met with an ac- cident, the effects of which have never been completely erad- icated. During his connection with the Arch Street Theatre his wife fell ill. To the fatigues of his professional duties were added the cares of a sick-room. Weakened by overwork and anxiety, he was ordered a prescription for a severe attack of indigestion. In mistake he took a preparation of arsenic. The late Dr. George B. McClellan, who was called in, suc- ceeded in saving his life, but said, " You will never get over it as long as you live." The ominous prophecy has proven true to the extent that Mr. Murdoch has rarely been able to en- dure the fatigue of lengthy engagements, and has spent a good portion of his most active years in retirement and out-door life. After leaving the Arch, Mr. Murdoch's life for the few follow- ing years was nomadic. He first accepted the position of lead- ing juvenile at the old Chestnut Street Theatre, where he played with Fanny Kemble. His health failing soon after being es- tablished there, he journeyed South under medical advice, go- ing as far as New Orleans, but playing very seldom, Upon his return he attached himself to the company of F. C. Wemyss, appearing as home star alternately in Pittsburg and Philadel- phia. His next position was at the Tremont Theatre, Boston, where he remained a year, but resigned to take the place of stage-manager at the Chestnut in this city. It was during his incumbency here at this period that the cele- brated production of the opera o{ Norma took place, at which the Woods (Mrs. Julia Wood, nee Paton, and her husband) were the chief stars. Old playgoers will easily recall the sensation which the prima donna then made, and also the strong feeling of indignation which some of the doings of the Woods aroused both here and in New York. The sentiment with which they then regarded Americans was very similar to that which Dick- ens put into print two years later in his American Notes. The Woods received four hundred dollars per night for their ser- vices, and were wisely prompt in collecting it. After they were paid there was mostly nothing left for the company, and BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 1 9 both Murdoch and his associates were obliged to play for weeks without receiving a dollar of their salaries. When this could be no longer endured, Murdoch appealed to Mrs. Wood to allow the actors of the company at' least the receipts for one night, and wait for her money until the close of the week. This she refused to do. He then told her the theatre would have to be closed the following night. She laughed at such an impos- sible event. He went at once into the office, and wrote and posted a bill stating that the Chestnut would be closed until fur- ther notice. It remained closed for a number of weeks. During the same season of 1840-41, Murdoch accepted the position of stage-manager at the National Theatre of Boston to assist in the first production in that city of London Assurance. So great was the desire to see this play that a copy of it had been taken down by a stenographer in the pit of the old Park Theatre, New York City, where it was first played in America. It had in Boston what was considered at that time an unprece- dented run. It might have been mentioned before this that Mr. Mur- doch had, from the beginning of his public appearances, felt an acute sense of the advantages to be derived from more ex- haustive study than his opportunities had thus far permitted. His comparative successes, however much they satisfied his friends, did not by any means satisfy himself The opportunity which he now found, or rather created, for deeper readings and more complete research, took, at first, the somewhat abrupt and un- expected form of a retirement from the stage. While still in the successful management of the National, acting under the advice of such prominent men as Governor John A. Andrew and Hon. George S. Hillard, both of whom had been his pu- pils in elocution, Mr. Murdoch decided to turn his attention to lecturing and teaching. He appeared before the Boston Ly- ceum with a lecture on the "Uses and Abuses of the Stage." This was followed by other lectures, both in Boston and New York, which were favorably commented upon throughout all of the larger cities. In private life he was not idle. It has been already mentioned that, while under the tuition of Mr. White in Philadelphia, he had made the acquaintance of Dr. 20 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. James Rush of that city. To Dr. Rush's vocal theories, as exemplified in his work on The Philosophy of the Voice, Mur- doch became an avowed convert. He has never since ceased his efforts to promulgate Rush's views both by precept and ex- ample. A thorough study of the anatomy of the vocal organs secured for him credentials from the leading medical men of New England. At the same period he studied rhetoric with Prof William Russell of Boston, and, in connection with that gentleman, prepared a work on The Cultivation of the Voice, which was published by Ticknor & Co., and has since been used extensively as a text-book. Murdoch returned to the stage in October, 1845, appearing at the Park Theatre,. New York, for the first time as Hamlet. This