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Price Tnvo Shillings and Sixpend. ot^ THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. CHAP. !• Preliminary Observations-^Esscntials for becoming an A6lor — Judgment — Person — Voice — ASiion — Walk — Summary oj the most general CharaHers in Comedy and Tragedy — Exits and Entrances. NoTwiTHSTANDXNC the many difficulties which at- tend the scenic art, how many have attempted the stage without the least claim, even to mediocrity. Young persons in the habits of visiting theatres, or reading plays, soon become enamoured with certain charafters, (particularly in tragedy, which is the most difficult,) and, self-deceived, flatter themselves with the capability of representing those parts : but the art of afting is not so easy as at first ima- gined. The essentials of an aftor and a61ress are so great and numerous, that the Th espianPreceptor humbly solicits all candidates for dramatic fame to attend to his instructions, which; added to study and praftice, may pro- B ^^ THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. bably render them acquisitions to the stage, or dissuade 1 them from vain and vexatious attempts. The first essential for becoming a performer on the stage is an appropriate education^ Every gentleman should be a classical scholar — every lady should be mis- tress of her ozvn and the French languages. In every sentence there is some word, perhaps several, which are to be pronounced with a stronger accent or emphasis than the others. In some lines a variation of voice is neces- sary. If the candidate possess not sufficient judgment, which can only be formed hy a good education, he may frequently be guilty of false accents, or, at least, imi- tate his predecessors ; he may alter his tone when he should not, and not vary his voice when he should. The meaning of an author is often misrepresented by mis- pronunciation :— judgment alone can point out these meanings, and direft the speaker. A classical aftor very often strikes out new beauties; and therefore the Thes- pian Preceptor will not mark those words, in the speeches hereafter quoted, which he thinks should be accented, because some may, and with propriety, think those accents preferable in other places. In Hamlet's following question, the accent has always been laid upon the verb :— <« Did you not speak to it, Horatio?'* But our best Hamlet of the present day very judiciously lays it on the person; (DidjycJW, &c.) implying, as you are my particular friend, did jycz^ not speak to the ghost ? The following line in Zaiiga is generally spoken with JUDGMENT — IMPROPRIETIES. 15 the same tone of voice, by which (I think) the author's meaning is confounded : — <* Complain of grief — complain thou art a man.*' The concluding words, if pronounced with a kind of sneer, would imply — Complain of grief ! you may as xjoeU complain thou art a man ! which appears to have been the author's meaning, by his succeeding lines. The last line in this charafter — '' And to receive me hell blows all its fires '' — is always spoken in a violent rant ; and with these words Zanga rushes out. An ignorant speftator might naturally conclude. he had made his escape Jrom the guards As every aclor of judgment scorns to tread in a beaten path, may not a new Zanga try the efFecl of another mode of exit ? — From his speech over Alonzo's body, and the suc- ceeding lines, Zanga appears sensible that he has followed vengeance too far— he becomes sorry, and, instead of ap- pearing determined to go to hell^ he might say this con- cluding line in accents of convulsed horror and remorse ; then falling into the arms of the guard, be carried off! Thus judgment points out new modes, which, if they fail of gallery applause, may procure that which is far more desirable, the applause of pit and boxes. An aftor of judgment will also beware of improprieties ; if in a Roman charafter, he will not display an English powdered head; if the scene be a street or garden, he will not keep his hat under his arm ; nor, if the scene be a parlour or chamber, keep it on his head, which is equally ridiculous. He will not, if he be reading a letter, when he has done^ B 2 16 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR# throw It carelessly aside, or let it fall upon the stage, ex- cept in such pieces where the discovery of the letter forms a part of the plot. These^ and other similar improprieties, an a£tor of judgment will avoid. By means of a good education, he becomes thoroughly acquainted with his author. Every performer should perfe£lly understand the story which he takes a part in relating ; that is, with the plot — its progress — the intention of the author, in the whole, and in every individual scene — the apartment or place in which every scene passes — and the deportment which the particular nature of that scene, and of the part he is to take in it, requires. A good person and an degant address are chief requisites, particularly for tragedy and genteel characters in comedy. It is not sufficient for Bclcour to aEl like a gentleman, but he must also look like one. A diminutive person ill suits the hero of tragedy, but he may appear to some advantage in lozo comedy. Of this, however, we shall speak more fully, when treating of different charac- ters in tragedy and comedy. An audible harmonious voice is another requisite, par- ticularly for tragedy. Harsh monotonous sounds destroy | the effe6l of every speech. Though we have had some I respe&ble performers, who, notwithstanding they had } been denied this gift by nature, by attention and industry | became popular aftors, yet the man or woman who is de- i ficient in this grand requisite, or has any peculiarity of I voice, will have a difficult task to please an audience, or | to reconcile them to it. A powerful articulate voice i^ | absolutely necessary now to fill our extensive theatres. VOICE— ACTION. 17 The ease with which a performer goes through a long speech or part, and his success with his audience, depends much upon his setting out in a proper key, and at a due pitch of loudness. If he begin in too high a tone, or set out too loud, how is he afterwards to rise to a higher note, or swell his voice louder, as the more pathetic strains may- require ? In every climax, like— - *^ The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces. The solemn temples, the great globe itself; Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve. And,'' &c. the voice should gradually rise, and the concluding part of the climax be delivered with the loudest note ; conse- quently, if the speaker be ignorant of the compass of his voice, and begin too loud, his conclusion will be strained and disagreeable, and the last lines of his speeches be fre- quently lost. This should be carefully avoided, particu- larly in irascible and tyrannic parts. The command of the voice must be particularly studied. A cold declama- tory delivery is equally reprehensible. An a£lor should speak as if he Jeli every word ; and the force or pathos with which a speech is to be delivered is to increase as the speech goes on. The speaker is to grow warm by degrees, as the chariot wheel by its continued motion. False and provincial accents must also be guarded against, or cor- refted, Adion is another grand essential, without which no a8;or or aftress can be said to act. Too much, however, must be avoided, as well as too little. Every part of the B 3 18 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR*^ human frame should contribute to express the passions and emotions of the soul, A6lio.n must be graceful, and ap- propriate to the words, otherwise it is forced and unna- tural : it is tragic, comic, or unimpassioned. The parts of which it is composed are, standing, walking, running, attitude, and gesture ; for the proper conduft of all which it is necessary to understand the use and management of the eye, the arm, the hand, the knees, legs, and feet, and the proper deportment of the whole. body. To express the imperious and uncontrolable passions is i the province of tragic aftion. It is never the intention of :' persons, who are under the dominion of passion, to make ' themselves the subjeft of laughter. There are many in- I stances in which they produce this efFeft, unintentionally ; | but they belong to the ignoble passions, and are within f the province of comic a^lion, and comic personages : for | . the same passions, when felt by persons of a different '; charafter, become dignified, terrible, and destructive ; and - therefore cannot excite laughter. Avarice, which in some j instances is highly comic, in others becomes the scourge t> and desolation of kingdoms. Many poets have well de- fi lineated the ridicule to which the jealous sometimes sub- | je£l themselves ; though few passions of a private kind | have more frequently produced scenes of tragic horror. ^ The nature of tragic aftion, therefore, is energetic, | daring, and impetuous, to excess. That which would be * extravagant and ridiculous in persons of equal and calm t minds, is frequently an appropriate, necessary, and true expression of passion. The impassioned person may be | remarkably reasonable, and sagacious, in some parts of his behaviour, the moment preceding an a6t of frenzy. TRAGIC ACTION. 19 In stage personification, nothing can more offend than the tame rant, and composed recoUeffionj with which the crimes of passion are perpetrated. Instead of feeling and pifturing the violent frantic and sudden emotions of pas- sion, aftors, with very few exceptions, are continually impressed with the wretched and ignorant persuasion, that a long stride, a uniform swing of the arm, and a mono- tonous clamorous bellow, are the grand requisites of a tragedian. This persuasion is so strong in them, and they are so self-satisfied, that they appear for ages to have aped each other. It should be the first business of an actor deeply to in- vestigate each charafter which he pretends to perform, and endue his whole soul with recoiie^lions never to be erased, ©f the number and the nature of the wild starts of passion, to which the charafter to be represented is subjeft : he should note them in his books, explain them to himself, and memorandum them immediately ; and, at that happy instant when he conceives them in their fullest force, should study all the various ways in which they show themselves, and, in faft, make himself a most profound and masterly commentator on the passions, their conse- quences, and their marks, prognostics, and appearance.-^ What a labour would it be thus to study no more than Macbeth, Hamlet, Lear, and Othello ? Yet these charac- ters, we daily find, every beardless stripling is eager to represent, and imagines he may fret and strut his hour upon the stage quite as well as another ; nor is he, in ge- neral, very far from the truth. Comic afting has likewise its fits and starts ; but of 20 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. totally a difFerent nature : yet there is this grand simi- larity, that he alone can be successful who makes man his study. Excellent comic a61ors, however, are far more numerous than excellent tragedians ; and the reason ap- pears plain : men take a pleasure in observing the follies of others, which follies are almost continually before their eyes ; while the exhibition of the tragic passions gives so- much pain, that it is shunned, if possible, and, to give peace to the mind, endeavoured to be buried in forgetful- ness. Laughter can likewise be excited by oddity of ac- tion ; such as may accompany almost any habit, or caprice of mind, without destroying, but rather tending to give a zest to that habit, or caprice ; therefore, though the follies of men are daily present to the eye, superficial observers have no knowledge of particular gestures, attitudes, or de- meanour, that are most usually found to appertain to each difiFerent class of humourists. There are indeed some general rules, that cannot be mistaken : such as that age is feeble, has bent knees, a fal- tering voice, a curbed body, and a discontented counte- nance ; but, the countenance excepted, these properties may as well belong to a man of the soundest understand- ing, and most rational demeanour, as to a. man of the most eccentric habits. Truly to class, and efFeftually to personify, the different gesticulations, attitudes, and modes of deportment, of the different species of humour, which generally prevail, the volume of nature must be industriously studied ; and the labours of the comic performer will be no less than those of the tragedian, for they will both be endless. COMIC ACTION, 21 Were this great task executed in any tolerable degree, comic aftors would not be, what they almost all are, such mannerists, that one of them cannot long be mistaken for another ; they would so transform themselves, so embody each charafter, have such various modes of gesticulation, such change of demeanour, and be so entirely different each time from any thing that they had ever been before, that, speaking of speftators in general, the comedian would defy them to any certainty of guess as to the name and person of the performer, unless indeed some one aclor should be so superior to all his companions, in this art of transformation, that he would always betray himself by his excellence. What then should the duty of a comedian be ? To note down, with a keen eye, the various gesticulations, and modes of deportment, of every individual in society ; and to memorandum every turn of the face, every motion of the eye, and every posture of the body, with the turn of mind and occupation of the person to whom theyx belong. Were they to carry their inquiries no further thanto all the persons of whom they have some personal knowledge, and, having a charafter to perform, would adopt the de- portment, gesticulation, grimace, look, and tone of voice, of a different individual for every different charatler, suiting each with each as their judgment should dire61, how infinitely greater and more delightful would the va- riety be, than that uniformity which at present prevails. An unimpassioned a61ion is that general deportment which is necessary when the performer is supposed not to 22 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR, be agitated by either pain or pleasure. When asking, or replying to a common question, a majestic swing of the arm would appear a burlesque ; and to keep both hands in your pockets would be equally ridiculous. The aftion ' of the arms ought to be carefully modest and restrained, j There are performers who, at the first sentence, with their ' right hand, and the second with their left, continue an •] alternate through each speech. They must have taken pe- ^ culiar pains to have acquired such a puppet-show mode of j disposing of themselves, i There are many who have a seesaw eternally mono- | tonous motion, which, were nothing else seen or heard, would soon lull every patient speftator to sleep. There are others v/ho continually shake a single finger ; some two fingers ; some the whole hand ; but the shaking must continue, v/hile they continue speaking. A frequent clenching of the fist is a favourite mode, which several aftors have, of endeavouring to make the audience believe how much they are in earnest ; especially in the characters of tyrants. The arms akimbo is also often thought the attitude of grandeur, instead of; as it really is, the certain sign of I vulgar and inflated imbecility. | It is not possible to recolleft, in the closet, all 'the va- | rlous ill habits, and errors, into which performers fall, in | their deportment. In comic aftors, such mistakes are less J noticed ; but they are frequently quite as gross. — " To | suit the aaion to the word '' is -indeed a difficult task; ^ for it is first highly necessary to inquire what words de- \ EXPRESSION OF COUNTENANCE. 