THE ACTOR.
[1]ACTING, dear Bonnell, it's Perfection draws
From no Obſervance of mechanic Laws.
No ſettled Maxims of a fav'rite Stage,
No Rules deliver'd down from Age to Age,
Let Players nicely mark them as they will,
Can e'er entail hereditary Skill.
If 'mongſt the humble Hearers of the Pit,
At ſome lov'd Play the old Man chance to ſit,
[2]Am I pleas'd more becauſe 'twas acted ſo
By Booth and Cibber thirty Years ago?
The Mind recalls an Object held more dear,
And hates the Copy that it comes ſo near.
Why lov'd we Wilks's Air, Booth's nervous Tone?
In them 'twas natural, 'twas all their own.
A Garrick's Genius muſt our Wonder raiſe,
But gives his Mimic no reflected Praiſe.
Thrice happy Genius, whoſe unrival'd Name
Shall live for ever in the Voice of Fame!
'Tis thine to lead with more than magic Skill,
The Train of captive Paſſions at thy Will;
To bid the burſting Tear ſpontaneous flow
In the ſweet Senſe of ſympathetic Woe.
Through ev'ry Vein I feel a Chilneſs creep,
When Horrors ſuch as thine have murder'd Sleep.
[3]And at the old Man's Look and frantic Stare
'Tis Lear alarms me, for I ſee him there.
Nor yet confin'd to tragic Walks alone
The comic Muſe too claims thee for her own.
With each delightful Requiſite to pleaſe,
Taſte, Spirit, Judgment, Elegance, and Eaſe,
Familiar Nature forms thy only Rule,
From Ranger's Rake to Drugger's vacant Fool.
With Powers ſo pliant, and ſo various bleſt,
That what we ſee the laſt, we like the beſt.
Not idly pleas'd at Judgment's dear Expence
But burſt ourageous with the laugh of Senſe.
PERFECTION'S Top with weary Toil and Pain
'Tis Genius only that can hope to gain.
The Play'r's Profeſſion (tho' I hate the Phraſe,
'Tis ſo mechanic in theſe modern Days)
[4]Lies not in Trick, or Attitude, or Start,
Nature's true Knowledge is his only Art.
The ſtrong-felt Paſſion bolts into the Face,
The Mind untouch'd, what is it but Grimace?
To this one Standard make your juſt Appeal
Here lies the golden Secret; learn to FEEL.
Or Fool or Monarch, happy or diſtreſt,
No Actor pleaſes that is not poſſeſs'd.
ONCE on the Stage in Rome's declining Days,
When Chriſtians were the Subject of their Plays,
Ere Perſecution dropp'd her iron Rod,
And Mortals wag'd an impious War with God,
An Actor flouriſh'd of no vulgar Fame,
Nature's Diſciple, and Geneſt his Name.
A noble Object for his Skill he choſe,
A Martyr dying midſt inſulting Foes.
[5]Reſign'd with Patience to Religion's Laws,
Yet braving Monarchs in his Saviour's Cauſe.
Fill'd with th' Idea of the ſacred Part,
He felt a Zeal beyond the reach of Art,
While Look and Voice, and Geſture all expreſt
A kindred Ardour in the Player's Breaſt,
Till as the Flame thro' all his Boſom ran,
He loſt the Actor and commenc'd the Man:
Profeſt 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.
[6]There are who think the Stature all in all,
Nor like the Hero if he is not tall.
The feeling Senſe all other Wants ſupplies,
I rate no Actor's Merit from his Size.
Superior Hight requires ſuperior Grace,
And what's a Giant with a vacant Face?
THEATRIC Monarchs in their tragic Gait
Affect to mark the ſolemn Pace of State.
One Foot put forward in Poſition ſtrong,
The other like its Vaſſal dragg'd along.
So grave each Motion, ſo exact and ſlow,
Like wooden Monarchs at a Puppet-Show.
The Mien delights us that has native Grace
But Affectation ill ſupplies its Place.
[7]UNSKILFUL 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 equipoiz'd he ſtands,
Till Praiſe diſmiſs him with her echoing Hands.
Reſolv'd, though Nature hate the tedious Pauſe,
By Perſeverance to extort Applauſe.
When Romeo ſorrowing at his Juliet's Doom,
With eager Madneſs burſts the canvaſs Tomb,
The ſudden Whirl, ſtretch'd Leg, and lifted Staff,
Which pleaſe the Vulgar, make the Critic laugh.