appearance seems to have been generally regarded as the beginning of his greatest period — a period which continued, with very few interruptions, until i860. His widely versatile round of characters, his ready assimilation with both comic and tragic parts, and his almost equal success in both, made him henceforward a leading light on the American stage. For the intellectual refinement of his stage conceptions he had no equal. His fidelity to the text of his author was always re- markable, and he never sought for any declamatory effects which were not the legitimate results of faultless elocution. One of the most successful and, at the same time, most interesting of Mr. Murdoch's theatrical engagements occurred in the year 1853. In consequence of an invitation from Mr. Lewis Baker, he visited California under that gentleman's management. He was supported in an extensive repertoire of parts by Mrs. Baker (formerly Miss Alexina Fisher), a lady well known in theatrical circles, and an estimable actress. She was for a long time associated with Murdoch, appearing as Juliet, Pauline, and other leading characters. At that date the new El Dorado was a land of adventure, if not of romance. The California book of Bayard Taylor had already given a graphic description of the situation of affairs there in 1849 and 1850, when the gold-fever first broke out. Mr. Murdoch was one of the earliest pioneers in the histrionic department of art to visit that then remote region. It was partly owing BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 21 to this circumstance, and largely because the best dramatic art is apt to be most immediately recognized everywhere, that this California engagement was exceedingly profitable in a financial point of view. Mr. Murdoch played for a season of about one hundred nights in San Francisco, Sac- ramento, Stockton, and Maysville, receiving from numerous audiences the most profound and sincere demonstrations of approval. In the year 1856, Mr. Murdoch visited England. While this trip was taken with the intention of making it a journey of rest and recreation, the reputation which had preceded him secured a very flattering offer of an engagement from Mr. Buck- stone, manager of the Haymarket Theatre, London. Buck- stone had already acted with Murdoch during a brief visit to America, and was very anxious to secure him. The result was the longest consecutive list of performances which he ever played. His parts here were exclusively in comedy, being young Mirabel in The Inconstant, Charles Surface, Alfred Evelyn, Rover in Wild Oats, Don Felix in The Wonder, and Vapid in The Dramatist. The London season continued for one hundred and ten nights, at each of which Murdoch's name headed the bills. He next repaired to Liverpool, where the most flattering prospects awaited him. He was there even more successful than in London, playing, in addition to his usual round of comedies, Hamlet, which was exhaustively and carefully criticised. His conception of Hamlet was at this time favorably compared with those of Kean and Macready, and, particularly, as resembling that of Charles Young, a famous Hamlet of the Kemble period. In the midst of this success ill health obliged him to cut short this engagement, be- sides cancelling others in Edinburgh, Dublin, and other cities. After a severe attack of his old illness he recovered sufficiently to travel in Germany, Switzerland, and Italy. While on this brief tour Murdoch paid particular attention to the study of vine-growing. Three years before he had purchased an extensive farm in Southern Ohio, and resolved to devote it to grape-culture. Upon his return to America he carried this plan into effect, securing the services of some 2 2 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. Rhenish farm-hands who were well acquainted with the grape and its habits. During the interval between Mr. Murdoch's return from Europe and the breaking out of the civil war he played nu- merous engagements in all the prominent cities of the Union, with all the honors and profits of a popular star. He spent also a considerable share of his time on his farm, which is situated in Murdoch, a post-village named for him and not far distant from Cincinnati. An amusing occurrence which shows the drift of the period is worth noting here. One morning he was aroused by a prodigious outcry in his barn- yard, and, going out, found one of his men contesting with an immense eagle for the possession of a frightened calf. Mur- doch captured the eagle, which was a splendid specimen, mea- suring six feet across the wings. This little incident got into print, and the paragraph went the rounds as paragraphs will. Charles Barras, the author of The Black Crook, took it up and prepared a witty brochure, with comic cuts, entitled How Mur doch VMiquished the American Eagle. In i860, Mr. Murdoch was playing an engagement at Charleston, South Carolina. Here he met with an accident which confined him to his hotel for several days, where he was attended by a prominent physician. Upon asking for his bill he was informed that there would be no charge. On being pressed for an explana- tion, the doctor said emphatically, "I have no charge against the man who vanquished