23 Imand, or rather will endure, action. The arm that Is always in motion is always unmeaning. In all charafters, where good breeding and education are supposed, ease is required ; and violent aftion can never be proper, but to violent passion : the shades that lie between the two extremes are what require the studious discrimination of the performer. Comic deportment should be as various as comic cha- racter: nay, indeed, there are personal varieties, which are indicated in the sketching and filling up of every comedy ; so that two tradesmen, two fathers, nay two misers, or any other class of character, should be individualized, and have separate modes of behaviour. One habitual error, very injurious to the piece and the performer, ought carefully to be noticed ; which is, that there scarcely can be an occasion when an aclor ought to speak with his profile, much less with half his back, turned to the audience ; for then not only his voice, but his fea- tures, are without effeft. Yet, there are many performers who will continue, through a whole scene, with the pro- file, a little more or a little less, toward the audience* — This is an unpardonable fault. — If possible, the face should front the stage, yet the eye remain totally unconscious of the presence of an audience ; a^nd, when the nature of the scene absolutely requires the a6lor to look directly at the person with whom he is speaking, he still should keep a three-quarter face to the audience. Expression of countenance is also necessary in consti- tuting a good performer ; — the eye must speak before the word is uttered ; — the charafter must be delineated in the 24 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. I face, which, as well as the aftion of the body, must accord with every speech. An aftor must frequently be em- ployed, though he has nothing to say. Instead of look- I ing about him, or at the audience, he must attend to the | other dramatis ptrsonx^ and occasionally testify joy, fear, surprise, &c, at what may be said. I No performer should ever appear as if he thought there I was an audience before him : the eye, therefore, is never \ to be direfted at the pit, boxes, or galleries. This is an \ unpardonable fault, particularly when speaking a soliloquy^ or in an aside speech. j Another requisite is to walk the stage properly. Long ' strides, or short steps, are, at times, equally ridiculous. I To tragedians, and the representatives of gentlemen, a short \ step is peculiarly destruftive of dignity ; while in charac- : ters of low breeding, but of animation, it is no less a true ] mark of such persons. To step with measured affe6lation, : like an opera dancer to a march, is no less laughable ; it j destroys reality : for a spe£lator cannot but imagine he ] sees a foolish a^lor, instead of the charafter he ought to | personify. The short step excites risibility at first, and at length contempt and weariness, when it is accompanied, as is seen in some a^lors, by a mechanical and uninterruptedly alternate habit of first stepping forward and then step- ping back. Among country aftors this is no uncommon fault ; and in London it is seen, but in a less glaring manner. We shall now give a summary of the most general SUMMARY OF CHARACTERS* — ^HEROES. 25 charafters which an aftor or aftress may have to represent^ accompanied with suitable reflexions. Heroes. — No performer can personate a hero truly unless, did events favour him, he be capable of aftualiy becoming a hero ; or did not his reason and inclination prefer different pursuits. Let him be possessed of this magnetic power of mind, and his defe6ls of voice and person must be excessive, if they are unconquerable, — Give him that mighty power, and a distinft articulation, clearness, compass, and strength of voice, an athletic and correct symmetry of person, with pliant yet pleasing fea- tures, capable of all the varieties and the full force of ex- pressing the various passions, and this imaginary aBor will be one who has never yet been beheld. Many per- formers, however, are on record, male and female, who, were the piftures given of them by their admirers correft, have approached if not attained, nay surpassed this per- feftion I Roscius was the father of a numerous progeny ; for many have assumed or willingly accepted his name.— - That he was himself the essence of all that is perfect we must now take upon trust. Admiration, in all ages, might more truly be painted blind than justice : like a stone cast into still water, it begins with raising a small circle, and from circle to circle spreads, till it necessarily dies awavj because it can extend no further. Perhaps the young candidate for theatrical fame may best remember if the rules, which he ought to observe, be contrasted in a negative and positive form. Thus, of ihe hero* 1, He cannot roar ; yet, not a single tone of his voice C 26 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. , can be insignificant, I speak of him on the stage. N© ■ man strains and roars with his voice, who is not foolish, or confused : for confusion of mind, while it continues, de- notes folly ; and a roaring voice denotes either, or both. 2. His delivery cannot be monotonous : for monotony denotes want of feeling; and he discourses only of things of the greatest moment : or, if he ever have occasion to be familiar, there is discrimination and intention in all that he utters ; and monotony denotes vacancy of mind. 3. For the above reason, he cannot speak in recitative : . for every approach to insipidity is the antipathy of he- '■■ roism ; and the recitative of stage speaking is insipidity 1 itself. It is a grown child repeating his lesson. I 4. He cannot take short steps ; for they are the marks I •f meanness, trifling, and indecision. The qualities o£ | the hero are exactly the reverse. i 5. He cannot swing his arm, or arms, in the air ; for \ that is monotony of aftion, and has all the vices that ap- pertain to a monotonous delivery. His gestures, like • his words, are decisive, dignified, and have a precise in- ] tcntion. 6. He cannot hold back his head : for that implies in- flated self-sufficiency, and a desire of extorting slavisk \ obedience. The hero has a consciousness that his power is acknowledged, and he only commands obedience when J the want of it would be dangerous. He knows nothing i of slavery, except the obedience which reason exafts be so called. Tyrants only have slaves. ^ 7. He cannot have a cringing and contrafted deport- , mcnt ; for that denotes both mental and bodily debility, SUMMARY OF CHARACTERS,^ — LOVERS. 27 and the consciousness of superior power is never absent from the hero. 8, He cannot stiffen and endeavour to swell his limbs : for that, once more, depifts ostentation and imbecility. 9. He cannot either so aft, or speak, as to denote con- fusion of mind : for ordinary minds only are confused. The heroic mind has frequently doubts ; but it pauses, exa- mines, and determines : for the thing which it most abhors is indecision. The hero vanishes, whenever indecision appears. These rules are here given as warnings to the young aftors against failings which are much too frequent. If they be true, he cannot but deduce from them, that the deportment of a hero ought to be dignified, yet easy ; that of a perfeft gentleman, yet disdainful of the gentility and mere ceremony of good breeding — immeasurably beyond them : while the varied tones of his voice, and each word that he utters, should make it evident that he fully com- prehends every varied sense in which what he speaks can be understood. In brief, his presence of mind, un- shaken fortitude, and especially his consummate intelli- gence, should approach perfeftion. Lovers, — In the lover, all the exterior charms, whick can steal upon and enslave the female heart, should be combined : a smiling, prepossessing, yet anxious face, beauty of form, elegance of manners, sweetness of voice, passionate eyes, and susceptibility of heart, should all en- rapture his mistress. Add to these the feminine beauties, graces, and accomplishments, and the descxiption will be suitable to the other sex, C 2 28 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. Gentleman, — ^The requisites to personate this characlcr completely are many, and difficult indeed to attain : they are, perfe£l ease of deportment, even under the most em- barrassing circumstances ; manners that conciliate, and gain universal esteem ; good breeding, so disciplined as never to be thrown from its guard, or, except on the most extraordinary occasions, betrayed to the discovery of pas- sion ; a smooth and flowing enunciation ; a bland gaiety of heart, that no trifles can disturb ; \ flattering, yet not officious, attention to every person present ; and all those charms of address and demeanour which cannot fail to win our afFeftions. There have been almost as few gentlemeji on the stage as heroes. Tradesmen, — In a certain sense, all the chara6i:ers of middle life are affiliated to this class : but, as it is not here intended to individualize them, this subdivision will be deferred. The qualities of a tradesman are such as most performers, who have abilities for the dramatic art, may easily personate. Habit induces the mere tradesman to be subservient in his manner, especially to the wealthy, and on extraordinary occasions servile ; he renders contradic- tion smooth, listens to it patiently, intends to flatter, but does it awkwardly, complies with any request if his inte- rest be not compromised, is always ready with the trades- inan^s bow, not only at meeting and parting, but where- ever it can be intruded ; and his eye, attitudes, and slightest aftions, wherever his interest is concerned, are all anxiously intent on and subservient to that eager desire of gain which habit has rendered a predominant passion. By the nature and extent of this, his deportment is regu- CLOWNS HEROINES FINE LADIES# 29 lated. His propensities appear on all occasions ; but they appear slightly, earnestly, or extravagantly, in proportion to supposed loss or gain. It is not by this intended to de- preciate a class of men, but to describe habits, which are inevitably fostered by barter and sale, unless counterafted by superiority of mind, or extraneous circumstances ; and to give a picture such as an aftor, who literally personates a tradesman, ought to have in contemplation. Clowns,' — Rustic appearance, vacant or gazing eyes, an open mouth, arms dangling, yet the shoulders raised, the toes turned inward, a shambling gait with a heavy step, great slowness of conception, and apparent stupidity of mind and manner, charafterise the absolute clown. The varieties of this class, like the last, are interesting subjefts of study for the stage ; but are too frequently misunder- stood. Vary the portrait by red ribbands, yellow petti- coats, timidity, and maudlin freaks, and his counter-part is seen. Heroines, — Give feminine dignity of person, and all the qualities described under the title heroes^ with that pervading force of sensibility which shall never vanquish,., though it shall often endanger heroism, and the heroine will be nearly perfeft. line ladies, — The fine lady is, or should be, even a more fascinating chara6^er on the stage, than that which has been pitlured under the head gentlemen ; for, to the almost unattainable graces of the gentleman, she should add a continued playfulness, a visible coquetry, which, though perfeftly at her command, should appear sponta- neous, and an ample mixture of delightful caprice, which C 3 so THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. she evidently indulges only to make herself more capti- vating. Should the aftress suffer the least vulgarity to appear, in either walk, attitude, dress, or enunciation, the fine lady instantly vanishes. Her dress is of so much consequence, that, the moment she appears, her character should be visible ; and this art of dress is only to be at- tained by the study of that which is almost simplicity it- self ; or would be, were she but to take away a very few ornaments, tastefully selefted and admirably placed, by which she intends to be distinguished. Hoydens^ — A hoyden exhibits herself by an impatient readiness to romp, eagerness to contradift, fretfulness if contradi6led, vehement wishes to enjoy, dress that is ridi- culous by exceeding the fashion, and, while absurd in manner, loud of voice, and a total stranger to good breed- ing, by an air of excessive seif-satisfaftion. Chambermaids. — Volubility, pertness, a prevailing sense of self-importance, irksome curiosity, uncommon acute* ness in all that relates to family secrets, extreme ignorance of every thing beyond her sphere, impatience to prattle, timidity when over-awed, and a pleasure in being rude when she dare, are most of them what the chambermaid supposes to be her peculiar airs and graces. Middle and old age. — In the various stages of declining life, though the passions are less strong, many of the evil habits of youth become rooted, and should appear mingled with the propensities which prevail in age. Among these propensities are, anxiety concerning trifles, increasing avarice, obstinacy, a petulant inclination to contradict, a gradual disregard of good breeding; ceremony, and dress^ EXITS AND ENTRANCES^ dl uncontrolable peevishnesss, and change of voice, walk, and carriage ; all which qualities are to be regulated partly by age, but still more by the mental strength or de- bility of the charaQer supposed. In the personification of the above classes, and of ail the chara8:ers which are allied to them, the peculiar study of the a8:or should be dire6ied to understand the limits of insipidity and exaggeration. Going off at a wrong door, or rather when there is not supposed to be any door or aperture, is an errt)r which must always be avoided. In the mode of entering and retiring from the stage, a judicious aclor cannot too care- fully consider what is the tone of feeling, which he him» self is supposed to have in combination with that of other performers, or rather of the scene itself. Offence is some* times given, to a discriminating judge, by the performer's negleft of this consideration, at entering ; but more fre- quently at forgetting as it were to give intimation, either by a restless look, an attitude, an approach to the door, or some other mode of intending soon to depart. Unless in particular cases, departure should never appear to be unexpefted and abrupt ; for then it is not only spiritless, but often improbable, and certainly unmeaning. To enter and retire perfe611y in unison with the tone, or passion, of the scene, is what may be called a delicate branch of the art of afting ; which, though it does not require deep ^tudy^ demands great attention t j 32 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR* GHAP. IL The principal Passions^ Humorous Sentiments^ and Intentions^ to be expressed by Speech and A6iion» Joy, when sudden and violent, is expressed by clapping of hands, and exulting looks ; the eyes are opened wide, and on some occasions, raised to heaven. The counte- nance is smiling, not composedly, but with features ag- gravated. The voice rises, from time to time, to very high notes. Delight, or Pleasure, is expressed by placid looks and moderate smiles. Tranq^uillity, or Apathy, appears by the com- posure of the countenance, and general repose of the body and limbs, without the exertion of any one muscle ; the countenance open, the forehead smooth, the eye- brows arched, the mouth not quite shut, and the eyes pass- ing with an easy motion from obj eft to objeft, but noJt dwelling long upon any. Cheerfulness adds a smile, opening the mouth a little more. Mirth, or Laughter, opens the mouth still more towards the ears, crisps the nose, lessens the aperture of the eyes, and sometimes fills them with tears ; shakes and convulses the whole frame, aad (appearing to give some pain)occasions holding the sides. Grief, sudden and violeni, expresses itself by beating MELANCHOLY — DESPAIR. 