In the year 1793, a gentleman who was a member of the Covent Garden company, in the department of ‘utilities,’ might be seen, any day during the season, punctually on his way to the theatre, for rehearsal or for public performance. At the above date he had been seven years on the London boards, having first appeared at the ‘Garden’ in 1786, as Flutter in ‘The Belle’s Stratagem.’ His name was William Macready, father of the Macready, and his début on the English stage was owing to the influence of Macklin, whom the young fellow had gratified by playing Egerton to the veteran’s Sir Pertinax, exactly according to the elaborate instructions he had patiently received from Macklin himself at rehearsal.
William Macready had left the vocation of his father in Dublin—that of an upholsterer—for the uncertain glories of the stage. The father was a common councilman, and was respectably connected—or, rather, his richer relatives were respectably connected in having him for a kinsman. In Ireland there is a beggarly pride which looks down upon trade as a mean thing. Mr. Macready, the flourishing Dublin upholsterer, took to that sound mean thing, and found his account in so doing. His prouder kinsmen may have better respected their blood, but they had not half so good a book at their banker’s.
The upholsterer’s son took his kinsmen’s view of trade, and deserted it accordingly. He could hardly, however, have gratified them by turning player; but he followed the bent of his inclinations, addressed himself to sock and buskin, toiled in country theatres, was tolerated rather than patronised in his native city, and, as before said, got a footing on the Covent Garden stage in 1786.
William Macready’s position there in 1793 was much the same that it was when he first appeared. Perhaps he had a little improved it, by the popular farce of which he was the author, ‘The Irishman in London,’ which was first acted at Covent Garden in 1792. In 1793 he was held good enough to act Cassio to Middleton’s Othello, and was held cheap enough to be cast for Fag in the ‘Rivals.’ On his benefit night—he was in a position to share the house with Hull—the two partners played such walking gentlemen’s characters as Cranmer and Surrey (the latter by Macready) to the Wolsey and Queen Catharine of Mr. and Mrs. Pope; but Macready, in the afterpiece, soared to vivacious comedy, and acted Figaro to the Almaviva of mercurial Lewis. If he ever played an Irish part, it was only when Jack Johnstone was indisposed—which was not his custom of an afternoon.
The best of these actors, and others better than the best named above, received but very moderate salaries. Mr. Macready’s was probably not more than three or four pounds per week. Upon certainly some such salary the worthy actor maintained a quiet home in Mary Street, Tottenham Court (or Hampstead) Road. At the head of the little family that gathered round the table in Mary Street was one of the best of mothers; and chief among the children—the one at least who became the most famous—was William Charles Macready, whom so many still remember as a foremost actor, and in whom some even recognised a great master of his art.
Among the earliest remembrances of this eminent player, he has noticed in his most interesting ‘Reminiscences,’ that ‘the res angustæ domi called into active duty all the economical resources and active management of a mother’ (whose memory, he says, is enshrined in his heart’s fondest gratitude) ‘to supply the various wants’ of himself and an elder sister, who only lived long enough to make him ‘sensible of her angelic nature.’ Macready was the fifth child of this family, but his sister, Olivia, was the only one (then born) who lived long enough for him to remember. She was older than he by a year and a half, and she survived only till he was just in his sixth year; ‘but she lives,’ he says, ‘like a dim and far-off dream, to my memory, of a spirit of meekness, love, and truth, interposing itself between my infant will and the evil it purposed. It is like a vision of an angelic influence upon a most violent and self-willed disposition.’
It may be added here that Macready had a younger brother, Edward, who distinguished himself as a gallant officer in the army, and two younger sisters, Letitia and Ellen, to whom he was an affectionate brother and friend. Meanwhile Macready passed creditably through a school at Birmingham, and thence to Rugby. At the latter place, where one of his kinsmen was a master, the student laid the ground of all the classical knowledge he possessed, took part in private plays, and was hurt at the thought that he had any inclination to be a professional actor. At Rugby, too, he showed, but with some reason, the fiery quality of his temper. He was unjustly sent up for punishment, and was flogged accordingly. ‘Returning,’ he says, ‘to my form, smarting with choking rage and indignation, where I had to encounter the compassion of some and the envious jeers of others, my passion broke out in the exclamation, “D——n old Birch! I wish he was in Hell!’”
