The clown, who no one touch of breeding knows,
Looks like Tom Errand dress'd in Clincher's clothes.
Fond of his dress, fond of his person grown,
Laugh'd at by all, and to himself unknown,
From side to side he struts, he smiles, he prates,
And seems to wonder what's become of Yates.
Woodward, endow'd with various tricks of face,
Great master in the science of grimace,
A speaking Harlequin, made up of whim,
He twists, he twines, he tortures every limb,
Flays to the eye with a mere monkey's art,
And leaves to sense the conquest of the heart.
We laugh indeed, but, on reflection's birth,
We wonder at ourselves, and curse our mirth.-
By turns transform'd into all kinds of shapes,
Constant to none, Foote laughs, cries, struts, and
scrapes:
Now in the centre, now in van or rear,
The Proteus shifts, bawd, parson, auctioneer.
His strokes of humour, and his bursts of sport,
Are all contain'd in this one word, Distort.-
Next Jackson came.-Observe that settled glare,
Which better speaks a puppet than a player:
List to that voice-did ever Discord hear
Sounds so well fitted to her untun'd ear?
When, to enforce some very tender part,
The right hand sleeps by instinct on the heart,
His soul, of every other thought bereft,
Is anxious only where to place the left;
He sobs and pants to soothe his weeping spouse,
To soothe his weeping mother, turns and bows,
Awkward, embarrass'd, stiff, without the skill
Of moving gracefully, or standing still :
One leg, as if suspicious of his brother,
Desirous seems to run away from t'other..
Sparks at his glass sat comfortably down
To sep'rate frown from smile, and smile from frown:
Smith, the genteel, the airy, and the smart,
Smith was just gone to school to say his part:
Ross (a misfortune which we often meet)
Was fast asleep at dear Statira's feet;
Statira, with her hero to agree,
Stood on her feet as fast asleep as he :
Macklin, who largely deals in half-formed sounds,
Who wantonly transgresses nature's bounds,
Whose acting's hard, affected and constrain'd,
Whose features as each other they disdain'd,
At variance set, inflexible and coarse,
Ne'er know the workings of united force,
Ne'er kindly soften to each other's aid,
Nor show the mingled pow'rs of light and shade,
No longer for a thankless stage concern'd,
To worthier thoughts his mighty genius turn'd.-
Quin, from afar lur'd by the scent of fame,
A stage Leviathan, put in his claim,
Pupil of Betterton and Booth.
Sullen he walk'd, and deem'd the chair his own.
His words bore sterling weight, nervous and strong
In manly tides of sense they roll'd along.
Happy in art, he chiefly had pretence
To keep up numbers, yet not forfeit sense.
No actor ever greater heights could reach
In all the labour'd artifice of speech..
I laugh at those, who, when the stage they tread,
Neglect the heart to compliment the head;
With strict propriety their care's confin'd
To weigh out words, while passion halts behind.
To syllable-dissectors they appeal,
Allow them accent, cadence-fools may feel;
But, spite of all the criticizing elves,
Those who would make us feel, must feel themselves.
His eyes, in gloomy socket taught to roll,
Proclaim'd the sullen habit of his soul.
Heavy and phlegmatic he trod the stage,
Too proud for tenderness, too dull for rage.
Last Garrick came. Behind him throng a train
Of snarling critics, ignorant as vain.-
If manly sense; if nature link'd with art;
If thorough knowledge of the human heart;
If pow'rs of acting vast and unconfin'd;
If fewest faults with greatest beauties join'd;
If strong expression, and strange pow'rs which lie
Within the magic circle of the eye;
If feelings which few hearts like his can know, And which no face so well as his can show ; Deserve the pref'rence;—Garrick, take the chair; Nor quit it-till thou place an equal there.
ADVERSITY. (Address to)
Scar'd at thy frown terrific, fly
Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood,
Wild laughter, noise, and thoughtless joy
And leave us leisure to be good.
Light they disperse; and with them go
The summer-friend, the flatt'ring foe;
By vain prosperity receiv'd,
To her they vow their truth, and are again believ'd.
Wisdom in sable garb array'd,
Immers'd in rapt'rous thought profound,
And Melancholy, silent majd,
With leaden eye that loves the ground,
Still on thy solemn steps attend,
Warm Charity, the general friend,
With Justice, to herself severe,
And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.
Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head,
Dread Goddess, lay thy chast'ning hand!
Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,
Nor circled with the vengeful band
(As by the impious thou art seen)
With thund'ring voice, and threat'ning mien,
With screaming Horror's fun'ral cry,
Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty.
Thy form benign, O Goddess, wear,
Thy milder influence impart ;
Thy philosophic train be there
To soften, not to wound, my heart.
'The gen'rous spark extinct revive;
Teach me to love and to forgive;
Exact my own defects to scan:
What others are, to feel; and known myself a man.
AFFECTATION. (Clerical, exposed)
In man or woman, but far most in man,
And most of all in man that ministers
And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe
All affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn;
Object of my implacable disgust.
What!-will a man play tricks, will he indulge
A silly fond conceit of his fair form
And just proportion, fashionable mein
And pretty face, in presence of his God?
Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes,
As with the diamond on his lily hand,
And play his brilliant parts before my eyes,
When I am hungry for the bread of life?
He mocks his Maker, prostitutes and shames
His noble office, and, instead of truth,
Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock.
Therefore avaunt all attitude, and stare,
And start theatric, practis'd at the glass!
I seek divine simplicity in him,
Who handles things divine; and all besides,
Though learn'd with labour, and tho' much admir'd
By curious eyes and judgments ill inform'd,
To me is odious as the nasal twang
Heard at conventicle, where worthy men,
Misled by custom, strain celestial themes
Through the press'd nostril, spectacle-bestrid,
There Affectation with a sickly mein, Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen; Practis'd to lisp, and hang the head aside, Faints into airs, and languishes with pride; On the rich quilt sinks with becoming wo, Wrapt in a gown for sickness and for show.
(Should retire from the World)
What folly can be ranker? like our shadows,
Our wishes lengthen, as our sun declines.
No wish should loiter, then, this side the grave.
Our hearts should leave the world, before the knell
Calls for our carcases to mend the soil.
Enough to live in tempest; die in port.
Age should fly concourse, cover in retreat
Defects of judgment, and the will subdue;
Walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore
Of that vast ocean it must sail so soon!
AGED. (Folly of their Love of Life) O my coëvals! remnant of yourselves! Poor human ruins, tott'ring o'er the grave! Shall we, shall aged men, like aged trees, Strike deeper their vile root, and closer cling, Still more enamour'd of this wretched soil? Shall our pale, wither'd hands be still stretch'd out, Trembling, at once with eagerness and age? With avarice, and convulsions grasping hard?
|