33 the head or forehead, tearing the hair, and catching the breath, as if choaking — also by screaming, weeping, stamping with the feet, lifting the eyes from time to time to heaven, and hurrying backwards and forwards. This is a passion which admits, like many others, of a great deal of stage-trick; but stage-trick, if not well con- trived, and equally as well executed, frequently fails of the desired efFe£l. Melancholy, or Fixed Grief, is gloomy, se- dentary^ motionless. The lower jaw falls, the lips be- come pale, the eyes are cast down, half shut, and weeping, accompanied with a total inattention to every thing that passes. The words are dragged out rather than spoken ; the accent weak and interrupted, sighs breaking into the middle of sentences and words. Despair, as in a condemned criminal, [George Barn^ well) or one who has lost all hope of salvation, [Cardinal Wolsey) bends the eye-brows downward, clouds the fore- head, rolls the eyes, and sometimes bites the lips, and gnashes with the teeth > The heart is supposed to be too much hardened to suffer tears to flow ; yet the eye-balls will be red and inflamed. The head is hung down upon the breast ; the arms are bended at the elbows, the fists clenched hard, and the whole body strained and violently agitated. Groans, expressive of inward torture, accom- pany the words appertaining to his grief : those words are also uttered with a sullen, eager bitterness, and the tone of the voice is often loud and furious. When despair is supposed to drive the aftor to distraftion and self-mur- der, it can seldom or ever be over-a£ted. 34 THS THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. FsAR, violent and sudden, opens the eyes and mouth very wide, draws down the eye-brows, gives the counte- nance an air of wildness, draws back the elbows parallel with the sides, lifts up the open hand (the fingers together) to the height of the breast, so that the palms face the dreadful object, as shields opposed against it. One foot is drawn back behind the other; so that the body seems shrinking from the danger, and putting itself in a posture for fight. The heart beats violently ; the breath is fetched quick and short, and the whole body is thrown into a ge- neral tremor* Fear is also frequently displayed by a sud- den start, and, in ladies, by a violent shriek, which pro« duces fainting. The voice is weak and trembling. Hope brightens the countenance, arches the eye-brows, gives the eyes an eager wishful look, opens the mouth to half a smile, bends the body a little forward, the feet equal, spreads the arms, with the hands open, as to re- ceive the objeclof its longings. The tone of the voice is eager and uneven, inclining to that of joy, but curbed by a degree of doubt and anxiety. Desire differs from Hope as to the expression in this particular, that there is more appear- ance of doubt and anxiety in the former than the latter ;. for it is one thing to desire what is agreeable, and ano- ther to have a prospeft of aftually obtaining it. Desire expresses itself by bending the body forward, and stretching the arms toward the objeft as to grasp it : the countenance smiling, but eager and wishful ; the eyes wide open, and eye-brows raised ; the mouth open ;. the tone of voice suppliant, but lively and cheerful (unless there be distress as well as desire); the words are uttered LOVE JEALOUSY* 34 With a kind of rapidity, accompanied (chiefly in distress) with sighs. Love, when successful, lights up the cquntenance into smiles. The forehead is smooth and enlarged ; the eye-brows are arched, the mouth a little open and smiling, the eyes languishing, and half shut, or gazing upon the beloved objeft. The countenance assumes the eager and wishful look of desire^ as above, but mixed with an air of satisfa£lion and repose. The accents are soft and winning ;' the tone of voice persuasive, flattering, pathetic, various, musical, rapturous, as in joy. The attitude much the same as that of desire ; sometimes both hands pressed ea- gerly to the bosom.. Love, unsuccessful, adds an air of anxiety and melancholy. Kneeling is often necessary in all suppliant passions; but it is only necessary to bend one knee in cases of love, desire, &c. which must never be the one that is next to the audience. Jealousy, which is a mixture of passions, dire611y contrary to one another, can only be justly represented by one who is capable of delineating all those passions by turns. Jealousy shews itself by restlessness, peevishnessj thoughtfulness, anxiety, absence of mind, <&;c. : some- times it bursts out in piteous complaint, and weeping ; then a gleam of hope, that all is yet well, lights up the countenance into a momentary smile. Immediately the face, clouded with a general gloom, shews the mind over- cast again with horrid suspicions and frightful imagina- tions. Then the arms are folded upon the breast, the lists violently clenched, the rolling eyes darting fury, [Othello.) At sight of the charms of his once and still-beloved objeft^ 86 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. i reason may return, and she appears, to his imagination, \ like the sweetness of the rising dawn. fAlonzo in the Revenge. J Violent agitations succeed* His monster- I breeding fancy represents her now as false as she is fair. \ His words are uttered with fury, and he spurns her from ] him. He throws himself on the ground — then he springs "* up, and with perturbed looks and action, rails against . all woman-kind — fCastalio in the Orphan, J As poets I have variously described this passion, an aftormust accord- ingly vary his representation of it : as he must frequently ] fall upon the ground, he should previously raise both hands I clasped together, in order to denote anguish, and which ^ will at the same time prevent him from hurting himself; — ; he must then fall flat, either on his face, or on his side, : with his face to the audience — for it would be ridiculous \ to see a man, who is supposed to be tormented with grief and fury, quietly lie down. This fall must be repeatedly ^ studied, it being also necessary in madness^ iScs and ; indeed jealousy may be termed a madness. Rage, or Anger, expresses itself with rapidity, iwt ; terruption, rant, harshness, and trepidation. The neck I is stretched out, the head forward, often nodding, and ' shaken, in a menacing manner, against the obje£l of the i passion; the eyes alternately staring and rolling, the eye-brows drawn down over them, and the forehead wrinkled into clouds ; the nostrils stretched wide — every ; muscle strained ; the breast heaving, and the breaih fetched j hard ; the mouth open, and drawn on each side towards the ears, shewing the teeth in a gnashing posture ; the feet often stamping ; the right arm frequently thrown outj PEEVISHNESS, MALICE, ENVY, &C. 37 and menacing with the clenched fist shaken, and a general and violent agitation of the whole body. Peevishness, or Ill-nature, is a lower degree of anger, and is therefore expressed in the above manner, only more moderately ; with half sentences and broken speeches, uttered hastily ; the upper lip drawn up disdain- fully ; the eyes asquint upon the objeft of displeasure. Malice, or Spite, sets the jaws, or gnashes with the teeth ; the mouth is drawn towards the ears ; both fists" clenched, and the elbows bent in a straining manner. The tone of voice, and expression, are much the same with those of anger, but the pitch not so loud. Envy is a little more moderate in its gestures than malice ; but much the same in kind. Revenge, Tyranny, and Cruelty, are ex- pressed in the same manner as rage, malice, and the other irascible passions. Hatred, or Aversion, expressed to, or of any person, or thing, that is odious to the speaker, occasions his drawing back, as avoiding the approach of what he hates : the hands at the same time are thrown out, spread, as if to keep it off; the face turned away from the side toward which the hands are throv/n out ; the eyes looking angrily, and asquint, the same w^ay the hands are direct- ed ; the eye-brows drawn downward; the upper lip di> dainfully drawn up; but the teeth set; the pitch of the voice loud, the tone chiding, unequal, surly, vehe- ment. Commendation, or Approbation, from a su- perior, puts on the aspect of love, fexcludino- desire and D 38 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. respect) and expresses itself in a mild tone of voice ; the ! arms gently spread, the palms of the hands towards the ; person approved. j Courage, steady and cool, opens the countenance, and .] gives the whole form an erect and graceful air ; the ac« j cents are strong and articulate 5 the voice firm and even ; the arm sometimes akimbo. ^ Exhorting, or Encouraging, as of an army i hy a general, is expressed with some part of the looks and action of courage. Gravity, or Seriousness, draws down the eye- 1 brows a little ; casts down, or shuts, or raises the eyes to } heaven ; shuts the mouth, and pinches the lips close ; the ] posture of the body and limbs is composed, and without \ much emotion ; the speech slow and solemn, the tone un- ' varying. 1 Enquiry, into an obscure subj eft, fixes the body in one posture ; the head stooping, and the eyes poring ; the j eye-brows drawn down. Attention, to an esteemed or superior character, has the same aspeft ; the eyes often cast down upon the ground, sometimes fixed on the face of the speaker, but not | too pertly. Modesty, or Submission, bends the body for- ! ward ; levels the eyes to the breast, if not to the feet, of the superior charafter ; the voice low, and the tone sub- j missive. Anxiety, or Perplexity, which is always at- | tended with some degree of fear and uneasiness,draws all j the parts of the body together ; gathers the arms upon the breast, unless one hand covers the eyes, or rubs the fore- VEXATION—PITY SHAME REMORSE. 39 head ; draws down the eye-brows ; hangs the head upon the breast ; casts down the eyes, shuts and pinches the eye- lids close ; suddenly the whole body is vehemently agi- tated ; the aftor should sometimes walk about hastily, and stop abruptly. In soliloquies, the tone of his voice is sometimes low, sometimes vehement ; his words sometimes slow, and sometimes quick. If speaking to another, his pauses are occasionally long. Vexation agitates the whole frame; and, beside ex- pressing itself with the looks, gestures, restlessness, and tone of perplexity, it adds those of complaint, fretting, and lamenting. Pity, a mixed passion of love and grief, looks down upon the objeft of compassion with lifted hands ; eye- brows drawn down; mouth open, and features drawn to- gether ; the voice is frequently to be interrupted with sighs ; the hand-^semetimes employed in wiping the eyes* An aclor, however, should not be too fond of displaying his handkerchief, which is more becoming an aftress. He should recolleft, that weeping is effeminate, and may be derogatory to his charafter ; but in some cases a hero may, even to his honour, weep. Shame turns away the face from the beholder; hangs the head ; casts down the eyes, and draws down the eye- brows ; the speech is delivered in faltering accents. Shame, or confusion, in comedy, admits of some ridiculous ge: = tures and grimaces. Remorse casts down the countenance, and clouds it with anxiety ; hangs down the head ; draws the eye-browv down upon the eyes ; the right hand beats the breast ; the teeth gnash ; the whole body is strained and violently 40 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. agitated. If this remorse be succeeded by the more gra- cious disposition of Penitence or Contrition, then the eyes are raised (but with great appearance of doubting and fear) to heaven, and immediately cast down upon the earth. The aftor, or aBress, should occasionally weep ; the knees are bended ; the arms spread in a sup- pliant posture ; and the voice of deprecation is uttered with sighs, groans, timidity, hesitation, and trembling* Boasting, or Affected Courage, is loud, blustering, threatening ; the eyes , stare ; the eye-brows drawn down ; the face is red and bloated ; the mouth pouts out ; the voice hollow and thundering ; the arms are set akimbo ; the head often nodding in a menacing manner ; and the right fist clenched, brandished from time to time at the person threatened ; the right foot is often stamped upon the ground ; the legs take longer strides, and the steps are heavy. Pride assumes a lofty look ; the eyes are open, but with the eye-brows considerably drawn down ; the mouth pouting out, mostly shut, and the lips pinched close ; the words drawl out ; a strut, with a slow, stiff, bombastic affe61ation of importance ; the arms are generally akimbo; and the legs at a distance from one another, taking large solemn strides. Obstinacy adds to the aspeft of pride a dragged sourness, like that of malice* Authority opens the countenance, but draws down the eye-brows a little, so far as to give the look of gravity. Commanding requires an air a little more perempto- ry, with a look rather severe or stern ; the hand is held out, FORBIDDING, AFFIRMINGj &C. 41 and moved toward the person to whom the orders are given, with the palm upwards, and the head nods toward him. Forbidding, on the contrary, draws the head back- ward, and holds out the hand, with the palm towards the person ; the voice is bold, and the accents strong. Affirming, if with an oath, is expressed by lifting the open right hand, or both hands and eyes toward hea- ven ; sometimes kneeling : but if conscience be only ap- pealed to, the right hand is laid upon the breast. Denying is expressed by pushing the open right hand from you, and turning the face the contrary way. Re- fusing, when unaccompanied with displeasure, is done with a visible reluftance, which occasions the bringing out the words slowly, and with a shake of the head. Granting, when done with unreserved good-will, is accompanied with a benevolent aspe6l and tone of voice ; the right hand pressed to the left breast, to signify how heartily the favour is granted, and the benefa£lor's joy in conferring it. Dismissing, with approbation, is done with a kind aspect and tone of voice ; the right hand open, gentlv waved toward the person : with displeasure, besides the look and tone of voice which suits displeasure, the hand is hastily thrown out toward the person dismissed, the back part toward him ; the countenance at the same time turned away from, him. Judging demands a grave steady look, with deep at- • tention ; the countenance altogether clear from any ap- pearance of either disgust or favour ; the accents slow,. D3 42 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. distinQj emphatical, accompanied with little aftion, and that very grave. Reproving puts on a stern aspecl ; roughens the „ voice} and is accompanied with gestures, not much different from those of threatening, but not so lively. Threatening puts on the same look. and voice of reproving ; brandishes the right hand, and sometimes shakes it ; the voice strong, and the accents quick. Acquitting is performed with a benevolent, tran- quil countenance, and tone of voice ; the right hand, if not both, open, \vaved gently toward the person acquit- ted, expressing dismission. Condemning assumes a severe look, but mixed with pity ; the sentence is to be expressed as with reluc- tance. Pard o N I NG differs from acquitting, in that the latter means clearing a person, after trial of guilt; whereas the for- mer supposes guilt, and signifies merely delivering the guil- ty person from punishment. Pardoning requires some de- gree of aspeQ and tone of voice, because the pardoned person is not an obje6l of entire unmixed approbation ; otherwise its expression is much the same as granting. Teaching, Explaining, or Giving Orders to an inferior, requires an air of superiority to be assumed: the features are to be composed to an authoritative gra- vity ; the eyes steady and open ; the eye-brows a little drawn over, but not so much as to look surly or dog- matical (except in the charafter of a pedant) : the pitch of the voice must be strong and clear, the tone varying according as the emphasis requires ; and much accenting is necessary in expressing matter of this sort ; the articM« ARGUING, VENERATION, &C. 43 iatlon must also be distlnft ; the utterance slow, and t'le manner peremptory. Arguing requires a cool, sedate, attentive aspeft, and a clear, slow, emphatical accent, with much demon- stration by the hand. Veneration, or Addressing Heaven, re- quires, during the speech, the head to be raised, and the eyes lifted ; after the speech, the head should bow, and the eye -brows be drawn down in the most respectful man- ner; one knee should be bended, and the features should" demonstrate the most profound gravity. Duty, or Respect, for a parent or superior, puts on the looks and gesture of modesty. Giving, Inviting, Soliciting, and such-like aBions, which suppose some degree of affeftion, real or pretended, are accompanied with much the same looks and gestures as express love, but more moderate. In solicit- ing, it is frequently necessary to kneel, and to speak v/ith ardour. Wonder, or Amazement, (without any other in- teresting passion, as love^ esteem^ &c,J opens the eyes, sometimes raising them, but oftener, and more expres- sively, fixing them on the objeft, if visible, with the look, all except the wildness, o^ fear -, if the hands hold any thing at the time when the objeft of wonder appears, they immediately let it drop, unconscious, and the whole body fixes in a contra^led, stooping posture, the mouth open, and the hands held up open. Admiration, a mixed passion, cons'isiing o£ wonder » and love^ or esteem^ takes away the familiar gesture ^v^i 44 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. expression of love^ but keeps the respe6lful look and atti- tude, like that of modesty and veneration j the eyes are opened wide, and now and then raised ; the mouth open- ed ; the hands lifted up ; and the tone of the voice rap- turous. Gratitude puts on an aspe6l full of complacency or love ; if the objeft thereof be a character greatly superior, it expresses much modesty and submission ; the right hand pressed upon the breast, accompanies (very properly) the expression of a sincere and hearty sensibility of obliga- tion. Curiosity, as of a busy-body, opens the eyes and mouth ; lengthens the neck ; bends the body forward, and fixes it in one posture, with that of admiration, assuming alternately the looks of hope, desire, attention, &c. Persuasion puts on the look of moderate love j its accents are soft, flattering, emphatical, and articulate* Tempting, or Wheedling, expresses itself much in the same way as persuasion, only carrying the fawning part to excess. Promising is expressed with benevolent looks ; the nod of consent, and the Qpen hands gently moved toward the person to whom the promise is made, the palms up- wards : the sincerity of the promise may be exrpressed by laying the right hand gently upon the breast. Affectation dis-plays itself in a thousand different gestures, motions, airs, an^ looks, according to the cha- rafter. Affeftation of learning gives a stiff formality to the whole person ; the words come out slowly, and every sen- tence is pronounced with solemnity,-— (^ Doctor Pangloss AFFECTATION. 