Macready’s excellent mother, of whom he never speaks without dropping, as it were, a flower to honour her memory, died before he reached home from Rugby, so that the world was, for a time, without sun to him, for the sire was not a very amiable person. The younger Macready resorted to the best possible cure for sorrow, steady and active work, and plenty of both. At last, with no very cheerful encouragement from his father and with doubt and fear on his own part, he, in June 1811, made his début, in Birmingham, in ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ ‘the part of Romeo by a Young Gentleman, being his first appearance on any stage.’ He, who was afterwards so very cool and self-possessed, nearly marred all by what is called ‘stage-fright.’ A mist fell on his eyes; the very applause, as he came forward, bewildered him; and he describes himself as being for some time like an automaton, moving in certain defined limits. ‘I went mechanically,’ he says, ‘through the variations in which I had drilled myself;’ but he gradually gained courage and power over himself. The audience stimulated the first and rewarded the second by their applause. ‘Thenceforward,’ says Macready, ‘I trod on air, became another being or a happier self, and when the curtain fell and the intimate friends and performers crowded on the stage to raise up the Juliet and myself, shaking my hands with fervent congratulations, a lady asked me, ‘Well, sir, how do you feel now?’ my boyish answer was without disguise, ‘I feel as if I should like to act it all over again!’
Between this and his first appearance in London Macready acted in most of the theatres of every degree in the three kingdoms. Often this practice was rendered the more valuable by his having to perform with the most perfect actors and actresses who were starring in the country. But, whether with them or without, whether with audiences or with a mere two or three, he did his best. Like Barton Booth, he would play to a man in the pit. ‘It was always my rule,’ he says, ‘to make the best out of a bad house, and before the most meagre audiences ever assembled it has been my invariable practice to strive my best, using the opportunity as a lesson; and I am conscious of having derived great benefit from the rule. I used to call it acting to myself.’ Macready had another rule which is worth mentioning. Some of the old French tragedy queens used to keep themselves all day in the temper of the characters they were to represent in the evening. So that, at home or on the boards, they swept to and fro in towering rage. So, Macready was convinced of the necessity of keeping, on the day of exhibition, the mind as intent as possible on the subject of the actor’s portraiture, even to the very moment of his entrance on the scene. With the observance of this rule, Macready must have made 64 Frith Street, Soho, re-echo with joyous feelings and ebullitions of fury, to suit the temper of the night, when in 1816 he made his bow to a London audience as Orestes in the ‘Distressed Mother,’ and when the curtain rose grasped Abbot almost convulsively by the hand, and dashed upon the stage, exclaiming as in a transport of the highest joy, ‘Oh, Pylades! what’s life without a friend?’ The Orestes was a success; but it was never a favourite character with the public, as Talma’s was with the French. The career thus begun (at ten, fifteen, and at last eighteen pounds per week for five years) came to a close in 1851. Five-and-thirty years out of the fifty-eight Macready had then reached. We need not trace this progressive career, beginning with Ambrose Phillips and ending with Shakespeare (‘Macbeth’). During that career he created that one great character in which no player could come near him, namely, Virginius, in 1820. Macready, however, was not the original representative of Virginius. That character in Knowles’s most successful play was first acted by John Cooper in Glasgow; but Macready really created the part in London. Further, Macready did his best to raise the drama, actors, and audiences to a dignity never before known, and gained nothing but honour by his two ventures at management. He was the first to put a play upon the stage with an almost lavish perfection. In this way he was never equalled. Mr. Charles Kean imitated him in this artist-like proceeding; but that highly respectable actor and man was as far behind Macready in magnificence of stage management as he was distant from his own father in genius.
If Macready, on his début as a boy, was scared, he was deeply moved when, within a stone’s throw of sixty, he was to act for the last time, and then go home for ever. This was upwards of thirty years ago, so rapidly does time fly—the 28th of February, 1851. His emotion was not in the acting, but in the taking leave of it, and of those who came to see it for the last time. He says himself of his Macbeth that he never played it better than on that night. There was a reality, with a vigour, truth, and dignity, which he thought he had never before thrown into that favourite character. ‘I rose with the play, and the last scene was a real climax.’ On his first entrance, indeed, at the beginning of his part, ‘the thought occurred to me of the presence of my children, and that for a minute overcame me; but I soon recovered myself into self-possession.’ Still more deeply moved at the ‘farewell’ to a house bursting into a wild enthusiasm of applause, he ‘faltered for a moment at the fervent, unbounded expression of attachment from all before me; but preserved my self-possession.’ Those of his ten children who had survived and were present on that occasion had ample reason to be proud of their father. For many years he would not sanction their being present at his public exhibitions. This was really to doubt the dignity and usefulness of his art, to feel a false shame, and to authorise in others that contempt for the ‘playactor’ which, entertaining it, as he did thoroughly, for many of his fellows, he neither felt for himself nor for those whom he could recognise as being great and worthy masters in that art. When his children were allowed the new delight of witnessing how nobly he could interpret the noblest of the poets, the homage of their reverential admiration must have been added to that of their unreserved affection. That he was not popular at any time with inferior or subordinate players is undoubtedly true. Such persons thought that only want of luck and opportunity placed them lower in the scale than Macready. It would be as reasonable for the house-painters to account in the same way for their not being Vandycks and Raffaelles.
