before the audience things would suggest themselves to me in the very midst of what I was doing-inspirations, if I may use so fine a word; and I then sometimes got effects I did not dream of when studying, because I was playing before the audience and found out their mood. I do not think I ever sacrificed my study very much to the caprice of my audience. I have done it at times perhaps, and to a certain extent in cases where I could execute just as gracefully (though not quite so correctly) and with equally telling effect. Ease of study depends a great deal upon whether the author is a practical playwright. The motives of the old writers were so clear, and their mode of illustrating their meaning was so thorough that they were a great deal easier, at least to me, than the more modern dramatists. There is a sort of power about them which seems to communicate itself. Personally I think that Shakespeare is almost the easiest study; perhaps because of my being accustomed as a boy to see Shakespeare's plays; but he always impresses himself upon one as he is read, and we are more likely to get greater ease of words. I always found Sheridan a very easy study, but I have had more difficulty, curious to say (and I think many of my profession, at least the best of them, will bear me out in this), in studying the extremely modern school of writers than I ever had with the older ones. In speaking Tom Robertson's lines for instance, one is talking "everyday" talk. It looks very easy, but it is most difficult, for if you are illustrating Sheridan or Shakespeare you are speaking in a language that is new to you, which on that account impresses you all the more; whereas if you have a speech from Tom Robertson or Boucicault you can give it just as well in two or three

Tom Robertson,

different ways. You cannot in Shakespeare find any words to improve the text, but if you say "How do you do this morning," or "How are you this morning," one is just as good as the other, and yet, as a rule, to give the author textually is both proper and just.

As to my study, of course it depended upon how often I had seen a part and how familiar I was with the piece. Don Felix, for instance, I had seen my father play frequently, and naturally it was comparatively easy with me. But take Don Caesar de Bazan. Some time after my father's death I was requested to play Don Caesar, a character he had made peculiarly his own, and of which he was the original in the English language. It was fourteen or fifteen years since I had played it, and I said to Mrs. Wallack, "Before I look at this part again I want you to see if I remember anything of it." I not only recollected the words, but I did not miss a syllable. She laid down the book in perfect astonishment. It seemed to come upon me directly, as though I had performed it the night before. This gift of memory has been always of inestimable service to me.

With regard to self-consciousness on the stage, I have often noticed that actors are blamed for this as a fault; and when I happened to see a criticism upon myself, which seemed based on anything like reason, and was written by anybody worth listening to, or was worth reading, or worth thinking of over again, I would do a little self-questioning upon the subject, and ask myself exactly what it meant, and how I should treat, in my own mind, the argument of the writer. I found, particularly in comedy, that if an actor is not self-conscious it is simply because he has not studied his effects. For instance, if I am preparing to play a comic part I calculate necessarily where I think the points will tell, or, to use a common phrase, where "the laugh will come in," as it must come in if one is going to be comic. And in doing that, of course, there must be self-consciousness. I have studied a line, for example, which I felt would "go with a roar," and if the laughter came, there was the self-consciousness. I was perfectly conscious that I had been very funny; I had studied to be

so, and I was so. There never was, in my opinion, a raconteur, from Charles Lamb or Theodore Hook, down to Gilbert à Becket or H. J. Byron or Thackeray or Dickens, or any of these men who spoke and told anecdotes at a dinner-table, there never was one of them that was not conscious that he was going to be funny. He may have made a mistake and missed it sometimes; but as a rule he enjoyed the story with the audience. Tragedy and comedy are very different. If a man is playing a serious part he is wrapped up in it, to the utter exclusion of the audience; but the moment the comedian has uttered his first line, and the laugh comes, there is a sort of en rapport between himself and the audience, and the thing must go. It is a matter which Charles Mathews and I very often made the subject of our conversations, of which we had a great many, and he thoroughly agreed with me. I said to him: "Now, Charles, suppose yourself in one of those great parts in which no one can approach you; do you mean to say you play as well with a dull audience as with a bright one?" "No," he replied, "it is out of the question to play if the audience don't go with you. You cannot play a part with spirit; and for me it is simply impossible."

A comedian can never forget his audience as much as a tragedian can. I am giving merely the experience of one comedian, but I know perfectly well it is the feeling of many. I know that John Gilbert would say the same, and that Blake felt the same. If I am studying in my room a serious part I become very intense, and do not think of the applause; but if I am studying a comic part I want to feel the fun myself-then I feel sure of my audience. In fact, to sum the matter up, the actor wants the audience in comedy a great deal more than in a tragic part.