the American eagle." It has been often said that the actor can do less for posterity than other men. He is a part of the history of his country, but not of its deeds. The works of the painter still glow on the canvas, the poet's songs are still sung, but the actor's art dies with him, or lives only in the uncertain realm of rinemory. It has been Murdoch's rare opportunity to so asso- ciate his name with the fortunes of his country, at a time of national trouble, that it may be fairly said of him, the pa- triot's bays will rival the actor's laurels. While playino- at Pittsburg, in the troublous spring of 1861, news reached him that a favorite son had joined the army. He closed his en- gagement abruptly, and went to Washington. While there he BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. 23 associated with many prominent citizens in encouraging the patriotic spirit of the then aroused nation. On one occasion, when a meeting was being held, Colonel John W. Forney, then Clerk of the Senate, requested Murdoch to recite Drake's poem of "The American Flag." The effect was prodigious. The audience was in an uproar of enthusiasm. Simon Cam- eron said to the reader afterward, "I never before in my life felt the full meaning of a flag to fight for." Such were the circumstances attending the commencement of those patriotic readings which, springing from Col6nel Forney's happy sug- gestion, and continuing afterward under his special care, ex- tended to both houses of Congress and permeated the hospitals and homes of the entire country, and which, even more than all his talents and acquirements as an actor, have endeared Murdoch to the popular heart. From that time onward he gave himself up as absolutely to the country as any soldier on the field. He gave readings in all the cities of the North, in the soldiers' hospitals, in the camps of the army on the field — wherever there was money to be raised or fainting courage to be cheered. The amount of good done could scarcely be overestimated. Its money-value alone was very great, although that was the least part of its worth. His friend Thomas Bu- chanan Read, who had just finished his poem "The Wagoner of the Alleghanies," was persuaded by Murdoch to loan him the manuscript, and the poet and actor first rehearsed it in the Ohio log cabin of the latter. The readings of this poem were wonderfully successful, particularly in the cities and towns of Pennsylvania. Janvier's "Sleeping Sentinel," Bryant's "Bat- tle-Field" and Whittier's' "Barbara Frietchie" were also im- mense favorites. But the pathetic side of this period — per- haps, indeed, the most truly dramatic one also — was con- nected with the actor's readings at soldiers' camp-fires in the field — sometimes within sound of the enemy's guns — and in the numerous army hospitals. Many of the scenes which resulted from his elocutionary efforts on such occasions were really thrilling, and in keeping with that wild time. On one occasion, at an invalid camp near Indianapolis, after reciting Bayard Taylor's poem, "General Scott and the Veteran," 24 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR. Murdoch was surrounded and almost overwhelmed by an excited crowd of veterans who rushed to his desk, eager to testify their appreciation of the poet's heroic sentiments as thus impressed upon them by the reader's ringing and elo- quent utterances. For a number of years after the war closed Murdoch re- mained in close retirement on his Ohio farm. So little did he mingle with the outside world, and so close was his privacy, that it is said old friends and admirers who visited Cincinnati, upon inquiring for him and knowing that his residence was in the vicinity, could not ascertain its locality. Grape-culture still occupied his outdoor life, and the study of his old profession formed the recreation of his leisure hours. A series of lectures and essays on elocution were also prepared, based on the the- ories of his early preceptor, Dr. Rush. Murdoch's advo- cacy of these theories has already been referred to in this narrative. To use his own words, the Rush method is "the only one which gives a mastery of the meaning of sentences, extracting the pith as well as producing the sounds." During the past year he has given a course of readings and lectures before the School of Oratory in Philadelphia. There has even been some prospect of seeing him again on the stage, and, in October last, an effort was made to have him appear on the fiftieth anniversary of his life as an actor. Since his great suc- cesses a new generation has grown up, with new methods and in many respects a new dramatic ideal. It would be extremely interesting to compare the manners and methods of the veteran actor with those which are now familiar. Mr. Murdoch's days of work are not done, nor will they be while his life continues. His temperament is, as it has always been, one of extraordinary mental activity, and, whatever else may be allotted to him in the future, he has already traced the record of a busy, a useful, and an honored career. April, 1880. THE STAGE, CHAPTER I. THE TRAGEDIAN^ AND HTS RELATIONS TO THE POET. '' I ^HE intellectual rank which is due to the tra- -*- gedian is, as yet, among the many unsettled