45 in the Heir at Law—Qradus in Who's the Dupe — Lingo in the Agreeable Surprise, Sec) A£Feaation of piety, turns up the whites of the eyes now and then ; the hands are clasped together, and often lifted ; and the head often shaken with a vehemence ; the tone of the voice is canting.— /^TAg Hypocrite.J Affeftation of ele- gance and finery, tosses the head with ^conceit ; minces the words, and often assumes a squeaking voice ; uses the spy-glass frequently j lolls about, and throws himself in all the attitudes of a modern man of fashion. — f J^s^ samy in Lionel ami Clarissa — Lord Foppington in the Trip to Scarborough— Grad.us in the second a8: of Who's the Dupe — Tom Shuffleton in John Bull^ &c,) Affeftation of drunkenness, displays forced staggers, and assumes forced hickups.— |^Z)o?i Felix in the fifth a6l: of the Wonder. J Affeftation of love, assumes all the manners of that passion, mixed with the looks of hypo- crisy. — [^Mrs. Millwood in George BarnzvelL) AifeQation of beauty, in order to captivate the beholder, puts the atliress, by turns, into all sorts of forms, appearances, and attitudes : the coquetish affeftation of a young lady, is displayed by many unnatural gestures, and a continual ad- miration of her own sweet ^dL—-fMiss Sterling in. the Clandestine Marriage. J That of an old maid, is display- ed by an awkward imitation of youth and juvenile man- ners. — [Laurelia Durable in Raising the Wind.) Af- fetlation of fashion, in an old maid, is expressed by a pompousness of accent, combined with extreme awkward- ness. — [Mrs. Heighdelberg in the Clandestine Marriage.) Such charafters can seldom be over-a6led» 46 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. Sloth appears by yawning, dosing, snoring; the head dangling, sometimes to one side, and sometimes to the other; the arms stretched out; the eyes heavy, and sometimes closed ; the words drawling out, scarcely audi- ble, and sometimes broken off* People who walk in their sleep (Lady Macbeth) appear as if in a dream, but with their eyes open. Fatigue gives a general languor to the body : — the countenance is dejefted, the arms listless, and the legs, if walking, are dragged heavily along, and seem, at every step, to bend under the weight of the body ; the voice is weak. Intoxication, or Drunkenness, shews itself by the eyes half shut, sleepy, stupid, and inflamed. An idiot smile, a ridiculous surliness, or affefted bravado, mark the countenance : the words are interrupted with hickups, and without proper articulation ; the head seems too heavy for the neck ; the arms dangle from the shoulders ; the legs totter and bend at the knees, and a general inca- pacity exhibits human nature sunk below the brutal. The ador, in staggering, may sometimes have occasion to fall, which must be done with great adroitness, as a drunken man's falls are generally violent. Complaining, when under violent pain, ( Ahoan in OroonokoJ distorts the features, almost closes the eyes — sometimes raises them wishfully ; opens the mouth, gnashes the teeth, draws up the upper lip, draws down the head upon the breast, and the whole body together : the arms are violently bent at uhe elbows, and the fists strongly clenched ; the voice is uttered in groana. DOTAGE, ABSENCE OF MIND, &C. 47 Dotage, or infirm Old Age, shews itself by hollowness of eyes and cheeks, dimness of sight, deafness, and tremor of voice ; hams weak, knees tottering, hands or head paralytic, hollow coughing, frequent expeftoratlon, breathless wheezing, occasional groaning, and the body stooping under an insupportable load of years. (Adam m the Iron Chest, J Absence of Mind displays a total inattention to - what passes, and commits every mistake with a seeming unconsciousness. The least appearance of art destroys the whole effeft of the chara£ler. Hypocrisy has generally a smile on the face when the person to be deceived is present ; but when alone in his soliloquies, the villain is then to be pourtrayed in the countenance. ( ^o^go in Othello — Maskzoell in the Double Dealer. J Folly gives the face an habitual thoughtless grin, or is sometimes more effe£luaily expressed by a wild stare and a vacuity of countenance. — (Jacob Qawkey in the Chapter of Accidents, J Such charafters frequently admit of many grim.aces and ridiculous gestures, &c. Madness opens the eyes to a frightful wildness — rolls them hastily and wildly from objeh to objeft ; distorts every feature ; appears all agitation : the voice sometimes loud and sometimes plaintive, accompanied with tears ; rushing in and out furiously at every entrance and exit. — fOStavian in the Mountaineers, J Sickness djsplays extreme lan.s^uor in every motion and utterance; the eyes dim, and the voice faltering — the hands shaking, and the knees tottering. 48 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. Fainting (which is common in ladies' chara61ers) is represented by a seemingly sudden deprivation of all senses. The aftress must fall apparently lifeless into , another's arms, who must be prepared to catch her. Death is exhibited by violent distortion, groaning, gasping for breath, stretching the body, raising it, and then letting it fall. — Dying in a chair, as often praclised in some charafters, is very unnatural, and has little or no effeft. Lower degrees of passion are to be expressed by more moderate exertions of voice and gesture, as every public speaker's discretion will suggest to him. Mixed passion?, or emotions of the mind, require a mixed expression^ Pity^ for example, is composed of grief and love. It is therefore evident that a correft speaker must, by his looks and gestures, and by the tone ai:d pitch of his voice, express both grief and love in ex- pressing pity ; and so of the rest. There may be other humours, or passions, besides these, vjbich an a6tor may have occasion to express ; but these are the principal : and if there be any others, they will occur among the follov/Ing examples for pra6tice, taken- fi-om our most approved ancient and modern dramatists ; and rules vail be given for expressing them. As every young a£lor and actress should make the subjetl of this chapter their primary consideration, we recommend for study COLLINS's ODE ON THE PASSION'S. '-' When Music, heavenly maid^ was young. While yet in early Greece she sung, ODE ON THE PASSIONS. The Passions oft, to h&ar her shell, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possessed beyond the Muse^s painting ; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturbed, delighted, rais'd, refinM ; Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd, Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspired, From the supporting myrtles round They snatch'd her instruments of sound ; And as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each, for Madness rul'd the hour, Would prove his own expressive pow'r# " First Fear, his hand, its skill to try. Amid the chords bewilder'd laid. And back recoil'd, he knew not why, Ev'n at the sound himself had made, ^^ Next Anger rushM, his eyes on fire. In lightning own'd his secret stings — In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings, *' With woeful measures, wan Despair, Low, sullen sounds, his grief beguiPd ; A solemn, strange, and mingled air — - ^Twas sad by fits, by starts ^twas wild. E $0 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. '* Bat thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure ? Still it whisper'd promised pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! Still would her touch the strain prolong, And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd on Echo still through all the song; And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair. And longer had she sung — but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose; He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down. And, with a withering look. The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread. Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe. And ever and anon he beat The doubling drum with furious heat ; And though sometimes, each dreary paipse between, Deje6led Pity at his side Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien ; Vv'hile each strainM ball of sight seem'd bursting from his head. Thy numbers. Jealousy, to nought were fix^d, Sad proof of thy distressful state ! Of differing themes the veering song was mix'J, And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate* With eyes upraised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retir'd, ODE ON TH^ PASSIONS. 51 And from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, PourM through the mellow horn her pensive soul : And dashing soft from rocks around. Bubbling runnels joined the sound ; Thro' glades and glooms the mingled measure stole* Or o'er some haunted streams, with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing. In hollow murmurs died away. But, O, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone ! When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder slung, Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew. Blew an aspiring air that dale and thickiet rung. The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known ; The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen Peeping from forth their alleys green ; Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear. And Sport leap'd up, and seiz'd his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial ; He, with vinvy crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand address'd ; But soon he saw the brisk- awakening viol. Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best ; They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids. Amidst the festal sounding shades. To some unweaiied minstrel dancing, E 2 52 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. Willie, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings. Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round ; Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound. And he, amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay. Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings. " O IVTusic, sphere-descended maid, Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid, Why, Goddess, why, to us denied, Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside ? As in that lov'd Athenian bowV, You learn'd an all-commanding pow'r, Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd I Can well recal what then it heard. Where is thy native simple heart, Devote to virtue, fancy, art ? Arise, as in that elder time, Warm, energic, chaste, sublime ! Thy wonders, in that godlike age, Fill thy recording sister's page- 'Tis said, and I believe the tale. Thy humblest reed could more prevail, Had more of strength, diviner rage, Than all which charms this laggard age, Ev'n all at once together found Caecilia's mingled world of sound O, bid our vain endeavours cease, Revive the just designs of Greece, Return in all thy simple state. Confirm the tales her sons relate ! '' . JOY.. S3 CHAP. III. Examples of the several Dramatic Passions in Tragedy or Serious Drama j with cursory Remarks. JOY. Castalio. ** W HERE am I ! surely Paradise is round me ! Sweets planted by the hand of Heav'n grow here ; And every sense is full of thy perfeftion. To hear thee speak might calm a mad man's frenzy. Till by attention he forgot his sorrows ; But to behold thy eyes, th^ amazing beauties Might make him rage again with love, as I dq. To touch thee ^s Heaven, but to enjov thee — Oh ! Thou Nature's whole perfe61ion in one piece ! Sure, framing thee Heaven took unusual care, And its own beauty has designed thee fair, And form'd thee by the best lov'd angel there." Orphan^ This passion, which cannot be expressed without an animated look and a vivacious air, seldom or ever occurs in tragedy, except when it is succeeded by disappointment and vexation. E 3 54 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR,* GRIEF. Madame Clermont and Adrian. " Mad, Adrian ! have our visitors departed ? Adr. This instant, we exchanged adieu ! Mad, 'Tis well — it was my wish to find you alone— to speak to you without a witness Adr. Whence is this disorder ? — your look — your voice — your manner Mad, If they are wild and terrifying, they do but re- Heft my heart. — Are you prepared to quit your native valley, and accompany me to a distant country ? Adr, Eternal powers ! whither would you go ? Mad. I have not yet decided — but all roads are equal tO me, if they lead from Rosenheim. Adr, I shudder while you speak — at Rosenheim lives Orriia — must I separate from her ? Mad, Or from me I Answer me^ Adrian ! from your childhood upwards, have I not proved to you a kind, in- dulgent parent ? have I not watched by you in sickness, and administered to your pleasures when in health ? does the unwearied care of twenty teen years entitle me to your gratitude ? — Is my happiness regarded by my son ? Adr, Ah ! why those questions ? Heaven sees my heart, and knows that it is grateful. Mad, Then, by every claim of duty, and every prayer cf nature, I cali upon you to preserve a mother from dis- traction :—will you consent to leave this country ? Adr, What are your motives for departure? GRIEF. 55 Mad. I cannot utter them. Oh ! Adrian, you are the only objefl: of my love on earth — I cannot resign you but with life : yet man, cruel man, would despoil me of my treasure ; — afar, to wilds and woods, and pathless deserts, let me fly, and hide you from his search ! Adr* Merciful heavens ! what is my danger ? whom must I shun ? Mad, Altenburg ! If he sees you, I am lost ; he would tear you from me ; and that instant, despair would strike me to the grave ! Adr, Impossible ! In earth's wide range, no heart so ruthless can be found, that would despoil a parent of its only child. Mad, [jShrieking Jranticly,'] Peace, inhuman boy, peace ! peace ! let me not hear those words — those fatal, doom-denouncing words ; I burn — I blaze — madness scorches my brain ! Adr, What have I said to wound you ? how*have I offended ? Mad, [_Flinging herself wildly at his feet,'] Adrian ! behold me at your feet ! The mother kneels before the son ! Adr. Madame ! parent ! rise ! rise ! Mad, Never, till you have promised to comply ! I am v/ild — I am desperate — speak, then, for life or death is in your word I Adr, At once I yield my fate into your hands — dis- pose, as you will, of it and me. Mad, Take my eternal blessing in reward*^ — This night we leave the valley. 00 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR* Adr, Oh, my heart I but shall we not return ? Mad, Never, while Altenburg remains at Rosenheim. Adr, Has he, then, injured you so deeply ? Mad, He is my bane^— my curse — my horror ! He steeped my early youth in tears of bitterness; and nowj in riper age, his fatal agency pursues me still. Adr, Oh ! for those tears, may the oppressor's life drops fall ! Hear me, eternal justice !. while I curse Mad, [Catching his arm,'] Forbear ! though all man- kind conspire to curse his name, still be your lip silent ! Altenburg must be arraigned by you ; — no — no — never ou by y Adr, Am I not bound to hate the man who persecutes my mother ? Mad, To shun, but not to hate him. Adr, Your words confound me. — Oh ! say, what dreadful mystery is woven with my fate ? Mad, Inquire not, and live happy. — Ills without re- medy, are best without a care. Adr, My soul cries out, and must be satisfied — ^you possess the fatal secret. Mad, But never will divulge its nature. Adr, Cruel ! Mad, Ah 1 rather call me kind ! Adrian, submit ; — your word is pledged ; — and I exact the promise. Adr. It shall be performed; — But oh ! my heart sickens at the thought — must I lose Orrila ? Mad, You will save a parent. — Come, prepare for departure : a moment's struggle, and the sacrifice is past ! Safety and peace invite us hence *,— -ruin and despair JEAR— AGITATION TERROR, 57 iVait US here ; — ^^the destroyer is at our gate ; — decide to Hy, or perish,'' — Adrian and Orrila. In the delineation of this passion, the look must be accommodated to the voice, and both action and accent display a heartfelt and passionate sorrow. Should it be grief succeeding joy, the transition from pleasure to pain must be sudden and impressive. FEAR— AGITATION— TERROR. Hassan and Saib. (Osmond rushes in wildly,) ^* Osm* Save me ! Save me ! — They are at hand 1 Oh ! let them not enter, — \Sinks into the arms of Sail?.'] Sail?. What can this mean ?