Sensitive to criticism he was, and yet scarcely believed himself to be so. He belabours critics pretty roughly; but we observe that theatrical critics dined with him occasionally, and we mark that he praises the good sense and discrimination of one of these critics—whose criticism was very much in the actor’s favour. Vanity he also had, certainly. We should have come to this conclusion, had we nothing more to justify the assertion than what we find in his own record. We see his vanity in the superabundant excess of his modesty; but we think none the worse of him for it. An artist who is not somewhat vain of his powers has, probably, no ground for a little wholesome pride. It was in Macready tempered with that sort of fear that a vain man may feel, lest in the exercise of his art he should fall in the slightest degree short of his self-estimation, or of that in which he believed himself to be held by the public. He never, on entering a town, saw his name on a bill, without feeling a flutter of the heart, made up of this mingled fear and pride. So, Mrs. Siddons never went on the stage at any time without something of the same sensation. We should think little of any actor or actress who should avow that they ever ‘went on,’ in a great part, without some hesitation lest the attempt might fall short of what it was their determination to achieve, and what they felt themselves qualified to accomplish. Vanity and timidity? All true artists are conscious of both—ought to possess both; just as they ought to possess not only impulse but judgment; not only head, but heart; heart to flash the impulses, head to control them.
Macready carried to the stage his genuine piety. It is, perhaps, a little too much aired in his ‘Diary,’ but it is not the less to be believed in. He went by a good old-fashioned rule, to do his duty in that state of life to which it had pleased God to call him—as the Catechism teaches, or used to teach, all of us. In his pious fervour, in his prayers that what he is going to act may be for good, that what in the management he has undertaken may be to the increase of the general happiness rather than to that of his banking account; in these and a score of other instances we are reminded of those French and Italian saints of the stage who, as they stood at the wing, crossed themselves at the sound of sacred names in the play; or, who counted their beads in the green-room; kept their fasts; mortified themselves, and never missed a mass. Nay, the religious feeling was as spontaneous in Macready as it was in the Italian actors whom he himself saw, and who, at the sound of the ‘Angelus’ in the street, stopped the action of the play, fell on their knees, gently tapped their breasts, and were imitated in these actions by the sympathising majority of the audience.
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!
Or if thy sister-goddess has preferr’d
Her beauty to the skies, to be a star,
Oh, tell me where she shines, that I may stand
Whole nights, and gaze upon her!’
We may refer to another passage, in ‘Othello,’ in which the tenderness, distinctness, and mournful melodiousness of Edmund Kean’s voice used to affect the whole house to hushed and rapt admiration; namely, the passage beginning with, ‘Farewell, the plumed troop!’ and ending with, ‘Othello’s occupation’s gone!’ It was like some magic instrument, which laid all hearts submissive to its irresistible enchantment.
While Macready allows that flashes of genius were rarely wanting in Kean’s least successful performances, he does not forget to note that when he played Iago to Kean’s Othello, he observed that the latter was playing not at all like to his old self. It is to be remembered that this was in 1832, when Kean was on the brink of the grave, broken in constitution, and with no power to answer to his will. But Macready justly recognised the power when it existed, and set the world mad with a new delight. Others were not so just, nor so generous. ‘Many of the Kemble school,’ he says, ‘resisted conviction of Kean’s merits, but the fact that he made me feel was an argument to enrol me with the majority on the indisputable genius he displayed.’ Some of the Kemble family were as reluctant to be convinced as many of the Kemble school were, but we must except the lady whom we all prefer to call ‘Fanny Kemble.’ She, in her ‘Journal,’ speaks without bias, not always accurately, but still justly and generously. To her, the great master was apparent, and she truly says that when Kean died there died with him Richard, Shylock, and Othello.