points of criticism. There have been writers who question his title to any place, even the humblest, in the domain of genius. His vocation has been classed among the merely mimetic and mechan- ical — those in which the human being approaches the inferior natures by which he is surrounded. The player's whole function, it has been said, demands nothing more than passively to take on the feeling and the character prescribed him, to find outward look and voice for the creation of the poet's brain, and to say over the very words set down for him by another. Acting is deemed by such authorities in art and criticism to be but a process of putting on, a trick of feigning, a facility of assuming, an art of juggle and imposture — a thing which any one can do who has a talent for mimicry and who will descend to exercise it. 3 25 26 THE ACTOR'S GENIUS. We are told of the contest between Cicero and Roscius for the palm of excellence in the art of expressing the emotion of the soul — be- tween the orator with his language and the actor with his physical expression and gesture — and that Roscius received the prize. Does not this antique record place the power of the actor on a higher intellectual plane than that which is commonly assigned to the mimetic art, when associated with what we will venture to term the highest effort of human genius, a great tragedy ? The authors who would belittle the actor's genius, and deny him even the smallest share of the poetic element, " reason a little, presume a great deal, and jump to a conclusion." They overlook the two prime facts of the case : first, that the graphic presentation of a thought or the perfect delineation of a character, when the conception of it has originated in the mind of another, demands "a soul capacious of such things." The mere silent reader of Shakespeare, who passively submits the surface of his mind to the influence of the poet's genius, is but poor- ly impressed with the passing sunshine and shade of thoughts not his own ; he is at best but half conscious of them, as " they come like shadows, and so depart." From those whose perceptions are so transient- ly affected by dramatic impressions can come no rule by which to judge the true merits of the per- former, he who in the act of study passes, as it THE ACTOR'S WORK. 27 were, out of self-consciousness, and identifies him- self with the spirit and genius of the author, mak- ing his conceptions the mould into which he pours his whole being, taking on the fresh and deep impression of every thought, and reflecting, as a mirror before the auditor's mind, an exact and perfect image of every trait of the original. A true receptive power is by no means the passive and servile thing which a superficial crit- icism would make it. Let us say, rather, that it demands an assimilating and co-operative soul, a positive genius, to develop it. In fine, we assume that the entire apprehension of a poet's conception demands a feeling conge- nial to that glow which originally kindled it, an im- agination allied to that which moulded it into form. Such must be the receptive faculty of the actor who aspires to the front rank of tragic excellence. But this is not all. The player is, in soul and body, to give back the impression he has receiv- ed. He is to work as an artist on the plastic ma- terial of his own nature — to give substance and shape and palpable reality to the imaginings of the poet. He is to master, in the electric flash of a moment, the whole art of stamping a true and vivid impress of the poet on the minds of his audience. Feeling and imagination and will must become intensified passion ere the inspired utterance can create afresh the character that originally sprang to life in the soul of the poet. Who has ever thought of denying the original- 28 THE ART OF THE ACTOR. ity of the genius of those great masters of the sculptor's art, Phidias and Praxiteles, on the ground merely that they copied the model of Homer's mind ? Do we look with a feeling of secondary interest on Flaxman's noble illustrations of the bard because they are faithful to Homer? When we look at Retsch's masterly outlines which illus- trate the plays of our own Homer, the Bard of Avon, do we think of saying, " It is all a mere trick of imitative art, working on a prescribed model"? Is not the wonderful fidelity of those ex- quisite drawings to that model their great charm ? Is it not because we see Shakespeare shining through the whole that we accord them the first rank among the productions of modern art? So should it be with the player. He is to throw his whole nature so copiously into the world of Shakespeare's conception that the " molten soul " overflows its limits and infuses itself into the hearts of his audience. It is this exuberance, this redundancy of feeling, which transcends the mere assimilative function, that stamps the true actor a man of expressive genius and power. This is the art not merely of receiving Shakespeare's inspiration, but of giv- ing it forth. True artistic expression, in whatever form, de- mands not only the impulse and the fire, but that "which is of fervor all compact," the creative power of genius; and this is as true of high cultured tragic personation as of the masterly delineations of poetry, painting, and sculpture. THE THEORY OF ACTING. 