— See, how his eyes roll I How violently he trembles ! Has, Speak, my lord — Do you not know us ? Osm, [Recovering himself,~] Ha ! Whose voice ? — Hassan's ? — And Saib too here ? — Oh ! Was it then but a dream ? Did I not hear those dreadful, those damning words-^ — -Still, still they ring in my ears, Hassan ! Hassan*! Death must be bliss in flames or on the rack, compared to what I have this night suffered ! Has. Compose yourself, my lord ! Can a mere dream unman you thus ? Os7n. A mere dream, say'st thou? Hassan, 'twas a dream of such horror ! Did such dreams haunt my bit- terest foe, I should wish him no#severer punishment, — Mark you not, how the ague of fear still makes my limbs tremble ? Roll not my eyes, as if still gazing on the ao THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR, Speftre ? Are not my lips convulsed, as were they yet prest by the kiss of corruption ? Oh ! -'twas a sight that might have bleached joy's rosy cheek for ever, and strewed the snows ©f age upon youth's auburn ringlets ! Yet, away with these terrors I Hassan, thou saidst, 'twas but a dream: I was deceived by fancy. Hassan, thou saidst true ; there is not, there cannot be, a world to come. Has. My lord ! Osm, Answer me not ! Let me not hear the damning truth ! Tell me not, that flames await me ! that for mo- ments of bliss I must endure long ages of torture ! Plunge me rather in the thickest gloom of Atheism ! Say, that with my body must perish my soul 1 For, oh I should my fearful dream be prophetic ! — Hark, fellows ! Instru- ments of my guilt, listen to my punishment ! — Methought I wandered through the low-browed caverns, where repose the reliques of my ancestors ! My eye dwelt with awe on their tombs, with disgust on Mortality's surrounding em- blems ! Suddenly a female form glided along the vault : It was Angela ! She smiled upon me, and beckoned me to advance. I fiew towards her ; my arms were already unclosed to clasp her~when suddenly her figure changed, her face grew pale, a stream of blood gushed from her bo- som 1 — ^Hassan, 'twas Evelina ! Sail? and Has. Evelina ! Osm. Such as when she sank at my feet expiring, while my hand grasped the dagger still crimsoned with her blood! — «' We meet again this night !" murmured her hollow voice. " Now rush to my arms, but first see ^^ what you have made me ! Embrace me, my bride« FEAR, 59 «• groom ! We must never part again I'' — While speak- ing, her form withered away : the flesh fell from her bones ; her eyes burst from their sockets : a skeleton, loathsome and meagre, clasped me in her mouldering arms !— Saib. Most horrible ! Osm, Her infefted breath was mingled with mine ; her_ rotting fingers pressed my hand, and my face was covered with her kisses I Oh ! then, then how I trembled with disgust ! And now blue dismal flames gleamed along the walls ; the tombs were rent asunder ; bands of fierce speftres rushed round me in frantic dance ; furiously they gnashed their teeth while they gazed upon me, and shrieked in loud yell — '^ Welcome, thou fratricide ! Welcome, " thou lost for ever P^-rHorror burst the bands of sleep ; distrafted I fle^v hither : But my feelings — words are too weak, too powerless to express them,'' — Castle SpeEire. It seems our modern writers, conceiving Tragedy to be now out of fashion, have introduced the sorrowful Muse under the title of a Play, or Drama, in which she is ac- companied by Comedy, and, what is more extraordinary, unnatural Opera, in order, it is presumed, to gratify every taste : — from these half or third part tragedies, we shall, however, be under the necessity of occasionally borrow- ing extracts. In the above picture of terror, the aftor's countenance must be expressive of his agitation. Trembling, gasping for breath, starting, and other stage-tricks, are necessar}', but must be introduced with judgment. By means cf 60 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR* pauses and breathings, a judicious performer will be able to preserve his voice, and at the same time convey to the audience a better idea of the inward agitations of a heart | disturbed and shaken : but too many pauses will become | tedious, and destroy the efFeft of the scene. 1 In describing the agitation of a person, the narrator should, as it were, give a copy of that terror, but not to ^ such a degree as if it were himself that was alarmed, 1 ■Here the a61or must appear to aSi^ and display the difference between art and nature. As for example :— i SOLERNO to D IAN OR A, &C. ^« Solerna. He's a villain certain ; | Endures not solitude ; is ever restless : i Nay, even 'mid the revelry of wassail. Sometimes black Melancholy seizes on him, J And then stares he into the vacant air, ' Glaring around with epilepsied eye ; After a while, as rousing from a dream, Though no one spake, he cries,. * Forgive me, sir ; \ * I mark'd you not — Now let's be merry, friends/ And thus he strives to quell his troublous thoughts, j Which, ever and anon up-boiling, plague him* j ^ :{! ^ ^ H: One stormy evening, which expired in tears, I I saw Don Manuel pacing to and fro— There, where Ansaldo^s iron effigy | Gleams 'mid the chivalry of ancestors, ^ , ; The rattling casements streamed with heavy dropsy i And hollow blasts, hurtling through p«aked j AGITATION TERROR, 61 Re-bellow'd down the gloomy passages. Making the doors to groan of this old mansion. In haste he went, and seem'd to be disturbed, More than the elements disquiet seem'd. While I, unseeji, stood watching his demeanour. His eyes upon the vacant statue fell ; Appal'd he started back, with either hand Shielding his face, as though a ghost had cross'd him : Then on the figure gaz'd, with folded arms, And forehead all convuls'd, and quiv'ring lip. Long having stood absorbed in thought profound, He smote his brow, and earnestly exclaim'd, * O ! deed accurst — would it had ne'er been done I^ More words, perchance, had burst from his dark mind, But, hearing somewhat stir, he pryM aroundj And, much alarm'd, slunk back to his apartment.'' Regent, Hamlet, Ghost, Horatio, &c» ? " Hor» Look, my lord, it comes ! ^w/» I would not for the world they saw thee here. By whose direftion found'st thou out this place ? 68 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. RoTd. By love, that first did prompt me to enquire; He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. I am no pilot, yet wert thou as far As the vast shore, wash'd with the farthest sea, I would adventure for such merchandize. ^uL Thou know'st the mask of night is on my face, Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek. For that v;hich thou hast heard me speak to-n-ight. Fain would I dwell on form : fain, fain deny What I have spoke — but farewell compliment ! Dost thou love me ? I know thou wilt say, ay ; And I will take thy word — yet if thou swear'st^ Thou may 'st prove false ; at lover's perjuries They say Jove laughs. Oh, gentle Romeo, If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully : Or, if thou think'st I am too quickly won, I'll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay, So thou wilt woo ; but else not for the world. In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond : And therefore thou may'st think my 'haviour lights But trust me^ gentleman, I'll prove more true, Than those that have more cunning to be strange. I should have been more strange, I must confess,. But that thou over-heard'st, ere I was 'ware, My true love's passion ; therefore pardon me^ And not impute this yielding to light love, Which the dark night hath so discovered. Rom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon, I vow — ► JuL O swear not by the moon, th' inconstant moouj That monthly changes in her circled orbj LOVE. 69 Lest that thy love prove likewise variable, Rom. What shall I swear by ? JfuL Do not swear at all ; Or, if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, Which is the god of my idolatry, And I'll believe thee. Rom, If my heart's love Jul. Weil, do not swear — Although I joy in thee^ I have no joy of this contraft to-night : It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden, Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be, Ere one can say, it lightens. — Sweet, good night ; This bud of love, by summer's rip'ning breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet. Good night, good night — as sweet repose and rest, Come to thy heart, as that within my breast. Rom, O wilt thou leave me, so unsatisfied ? Jul, What satisfa61ion canst thou have to-night ? Rom. The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine. Jul,. I gave thee mine, before thou didst request it ; And yet I would it were to give again. Rom, Wouid'st ihou withdraw it ? For what purpose, ^ love ? ~^JuL But to be frank, and give it thee again. My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep ; the more I give to thee. The more I have ; for both are infinite. I hear some noise within ] dear love, adieu. [Nurse calls within. 70 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR, Anon, good nurse — -Sweet Montague, be true. Stay but a little, 1 will come again. [^Exit, Rom. O blessed, blessed night. I am afraid, Being in night, all this is but a dream ! Too flattering sweet, to be substantial. Re-enter Juliet, above* jfuU Three words, dear Romeo, and good night, in- deed. If that thy bent of love be honourable, Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow, By one that Til procure to come to thee, Where, and what time, thou wilt perform the rite ; And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay. And follow thee, my love, throughout the world, \Within^ Madam* I come anon — but if thou mean'st not well, I do beseech thee \Within^ Juliet.]] By and by I come To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief. To-morrow will I send, Rom* So thrive my soul. JuL A thousand times good night. \_Exit. Rom. A thousand times the worse to want thy light. Enter Juliet again. Jul. Hist! Romeo! hist! O for a falk'ner*s voice, To lure this tassel gentle back again— Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud, Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies^ LOVE. 71 And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine. With repetition of my Romeo's name. Rom^ It is my love that calls upon my name. How silver-svv^eet sound lovers' tongues by night, Like softest music to attending ears ! J^uL Romeo! Rom, My sweet ! Jul, At what o'clock to-morrow Shall I send to thee ? Rom, By the hour of nine. Jul, I will not fail ; 'tis seventy years till then — I have forgot why I did call thee back. Rom, Let me stand here till thou remember it. Jul, I shall forget, to have thee still stand there.. Remembering how I love thy company. Rom, And I'll stand here, to have thee still forget, Forgetting any other home but this. Jul, 'Tis almost morning. I would have thee gone \ And yet no farther than a wanton's bird. That lets it hop a little from her hand. And with a silken thread plucks it back again, So loving jealous of his liberty. Rom, I would I were thy bird. Jul, Sweet, so would I, Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. Good night, good night. Parting is such sweet sorrow. That I shall say good night, 'till it be morrow. \^Exit. Rom, Sleep dwell upon thy eves, peace in thy breast* Would I were sleep and peace, ro i^weet to rest ! 72 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell, His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell." Romeo and Juliet, The character of a lover is more difficult to perform than is generally imagined ; the utmost tenderness is to be expressed, both by look and manner ; and the delivery should be gentle and insinuating : Feeling is a necessary ingredient for this character. In Love, several other passions occasionally ^occur, such as Joy, Grief, Hope, Fear, Anger, Jealousy, Wonder, Pity, Scorn, &c, ; but unmixed love is always void of rant. JEALOUSY AND DISSIMULATION. Othello and Iago. «« 0th. Ha! false to me! Iago. How now, noble general ? No more of that, 0th. Avaunt ! Be gone ! Thou sett'st me on the rach, Better, unknowing, to be much abused, Than but to doubt the least, Iago. How, my lord ? Oth^ What sense had I of her unfaithfulness ? I thought not of it ; felt no injury ; I slept untroubled ; I wak'd free and cheerful. O now, farewell for ever, blessed peace Of mind ! Farewell the tranquil breast, The plumed troops, the thunders of the war, The lire of valour, and the pride of triumph! Othello is a wicked woman's mock'ry. JEALOUSY AND D I S S IMU t AT I O X. 1'6 Iago» Is't possible, my lord, you should be thus. — -Otk. Villain ! Be sure thou prove my love a whore. [Catching him by the throats Or, by the worth of mine eternal soul, 'Twere better for thee to have been born a dog, Than answer m.y wak'd wrath. lago. Is it come to this! Good Heav'n defend me i Are you a man ? Have you a soul, or sense ? I've done. Take my office. — Wretched fool, That liv'st to make thine honesty a vice ! monstrous world ! What times are we falPn upon ? To be dire61 and honest, is not safe, 1 thank you for this profit, and henceforth ril love no friend ; since love breeds such offence. 0th. Nay, stay^^ — thou should'st be honest. lago, I should be wise; for honesty's a fool, That loses what it works for, Oth» In my anguish I think my wife is honest, and think she is not. I think that thou art just, and that thou art not, I'll have some proof. Her name, that w^as as fresh As Dian's visage, is now begrim'd, and black, As mine own face. If there be cords or knives, Poison, or fire, or suffocating steams, I'll not endure it. Would I were but satisfied. I ago, I see sir, you are eaten up with passion. I do repent me, that I ever started if. Cth, Give me a living reason, she's disloyal. lago, I do not like the office : G 4 74 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR, But since I'm enter'd in this cause so far, Urg'd on by foolish honesty of friendship, I must go onj or bear the name of slanderer, I lay in the same room with Cassio lately. And being troubled with a raging tooth, I could not sleep. There is a kind of men So loose of soul, that, in their sleep, will mutter All their affairs. One of this kind is Cassio, In sleep I heard him say, * Sweet Desdemona ! ^ Let us be wary ; let us hide our loves. ' O cursed fate, that gave thee to the Moor.' 0th. O monstrous ! I will tear her limb from limb. lago. Nay ; but be calm. Th^'s may be nothing yet. She may be honest still. But tell me this, Have you not sometimes seen a handkerchief Spotted with strawberries, in your wife^s hand ? 0th. I gave her such a one. ^Twas my first gift. lago. That I knew not. But such a handkerchief (Pm sure, it was the same) did I to-day See Cassio wipe his bearjl with. 0th. O that the slave had twenty thousand lives ! One is too poor — too weak for my revenge. lago. Yet be patient, sir. 0th. O blood, blood, blood. Hot, reeking blood shall wash the pois'nous stain, Which fouls mine honour. From this hour, my thoughts Shall ne'er look back, nor ebb to humble love, 'Till a capacious, and wide revenge, Equal to their gross guilt, swallows them up. Come, go with me apart. I will withdraw, ANGER. iO To furnish me with some swift means of death For the fair sorc'ress, and her smooth adulterer.