[8]TO point the Paſſion's Force, and mark it well,
The proper Action Nature's Self will tell.
No pleaſing Pow'rs Diſtortions e'er expreſs,
And nicer Judgment always loaths Exceſs.
In Sock or Buſkin who o'erleaps the Bounds,
Diſguſts our Reaſon, and the Taſte confounds.
OF all the Evils which the Stage moleſt
I hate your Fool who overacts his Jeſt.
Who murders what the Poet finely writ,
And like a Bungler haggles all his Wit,
With Shrug, and Grin, and Geſture out of Place,
And writes a fooliſh Comment with his Face.
Old Johnſon once, tho' Cibber's perter Vein,
But meanly groupes him with a num'rous Train,
[9]With ſteady Face, and ſober hum'rous Mien,
Fill'd the ſtrong Outlines of the comic Scene.
What was writ down, with decent Utterance ſpoke,
Betray'd no Symptom of the conſcious Joke;
The very Man in Look, in Voice, in Air,
And though upon the Stage, he ſeem'd no Play'r.
The Word and Action ſhould conjointly ſuit,
But acting Words is labour too minute.
Grimace will ever lead the Judgment wrong,
While ſober Humour marks th' Impreſſion ſtrong.
Her proper Traits the fixt Attention hit,
And bring me cloſer to the Poet's Wit;
With her delighted o'er each Scene I go,
Well-pleas'd, and not aſham'd of being ſo.
'TIS not enough the Voice be ſound and clear,
'Tis Modulation that muſt charm the Ear.
[10]When deſperate Heroines grieve with tedious Moan,
And whine their Sorrows in a ſee-ſaw Tone;
The ſame ſoft Sounds of unimpaſſioned Woes
Can only make the yawning Hearers doze.
THE Voice all Modes of Paſſion can expreſs,
That marks the proper Word with proper Streſs.
But none emphatic can that Actor call,
Who lays an equal Emphaſis on all.
SOME o'er the Tongue the labour'd Meaſures roll
Slow and delib'rate as the parting Toll,
Point ev'ry Stop, mark ev'ry Pauſe ſo ſtrong,
Their Words, like Stage-Proceſſions ſtalk along.
All Affectation but creates Diſguſt,
And e'en in ſpeaking We may ſeem too juſt.
[11]Nor proper, Thornton, can thoſe Sounds appear,
Which bring not Numbers to thy nicer Ear;
For them in vain the pleaſing Meaſure flows
Whoſe Recitation runs it all to Proſe;
Repeating what the Poet ſets 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, inſipid and ſerene;
While others thunder ev'ry Couplet o'er,
And almoſt crack your Ears with Rant and Roar.
In ſo much Noiſe but little Senſe is found,
As empty Barrels make the greateſt Sound.
[12]MORE Nature oft and finer Strokes are ſhown,
In the low Whiſper than tempeſtuous Tone.
And Hamlet's hollow Voice and fixt Amaze,
More powerful Terror to the Mind conveys,
Than he, who ſwol'n with big impetuous Rage,
Bullies the bulky Phantom off the Stage.
THE Modes of Grief are not included all
In the white Handkerchief and mournful Drawl;
A ſingle Look more marks th' internal Woe,
Than all the Windings of the lengthen'd Oh.
UP to the Face the quick Senſation flies,
And darts its meaning from the ſpeaking Eyes;
Love, Tranſport, Madneſs, Anger, Scorn, Deſpair,
And all the Paſſions, all the Soul is there.
[13]IN vain Ophelia gives her Flowrets round,
And with her Straws fantaſtic ſtrews the Ground;
In vain now ſings, now heaves the deſp'rate Sigh,
If Phrenzy ſit not in the troubled Eye.
In Cibber's Look commanding Sorrows ſpeak,
And call the Tear faſt trick'ling down my Cheek.
HE who in Earneſt ſtudies o'er his Part
Will find true Nature cling about his Heart.
All from their Eyes impulſive Thought reveal,
And none can want Expreſſion, who can feel.
THERE is a Fault which ſtirs the Critic's Rage,
A Want of due Attention on the Stage.
There have been Actors, and admir'd ones too,
Whoſe tongues wound up ſet forward from their cue.
[14]In their own Speech who whine, or roar away,
Yet unconcern'd at what the reſt may ſay.
Whoſe Eyes and Thoughts on diff'rent Objects roam
Until the Prompter's Voice recall them home.
