DOI issue:
July to December, 1844
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16520#0114
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
3 07
LETTER XIX.
from a country actor to a london manager,
for an engagement.
j insensible of the power of the press, I myself make it a point never
PUNCH'S COMPLETE LETTER-WRiTE R. | to look into a newspaper.
Speaking of my wife,—can you find a corner for her? A clever
little chambermaid—sings well and all that—and a faultless breeches
figure. It is often difficult for a husband to speak of a wife's merits,
but sometimes it must be done. The acting of Mrs. Wilkins is
wonderfully natural. She has it born in her what other actresses
have too often to labour for. She has such impulse! The French
actors have a better word for it—abandon—yes, abandon is the word.
Well, sir, other actresses may obtain this from art ; now Mrs. Wil-
kins has it all by nature.
I have not spoken of salary, nor will I. On that point, sure am Ij
if\^>3>2 j we shall be unanimous. All I want is London gaslight, for, indeed,
jj\ i * am tired of acting as I have too long acted, under a bushel. In a
1 word, sir, " I am a poor man who'd fain grow richer," and hoping to
be—in your old and long-prized words—" one of your little set,"
I remain, yours truly,
bulcazem WlLKINS.
V
Sir,
It may probably have escaped your recol-
lection, that in the year-, you did me the high
honour to pay me a very flattering compliment on my acting—im-
LETTER XX.
the manager's answer.
Sir,
It has been my misfortune to play with so many provincial
Catesbys-—-a part, by the way, singularly neglected in all country
theatres—that, at the date you name, it is almost impossible for me
to have any recollection of your merits. I think, however, you were
then the sucking actor who entirely marred my fifth act. I think
perfect as it was — of Catesby. You then said, sir,— and I have j Wilkins was the name. If you are, I am glad to hear that you are
treasured the words—that should it be ever your destiny to manage
a London Theatre, you would be only too happy to make me one of
your little set. Yes, sir, little set were the words ! I am, indeed, sir,
most happy to find by the newspapers that that time has arrived.
It is a great day for the profession. Such an event has long been
wanted ; and at length Shakspere—that really great creature !—will
have fair play done him. Ilow happy, indeed, shall I be, if per-
mitted in the smallest degree to assist in that national triumph !
To return, sir, to the compliment you so kindly paid to my Catesby.
That, sir, was ten years ago, and—but " on their own merits modest
men are dumb"— I flatter myself that an unceasing attention to my
profession, and more especially to the advice you were pleased to
give me, has made me not less worthy of applause. Y7ou may forget
that advice—I never shall. The Horatio had been arrested coming
to the theatre, and I studied the part from scene to scene. It was
where Hamlet discovers Ophelia's death, and falls upon Horatio's neck.
Pardon me ! but can I ever forget the point—the telling point—you
made there ? Never ! It was then you said to me " My good sir, I
have been much pleased with your attention—very much pleased—
you are in the rough, very much in the rough at present; in fact you
lenow nothing: but keep your eye on me—do as I do—exactly as I
do—and you can't be wrong." From that moment, sir, I set you up
as my model, and—but friends are partial—I have been told that the
resemblance between our styles of acting is extraordinary.
You may possibly have forgotten me, and therefore Avill excuse it,
if I remind you that my figure is good, indeed much improved since
we met. My voice is powerful; its intonation—I have been told—
like Kean's (of course I mean Edmund),—my face expressive, and
capable of any sort of making up—and for my studyr, I can swallow
anything. AVith all this, sir, I shall be very happy to come in as one
of the team. Yes, sir, all I want is opportunity ; the chance of play-
ing before a London audience, quite convinced that the rest is in
myself, and must come out.
On the other side I forward a list of parts. I have gained—I may
say it—great reputation in the provinces in all of them. The
Stranger is a favourite bespeak part of mine—and my Claude Melnotte
a great hit with all the boarding schools. Some critics have given
the palm to my Macbeth, and some to my Jonathan, Bradford. If I may be
allowed to have any opinion, I think them both ecpially good in their
way, though, I need not say to you, requiring different touches from
the artist. Still, he must be something of a painter who can use the
delicate camel-hair of that great creature Shakspere, and the four-
pound brush of the melodramatist. My sailors, too, have been
accounted remarkably good ; especially at the seaports. I have
played William in the Surrey trash of Blade-Eyed Susan, in a way to
make T. P. Cooke shake in his shoe-buckles. I could say more, but
it is painful, to speak of one's self. I therefore take the liberty of
forwarding with this, a small book in which you will find a great
number of criticisms, carefully pasted from the first provincial papers
af the day. They have been preserved by my wife ; for though not
improved ; though I would rather have that fact certified by any
other authority. If, however, you are the Wilkins I mean, you hav*>
at least this consolation—worse you cannot be. It is quite true that I
have entered on the arduous task of management, and I cannot consent
to make that task more irksome by adding to my difficulties, on the
strength of a promise made I knew not when—where—or to whom.
