He is an actor! What
a deep voice--what an interesting lisp--what a charming whine--what a
vigorous stamp, he hath! How hard he strikes his forehead when he is going
into a rage--how flat he falls upon the ground when he is going to die! And
then, when he has killed Tybalt, what an attitude he strikes, what an
appalling grin he indulges his gaping admirers withal!
This is real acting that one pays one's money to see, and not such an
unblushing imposition as Miss Tree practises upon us. Do we go to the play
to see nature? of course not: we only desire to see the actors playing at
being natural, like Mr. Gallot, Mr. Howe, Mr. Worral, or Mr. Kean, and
other actors. This system of being too natural will, in the end, be the
ruin of the drama. It has already driven me from the Stage, and will, I
fear, serve the great performers I nave named above in the same manner. But
the Haymarket Juliet overdoes it; she is more natural than nature, for she
makes one or two improbabilities in the plot of the play seem like
every-day matters of fact. Whether she falls madly in love at the first
glance, agrees to be married the next afternoon, takes a sleeping draught,
throws herself lifeless upon the bed, or wakes in the tomb to behold her
poisoned lover, still in all these situations she behaves like a sensible,
high-minded girl, that takes such circumstances, and makes them appear to
the audience--quite as a matter of course! What let me ask, was the use of
the author--whose name, I believe, was Shakspere--purposely contriving
these improbabilities, if the actors do not make the most of them? I do
hope Miss Tree will no longer impose upon the public by pretending to _act_
Juliet.
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