DIVEST yourſelf of Hearers if you can,
And ſtrive to ſpeak, and be the very Man.
Why ſhould the well-bred Actor wiſh to know
Who ſits above To-night, or who below.
So mid th' harmonious Tones of Grief or Rage,
Italian Squallers oft diſgrace the Stage.
When with a ſimp'ring Leer, and Bow profound,
The ſqueaking Cyrus greets the Boxes round;
Or proud Mandane of imperial Race,
Familiar drops a Curtſie to her Grace.
[15]TO ſuit the Dreſs demands the Actor's Art,
Yet there are thoſe who over-dreſs the Part.
To ſome preſcriptive Right gives ſettled Things,
Black Wigs to Murd'rers, feather'd Hats to Kings.
But Michel Caſſio might be drunk enough,
Tho' all his Features were not grim'd with Snuff.
Why ſhou'd Pol Peachum ſhine in ſattin Cloaths?
Why ev'ry Devil dance in ſcarlet Hoſe?
BUT in Stage-Cuſtoms what offends me moſt
Is the Slip-door, and ſlowly-riſing Ghoſt.
Tell me, nor count the Queſtion too ſevere,
Why need the diſmal powder'd Forms appear?
WHEN chilling Horrors ſhake th' affrighted King,
And Guilt torments him with her Scorpion Sting;
[16]When keeneſt Feelings at his Boſom pull,
And Fancy tells him that the Seat is full,
Why need the Ghoſt uſurp the Monarch's Place,
To frighten Children with his mealy Face?
The King alone ſhould form the Phantom there,
And talk and tremble at the vacant Chair.
IF Belvidera her lov'd Loſs deplore,
Why for twin Spectres burſts the yawning Floor?
When with diſorder'd Starts, and horrid Cries,
She paints the murder'd Forms before her Eyes,
And ſtill purſues them with a frantic Stare:
'Tis pregnant Madneſs brings the Viſions there.
More inſtant Horror would enforce the Scene,
If all her Shuddrings were at Shapes unſeen.
[17]POET and Actor thus with blended Skill,
Mould all our Paſſions to their inſtant Will;
'Tis thus, when feeling Garrick treads th' Stage,
(The ſpeaking Comment of his Shakeſpear's Page.)
Oft as I drink the Words with greedy Ears,
I ſhake with Horror, or diſſolve with Tears.
O ne'er may Folly ſeize the Throne of Taſte,
Nor Dulneſs lay the Realms of Genius waſte.
No bouncing Crackers ape the Thundrer's Fire,
No Tumbler float upon the bending Wire.
More natural Uſes to the Stage belong,
Than Tumblers, Monſters, Pantomime, or Song.
For other Purpoſe was that Spot deſign'd;
To purge the Paſſions and reform the Mind,
[18]To give to Nature all the Force of Art,
And while it charms the Ear to mend the Heart.
Thornton, to Thee I dare with Truth commend,
The decent Stage as Virtue's natural Friend.
Tho' oft debas'd with Scenes profane and looſe,
No Reaſon weighs againſt it's proper Uſe.
Tho' the lewd Prieſt his ſacred Function ſhame,
Religion's perfect Law is ſtill the ſame.
Shall they who trace the Paſſions from their riſe
Shew Scorn her Features, her own Image Vice;
Who teach the Mind it's proper Force to ſcan,
And hold the faithful Mirrour up to Man,
Shall their Profeſſion e'er provoke Diſdain,
Who ſtand the formoſt in the moral Train.
[19]Who lend Reflexion all the Grace of Art,
And ſtrike the Precept home upon the Heart.
YET, hapleſs Artiſt, tho' thy Skill can raiſe
The burſting Peal of univerſal Praiſe,
Tho' at thy Beck, Applauſe delighted ſtands,
And lifts Briareus' like her hundred Hands.
Know Fame awards Thee but a partial Breath,
Not all thy Talents brave the Stroke of Death.
Poets to Ages yet unborn appeal,
And lateſt Times th' eternal Nature feel.
Tho' blended here the Praiſe of Bard and Play'r,
While more than Half becomes the Actor's Share,
Relentleſs Death untwiſts the mingled Fame,
And ſinks the Player in the Poet's Name.
[20]THE pliant Muſcles of the various Face,
The Mein that gave each Sentence Strength and Grace,
The tuneful Voice, the Eye that ſpoke the Mind,
Are gone, nor leave a ſingle Trace behind.
FINIS.