THE
ACTOR
.
ADDRESSED
TO
BONNELL
THORNTON
,
Esq
BY
THE
SAME
.
ACTING
,
dear
Thornton
,
its
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
,
Some
curious
vet'ran
critic
chance
to
sit
,
Is
he
pleas'd
more
because
'twas
acted
so
By
Booth
and
Cibber
thirty
years
ago
?
The
mind
recals
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
;
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
outrageous
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
mechanie
in
these
modern
days
)
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
,
E'er
persecution
dropp'd
her
iron
rod
,
And
men
still
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
;
Resign'd
with
patience
to
religion's
laws
,
Yet
braving
monarchs
in
his
Saviour's
cause
.
Fill'd
with
th'
idea
of
the
secret
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
.
There
are
,
who
think
the
stature
all
in
all
,
Nor
like
the
hero
,
if
he
is
not
tall
.
The
feeling
sense
all
other
want
supplies
,
I
rate
no
actor's
merit
from
his
size
.
Superior
height
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
.
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
equipois'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
canvas
tomb
,
The
sudden
whirl
,
stretch'd
leg
,
and
lifted
staff
,
Which
please
the
vulgar
,
make
the
critic
laugh
.
To
paint
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
,
With
steady
face
,
and
sober
hum'rous
mien
,
Fill'd
the
strong
outlines
of
the
comic
scene
.
What
was
writ
down
,
with
decent
utt'rance
spoke
,
Betray'd
no
symptom
of
the
conscious
joke
;
The
very
man
in
look
,
in
voice
,
in
air
,
And
tho'
upon
the
stage
,
appear'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
.
But
let
the
generous
actor
still
forbear
To
copy
features
with
a
mimic's
care
!
'Tis
a
poor
skill
,
which
ev'ry
fool
can
reach
,
A
vile
stage-custom
,
honour'd
in
the
breach
.
Worse
as
more
close
,
the
disingenuous
art
But
shews
the
wanton
looseness
of
the
heart
.
When
I
behold
a
wretch
,
of
talents
mean
,
Drag
private
foibles
on
the
public
scene
,
Forsaking
nature's
fair
and
open
road
To
mark
some
whim
,
some
strange
peculiar
mode
,
Fir'd
with
disgust
,
I
loath
his
servile
plan
,
Despise
the
mimic
,
and
abhor
the
man
.
Go
to
the
lame
,
to
hospitals
repair
,
And
hunt
for
humour
in
distortions
there
!
Fill
up
the
measure
of
the
motley
whim
With
shrug
,
wink
,
snuffle
,
and
convulsive
limb
;
Then
shame
at
once
,
to
please
a
trifling
age
,
Good
sense
,
good
manners
,
virtue
,
and
the
stage
!
'Tis
not
enough
the
voice
be
sound
and
clear
,
'Tis
modulation
that
must
charm
the
ear
.
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
.
Nor
proper
,
Thornton
,
can
those
sounds
appear
Which
bring
not
numbers
to
thy
nicer
ear
:
In
vain
for
them
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
.
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
.
He
,
who
in
earnest
studies
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
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
.
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
trickling
down
my
cheek
.
There
is
a
fault
which
stirs
the
critic's
rage
;
A
want
of
due
attention
on
the
stage
.
I
have
seen
actors
,
and
admir'd
ones
too
,
Whose
tongues
wound
up
set
forward
from
their
cue
;
In
their
own
speech
who
whine
,
or
roar
away
,
Yet
seem
unmov'd
at
what
the
rest
may
say
;
Whose
eyes
and
thoughts
on
diff'rent
objects
roam
,
Until
the
prompter's
voice
recal
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
fits
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
curt'sie
to
her
grace
.
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
Michael
Cassio
might
be
drunk
enough
,
Tho'
all
his
features
were
not
grim'd
with
snuff
.
Why
shou'd
Pol
Peachum
shine
in
satin
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
;
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
shou'd
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
shudd'rings
were
at
shapes
unseen
.
Poet
and
actor
thus
,
with
blended
skill
,
Mould
all
our
passions
to
their
instant
will
;
'Tis
thus
,
when
feeling
Garrick
treads
the
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
thund'rer'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
,
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
mirror
up
to
man
,
Shall
their
profession
e'er
provoke
disdain
,
Who
stand
the
foremost
in
the
mortal
train
,
Who
lend
reflection
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
.
The
pliant
muscles
of
the
various
face
,
The
mien
that
gave
each
sentence
strength
and
grace
,
The
tuneful
voice
,
the
eye
that
spoke
the
mind
,
Are
gone
,
nor
leave
a
single
trace
behind
.