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He must never, however, appear to be conscious of his clothes. Take a man like Montague, for instance; he was charming in trousers and coat and cigarette parts," wore the dress of our day with the ease of a thorough gentleman; but put him in costume and he was gone, miserably conscious that he was awkward and out of place. Now

friends thought he could never play Sir Harcourt Courtly, but he went to Stultz, the great tailor then-the Poole of the day-and ordered the most correct style of modern costume. His dressing was absolutely perfect, and his manner was as perfect as his dress. One would suppose that he had never worn anything but frock-coat and trousers or an evening dress all his professional life. Sir Harcourt should be made up exactly as a young man. ter actors have made it too evident to the audience that they wear a great bushy wig. Farren was faultless in the part, the veritable elderly young man of real life, the man who had left off taking snuff because it was not the young thing to do at all; the man to be seen daily, even yet, in White's and at the club windows.

La

Talking of "London Assurance," I remember standing behind the scenes at the Haymarket one night during the run of Bulwer's "Money," then at the

very zenith of its first and great success, when someone came hurrying in and announced, "An enormous hit at Covent Garden! The third act is over

C. W. Couldock.

and it is tremendous; if the other two acts go in the same way it is an immense go." This was "London Assurance." I saw it the second night. It was really the first time that the perfection of the modern boxed-in scenery was displayed to the public. It was most beautifully done; I can see the whole thing now, the scenes and everything. It was, as I have said, something quite novel, and was, of course, a great success. When the curtain went down on the first act, the first night, there was dead silence. It is a very ineffective ending, and the scene was simply an ante-room, in which there was no chance for very great display; but when the curtain rose on the second act, the outside of "Oak Hall," there was an enormous amount of applause, and that act went with the most perfect snap." The audience was in good humor from the moment of the entrance, as Lady Gay, of that most perfect actress, Mrs. Nisbit, for whom Boucicault wrote the part. He describes her as the seventh daughter of an earl, the baby of the family, married to a man considerably older than herself. Mrs. Nisbit's tall, lovely figure, her baby face, her silvery laugh, carried the whole house; while the contrast with Keely, who was the original Dolly, was delicious. He was a country squire of about forty years of age, dressed to perfection in his top-boots, etc. The fault of all later Dollys is that they are made

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to look and act too young. The first cast of "London Assurance was a wonderful one throughout, even to the actor who played Cool, Mr. Brindal, and to the afterward celebrated Alfred Wigan, who played Solomon Isaacs and had about four words to say. That ensemble was one of the most perfect I ever saw. It had for that time a very great run, and it built up the declining fortunes of Covent Garden.

As to what Brougham had to do with the play, I have heard Charles Mathews on the point, I have heard Boucicault on the point, and I have heard John Brougham himself on the point. There is very little doubt that Brougham first suggested the idea; and there is no doubt that he intended the part of Dazzle for himself. Charles Mathews was the original Dazzle. So far as I know, Mr. Brougham, for a certain sum of money, conceded to Mr. Boucicault his entire rights in the comedy. John was far less officious in the matter than his friends were. They invented all sorts of tales; but there is no question that the success of the whole thing was due to Mr. Boucicault, to his tact and cleverness, and to the brilliancy of his dialogue. The speech we technically call "the tag" of the play was written for Max Harkaway, and of course was con

has been plotting to run away with his friend's wife, who has all through been showing that he is a man totally without principle, making this very moral speech at the end. They represented to him that it was inconsistent, but he insisted upon it. Boucicault, who was a young man just rising, felt flattered as a young author to have all these great people acting his play, and was not in a position to do what he would certainly do now, say "I won't have it;" and consequently had to give in to Farren.

ments for the next season, Farren was asked if he would not, in consideration of the poor business, come down a little in his salary. He said: "Certainly not, sirs; Mr. Jones and all these people can be replaced, there are others in the market; but suppose for a moment, if you please, the market to be a fish-market, that you must have a cock-salmon, and that there is but one cock-salmon to be had. You will have to pay for the cocksalmon. Now, gentlemen, in this market I am the cock-salmon!"

Therefore Mr. Farren, who really was unrivalled at that time as the leading comic old-man actor of certain parts that required certain gifts, a certain manner, etc., carried his point. There was no appeal from him at all; if they wanted to keep him they had to give him what money he asked, and also let him do what he liked with the parts he acted. He was known as "The Cocksalmon" as long as he lived.

