lighten their load of years and poverty. And sorrowful enough it is to see these old fellows, who, in the fulness of their youth and strength, so often set the benches in a roar, — fellows of infinite jest once, but dumb now as the gibing tongue of Yorick.
But of this sort is not William Warren, as honorable now in the character of Sir Peter as he was in his youth in that of Charles Surface. He is one of the four great comedians of the American stage; not the least of them, either, but introduced here at the end only because he is of a different method from those of whom we have spoken, — one of that class to which he, like Joseph Jefferson, is allied by birth, education, and tradition.
Until within a few years, the country was familiar with only the fame of this great artist; for the city of Boston, which absorbs genius as New York absorbs wealth, recognized his powers, and year after year kept him perforce. And measurably he was satisfied to remain, for his audiences were of that cultivated, critical character capable of appreciating his excellence, and liberal enough to reward it. Not only that, but they have a test of worth in that rather crooked city of notions that is not so widely recognized elsewhere in this country of universal equality. They estimate a man there by his moral and intellectual fibre, and, if he bears the test, he is alike honored, whether he be preacher or player. There, a man is not necessarily a social Pariah because he interprets the poets. The cleverest actor of a Philadelphia theatre recently retired from it in the meridian of his days. “ Not that I do not love my profession,” said he, “but because my family are socially ostracized on account of it.” This gentleman, having studied law, is now satisfactorily respectable. In Boston he would not have been obliged to make the sacrifice.
Two years ago Mr. Warren made a starring tour among the principal theatres of the country, and his success was unbounded, and as gratifying to the artist as it was complimentary to the taste of his audiences.
The crowds who gathered to witness his impersonations then will not soon or willingly forget his manifold excellences, nor fail to remember the rare finish, beauty, and felicity of his acting in such parts as Sir Peter Teazle, Dr. Pangloss, Dr. Ollapod, Paul Pry, Bob Acres, or Sir Harcourt Courtly. It was not alone the general perfection with which his art clothed these characters that made them so satisfying and pleasing, but there was in every tone and gesture, and in every article of his dress and make-up, such a conscientious study of detail, as to win for him the highest praise from the most refined and critical audiences. And these parts, it will be remarked, are, without exception, legitimate comedy, in which intelligence and feeling alone assist the artist to their proper development; in either of them mere farcical buffoonery would be only less than sacrilege. With two exceptions these parts are played by Messrs. Jefferson, Clarke, and Owens; but the last two gentlemen are impotent to grasp their subtile meaning and profound humor, or to turn them to wise results; and, indeed, even Mr. Jefferson, in whose acting the oldschool excellence is so prominent a feature, does not approach Warren nearly enough in these characters to discompose the elder comedian.
In the name of the drama we wish here to record a virtue of this sterling actor : he never mutilates a play There are some players, and Mr. Clarke is one of them, who, in playing certain characters, cut out all the brilliancies of dialogue from the parts of those who are on the stage with them, and thus shine more refulgently from the obscurity forced upon their fellowartists of the scene. But Mr. Warren, sincere in his respect for the drama, secure in his strength, and “founded as the rock,” gives to each actor the full measure of the part, curtails him or her of nothing, and yet shines preeminently above them all by the pure