I am afraid that frequent acts of civility when playing in the pro-
vinces have been sadly misinterpreted • for you are at least the twen-
tieth applicant that has applied to me upon the encouragement of
some vague compliment meant for nothing—nothing I assure you.
And now, sir, I will give you a small piece of valuable counsel.
You are an actor (at least you say so); well, never promise what you
will do when you become a manager. Only praise an author's piece,
and regret that you have no power to bring it out—(if you had, ha !
how happy you should be ! )—well, sir, you praise it and think you
have done with it. Why, in ten or fifteen years' time you become a
manager, and back comes the piece to you with your own commen-
datory letter, and the pest of an author claiming the fulfilment of
your implied service. It might be difficult, but were my time to come
over again, I should in these matters endeavour to speak the truth.
Never say what you '11 do when you become a manager. It is just
like a Prince of Wales promising what he'll do when he becomes
king : flummery, sir—polite flummery7.
With your great natural qualifications of figure, face, and voice,
it would only distress me to see such fine advantages thrown away
upon more utility, could I even offer you that—and anything beyond
is entirely impossible. You are not a man for the team • no, but u
racer that should start upon his own account. There is, no doubt,
a plate for you somewhere, though not at my theatre.
Your list of parts is certainly very long. You seem to have played
in everything, except one piece—The Bashful Man.
I have not read the criticisms you sent, but I at once detected the
source of their eulogy—tobacco and gin and water. Such criticisms
must be valuable, for they have everyr appearance of having cost you
a great deal.
Your praise of Mrs. Wilkins does honour to your feelings as a
man and a husband ; but the chambermaids are filled.
Your obedient Servant,
Magnus Pom
3 07
LETTER XIX.
from a country actor to a london manager,
for an engagement.
j insensible of the power of the press, I myself make it a point never
PUNCH'S COMPLETE LETTER-WRiTE R. | to look into a newspaper.
Speaking of my wife,—can you find a corner for her? A clever
little chambermaid—sings well and all that—and a faultless breeches
figure. It is often difficult for a husband to speak of a wife's merits,
but sometimes it must be done. The acting of Mrs. Wilkins is
wonderfully natural. She has it born in her what other actresses
have too often to labour for. She has such impulse! The French
actors have a better word for it—abandon—yes, abandon is the word.
Well, sir, other actresses may obtain this from art ; now Mrs. Wil-
kins has it all by nature.
I have not spoken of salary, nor will I. On that point, sure am Ij
if\^>3>2 j we shall be unanimous. All I want is London gaslight, for, indeed,
jj\ i * am tired of acting as I have too long acted, under a bushel. In a
1 word, sir, " I am a poor man who'd fain grow richer," and hoping to
be—in your old and long-prized words—" one of your little set,"
I remain, yours truly,
bulcazem WlLKINS.
V
Sir,
It may probably have escaped your recol-
lection, that in the year-, you did me the high
honour to pay me a very flattering compliment on my acting—im-
LETTER XX.
the manager's answer.
Sir,
It has been my misfortune to play with so many provincial
Catesbys-—-a part, by the way, singularly neglected in all country
theatres—that, at the date you name, it is almost impossible for me
to have any recollection of your merits. I think, however, you were
then the sucking actor who entirely marred my fifth act. I think
perfect as it was — of Catesby. You then said, sir,— and I have j Wilkins was the name. If you are, I am glad to hear that you are
treasured the words—that should it be ever your destiny to manage
a London Theatre, you would be only too happy to make me one of
your little set. Yes, sir, little set were the words ! I am, indeed, sir,
most happy to find by the newspapers that that time has arrived.
It is a great day for the profession. Such an event has long been
wanted ; and at length Shakspere—that really great creature !—will
have fair play done him. Ilow happy, indeed, shall I be, if per-
mitted in the smallest degree to assist in that national triumph !