Before quitting Kean for the Kembles, we must permit ourselves to extract the account given by Macready of a supper after Richard III. had been played:—
We retired to the hotel as soon as the curtain fell, and were soon joined by Kean, accompanied, or rather attended, by Pope. I need not say with what intense scrutiny I regarded him as we shook hands on our mutual introduction. The mild and modest expression of his Italian features, and his unassuming manner, which I might perhaps justly describe as partaking in some degree of shyness, took me by surprise, and I remarked with special interest the indifference with which he endured the fulsome flatteries of Pope. He was very sparing of words during, and for some time after, supper; but about one o’clock, when the glass had circulated pretty freely, he became animated, fluent, and communicative. His anecdotes were related with a lively sense of the ridiculous; in the melodies he sang there was a touching grace, and his powers of mimicry were most humorously or happily exerted in an admirable imitation of Braham; and in a story of Incledon acting Steady the Quaker at Rochester without any rehearsal, where, in singing the favourite air, ‘When the lads of the village so merrily, oh!’ he heard himself to his dismay and consternation accompanied by a single bassoon; the music of his voice, his perplexity at each recurring sound of the bassoon, his undertone maledictions on the self-satisfied musician, the peculiarity of his habits, all were hit off with a humour and an exactness that equalled the best display Mathews ever made, and almost convulsed us with laughter. It was a memorable evening, the first and last I ever spent in private with this extraordinary man.
Macready’s estimation of Kemble and the Kemble school is not at all highly pitched, save in the case of Mrs. Siddons; but he notes how she outlived her powers, and returned a few times to the stage when her figure had enlarged and her genius had diminished. When John Kemble took leave of the Dublin stage, in 1816, Macready was present; he records that ‘the house was about half full.’ Kemble acted Othello (which, at that time, Kean had made his own). ‘A more august presence could hardly be imagined.’ He was received with hearty applause, ‘but the slight bow with which he acknowledged the compliment spoke rather dissatisfaction at the occasional vacant spaces before him than recognition of the respectful feeling manifested by those present. I must suppose he was out of humour, for, to my exceeding regret, he literally walked through the part.’ The London audiences, as Kemble’s career was drawing to a close, were not more sympathetic. At Kemble’s Cato, ‘The house was moderately filled; there was sitting room in the pit, and the dress circle was not at all crowded.’ To the dignity of the representation Macready renders homage of admiration; but he says that Cato was not in strict Roman attire, and that with only one effort, the ‘I am satisfied,’ when he heard that Marcius ‘greatly fell,’ Kemble’s husky voice and laboured articulation could not enliven the monotony of a tragedy which was felt to be a tax on the patience of the audience. The want of variety and relief rendered it uninteresting, and those at least who were not classical antiquaries found the whole thing uncommonly tedious.
It is unquestionably among the unaccountable things connected with ‘the stage’ that Kemble’s farewell performances in London, 1817, were as a whole unproductive. Those closing nights, not answering the manager’s expectations of their attraction, were given for benefits to those performers who chose to pay the extra price. Macready was not present on the closing night of all, when Kemble nobly played his peerless Coriolanus; but he witnessed several other representations, and he dwells especially on the last performance of ‘Macbeth,’ when Mrs. Siddons acted the Lady to her brother’s Macbeth. Macready was disappointed with both. Mrs. Siddons was no longer the enchantress of old: ‘years had done their work, and those who had seen in her impersonations the highest glories of her art, now felt regret that she had been prevailed on to leave her honoured retirement, and force a comparison between the grandeur of the past and the feeble present. It was not a performance, but a mere repetition of the poet’s text; no flash, no sign of her pristine, all-subduing genius.’ Kemble, as Macbeth, was ‘correct, tame, and ineffective,’ through the first four acts of the play, which moved heavily on; but he was roused to action in the fifth act. With action there was pathos; and ‘all at once, he seemed carried away by the genius of the scene.’ Macready brings the scene itself before his readers, ending with the words: ‘His shrinking from Macduff, when the charm on which his life hung was broken, by the declaration that his antagonist “was not of woman born,” was a masterly stroke of art. His subsequent defiance was most heroic; and, at his death, Charles Kemble received him in his arms and laid him gently on the ground, his physical powers being unequal to further effort.’
Of persons non-dramatic, many pass before the mind’s eye of the reader. Lord Nelson visited the Birmingham Theatre, and Macready noted his pale and interesting face, and listened so eagerly to all he uttered that for months after he used to be called upon to repeat ‘what Lord Nelson said to your father,’ which was to the effect that the esteem in which the elder Macready was held by the town made it ‘a pleasure and a duty’ for Lord Nelson to visit the theatre. With the placid and mournful-looking Admiral was Lady Hamilton, who laughed loud and long, clapped her uplifted hands with all her heart, and kicked her heels against the foot-board of her seat, as some verses were sung in honour of her and England’s hero.