29 The dramatic impersonator, then, is success- ful in his art in proportion as he represents his author by becoming absorbed in the character delineated by the poet. I do not mean to say, , however, that the actor must forget his own iden- tity and be the reality of the part he acts ; for in that case a bad man might become fit company for the gods, and a good man so transform him- self into a fiend as to be able to play the very devil. Dr. Johnson said the same thing of Gar- rick. When the critics said that great actor was Richard himself, his reply was, "Then my friend Garrick must be a very bad man." The genuine artist will exhibit in his represen- tations of Shakespeare's characters the great attributes of his master's expression — simplicity, nature, and truth — as in presenting Milton's soaring conception of Satan (which originally existed in its author's mind embodied in a dra- matic form) he would portray the loftiness of that spirit " not lost, in loss itself" From these imperfect hints may be inferred the theory of acting and reading which, in my view, is or should be the student's guide. To the player who reflects on the qualities of the various authors whom his profession calls him to study, Shakespeare, the great model of his art, stands distinguished, as is universally admitted, by his perfectly natural manner, whether as regards plot, incident, character, or language. To per- sonate Shakespeare, then, he feels that he must take his cue from Nature, and that from her he 3* 30 THE DANGER OF ERRING. must receive every prompting of genuine inspi- ration. Here, however, when the artist has schooled himself out of rant and pantomimic trick, and every other prominent vice of the stage, he needs all the aid of a just and critical judgment ; he is in danger of erring in one of several direc- tions. Leaning to the safe side, as he deems it, of a just exposition of his author, avoiding the grossness of mere stage-effects, and adhering strictly to his text in a merely faithful enuncia- tion of its words, the actor fails of truth and Nature, ceases to personate, and sinks into a mere elocutionist and declaimer. " Words, words, words" form the sum and substance of his per- formance. But the heart and soul, of which the words were meant to be the medium, are not there. No aspiration of ardor do we hear, no tremulous tone of heartfelt emotion, no sob bursting from the overcharged bosom, no uncon- scious attitude of passion do we see, no intuitive power in word, look, or action flashing sympathy to the soul of the spectator, no ecstasy of the whole man. But instead of these qualities, so essential to a proper dramatic effect, we have the chilly attri- butes of paraded precision and heartless formality in action and utterance. High - sounding and measured declamation swells out the text — correct and distinct, it may be, indeed, as to the words, but deadened to. every effect of spirit and expression. In such counter- DRAMATIC EXPRESSION. 3 1 feit presentment of human passion the art " whose end both at the first and now was and is to hold the mirror up to Nature," falls down to the mo- notonous delivery of a sermonized lecture or the recitation of a school-boy's task. The actor who under such circumstances imagines he is adher- ing to Nature because he is not tearing a passion to tatters, has formed but a low conception of the province of the stage, which is to hit off life itself, and to use language but as a means to this end. The true delineator, in order to give proper effect to premeditated speech, must observe and employ the grace, fitness, and power of utterance which mark the flow of thought and rush of feel- ing when language springs from the event and circumstance of every-day life. He who would fill others with the fervor of his own feelings must be able to mark his language with the elements of expressive vocality and incisive and vehement utterance. Thus only can be expressed the workings of the soul when distracted with conflicting passions or driven to despair and madness by outrageous fortune. Every thought of the mind, every passion of the soul, has its peculiar quality of voice and its appropriate mode of utterance. Dramatic expression, of all the forms of speech, requires a profound knowledge of such natural effects, as well as the practical ability to employ them. Truly, from the Shakespearian view, the office of dramatic reading or recitation is no slight affair. It demands a clear expression of every 32 TRICKS OF PERSONAL HABIT. word, the music of impassioned feeling in every tone, and the reality of life in every look and action ; and along with all a marked individuality of character, emanating from the conceptions of the performer, but divested of his personality. By such means only can the hearer be trans- ported from the ignorant present of actual sur- rounding life into an ideal world of remotest time and space. The personal traits of the speaker or reader of Shakespeare when obtruded on our notice are always offensive, because they break up the beautiful illusion which the drama was meant to create. No such falling off, however, is so chilling, perhaps ridiculous, as when