— From hence, thouVt my lieutenant. lago.. As you will, sir," — Othello, Othello's rage is here inflamed by lago's artifice. — If the dissembler be properly, represented, \^t pity the lover; but if he display his villainy too openly, we look upon Othello as a/bo/, and the efF^cl: of the trageJy is totally destroyed. Thus one character depends upon the good afting of the other, lago, in his soliloquies, is only to appear the villain ; but, in his scenes with Othello, he is to affeti: veracity and friendship. In the first stage of jealousy, alarm and doubting are to be expressed, as in the first scene between Othello and lago on this subject ; but when the ]over thinks he has just grounds for his jea- lousy, as in the above scene, then indignation and re- venge succeed. AxNGER. Prince Richard and Adelaide. «« Pr, Rich, Madam, beware — For know, the indig- nation That on the hrow of slandered innocence Shews lovely, and is throned in dignity, Speaks in the frowns of guilt a hardened mind. That braves the sense of shame. Ade, Sir, could I bear This taunt of infamy, with brow unruffled, G2 (b THE THESPIAN P R E C E ? T O R, 1 should by acquiescence give a colour To this unmanly stroke of coward malice. But, by the voice of conscious truth acquitted, I scorn its efforts, and I court the confliO:. To the severest test, let malice bring My every a61ion — point one guilty stain To blot my spotless fame, my blameless faith To vows, once breathM to youj ere frantic passion Thus taught distemper'd jealousy to start At self-created phantoms. Pr. Rich. This is ail Your sex's art, screening your own inconstancy Beneath a lover's weakness, and excusing Your own mean falsehood by the storm of jealousy Excited by that fals&hood. Think again — Search well your inmost soul, and answer truly. If I am not betray'd. Ade. No — ^on my honour — Not even in thought by me. Fr, Rich* False maid, beware — Honour's a sacred name, by which adjur'd. Even open guilt, that is not sunk by meanness, Debas'd, as well as profligate — will pause.—— Ade, This is too much ! Have I deserv'd this usage ? Knighthood shall blush, basely to injure one Without a friend to right her ; left an hostage Here among strangers — yet I have a brother — Ah no! rash Philip is a rude associate Of your designs. I am alone — deserted — The mock of fortune. PITY, 77 *] Pr. Rich. You the mock of fortune ? Is England's monarch then, is potent Henrj^ \ Be come so low as not to have the power i To vindicate his mistress ? Does that wound you ? ' I see the conscious guilt glow in your face--- \ Your blushes speak your falsehood* Ade. Yes— the blood, Rous'd by the sense of virtuous indignation, Alounts to my cheek, to hear the base aspersion ^ ^y cruel malice frara'd." — Adelaide. Indignation requires a strong voice ; an impatient ex- j pression ; threatening aftion, and a fierce aspeft. ! PITY. FiTZHARDING, " I have a kind of movement, still, for Wilford, I cannot conquer. What can be this charge Sir Edward brings against him ? — Should the boy Prove guilty ! — well ; why should I pity guilt ? Philosophers would call me driv'Ier.— Let them* Whip a deserter, and Philosophy Stands by, and says he merits it. That's true : But wherefore should Philosophy take snuflF, When the poor culprit writhes ? A plague on Stoics ! I cannot hoop my heart about with iron, Like an old beer-butt. I Would have the vessel What some call weak— Pd have it ooze a little. Better compassion should beset abroach, G3 78 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. 'Till it run waste, than let a system-monger Bung it with Logic ; or a trencher-cap Bawl out his ethics on it, Hill his thunder Turns all the liquor sour.'^ — Iron Chest. ZORAYDA to ViROLET, " Sooth, I am weary now—Yet I could on — And yet I could not — Shall I tell thee, love; I could not leave this honest wench behind, And sleep in quiet. She is humble born ; But trust me. Christian, I do see no cause Why I should blush in feeling for the lowly. The peasant, pining on his bed of straw, Should draw as warm a tear from melting pity, As when a monarch suffers.'^ BuLCAZIN ^n^ ZORAYDA, ^* BuL These vile Christians Vex thy poor father, sore, Zorayda# Would it not glad thee, wench, to see these dogs Dragg'd through our towns in chains ? Zor, No, trust me, father : For when the captives pass, that dig our garden, Pining in wretchedness, and spirit-broken, Poor hearts ! I turn my head aside, and weep, To see a sight so piteous. Surely, father, \¥hen' Heaven made man, it never was ordain'd That he should make his fellow-creatures slaves, And ^z\\ them with such QTi\t\i\^^^'-^MoiintainccrSi, SCORN. 79 The efFiisions of a sympathetic heart require to be expressed with an apparent sorrow for the wretched, and in lively accents, denoting sensibility and feeling. SCORN. Count, Peasant, &c. " Count, Ha ! what art thou ? Peas, It seems thy pris'ner: disengage me first From their rude gripe, and I may tell thee more. Count, Unhand him, I should know thee; I have seen Features like thine. Answer me, wert thou found As these men say ? Peas. I was. Count. And what thy purpose? Peas, Chance brought me there. Count, And did chance lead thee too To aid a fugitive ? Peas. They saw not that. Count. They saw it not! How! could her delicate hands. Weak, soft, and yielding to the gentlest touch, Sustain that ponderous mass? No; those tough arms, Thy force, assisted ; else, thou young dissembler < Peas, She had been seiz'd, and by compulsion brought Where I stand now. Count, Thou dost avow it, then, Boast it even to my face, audacious stripling ! 80 TH£ THESPIAN PRECEPTOR, Such insolence and these coarse rustic weeds Are contradictions. Answer ine, who art thou ? Peas, Less than I should be ; more than what I seem. Count, Hence with this saucy ambiguity. What is thy name, thy country ? that mean habit (Which should teach humbleness) speaks thy condition. Peas, My name is Theodore, my country France ; My habit little suited to my mind. Less to my birth ; yet fit for my condition. Count. O, thou art then some young adventurer^ Some roving knight, a hero in disguise, Who, scorning forms of vulgar ceremony, No leave obtained, waiting no invitation, Enters our castles, wanders o^er our halls, To succour dames distress^, or pilfer gold. Where are your trains, your pages, and your ^squires ? Perhaps but poorly lodg'd ! am I to blame ; But must excuse my scanted courtesy, ^Y ignorance of your high charafter. Peas, There is a source of reverence for thee here, Forbids me, though provok'd, retort thy taunts. Count. If I endure this more, I shall grow vile Even to my hinds Peas. Hold, let me stop thy wrath. I see thy quivering iip, thy fiery eye. Forerun a storm of passion. To prevent thee From terms too harsh, perhaps, for thee to offer, Or me to hear (poor as I seem) with honour, I will cut short thy interrogatories. And on this theme give thee the full extent SCORN. 81 Of all I know, or thou canst wish to learn. Count, Do it. Peas. Without a view to thwart thy purpose (Be it what it might), was I within thy walls. In a dim passage of the castle-aislesj Musing alone, I heard a hasty tread And breath drawn short, like one in fear of peril. A lady enter'd (fair she seem'd, and young,) Guiding her timorous footsteps by a lamp : ^' The lord, the tyrant of this place (she cried) ^* For a detested purpose follows me ; " Aid me, good youth :" then, pointing to the ground, '• That door (she added) leads to sanftuary.'* I seiz'd an iron hold, and while I tugg'd To heave the unwilling weight, I learn'd her title. Count, The lady Isabel ? Peas* The same. A gleam, Shot from their torches who pursued her track. Prevented more ; she hasten'd to the cave, And vanishM from my sight. Count, And did no awe, No fear of him she call'd this castle^s lord, Its tyrant, chill thee ? Peas, Awe nor fear I know not, And trust shall never ; for I know not guilt. Count* Then thou, it seems, art master here, not I ; Thou canst controul my projefts, blast my schemes. And turn to empty air my power in Naibonne. Nay, should my daughter choose to fly my castle, Against my bidding, guards and bolts are vain : 82 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR, This frize-clad champion, gallant Theodore, Would lend his ready arm, and mock my caution. Peas» Thy daughter ! O, I were indeed too blessM, Could I but live to render her a service ! Count. My daughter would, I hope, disdain thy ser- vice. Peas. Wherefore am I to blame ? What I have done^ Were it to do again, again Td do it. And may this arm drop palsied by my side, When its cold sinews shrink to aid affliftion ! Count. Indeed ! Peas. Indeed. Frown on. Ask thy own heart,— Did innocence and beauty bend before thee, Hunted and trembling, wouldst thou tamely pause, Scanning pale counsel from deliberate fear, And weigh each possibility of danger ? No ; the instinctive nobleness of blood Would start beyond the reach of such cold scruples, And instant gratify its generous ardour/' Count of Narbonne^ In the Count's charafter we here see a true pi6lure of scorn, which must chiefly be expressed by contemptuous looks, even when the other is speaking. In the part of a scorner, the judicious poet does not give long speeches, as such a charafter would disdain to talk much to the ob- jed despised. Short jeering expressions, and indignant remarks, are sufficient, except when sarcasm is intro- duced/ as in the following speech ; HATRED AND REVEilGE, 83 ^^ O5 then thou art some young adventurer/^ &c. And again : — ^* Then thou, it seems, art master here, not I/' &c. which must be delivered with an air of irony, to display its poignancy and reproach. HATRED AND REVENGE, Zanga to Isabella. ^^ To strike thee with astonishment at once, I hate Alonzo, * * Hi H* -=-» — « — 'Tis twice three years since that great man (Great let me call him, for he conquered me) Made me the captive of his arms in fight. He slew my father, and threv/ chains o'er me, While I with pious rage pursued revenge. I then was young, heplac'd me near his person. And thought me nr^t dishonoured by his service. One day, (may that returning day be night. The stain, the curse of each succeeding year !) For something, or for nothing, in his pride He struck me. (While I tell it, do I live ?) He smote me on the cheek 1 did not stab him, For that were poor revenge E'er since, his follv Has strove to bury it beneath a heap Of kindnesses, and thinks it is forgot. Insolent thou'ght ! end like a second blow ! 84 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. Affronts are innocent, where men are worthless; Aad such alone can wisely drop revenge.*' — Revenge^ Hatred is more boisterous than scorn, having the tone of anger and revenge. Revenge is sometimes sullen — meditating — and at other times displaying a maliciousness. When its purpose is obtained, it shews scornful smiles of satisfaction. WONDER, OR AMAZEMENT. i S c H E D o N I with a lamp and dagger, ( E l l e n A asleep,) \ " Schedoni. Yes, she's asleep ! Fie on these shaking i joints ! I Does not my interest tell me she must die ? Hush ! sure she speaks ! — She never will speak more. Oh ! such weak thinkings will unman me quite. How deep that sigh ! — Her whole frame seems con* < vuls'd— - Can I remove her robe, and not awake her — < fHe looks at her breast, and seeing a piEtiire, starts j ^ then eagerly snatches it, drops the dagger, and, \ shuddering, draws back in an agony oj horror, J • Am I alive ? and do my eyes see truly ? ;^ Or are these features but a fancied charm, ^ To bind that devil, which tempts me to destruQion ? \ Ellen ! — awake 1 awake ! | (Ellena starts up, shrieks, and falls at his Ject,) I EIL O save me ! save me ! ] WONDER, OR AMAZEMENT, «5 Spalatro will destroy me ! Sched. Quickly, tell me, How came you by this pifture ? EIL 'Twas my mother's. Sched. Whose the resemblance — tell mCj en your life?— EIL It is my father's portrait, and Sched. His name ? EIL The Count de Marinella. Sched, My child, my child — In me behold that father. Yet spare me — I shall blast you with my touch. Stand off! The springs of love are poisoned here ; misery I To have a star unknown. Beaming with brightness, rise upon my view, While all the hemisphere is stainM with blood. Let me gaze on thee ! O that sweet alarm ! Be hushM, my child — no danger shall approach thee. I'll make this breast a bulwark to defend thee, 1 rave ! O pardon me ! and bless your father. EIL I stand amaz'd — Eternal Providence ! A father, my deliverer ! O, sir, tell me, Why the first care I meet with from my parent Preserves the life he gave ? My infant years Ne'er knew a daughter's duty ; but my heart Is apt I feel to learn this filial lesson. Sched, You shall know all, my child. But ah ! the drink ! EIL Distrusting it, I threw it down, between The bars of yonder window. Ha ! a dagger ! fScdng it on the ground. ) H 85 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. The villain would have stabb'd me as I slept, Had not the father sav'd me from the blow. Schcd. f Walks from her in the greatest agony.) My Ellen, if ^o\i would not blast my senses. Mention this scene no more. Blot it from memory. Here, from this hour of terror and of transport, Promise, if possible, never to think of it. EIL O, should I not ? when it reminds my heart, How infinite the debt I owe my father 1 Hi <( sit « Ht Sched. Come, my sole pride— —we will away for Rome ; And think me not averse to thy attachment. Vivaldi shall be thine. I dote in fondness. My heart, unusM to be awaken'd thus. Does, like the bursting rock, gush out in streams ; The flood is pure, and will refine its channel,'* Italian Monk. This passion has all the agitation of fear, but more in- quisitiveness : it commences with the start or looks of ap- prehension, and gradually displays more and more emotion. AMBITION. Gloster. ** Why, now my golden dream is out Ambition, like an early friend, throws back CURIOSITY. 87 My curtains with an eager hand, o'erjoyM To tell me what I dreamt is true — A crown I Thou bright reward of ever-daring minds ! Oh ! how thy awful glory wraps my soul ! Nor can the means that got thee dim thy lustre : For, not men's love, fear pays thee adoration. And fame not more survives from good than evil deeds. Th' aspiring youth that fir'd the Ephesian dome. Outlives in fame the pious fool that raised it. Conscience, lie still ; more lives must yet be drain'd ; Crowns got with blood, must be with blood maintainM." Richaidlll. CURIOSITY. Enter Dk L'Epee and Theodore. ^^ (Theodore precedes De PEpee, and advancing in great agitation^ expresses by signs that he recolkBs the spot they are in,) De I'E. This warm emotion, this sudden change in all his features, convinces me that he recollects this place. — Hadst thou the use of speech ! (Theodore, looking round him^ observes a churchy and gives signs more expressive of his knozoiyig the place.) De VE. It is — it must be so — and am I then at length o arrived at the period of my long and painful search ! — (Theodore nouo sees tht Palace of Harancour : ht starts — rivets his eyes to it — advances a step or H 2 38 THE THESPIAN PRE€£PTOJl. txx)o— points to the statues— utters a shriek^and drops breathless into the arms of De I'Epee.) I^& l^E» Ah, i«iiy poor wronged boy — for such I am sure you are — that sound goes to my very heart ! He scarcely breathes. — I never saw him so much agitated.— 1 here, there — Come, come, — Why was a voice denied to sensibih'ty so eloquent ! (Theodore r/iakes signs with the utmost rapidity^ thai he zoas born in that Palace — that he lived in it 'when a child — had seen the statues^ come through the gate ^ &c. &c.) De I'E, Yes — in that house was he born. — Words eould not tell it more plainly. — The care of heaven still wakes upon the helpless. (Theodore makes signs of gratitude to De I'Epee, and fervently kisses his hands. — De PEpee explains, that It is not to him^ but to heaven, that he ought to pay his thanks. — Theodore instanily drops on his knee, and expresses a prayer for blessings on his benefactor,) De I'E. f Bare-headed — bozos^ and says J — O thou, who guidest at thy will the thoughts of men — thou, by whom I was inspired to this great undertaking — O, power omnipotent ! deign to accept the grateful adoration of thy servant, whom thou hast stiil protected — and of this speechless orphan, to whom thou hast made me a second father ! — If I have uprightly discharged my duty — if all my love and labours for him may dare to ask a benedic- tion—vouchsafe to shed its dews on this forlorn one, and let his good be all my great • reward. (De I'Epee CURIOSITY. 89 raises Theodore, and embraces him.) We must pro- ceed with caution : — and, first, to know who is the owner of this house. (Theodore is ruyining to hiock at the gatC^^Do PEpee stops him^ &c»J Enter Pierre. Pie. Well — that President is the best natured gen- tleman Dc I'E. O, here comes one that may. perhaps, instruct me. f Signs to Theodore to attend. J Pray, sir, can you tell me the name of this square ? Pie, f Aside. J Strangers, I perceive — It is called St.. George's Square, sir. — f Looking at Theodore.) De VE. Thank you, sir. Another word — Do you know this superb mansion ? Pie, (Observing De I'Epee ^?Z(^ - Theodore mort closely.) Know it! — I think I ought; — I've lived here these five years. De I'E, That's fortunate. And you call it— — Pie. (Aside.) Plaguy inquisitive ! — A few years ago it was called the Palace of Harancour — — » Di VE. Of Harancour? Pie. But at present it belongs to a gentleman of the name of Darlemont. (Observing Theodore.) 