PIERRE. MR. BOOTH's Pierre, in Otway's tragedy of "Venice Preserved," was distinguished by one salient passage of extraordinary energy and clearness. He is urging his fellow conspirators to fire the city of Venice. He stood with his back to the audience, appealing with fierce eloquence to each one of his companions in turn. Well do we remember his transport at the vision of - The Adriatic in her robes of flame." The last performance of this part that we recall, took place at the Howard Atheneum in Boston, about the year 1847. After the play, we met a gentleman, ripe in years and culture, who had known Mr. Booth throughout his career, and who said he had never seen him exhibit more beauty or clearness of voice and gesture, than on this occasion. The remark acquires value, in view of the "blown surmise," that the actor's voice, if not his general histrionic power, had become impaired by the accident to his face. THE STRANGER. OF Kotzebue's play, entitled "The Stranger, or Misanthropy and Repentance,” only this remains: the piquant tone and gesture with which he said "When they see me with my runaway wife upon my arm.' In considering this play, so weak and so unworthy of representation, the question naturally arises, why did not Mr. Booth enact Timon? We suppose the managers might have answered. We can only regret that he did not add this mighty figure to his Shakespearean gallery. We can only fancy the large and hospitable style he might have lent to the beginning of the play; his impetuous scorn when the tide of prosperity is turning, and the isolated majesty of mien and voice, becoming the sullen grandeur of the closing scenes. THE TRAGEDIAN. IN the exercise of the most effective and inclusive, if not the most exalted of the fine arts, the art of acting, Mr. Booth's method was "Unremovably coupled to nature." The term "theatrical," invidiously used, could never be justly applied to him. Nature was the deep source of his power; and she imparted her own perpetual freshness to his personations. We could not tire of him, any more than we tire of her. His art was, in a high sense, as natural as the bend of Niagara ; as the poise and drift of summer clouds; the play of lightning; the play of children; or as the sea, storm-tossed, sunlit, moonlit, or brooded in mysterious calm—and his art awakened in the observer corresponding emotions. AN INCIDENT. GARRICK, in addition to his other gifts, was an admirable dancer. Kean danced; he also sang exquisitely, employing a faculty not uncommon with rough-speaking men. Booth could neither dance nor sing. The single comic song with which he enlivened his performance in farce, was simply a grotesque jingle, scorning melody, and depending for its success on odd turns of expression, verbal and vocal. We recall a true incident, showing his characteristic admiration of a talent he did not possess. After a splendid success in tragedy, he stood at the wing (as at other times, on going behind the scenes, we have seen him stand), with folded arms, in the dress of the character he had just personated, and listening intently to an excellent singer, then before the audience. Unable to congratulate him at the time, Booth sought and found the singer, later in the night, at a refreshment room in company with other actors. Booth entered |