the great historical or ideal hero of a piece descends into the "tricks of habit" by which we recognize the individual in his relations to daily life. Individuality is a trait inseparable from the efforts of genius, and, chastened and subdued into its proper place and kept subordinate to the display of the author, it is always a source of pleasure. But the cant of the times about naturalness, originality, and creative power on the stage has gone nigh to tempt the player to such a style of personation as appropriates both the stage and Shakespeare to himself, and swal- lows them up in the inordinate self-esteem of the individual. Another and a very different theory of acting is exhibited by those performers who wish, as it were, to inspire the author, instead of being in- spired by him, and to add all manner of stage- A TRUE IDEA OF NATURE. 33 effects to sustain, as it were, the character and the writer. Players of this class are prone to the fault of taking a character in Shakespeare as they would an outline or sketch prescribed in a pantomime, which the ingenuity of the performer is to fill up, and consider language merely the vehicle for the display of " stage-business," as it is technically termed. Hence arise those melo- dramatic attitudes, groupings, and tableaux with which modern acting abounds, and which go to make up the attraction of some individual celeb- rity. From such a perverted and vitiated dra- matic taste arise those unnaturally natural, famil- iar, and coarse effects which dispel all illusions and destroy all ideal harmony. The term Nature is one of vast comprehension. It has widely different meanings, according to the mental character of -the individual who makes use of it. Nature in a picture is, with one man, noth- ing but " Dutch boors, candlesticks, and cabbages;" with another it is all nymphs, temples, and wreath- ing garlands, dancing satyrs and hovering cupids. A true idea of Nature — Nature heightened by the inspiring touch of ideal beauty and perfec- tion — plain, sincere Nature, raised to its own highest capability by the hand of genius, may be found in an evening scene by Claude, where act- ual objects, faithfully portrayed, are grouped anew, mellowed into the dim golden dusk of twilight, and tinged with colors in the very act of fading into the coming gloom of night. In vain do we look for Nature in mere bald c 34 SHAKESPEARE'S IDEA OF A MAN. and harsh reality. The landscape of crag and brake and sluggish pool is naught for pictorial art till we can look on it in the flush of sunrise or in the lingering glow of sunset. In vain do we look for Nature in the narrow scope of the mere individual. Divest the man of his repre- sentative relation to all humanity, and what is he worth to the sculptor, the painter, or the poet ? He sinks into an unshapely mass, or a personal portrait for a parlor wall, or a fit subject for a pasquinade. How different from Shakespeare's idea of a man, as uttered by the lips of Hamlet when he pours out his filial admiration of the person and presence of his father ! — See, what a grace was seated on this brow ; Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself; An eye like Mars, to threaten and command ; A station like the herald Mercury New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill ; A combination and a form indeed, Where every god did seem to set his seal, To give the world assurance of a man. A fitting illustration of Shakespeare's ideal of dramatic action, its truth to Nature, and the import- ance of language as its prime element, may be found in Troilus and Cressida (Act I., Scene iii. — the Grecian camp before Agamemnon's tent), where he shows us plainly his contempt for the unnatural and barbarous style of presentation which was a prevalent and deforming feature of the acting of his own time : HIS IDEAL OF DRAMATIC ACTION. 35 The great Achilles, whom opinion crowns The sinew and the forehand of our host, Having his ear full of his airy fame. Grows dainty of his worth, and in his tent Lies mocking our designs : with him Patroclus Upon a lazy bed the livelong day Breaks scurril jests. And with ridiculous and awkward action, Which, slanderer, he imitation calls, He pageants us. Sometime, great Agamemnon, Thy topless deputation he puts on, And like a strutting player, whose conceit Lies in his hamstring, and doth think it rich To hear the wooden dialogue and sound ' Twixt his stretcK d footing and the scaffoldage, — Such to-be-pitied, and d' er-wrested seeming He acts thy greatness in : and when he speaks 'Tis like a chime a-mending ; with terms unsquared, Which, from the tongue of roaring Typhon dropp'd. Would seem hyperboles. At this fusty stuff The large Achilles, on his press' d bed lolling. From his deep chest laughs out a loud applause; Cries "Excellent! 'tis Agamemnon just. Now play me Nestor ; hem, and stroke thy beard, As he being drest to some oration." That's done, as near as the extremest ends Of parallels, as like as Vulcan and his wife : Yet gdd Achilles still cries "Excellent ! 