To return, sir, to the compliment you so kindly paid to my Catesby.
That, sir, was ten years ago, and—but " on their own merits modest
men are dumb"— I flatter myself that an unceasing attention to my
profession, and more especially to the advice you were pleased to
give me, has made me not less worthy of applause. Y7ou may forget
that advice—I never shall. The Horatio had been arrested coming
to the theatre, and I studied the part from scene to scene. It was
where Hamlet discovers Ophelia's death, and falls upon Horatio's neck.
Pardon me ! but can I ever forget the point—the telling point—you
made there ? Never ! It was then you said to me " My good sir, I
have been much pleased with your attention—very much pleased—
you are in the rough, very much in the rough at present; in fact you
lenow nothing: but keep your eye on me—do as I do—exactly as I
do—and you can't be wrong." From that moment, sir, I set you up
as my model, and—but friends are partial—I have been told that the
resemblance between our styles of acting is extraordinary.
You may possibly have forgotten me, and therefore Avill excuse it,
if I remind you that my figure is good, indeed much improved since
we met. My voice is powerful; its intonation—I have been told—
like Kean's (of course I mean Edmund),—my face expressive, and
capable of any sort of making up—and for my studyr, I can swallow
anything. AVith all this, sir, I shall be very happy to come in as one
of the team. Yes, sir, all I want is opportunity ; the chance of play-
ing before a London audience, quite convinced that the rest is in
myself, and must come out.
On the other side I forward a list of parts. I have gained—I may
say it—great reputation in the provinces in all of them. The
Stranger is a favourite bespeak part of mine—and my Claude Melnotte
a great hit with all the boarding schools. Some critics have given
the palm to my Macbeth, and some to my Jonathan, Bradford. If I may be
allowed to have any opinion, I think them both ecpially good in their
way, though, I need not say to you, requiring different touches from
the artist. Still, he must be something of a painter who can use the
delicate camel-hair of that great creature Shakspere, and the four-
pound brush of the melodramatist. My sailors, too, have been
accounted remarkably good ; especially at the seaports. I have
played William in the Surrey trash of Blade-Eyed Susan, in a way to
make T. P. Cooke shake in his shoe-buckles. I could say more, but
it is painful, to speak of one's self. I therefore take the liberty of
forwarding with this, a small book in which you will find a great
number of criticisms, carefully pasted from the first provincial papers
af the day. They have been preserved by my wife ; for though not
improved ; though I would rather have that fact certified by any
other authority. If, however, you are the Wilkins I mean, you hav*>
at least this consolation—worse you cannot be. It is quite true that I
have entered on the arduous task of management, and I cannot consent
to make that task more irksome by adding to my difficulties, on the
strength of a promise made I knew not when—where—or to whom.
I am afraid that frequent acts of civility when playing in the pro-
vinces have been sadly misinterpreted • for you are at least the twen-
tieth applicant that has applied to me upon the encouragement of
some vague compliment meant for nothing—nothing I assure you.
And now, sir, I will give you a small piece of valuable counsel.
You are an actor (at least you say so); well, never promise what you
will do when you become a manager. Only praise an author's piece,
and regret that you have no power to bring it out—(if you had, ha !
how happy you should be ! )—well, sir, you praise it and think you
have done with it. Why, in ten or fifteen years' time you become a
manager, and back comes the piece to you with your own commen-
datory letter, and the pest of an author claiming the fulfilment of
your implied service. It might be difficult, but were my time to come
over again, I should in these matters endeavour to speak the truth.
Never say what you '11 do when you become a manager. It is just
like a Prince of Wales promising what he'll do when he becomes
king : flummery, sir—polite flummery7.
With your great natural qualifications of figure, face, and voice,
it would only distress me to see such fine advantages thrown away
upon more utility, could I even offer you that—and anything beyond
is entirely impossible. You are not a man for the team • no, but u
racer that should start upon his own account. There is, no doubt,
a plate for you somewhere, though not at my theatre.
Your list of parts is certainly very long. You seem to have played
in everything, except one piece—The Bashful Man.
I have not read the criticisms you sent, but I at once detected the
source of their eulogy—tobacco and gin and water. Such criticisms
must be valuable, for they have everyr appearance of having cost you
a great deal.
Your praise of Mrs. Wilkins does honour to your feelings as a
man and a husband ; but the chambermaids are filled.
Your obedient Servant,
Magnus Pom