A noble object for his fkill he chofe,
A martyr dying 'midft infulting foes.
Refign'd with patience to religion's laws,
Yet braving monarchs in his Saviour's caufe.
Fill'd with th' idea of the facred part,
He felt a zeal beyond the reach of art,
While look and voice, and gefture, all expreft
A kindred ardour in the player's breaft;
Till as the flame through all his bosom ran,
He loft the Actor, and commenc'd the Man;
Profeft the faith; his pagan gods denied,
And what he acted then, he after died.
The Player's province they but vainly try,
Who want these pow'rs, Deportment, Voice, and Eye.
The Critic Sight 'tis only Grace can please,
No figure charms us if it has not Ease.
There are, who think the ftature all in all,
Nor like the hero, if he is not tall.
The feeling fenfe all other want fupplies,
I rate no actor's merit from his fize.
Superior height requires fuperior grace,
And what's a giant with a vacant face?
Theatric monarchs, in their tragic gait,
Affect to mark the folemn pace of state.
One foot put forward in pofition ftrong,
The other, like its vaffal, dragg'd along.
So grave each motion, fo exact and flow,
Like wooden monarchs at a puppet show.
The mien delights us that has native graçe,
But affectation ill fupplies its place,
Unfkilful actors, like your mimic apes,
Will writhe their bodies in a thousand shapes;
However foreign from the poet's art,
No tragic hero but admires a start.
What though unfeeling of the nervous line,
Who but allows his attitude is fine?
While a whole minute equipois'd he stands,
Till praise dismiss him with her echoing hands!
Refolv'd, though nature hate the tedious pause,
By perfeverance to extort applause.
When Romeo forrowing at his Juliet's doom,
With eager madness bursts the canvas tomb,
The fudden whirl, ftretch'd leg, and lifted staff,
Which please the vulgar, make the critic laugh.
To paint the paffion's force, and mark it well,
The proper action nature's felf will tell;
No pleafing pow'rs diftortions e'er express,
And nicer judgment always loaths excess.
In fock or buskin, who o'erleaps the bounds,
Difgufts our reason, and the taste confounds.
Of all the evils which the ftage molest,
I hate your fool who overacts his jeft;
Who murders what the poet finely writ,
And, like a bungler, haggles all his wit,
With fhrug, and grin, and gesture out of place,
And writes a foolish comment with his face.
Old Johnson once, though Cibber's perter vein
But meanly groupes him with a numʼrous train,
*See Cibber's Apology, 8vo. 1750.
With steady face, and fober hum'rous mien,
Fill'd the ftrong outlines of the comic scene,
What was writ down, with decent utt❜rance spoke,
Betray'd no fymptom of the confcious joke;
The very man in look, in voice, in air,
And though upon the ftage, appear'd no Play'r.
The word and action fhould conjointly fuit,
But acting words is labour too minute.
Grimace will ever lead the judgment wrong;
While fober humour marks th' impreffion ftrong.
Her proper traits the fixt attention hit,
And bring me closer to the poet's wit;
With her delighted o'er each fcene I go,
Well-pleas'd, and not asham'd of being so.
But let the generous Actor ftill forbear
To copy features with a Mimic's care!
'Tis a poor skill which ev'ry fool can reach,
A vile ftage-cuftom, honour'd in the breach.
Worfe as more clofe, the difingenuous art
But fhews the wanton looseness of the heart.
When I behold a wretch, of talents mean,
Drag private foibles on the public fcene,
Forfaking nature's fair and open road
To mark fome whim, fome ftrange peculiar mode,
Fir'd with difguft I loath his fervile plan,
Despise the mimic, and abhor the man.
Go to the lame, to hofpitals repair,
And hunt for humour in distortions there!
Fill up the measure of the motley whim
With fhrug, wink, fnuffle, and convulfive limb;
Then shame at once, to please a trifling age,
Good fenfe, good manners, virtue, and the stage!
"Tis not enough the voice be found and clear,
'Tis modulation that muft charm the ear.
When desperate heroines grieve with tedious moan,
And whine their forrows in a fee-faw tone,
The fame foft founds of unimpaffioned woes
Can only make the yawning hearers doze.
The voice all modes of paffion can express,
That marks the proper word with proper ftrefs.
But none emphatic can that actor call,
Who lays an equal emphafis on all.
Some o'er the tongue the labour'd measures roll
Slow and delib'rate as the parting toll,
Point ev'ry ftop, mark ev'ry pause so strong,
Their words, like ftage-proceffions stalk along.
All affectation but creates disgust,
And e'en in fpeaking we may feem too juft.
Nor proper, Thornton, can those sounds appear
Which bring not numbers to thy nicer ear;
In vain for them the pleafing measure flows,
Whose recitation runs it all to profe;
Repeating what the poet fets not down,
The verb disjointing from its friendly noun,
While pause, and break, and repetition join
To make a discord in each tuneful line.
Some placid natures fill th' allotted scene
With lifeless drone, infipid and ferene;
While others thunder ev'ry couplet o'er,
And almost crack your ears with rant and roar,
More nature oft and finer ftrokes are shown,
In the low whifper than tempeftuous tone.
And Hamlet's hollow voice and fixt amaze,
More powerful terror to the mind conveys,
Than he, who, fwol'n with big impetuous rage,
Bullies the bulky phantom off the stage.
He, who in earneft ftudies o'er his part,
Will find true nature cling about his heart.
The modes of grief are not included all
In the white handkerchief and mournful drawl;
A fingle look more marks th' internal woe,
Than all the windings of the lengthen'd Oh.
Up to the Face the quick fenfation flies,
And darts its meaning from the fpeaking Eyes;
Love, tranfport, madnefs, anger, fcorn, defpair,
And all the paffions, all the foul is there.
In vain Ophelia gives her flowrets round,
And with her ftraws fantastic ftrews the ground,
In vain now fings, now heaves the desp'rate figh,
If phrenzy fit not in the troubled eye.
In Cibber's look commanding forrows speak,
And call the tear fast trick'ling down my cheek.
There is a fault which ftirs the critic's rage;
A want of due attention on the stage.
I have feen actors, and admir'd ones too,
Whofe tongues wound fet forward from their cue;
In their own speech who whine, or roar away, Yet feem unmov'd at what the rest may say; Whofe eyes and thoughts on diff'rent objects roam, Until the prompter's voice recal them home,
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