'Tis odd— = He seems to talk by signs : — Is he dumb ? (During the above dialogue^ Theodore examines the gateway^ pillars^ arms^ &c. of the Palace oj Ha- rancour, and explains to De PEpee his recoiled ion of the various objects^ <3c.J H 3 90 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. De VE, And — who is this gentleman of the name of Darlemont ? (Theodore now turns his fact j airly tozvards Pierre.) Pie. 'Gad, how like it is ! — Sir ; who is he ? De I'E. Yes; — I mean, what is his rank, his pro- fession ? Pie. ("Still looking at Theodore.) Profession ! — He has no profession, sir ; — he's one of the richest men in Toulouse — f Looking at Theodore.)— One might almost swear to it. 'Your servant, sir ; — I'm wanted. ( Aside. J Very odd, all these questions. — (Looking at Theodore,] — The strongest likeness I ever saw in my life. \_^Exit Pierre into the Palace. De VE. Ay, my friend, you little know the motive of my questions. There's not a moment to be lost. This house, that once belonged to so distinguished a family — this Darlemont, the present possessor of it — every circum- stance relating to it — must be publicly known in Toulouse. I'll instantly away, seek out soma lodging, and then But, for fear it should escape me — ^ — (Writes in a note^ ^/^i^^.y/— Harancour — Darlemont. (Theodore, as De I'Epee writes^ runs to him zvith eager curiosity — De I'Epee j?resses him in his arms, J De I'E. Yes, my poor mute Theodore, if you belong to parents who can feel, no doubt they still lament your loss, and wull with transport hail your return. If, as I fear, you are the viftim of unnatural foul-play, grant me. Providence, to unmasl; and confound it ] So mcH REPROVING. 91 ;li have another proof, that every fraud will soon or late be detected, and that no crime escapes eternal justice." Deaf aitd Dumbn The deaf and dumb character, which, in a regular drama, is certainly new to our stage, requires an annnated countenance and very expressive atlion. The performer must be studied in pantomimic art, but still keep clear of its buffoonery, REPROVING. Mentevole and Marcellus.. " Mentro, < Take my counsel, Devote thy soul to any thing but love ; Steep thy drench\i senses in the mad'ning bowl x Heap gold, and hug the mammon for itself; Set provinces ow dice ; o'er the pale lamp Of sickly science waste thy vigorous youth ; Rush to the war, or cheer the deep-tongu\i hound ; Be thou the proverb'd slave of each, or all ; They shall not be so noxious to thy soul, As dainty woman^s love, MarccL If this be counsel, It comes with such a harsh and boisterous breath, I more discern the freedom, than the friendship. Mcntev. Falsely our poets deck the barbarous god With roseate hue, with infant's dimpling smiles, With wa'ton curls, and wings of downy gold : 92 THE THESPIAN PS^ECEPTOR^ He dips his darts in poisonous aconite ; The fiery venom rankles in our veins, Infuses rage, and murderous cruelty, MarceL The rich juice, pourM in a tainted jar, Turns to a nauseous and unwholesome draught, But we condemn the vessel, not the wine ; So gentle love, lodged in a savage breast. May change his nature to a tyger^s fierceness.*^ — Julia, PRIDE AND WONDER, mixed with PITY. Sir E, Mortimer and Wilford. «• Mort, Honour, thou blood-stain'd God ! at whose red altar Sit War and Homicide, O, to what madness Will insult drive thy votaries ! By heaven, In the world's range there does not breathe a man Whose brutal nature I more strove to soothe. With long forbearance, kindness, courtesy, Than his who fell by me. But he disgracM me, Stain'd me- — oh, death, and shame ! — the world lookM on. And saw this sinewy savage strike me down ; Rain blows upon me, drag me to an fro, On the base earth, like carrion. Desperation, In every fibre of my frame, cried vengeance ! I left the room., which he had quitted. Chance^ (Curse on the chance !) while boiling with my wrongs, Thrust me against him, darkling in the street ;•— PRIDE AND WONDER. 98 I stabbed him to the heart : — and rpy oppressor Roll'dj lifeless, at my foot. Wilf. Oh ! mercy on me ! How could this deed be covered! Alo7-t. Would you think it ? E'en at the moment when I gave the blow, Butcher'd a fellow creature in the dark, I had all good men's love. But my disgrace, And my opponent's death, thus linkM with it, Demanded notice of the magistracy. They summoned me, as friend would summon friend, To a£ts of import, and communication. We met ; and 'twas resolved, to stifle rumour, To put me on my trial. No accuser. No evidence appeared, to urge it on, — - 'Twas meant to clear my fame. — How clear it then ? How cover it ? you say. — Why, by a lie :~ Guilt's offspring, and its guard. I taught this breast^ Which Truth once made her throne, to forge a lie ; This tongue to utter it : rounded a tale, Smooth as a Seraph's song from Satan's mouth ; So well compa61ed5 that the o^er-throng'd court Disturb'd cool Justice, in her judgment-seat, By shouting ^ Innocence !' ere I had finish'd. The court enlarged me ; and the giddy rabble Bore me, in triumph, home. Aye ! — look upon me, — • I know thy sight aches at me. JVclf, Heaven forgive me ! I think I love you still : — but I am young \ 94 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. I know not what to say :— it may be wrong,— Indeed I pity you, Mort, I disdain all pity, — I ask no consolation. Idle boy ! Think'st thou that this compulsive confidence Was given to move this pity ? — Love of fame (For still I cling to it) has urged me, thus, To quash thy curious mischief in its birth. | Hurt honour, in an evil, cursed hour, i Drove me to murder — lying : — 'twould again. ' | My honesty — sweet peace of mind — all, all ! | Are bartered for a name. I will maintain it» | Should slander whisper o'er my sepulchre, ; And my soul's agency survive in death, I could embody it with heaven's lightning, I And the hot shaft of my insulted spirit | Should strike the blaster of my memory Dead in the church-yard. Boy, I would not kill thee r J Thy rashness and discernment threatened danger : :! To check them there was no way left but this : — } Save one— thy death ; — thou shalt not be my vi6lim. \ Wilf. My death I What, take ray life ! — My life ! ', to prop I This empty honour? Mort, Empty ! grovelling fool ! Wilf> I am your servant, sir : child of your bounty i ': And know my obligation. I have been ^ Too curious, haply ; 'tis the fault of youth. I ne'er meant injury : if it would serve you^ JUDGING, ARGUING, &C. SS I would lay down my life ; I*d give it^freely :— - Could you, then, have (he heart to rob me of it ? You could not — should not, Mort, How ! Wilf, You dare not* Mart, Dare not I Wilf. Some hours ago you durst not* Passion moved you; Reflexion interposed, and held your arm. But, should refleftion prompt you to attempt it. My innocence would give me strength to struggle, And wrest the murderous weapon from your hand. How would you look to find a peasant boy Return the knife you level'd at his heart ; And ask you which in heaven would shew the best, A rich man's honour, or a poor man's honesty ?'' Iron Chest. JUDGING, ARGUING, CONDEiMNING, AND CONFESSING. Duke, Mentev.ole, Durazzo, Julia, FULVIA, &C„ " Duke* As you regavd your honour, and your life, Touched by suspicion to the quick, this instant Account for your possession of that picture. That lady there, dead Claudio's m.other, swears, It was her son's, and worn around his neck The day he disappeared. Behold, do you know it ? 96 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTORi Do you allow you dropp'd it ? Me?it, Yes ; but not That it was Claudio's. Yet, I cannot wonder. Two objects so alike should seem the same, :{: H: 4( He 4t I savj should seem j for it is barely seeming. From that which Claudio own'd, (the artist's boast.) Myseifj not meanly in the science skill'd, Painted this pi6lure ; love, my pencil's guide ; And, from the image in my heart engravM, Assisted by the model, such I made it, 1 hat not the most discerning, nicest eye, From their first beauteous draft could know that copy, Ful, And had you still to paint those jewels too. Those jewels in the round ? Their hue and lustre So singular, and bright ? By every power, These were my son's, Ment. No. Give me hearing, madam. Those too I purchased from the very merchant Who furnish'd Claudio. All who hear me, know The name of Manoa ; his services To this ungrateful state; his flight, .his death; Which I lament, since living, he could witness, And strike you dumb, that by my special order He chose these precious gems, in form and colour So like to Claudio's, none could mark distinction. To pay their value my estate was strainM ; But had their estimation been twice doubled, A crown imperial deem'd the mighty price. Rather than yield him preference in aught JUDGING, ARGUING, &C, 97 Might seem a test of my extravagant love, I would have graspM at it ; and so remained The ruin'd, happy lord of that sole treasure. Now learn from hence, how wisdom should demur To found a sentence on appearances. Your grace is satisfied. l^Here Durazzo whispers Camillo, who goes out* Duke, I own, to me, (No proof appearing to the contrary,) If this be so, your honour seems acquitted. :{(:{: Ht H: Ht Dur. Soft you a while ; for lo you, who comes here, Even to your wish, to make all clear for you. Re-enter Camillo, leading in Manoa. Mcnt. (Starting, J Swallow me, earth ! he lives. But I must brave it. Duke* (Rising, J Ha! can I trust my senses? — Manoa ! Dur, The same, my lord, and hy no miracle. Duke, Yet things so strange are next to miracles, And his appearance such. We thought him dead. — This is beyond your hopes. \JTo Mentevole. Ment, O5 much beyond them. — All curses of his nation light upon him ! [^Aside^ Duke. ' • Come nearer still ; \^Gives Manoa the picture. Take this, examine it", Do you remember S8 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. (Observe them well) the jewels round that pifture ? Manoa. Most sure, my lord ; they are by no means common ; But all, indeed, most rare and singular. Duke* They once were yours. Who was their pur- chaser ? Manoa. A noble youth, by whose untimely death Genoa has lost her brightest ornament. Even in the depth of my own misery, My heart dropp'd blood to hear the fate of Claudio. Duke, Did you at any time (think, ere you answer,) Procure, for any other purchaser, Jewels like these ? Manoa. Never, my lord. Ment. Out, dotard! Thy my series have craz'd thy memory. To me these gems were sold ; look on me well, 1 was the friend of Claudio : think, old man, A noble person's life, and reputation, (More dear than life,) hang on the words you utter. Manoa* I've said, what I have said : were my soul's fate Link'd to the testimony, thus I stake it : As I do hope forgiveness of my sins. And peace in death, I never sold these gems. Nor any like them, save to noble Claudio. Duke* Hear you, my lord ? Ment* I hear a faithless Jew, A slave suborn'd, a traitor to the state, A bankrupt, fugitive, and outcast Hebrew, JUDGING, CONFESSING, &C. 99 i Aver — he knows not what ; — and still more strange, I see the credulous duke of Genoa, The first in estimation as in place, j Gaping to swallow monstrous perjuries. | a^ ^ ^ an r^ ^ Manoa, Mighty signor, I have an attestation of my truth, I Beyond ail oaths, or sacred form of words, - | If I am not a liar, and suborned, There rests within this frame a spring concealed With nicest art, and known to me alone. And its first master. Touch'd, it will discover ! The noble Claudio's image. — Ay, 'tis here.— ^ Ill-fated youth ! — Is this to be a liar ? : \^He touches a springs and shews a picture of \ Claudio beneath that of Julia. Ment, Daemons seize thee ! [To Manoa. Cramps and cold palsies wither thy curs'd hand ! Thou hast undone me. : Duke, (Rising.) Sir, you are our prisoner ; i And in our palace you must hear your sentence.-— , Bear him away this instant. l^Ttuo of the guards attempt to seize him* Ment. Stand aloof! i Nor raise a hand in violence against me ; ! Or with one stroke I'll frustrate all your forms, ^\ And the dark tale dies with me. Dukct Hold j^et's hear him* j I 2 iOO THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR* Merits I did kill Claudio. On the morn you miss'ii him, We took together our accustomed walk ; * When this too certain arm achieved the deed. Which long lay brooding in my jealousy, He :{: )it :}: 4e ^ He taik'd with rapture of the approaching bliss, * rill passion drown*d his sight ; with eyes upcast, I Then drew that piclure, hanging round his neck, f From underneath his garment ; glu'd his lips ^ With transport to the beauteous, lifeless form. I My smother'd fury rose at once to madness ; | With one hand, from his grasp I tore the pifture, And with the other smote him to the heart."— — Julia. ^ Whenever the business of a drama multiplies, (as it , always should in the last aft) it behoves the respeftive ^ performers to be doubly attentive ; for the least mistake \ ©f one a£lor may destroy the efFeft of the whole scene. LOVE. 101 CHAP. IV Examples of the several Dramatic Passions in Comedy: witli cursory Remarks* JL HE chief passions, such as Love, Jealousy, Grief^ Joy, Hatred, &c. which we meet with in Tragedy, are to be equally so represented when they occur in Comedy y and though in the latter respe^l they may admit of hu- mour, yet the representative of these particular passions must seem unconscious of the smiles he creates :— of these we shall only give the following examples in Comedy, LOVE. Duke and Am an this. «' Amaiu Love, love Ay, that's the word the Count continually repeats— -and k is the name of hi& disorder ? Duke, Yes. Aman, And of the ISLarquis's too ? Duke. Yes. Aman. And from whence does it proceed ? Duke, From you. Aman, From me? — impossible — I am very well. Duke. Are you ignorant, or do you only pretend to be so ? I 3 102 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTORo Amaoi, I am, indeed, ignorant of what you mean, Duke, Then I'll instrud you — Shame of the Marquis to teach you most of the arts, and yet leave it to his old ancle to teach you the art of love. Aman* Well, what is it ? I am impatient to know. Duke, And it is so long ago since I felt it, I must re- coiled a little before I can tell you. — Amongst the pas- sions, is one more troublesome than all the rest, and yet more pleasing than any of them. It sometimes burns you with heat, and sometimes freezes you with cold — and creates in your mind a constant desire to be with one par- ticular person ; and when you are with them, you gene- rally look like a fool. You think them handsome, though they are frightfully ugly — you think them well shaped, though they are crooked — wise, though they are simple- tons ; and you hope they love you, though you are sure they Ao not* Aman. You need not say any more, sir, — I think I have had the disorder. [^Looking confused^ Duke, You have it now. Aman* Yes, 'tis catching — and I suppose I caught it of the Count, and gave it to the Marquis ; and so we all three have it. ' Duke, And it is you only who can cure them. Aman, How ? Duke^ By marrying one of them. Aman, Is that the way ? Duke, And, now, v/hich of them will you heal ? Amm* Ohl the Marquis ! [^With zoarmtk,'' Child of Nature, fARENTAL LOVl* 103 PARENTAL LOVE. I^w^^r JobThornberry {in anight-gozon) and Bvk,, '' Bur. Don't take on so— don't y^^u, now, pray^ listen to reason. ^ob, I won't. Bur. Pray, do ! J^ob. I won't. Reason bid me love my child, and help my friend : — what's the consequence ? my friend has run one way, and broke up my trade ; my daughter has run another, and broke my . No, she shall never have it to 5ay she broke my heart. If I hang myself for grief, she sha'n't know she made me. Bur, Well, but, master Job. And reason told me to take you into my shop, when the fat churchwardens starved you at the work- house^ — damn their want of feeling for it !— and you were thump'd about, a poor, unoffending, ragged-rump'd boy, as you were^ 1 wonder you hav'n't run away from me, too. Bur, That's the first real unkind word you ever said to me. I've sprinkled your shop two-and-twenty years, and never miss'd a morning, J^ob, The bailiffs are below, clearing the goods : — yoM won't have the trouble any longer. Bur, Trouble ! look ye, old Job Thornberry-^ ^ob. Well ! What, you are going to be saucy to me, now I am ruined ? 