When Lord Lytton wrote "Money" my father was engaged in the Haymarket Theatre, and was acting with Macready. One day he came to the house and said: "Jack, here is a great chance for you. You can read 'Money,' the play which they say is going to out-celebrate The School for Scandal.'

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They want to ring me into it, but I do not see anything in it I can do." When I had read the manuscript I exclaimed, "Good Heavens, it will take three weeks to play it once through." It was terribly long, and certainly it would have taken a good six hours. My father said: Macready and Bulwer want me to play Captain Dudley Smooth. I have read the part but have not read the play, so you can tell me what you think of it." Well, I sat up all night over it, and felt it a tremendous compliment to have a chance to read the comedy which was to set the whole town on fire. My father then read the play and told Sir Edward and Macready that he could not see himself in the part, and that he was perfectly sure he could not do it justice. Macready said: "Will you let me read the part to you as I conceive it?" My father, of course, consented, and Macready came to the house for that purpose, and when he had finished my father said: "I can see the merit of the part, but I do not see the merit of Mr. Wallack in it. Do you think Sir Edward would allow me to make a suggestion?" Macready said he thought so, and my father continued: "You have the very man for the part in the theatre-Wrench." The result was that Wrench was the original Smooth and played it admirably. The first night the piece seemed to the audience unconscionably long, and some of the very scenes that afterward became most celebrated and most liked were hissed. I do not know why; probably it may have been because of Sir Edward's personal or political enemies who were in the house, or perhaps the audience thought it too bold a departure from the old style. At all events there was a good deal of doubt about its success. But it was continued; people got used to it; Mr. Webster pushed it, and the consequence was that it began to

Samuel Lover.

grow popular after about the twentieth night, and it was destined to enjoy a long or great run. Years afterward, when Macready was in this country, he was asked to play the part of Alfred Evelyn, and he was reported to have replied, "I

Tom Taylor.

will not play that damned 'walking gentleman' any more."

There are very few people now living, strange to say, who remember much of Macready's acting. I do not know why, because it is not so long ago that he retired, but I think that some description of his style and method would be interesting here.

I was struck one day at rehearsal by a little altercation, although not a very ill-natured one, between two members of my company, one a lady and the other a gentleman. The lady said: "Mr. Wallack, may I request Mr. Blank not to reply too quickly upon the ends of my speeches?" I turned to him and said: "Do not be quite so quick in your cues." He replied: "I see what you mean, Mr. Wallack, but I have not been used to these Macready pauses." I was puzzled to know what was meant by "Macready pauses," but the thing passed by, only to occur again when another gentleman of my company, who was relating an anecdote, said: "Well, she made one of those 'Macready pauses,' and then I began to think seriously what the phrase might mean, and on the next occasion, which was the third time I had heard it, I said: "Stop," my pa

tience being rather exhausted; "what do you mean by Macready pauses?' All you people, who have never seen Mr. Macready, but have merely heard of him as an eminent tragedian, seem to have a ridiculous idea about this; tell me what you mean by 'Macready pauses?"" They replied: "Well, we have always heard that phrase used, Mr. Wallack." I replied that Mr. Macready was no more given to making unnecessary pauses than any other actor I ever knew, and that if he did make a pause there was a purpose in it, a meaning and a motive, which was always evident by its effect on the audience. There never was a man more effective than Mr. Macready, and in certain of his famous parts, since acted by other eminent artists, I have never seen anybody to equal him. Sir Frederick Pollock gives no idea of his acting at all. He does not show where Macready made his great effects. Macready, if he was anything in the world, was a student, and a great characteristic of his acting was that he was always in earnest; he never was guilty of what is called playing to his audience. The elder Kean sometimes did this; but Macready never. His eye and his heart and his mind and his feeling were always with the author, always what the French call en scene. I remember in a play called "Nina Sforza," in which Miss Faucit and my father supported him, one speech of his that greatly impressed me. His profile was toward the house as he stood facing the actor upon the stage; and looking directly at his enemy he uttered the most bitter of speeches as an aside, making his audience understand fully that what he seemed to speak he only thought. I do not remember any other actor who could have accomplished this as he did it. He had a marvellous command of voice. His even-speaking, in its way, was the most melodious I ever heard. In a whirlwind of passion I have known many voices more powerful and quite as effective, but I remember nothing in really classical acting nearly so beautiful as Macready in what we used to call "even-speaking." In this piece of "Nina Sforza" my father played a part called Raphael Doria. The drama was