I thought an decent retrospective analysis of Dillion from a Melbourne Critic of 1914 might be if interest. The following is from a regular column entitled "Dramatic Memories" by “Proteus” published in Freeman’s Journal, Sydney, of date 20 August 1914 (p.12). It is long but worth the attention, as much for its content, but also for what is between the lines.
"If these memories were to follow exact chronological order—which they do not pretend to—Montgomery would have not been mentioned imediately after Sullivan. In the same year that witnessed Sullivan’s arrival (1862), a ‘wandering star’ of no little importance was visible in Australia. That was Charles Dillon. He came quite unannounced. Not even the tiniest newspaper paragraph had heralded his approach. As a matter of fact , he had crossed over the pacific rom San Francisco under the impulse, it would seem, of a sudden whim, for Charles Dillon was an actor who at that time was in little danger of soon wearing out his welcome in any English-speaking community where the stage was an institution. He was really a very fine performer. But along with groat talent he had a streak, and no very light one, of Bohemianism. He would often act on the spur of the moment, and in direct opposition to his own interests.
George Coppin, who had recently opened the Haymarket Theatre in Bourke-street, Melbourne, at once entered, into an engagement with Dillon, and put him up for Macbeth. There was earnestness and power in his representation of the ambitious Thane. He was especially effective in the dagger scene, and also where Macbeth is confronted with the apparition of the murdered Banquo. Dillon, in these two scenes, showed a certain imaginative perception which had its influence on his audience. It is a quality in the absence of which tragedy, however engrossing, and words, to whatever extent they may be weighted with great thoughts— become mere “sound and fury signifying, nothing.” Yet, on the whole, the Macbeth of Charles Dillon did not very much impress the first Australian audience that was privileged to witness it. It is no reflection on Dillon’s memory to say that the Melbourneites had seen at least one tragedian who rose more imposingly to what has been called “the wild and supernatural glory” of the wonderful Scottish tragedy. They had seen Brooke. Dillon did not reveal his real strength till he was seen in romantic drama or an that distinctive variety labelled as “domestic.” His Belphegor in the play of that name was a very natural and a very pathetic piece of acting. The late Mr. Alfred Dampier, long subsequent to Dillon's time, in Australia, made a good deal out of the same character. Before Dillon came, it had been played by Clarence Holt (father of Bland), who was wont to remind his friends that he was the only Belphegor on the stage. The statement was usually emphasised with a highly coloured adjective which need not be quoted here. But Clarence Holt was very far from being equal to Dillon in Belphegor. The piece was an adaptation from the French, the leading character in which was originally sustained by the celebrated Frederic Lemaitre. It was considered one of Lemaitre's best parts. His best was not deemed a bit better than that of the English actor who took up the same character.
Dillon was for several years only known in England as a provincial actor. He was within a couple of years of forty when his first chance offered in London. That was in 1856. He appeared as Belphegor at Sadler's Wells Theatre, a house which, though far outside the bounds of fashionable London, had, under the spirited and intelligent management of Samuel Phelps, and through his own efforts as an exponent of the legitimate drama, won a high place in the estimation of critical audiences. After his success at Sadler’s Wells, however, Dillon soon shifted to the quarter where theatrical audiences of the better sort most did congregate. He opened at the Lyceum, and repeated his success as Belphegor. He assumed the management of the house, of which he remained for several months the main attraction, and with the part of the mount-bank as his surest card. He played it so long that the public began to wonder whether he was only a man of one part.
That notion was speedily banished when he produced a version of Dumas' 'Three Musketeers,' in which he represented D'Artagnan. He was generally admitted to have caught the very spirit which must have actuated the fiery young Gascon drawn by the novelist. Next to Belphegor, it remained his favourite part. The verdict of so excellent a judge of acting as Charles Dickens was not, wanting in his favour. Dickens went to see him one night in a piece specially written for him by Dr. Westland Marston, entitled ''The Hard Struggle.” The author asked the great novelist what he thought of the man who played the hero. His acting, Dickens answered, was what acting should be — ''Nature itself.” Dickens, who was himself an admirable actor, was not in the habit of indiscriminately lavishing his encomiums on new candidates for celebrity in that line. No man had a more profound contempt for false histrionic art. What he said as to Dillon's merits is tolerably conclusive on the subject.