There was a time when Macklin ceased to belong to the drama, when he was out of the world, in his old age, and his old Covent Garden house. One of the most characteristic of incidents is one told of Macklin in his dotage, when prejudice had survived all sense. Macready’s father called on the aged actor with lack-lustre eye, who was seated in an arm-chair, unconscious of anyone being present. Mrs. Macklin drew his attention to the visitor: ‘My dear, here is Mr. Macready come to see you.’ ‘Who?’ ‘Mr. Macready, my dear.’ ‘Ah! who is he?’ ‘Mr. Macready, you know, who went to Dublin, to play for your benefit.’ ‘Ha! my benefit! what was it? what did he act?’ ‘I acted Egerton, sir,’ replied Mr. Macready, ‘in your own play.’ ‘Ha! my play! what was it?’ ‘The “Man of the World,” sir.’ ‘Ha! “Man of the World!” devilish good title! who wrote it?’ ‘You did, sir.’ ‘Did I? well, what was it about?’ ‘Why, sir, there was a Scotchman’—‘Ah! damn them!’ Macklin’s hatred of the Scotch was vigorous after all other feeling was dead within him.
Equally good as a bit of character-painting is the full length of Mrs. Piozzi, whom William Charles Macready met at Bath, in the house of Dr. Gibbs. She struck the actor as something like one of Reynolds’s portraits walking out of its frame: ‘a little old lady dressed point devise in black satin, with dark glossy ringlets under her neat black hat, highly rouged, not the end of a ribbon or lace out of its place,’ and entering the room with unfaltering step. She was the idol of the hour, and Macready, specially introduced to her, was charmed with her vivacity and good humour. The little old lady read, by request, some passages from Milton, a task she delighted in, and for doing which effectively she considered herself well qualified. She chose the description of the lazar-house, from the 11th Book of ‘Paradise Lost,’ and dwelt with emphatic distinctness on the various ills to which mortality is exposed. ‘The finger on the dial-plate of the pendule was just approaching the hour of ten, when, with a Cinderella-like abruptness, she rose and took her leave, evidently as much gratified by contributing to our entertainment as we were by the opportunity of making her acquaintance.’ According to Dr. Gibbs, the vivacious old Cinderella never stayed after ten was about to strike. Circumstances might indeed prompt the sensitive lady to depart earlier. Mr. Macready subsequently met the lively little lioness at the Twisses. The company was mixed, old and young; the conversation was general, or people talked the young with the young, the old among themselves. Mrs. Piozzi was not the oracle on whose out-speakings all hearers reverentially waited. Consequently, ‘long before her accustomed hour,’ Mrs. Piozzi started up, and coldly wishing Mr. and Mrs. Twiss ‘good night,’ she left the room. To the general inquiries, by look or word, the hostess simply remarked, ‘She is very much displeased.’ The really gifted old lady’s vanity was wounded; lack of homage sent her home in a huff. Some of the best sketches in the book are of scenes of Macready’s holiday travel. On one occasion, in a corner of an Italian garden, near a church, he caught a priest kissing a young girl whom he had just confessed. Nothing could be merrier or better-humoured than Macready’s description of this pretty incident. The young Father, or brother, was quite in order; Rome claims absolute rule over faith—and morals.
We close this chronicle of so many varied hues with reluctance. That which belongs to the retired life of the actor is fully as interesting as the detail of the times when he was in harness. Indeed, in the closing letters addressed to the present Lady Pollock, there are circumstances of his early career not previously recorded. The record of the home-life is full of interest, and we sympathise with the old actor, who, as the fire of temperament died out, appeared purified and chastened by the process.
Macready, throughout his long life, had no ‘flexibility of spine’ for men of wealth or title, but he had, if he describes himself truly, perfect reverence for true genius, wheresoever found. He was oppressed with his own comparative littleness and his seeming inability to cope with men better endowed, intellectually, than himself. And yet, we find him, when he must have felt that he was great, was assured he was so by his most intimate admirers, and counted amongst them some of the foremost literary men and critics of the day—we find him, we say, moodily complaining that he was not sought for by ‘society,’ and not invited into it. There was no real ground for the complaint. He who made it was an honour to the society of which he was a part. Every page of this record, not least so those inscribed with confession of his faults, will raise him in the esteem of all its readers. He went to his rest in 1873, and he is fortunate in the friend to whom he confided the task of writing his life. The work, edited with modesty and judgment, is a permanent addition to our dramatic literature.