'Tis Nestor right. Now play him me, Patroclus, Arming to answer in a night-alarm." And then, forsooth, the faint defects of age Must be the scene of mirth ; to cough and spit, And, with a palsy fumbling on his gorget. Shake in and out the rivet : and at this sport Sir Valour dies; cries "Oh, enough, Patroclus; Or give me ribs of steel ! I shall split all In pleasure of my spleen." And in this fashion, All our abilities, gifts, natures, shapes. 36 HAMLET'S ADVICE TO THE PLAYERS. Severals and generals of grace exact, Achievements, plots, orders, preventions, Excitements to the field, or speech for truce. Success or loss, what is or is not, serves As stuff for these two to make paradoxes. It may, I think, be inferred from this graphic portraiture of burlesque and bombast that, though it was common to his fellows, it was not Shake- speare's mode of delineation, and hence to the marked difference in his style of acting from that of his fellow-actors is to be attributed the fact that the dramatist was not considered as good a performer as those whom the groundlings ap-- plauded. In fine, Shakespeare was a poet, and knew the value of language should not be dis- counted by the exaggerations of the actor. Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue : but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but use all gently ; for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a tem- perance that may give it smoothness. Oh, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious, periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who for the most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb-shows and noise ; I would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant; it out-herods Herod: pray you, avoid it. First Player. I warrant your honor. Hamlet. Be not too tame neither, but let your own discretion be your tutor : suit the action to the word, the word to the action ; EXAGGERATION IN ACTING. 37 with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of Nature ; for any thing so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was, and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to Nature; to show Virtue her own feature, Scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure. Now this overdone, or come tardy off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve ; the censure of the which one must in your allowance o'erweigh a whole theatre of others. Oh, there be players that I have seen play, and heard others praise, and that highly, not to speak it profanely, that, neither having the accent of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and bellovved that I have thought some of Nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. First Player. I hope we have reformed that indifferently with us, sir. Hamlet. Oh, reform it altogether. And let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them ; for there be of them, that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren spectators to laugh too; though, in the mean time, some necessary question of the play be then to be considered. That's villainous, and shows a most pitiful ambition in the fool that uses it. The exaggerating attempts, under false ideas of what is natural, to make everything in dra- matic representation seem as real as possible, proceed upon the assumption that Nature is found only in the actual and the real, while the natural in expression lies ever nearest to the ideal. In attempting to make what in stage-language is called a "point" of some feature of bare reality, 38 THE ACTOR AS MACBETH. the actor is liable to betray a tendency to man- nerism, because in striving to be strictly natural he will probably exhibit what is only natural to himself; and that may be habit, and not Nature. But when, on the other hand, under the influ- ence of a poetic spirit, he aims at the delineation of some image, he loses self in the picturing of the mind, and seems " breathless as we grow when feeling most," wrapt in the solemnity of dire im- aginings, where nothing is but what is not, or soaring on the wings of aspiring thought " to pluck bright honor from the pale-faced moon." From such mental workings emanates the per- fection of expressive power in the utterance of figurative language, and not from the cold prompt- ings of rationality or realism. Let us for a mo- ment picture to ourselves the actor of Macbeth moving and speaking under such influences as I have attempted to describe, and we may, where he is under the sway of superstitious dread, feel in his utterances the very form and semblance of the heaving surges of destiny, remorse, and de- spair. Such impressions are made on the mind of the hearer for the reason that the actor has transformed himself for the time being into a creature of the poetic world, and gives out his mental conceptions and the fervor of truth poetic as well as natural, not coloring- imagination and fancy in the material hues of personal mannerism. In the former case, as before stated, the truth of the effect is lost in the too palpable attempt to create it by an approach to reality ; in the other READING AND ACTING COMPARED. 39 it is secured and heightened by the fact of the external giving place to the presence and power of the internal working of the soul. It is in the masterly treatment of the poetic element of the drama that the skilful actor dem- onstrates the fact that the truest arid best effects of the stage