Dillon did not confine himself too long to romantic and domestic drama. He bid boldly for distinction in “Legitimate.” He appeared as Othello, and had an encouraging reception. He followed it up with Macbeth, which he played to the Lady Macbeth of the celebrated Helen Faucit (Lady Martin). His next Shakespearian venture, was Hamlet. The writer saw him in all three characters when he visited Australia, but must confess not to have been much carried away by his performance in any of them. There were indeed scenes in his Hamlet, even as in his Macbeth, in which he was very striking. The closet scene in 'Hamlet' was rendered peculiarly effective by his “business” as it is technically termed, in connection with the apparition of the Ghost. It became visible as though it had glided through the picture of Hamlet's father, hanging on the wall. Hamlet followed it as it traversed the round of the chamber, and his exclamation to his mother, 'There, out at the portal!' as the ghost vanished, was really awesome in its tones. But fragmentary excellence in great Shakespearian parts is not enough. And Dillon was never more than fragmentary in such assumptions.
After finishing his season with Coppin in Melbourne, he came up to Sydney, and opened at the Victoria Theatre on April 6, 1863. He didn't try the Sydneyites with Shakespeare on this occasion. He contented himself with the version of the French play which Dion Boucicault had written tor Charles Kean, and in which Kean, as the central figure, Louis XL, had added so greatly to his reputation. The very next year a Sydney audience had an opportunity of judging for itself as to Kean's merits. He was no doubt a more haunting figure as the Valois King, than Dillon, but for all that Dillon’s impersonation was decidedly good. Those who had never seen Charles Kean in the same part were disposed to rate Dillon's Louis very high indeed. He gave his Sydney admirers Shakespeare too. On the evening when he took his benefit at the “Old Vic” as the close of a season of some four months he showed his versatility by playing Shylock in “The Merchant of Venice” and Willam in Douglas Jerrold’s “Black-Eyed Susan.”
Dillon wandered over Australia and New Zealand for three or four years—at least over such regions of both as could be considered theatrical ground. On quitting these shores he went to England by way of America. An interesting conjuncture of two actors of undoubted ability was when Dillon and Barry Sullivan played together at the Melbourne Royal, of which Sullivan was then the lessee. When “Othello” was produced, the Moor was represented by Dillon, Iago by Sullivan. It was thought by most of those who saw them thus contrasted with one another, that Sullivan's Iago was a far finer performance than Dillon's Othello. In setting down this the writer does not forget that Mr. Titheradge not long since declared that he thought Charles Dillon the best tragedian of his day. Mr. Titheradge spoke, with no ordinary authority on such a subject. Be that as it may, personal impressions, such as they were, must be recorded faithfully here.
Dillon, on his return to England, successfully toured the provinces for many years, and was occasionally to be seen in London . He was engaged to support the title part in a production of “Manfred" at Drury Lane, and was said to have given a very artistic impersonation of Byron's mysterious and much soliloquising hero.
As a Shakespearian actor Dillon as already intimated, could not be classed with Sullivan, much less with Brooke. In his human weaknesses, however, if by no means in his artistic strength, he had certain affinities with the gifted Dubliner. A certain careless temperament was common to both. They both failed to take advantage of fine opportunities. After Brooke's great success at the London Olympic, he was offered an engagement by Benjamin Webster at the Haymarket, and on terms which were then considered very liberal. He was, of course, to lead in tragedy. To take up such a position in the house where Macready had made his farewell appearance was, so to speak, to have his claim to stand at the head of the profession formally recognised. Macready himself, in an entry in his diary, grudgingly acknowledged Brooke's right to it— for Macready was not generous in his recognition of any of his contemporaries. Brooke meanwhile had, for some unaccountable reason, refused Webster's offer and betaken himself to the provinces. He was not seen in London again till he returned from America in 1852, but his welcome was as warm as ever when he appeared on the boards of “Old Drury.” Ten years later Drury was to see him, again, but under altered circumstances. He was badly supported, and the man himself was in partial eclipse.
Dillon forsook London as capriciously as Brooke had forsaken it. In neither case could it be said that audiences had forsaken the actors. It is only by taking into account the irresistible promptings of the Bohemian temperament and the constant desire for change that the thing can be explained at all. In his later days Dillon used to revert regretfully to the time when he had “the ball at his feet.” No doubt he had, so far as he was capable of kicking it. With a melancholy sense of declining power, shortly before his death, he is said to have made a sad forecast of what might yet await him. Pointing to an old actor with whom he had often played, and who was getting a wretched living as a ticket-taker, poor Dillon shook his head and muttered, “Perhaps I'll come to that…” He died early in the Eighties. Brooke and Dillon were born in the same year, 1818."
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