THE ACTOR. ADDRESSED TO BONNELL THORNTON, Esq Robert Lloyd Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T124631 1073 K099398.000 Mendez, Moses. A collection of the most esteemed pieces of poetry: that have appeared for several years. With variety of originals, by the late Moses Mendez, Esq; and other contributors to Dodsley's collection. To which this is intended as a supplement. London printed for Richardson and Urquhart 1767 pp. 67-76. [8],320p. ; 8⁰.

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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 .