104 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. j Bur» Don't say one cutting thing after another. You \ have been as noted, all round our town, for being a kind man, as being a blunt one, | Job, Blunt or sharp, I Ve been honest. Let them look at my ledger-^they'li find it right, I began upon a little i I made that little great, by industry ; I never cringed to a customer, to get him into my books, that I j might hamper him with an overcharged bill, for long ere- j dit ; I earn'd my fair profits ; I paid my way ; I break by the treachery of a friend, and my first dividend will ] be seventeen shillings in the pound. I wish every trades- man in England may clap his hand on his heart, and say as , much, when he asks a creditor to sign his certificate. Bur. 'Twas I kept your ledger, all the time, i J^ob, I know you did. : Bun From the time you took me out of the work- j Iiouse, ; Job. Psha ! rot the workhouse ! \ Bur. You never mentionM it to me, yourself, till to- i day, I Job, I said it in a hurry. Bur, And Pve always remember'd it at leisure, I don^t want to brag, but I hope I've been found faithful. It's rather hard to. tell poor John Bur, the workhouse-boy, ; after cloathing, feeding, and making him your man of J trust, for two-and-twenty years, that you wonder he don't run away from you, now you're in trouble. Job. fAfeded.J John, I beg your pardont fStrctch- ing out his hand. J [ PARENTAL LOVE. 105 Bur. f Taking his hand.J Don't say a word more about it. Job. I— Bur. Pray, now, niaster, don't say any more ! come, be a man ! get on your things ; and face the bailifFs, that are rummaging the goods. Job. I can't, John 5 I can't. My heart's heavier than all the iron, and brass, in my shop. Bur. Nay, consider what confusion ! — pluck up a cou- - rage ; do, now ! Job. Well, I'll try. Bur. Aye, that's right: here's your clothes. {Taking ihemjrom the back of the chair.) They'll play the devil with all the pots and pans, if you aren't by. Why, I warrant you'll do ! bless you, what should ail you ? Job. Ail me ? do you go, and get a daughter, John Bur; then let her run away from you, and you'll know what ails me. Bur. Come, here's your coat and waistcoat. [Going to help him on with the clothes.) This is the waistcoat young mistress work'd, with her own hands, for your birth-day, five years ago. Come, "get into it, as quick as you can. Job. {Throwing it on the Jloor violently.) I'd as lievc get into my coffin. She'll have me there soon. Psha I rot it ! I'm going to snivel. Bur, go, and get me an- other. Bur. Are you sure you won't put it on ? Job, No, I won't, (Bur pauses,) No, I tell you; [^E^it Bur, 106 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. How proud I was of that waistcoat, five years ago ! 1 little thought what would happen, now, when I sat in it, at the top of my table, with ail my neighbours, to cele- brate xhe day ; — there was Collop, on one side of me, and his wife on the other ; and my daughter, Mary, sat at the further end — smiling so sweetly — like an artful, good- for-nothing— I shouldn't like to throw away a waistcoat neither : I may as well put it on. Yes — it would be poor spite not to put it on, {Putting his arms into it^) She's breaking my heart; but, I'll wear it; I'll wear it. {Buttoning it as kt speaks^ and crying invo- luntarily^) It's my child's She^s undutiful — ungrate* ful — barbarous but she^s my child — and she'll Bevor work me another," John BulL CONJUGAL LOVE. Duke, Juliana, and Balthazar. <* Duke. — — — Put up your weapon, sir—* 'Tis the worst argument a man can use ; So let it be the last ! As for your daughter, She passes by another title here. In which your whole authority is sunk— My lawful wife. Balth. Lawful ! — his lawful wife I I shall go mad. Did you not basely steal her^ Under a vile pretence ? Dukt^ What I have done CONJUGA.L LOVE. 107 ni answer to the law.^ Of what do you complain ? Balth, Are you not A most notorious self-confessM impostor ? Duke, True !— I am somewhat dwindled from the state In which you lately knew me ; nor alone Should my exceeding change provoke your wonder^ You^U find your daughter is not what she was. JBalth. HoWj Juliana? ^uL *Tis indeed most true. I left you, sir, a froward foolish girl. Full of capricious thoughts and fiery spirits. Which, without judgment, I would vent on alL But I have learnt this truth indelibly — That modesty, in deed, in word, and thought. Is the prime grace of woman ; and with that, More than by frowning looks and saucy speeches, She may persuade the man that rightly loves her, Whom she was ne'er intended to command. Baltk, Amazement ! Why, this metamorphosis Exceeds his own I What spells, what cunning witchcraft Has he employed ? J^uL None : he has simply taught me To look into myself: his powerful rhet'ric Hath with strong influence impressed my heart, And made me see at length the thing I have been^ And what I am, sir. Balth* Are vou then content To live with him ? 108 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. 1 JuL Content ? — I am most happy ! J Balth. Can you forget your crying wrongs ? \ JuL Not quite, sir; j They sometimes serve us to make merry with. \ Balth. How like a villain he abus'd your father ? j JuL You will forgive him that for my sake ! ' Balth, Never ! ; Duke, Why, then, 'tis plain, you seek your ov;jt| revenge, - And not your daughter's happiness ! ^ Balth. No matter : 1 I charge you, on your duty as my daughter, \ Follow me ! fe Duke. On a wife's obedience, q I charge you, stir not ! JuL You, sir, are my father ; At the bare mention of that hallow'd name, j A thousand recolledions rise within me, ! To witness you have ever been a kind one :— This is my husband, sir ! i Balth, Thy husband ; well JuL 'Tis fruitless now to think upon the means He us'd — I am irrevocably his: And when he pluck'd me from my parent tree To graft me on himself, he gather *d with me My love, my duty, my obedience ; And, by adoption, I am bound as striftly To do his reasonable bidding now, As once to follow yours,"< — ^Honey Moon^ JEALOUSY. 109 JEALOUSY- Governor Heartall, Frank Heartall, a7id MrS^ M ALPORT. Malfort enters, greatly agitated — a letter in his hand, •• MaL Madam — I have to solicit your pardon for thus abruptl)*^ breaking in among your friends \ — but a circum- stance has occured that Mrs. AL f under the impression oj surprise ayid^un-- easiness^ introducing him, J Madam — my husband, Mr. Malfort — MaL [bowing) Madam, I— (^o Heartall) Sir, the con- tents of this letter — concern you : — and lest the warmth and agitation of my mind should urge me on to acls of sudden desperation— I beseech you, read it — and declare how you think a man of honour ought to aft under cir- cumstances so repulsive to his feelings, — f Gives Heartall the letter,) Frank H, [^Readsr\ ' Sir, — ^under the deep disguise ' of afFefted benevolence, young Heartall has designs, of * an infamous nature, upon your wife, — If your distresses * have so absorbed your feelings, that you can become * a tame witness of your own dishonour, you will of ^ course have no obje£tion to his frequent visits to the * house you lodge in — where he has now established ^ * footing, under pretence of paying his addresses to a silly « young widoW; from the country — who wants know- K 110 THE, THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. « ledge of the world, to penetrate the depth of his designs, i « I know the man — therefore take this timely hint, from ' ' a sincere, though concealed, fricHd.' Mrs, M. Merciful heaven !— what can this mean ? ^ Mai. f during the reading of the letter fixes his eyes 1 upon Heartall, who appears agitated^ distressed^ and^ indignant J — Sir {as if he waited Jor Heartall to ] answer » J \ Frank H, Really, Sir, — this extraodinary — business — - IS'— -a MaL Before I proceed. Sir, to further question— | this folded paper contains the bill which your pretended I benevolence would have applied to the relief of my dis- j tresses — ^Take it, sir — it is y our s-^-^f^ gives a paper J — You j cannot, I perceive, sir, deny the foul charge alledged \ against you : — that you do not endeavour to extenuate It I by false asseveration, I applaud you for — and although I a cannot but doubt the courage of him, who, with cold de- ^ liberate villainy, can wear the mask of charity, to hide adulterous sedu£lion, and meanly assume the garb of mu- ! nificence, to cover purposes detestable and base — I shall e«pe6l such ample retribution as insulted pride and inju- | red honour should demand. Frank H. Mr. Malfort, I am at length recovered i from my confusion and astonishment : — this false and ' scandalous aspersion causes no other impulse in my mind, than that of sorrow and regret that any of heaven's crea- tures can be so lost to feeling and humanity as the author of this black scroll. Had I been wretch enough to per- petrate the wrong you charge mc with, I hope I should JEALOUSY. Ill be coward enough not to defend it — nor oppose a pistol against that man's head, whose heart I had already- wounded. Before this company further explanation is un- necessary ; 1 am to be found, sir, whenever it shall suit you. [^Exit HeartalU [Malfort walks ahut, greatly agitated^ Mrs, M. Henry ! — what shall I say ? — can you believe me base Mai. Oh I that Providence would snatch from the earth a wretch torn with confliffing passions, and suf- fering under all the pangs of penury and approaching misery ! Gov, My heart tells me that my boy is innocent ! The rogue is wild — the dog is ungovernable — but he has a heart, I feel it in ray own, warm as blood can make it. I could sometimes kill the villain myself — but that I know he has a heart I and now I have looked upon his honest face, and will stake my life upon his ho- nour ! MaL 'Tis a world of error, sir — stake your life on no man's honour, nor rest your faith on woman's virtue ! — All, all is false, deceiving, treacherous, and subtle. O, agony of thought! — Destruftion pours her measureless weight of woes upon my head. Where is now my so- lace ? — domestic confidence is fled, my home is hell — suspicion darts her scorpion stings into my brain — and all is madness, frenzy, and despair I" — Soldier's Daughter, K2 112 XHX THESPIAN PRECEPTOR^ ANGER. Job and Dennis. 'i Job, ■ ■' A glossy, oily, smooth rascal ; •—warming me in his favour, like an unwholesome Fe- bruary sun! shining upon my poor cottage, and drawing forth my child — my tender blossom — to suffer blight, and mildew ! — Mary 1- — I'll go dire£lly to the Manor-house — his father's in the commission. — I mayn't find justice, but I shall find a justice of peace. Den, Fie, now 1 and can't you listen to reason. jfob. Reason ! — tell me a reason why a father shouldn't be almost mad, when his patron has ruin'd his child. — Damn his proteftion ! — tell me a reason why a man of birth's seducing my daughter doesn't almost double the rascality ? yes, double it : for my fine gentleman, at the very time he is laying his plans to make her infamous, would think himself disgraced in making her the honest reparation she might find from one of her equals. Den, Arrah, be asy, now, Mr. Thornberry. Job. And, this spark, forsooth, is mow canvassing the county ! — but, if I don't give him his own at the hust« ings ! — How dare a man set himself up for a guardian of his neighbour's rights, who has robb'd his neighbour of his dearest comforts ? How dare a seducer come into free- holders' houses, and have the impudence to say, send me up to London as your representative P^'.. 'John BulL ANGER. 113 Mordent and Lennox, ^^ Mor. Mr. Lennox, I am at this moment a deter- mined and desperate man, and must be answered—— Where is she ? Len. Sir, I am as determined and as desperate as yourself, and I say, where is she ? for you alone can tell ? Mor. 'Tis false ! Lcn. False ? Mor. Ay, false ! Len^ [Going up to him.) He is the falsest of the false, that dares whisper such a word ! Mor^ Hark you, sir, I understand your meaning, and came purposely provided. [Drauts a pair of pistols.) Take your choice : they are loaded, Len, Oh, witk all my heart ! [Presents at some paces distant*) Come, sir. Mor. [Approaching sternly,) Nigher! Len. [Approaching desperately,) As nigh as you. please I Mor. [Placing himself,) Foot to foot ! Len. [Franticly both presenting,) Muzzle to muzzle ! Mor. [Short pause.) Why don't you fire ? Len. Why don*t you unlock your pistol ? Mor. [After unlocking,) There! Len. Why do you turn it out of the line ? [Drops his arm — Pause,) I see your intention, Mordent I you are tired of life, and want me to murder you I K 3 114 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. 1 Damn it, man, that is not treating your friend like a ] friend ! Kill me if you will, but don't make me your j assassin ! — \ (^ Pause — both greatly affcEted.) ' Mor. {Tenderly*) Nay, kill me, or tell me where you i have lodged the wretched girl. Len. {With great eriergy.) Fiends seize me, if I have . j lodged her any where, or know what is become of her ! Mor., Your behaviour tells me you are sincere, and to convince you at once I am no less so, know — she is my ^ daughter ! Len, (Seized.) Your daughter ? | Mot. The honest indefatigable Donald discovered her i at Enfield's ! | Len, Murder my friend, and debauch his daughter I * Mor» {Deeply affcBcd,) We are sad fellows — {They \ pc^use^ and gradually recover from the deep passion I with which they zoere mutually seized,) Again and again, | 'tis a vile world. - | 'Len» {Eagerly*) I'll "seek it through with you to find I her. — Forgive me. « Mor, [Takes his hand,) Would I could forgive my- . self !'^ — — Deserted Daughter, GRIEF, TURNING TO DESPAIR and JOY. Faulkner, Julia, &c. " Faulk. My brain rocks ! ah, my child, do I hold lee in a parent's grasp^ pure, unpolluted ? Julia, wc *: GRIET, TURNING TO DESPAIR AND JOY, 115 pax-t ho more— never— never ! ^tis time to tell thee thy father 's a villain. jfuL Impossible ! perhaps your too keen sense of ho- nour interprets harshly. Faulk, No, no. E'en now the man I wrong'd gave it its substantial title — an infernal aft of villainy. Horrors accumulate. — On one side, dishonour ; on the other, famine. Julia ! [taking both her hands^ and look* ing on her) though dreadful, it must be so. JfuL Your words and looks terrify me. Faulk, In this world we can cherish no hope of hap=. piness.- J^uL But in the next, my father — • Faulk, True J girl 5 then the sooner we are there die better. Jul, Sir ! Faulk. 'Tis in our power, Julia, to expedite our hap- piness. jfuL What means my father ? Faulk. Now, heart-strings hold a while i .colleft the exalted resolution of thy soul, and mark, — Out of the wreck of fortune, I have preserved something, my child, to free us from poverty, from dishonour, and to give us everlasting peace. Jul, Blest tidings i Faulk. Behold I [Taking from each pocket a pistol^ and presenting one to Julia.) JuL Horror ! Faulk, Ha ! hast thou not by miracle escaped disho- nour ; and is not thus to live, to meet perdition ? 116 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. JuL Is not thus to die, to meet perdition ? Faulk. It is too late for thought* Here Ah, dost thou shrink ? Jul. Suicide ! my soul sickens at the thought. Faulk. Then live, base girl, and see thy father die. Live, till scorn shall point at thee, and, mocking, cry, * Behold the violated daughter of the villain Faulkner I* Jul. There's madness in the thought — give me the deathful instrument I {Seizes the pistol.) Faulk. Oh ! let me kiss thee^ {A knocking at the door.) We're interrupted — [Knocking repeated.)-^ Go to the door. (Julia goes to the door^ returns with a letter^ opens it^ shrieks^ and runs into her father^ s arms.) What means this frantic joy ? Bank notes ! a letter! ah, from Tangent. {Reads.) ' While I entreat * you v/ill do me the honour of employing those notes, it * gives me great pleasure to enclose you a letter, which at * once exposes the villainy of your agents, and restores « you to prosperity and happiness.' [Looks over the let" ter^ then falls on his knee,) Omnipotent Providence! humbled with the dust, behold a repentant wretch ! but" thou art slow to punish, and thy mercies are infinite. Herej too, let me ask pardon— my child I But where is thy deliverer, the preserver of thy honour, thy life ? Withia — ^^Has Mr. Tangent left the prison ? ^ Enter Jailer* Jailer. Oh, no, sir. — Then they don't knov/ that he's a prisoner. [Aside,) [^Exit^. Faulk. Then fly to him, my child. He is the legi- CUILT AND REMORSE, 117 limate son of honour, I the base born slave of pride. Bring him to me, that I may kneel and bless him. JuU My father — Pm dizzy with my happiness. One kiss of rapturcj and I am gone.'* Way to Get Married* GUILT AND REMORSE. ' LordAvo^DALE andTYKE, <•• Lord Avon, .-—«-, I have received information that alarms — distrafts me. — Come near — that boy--*(what a question for a parent !) — does he survive ? Tyke, I don't know. Lord Avon, Not know ? Tyke, No. Lord Avon, Where did you leave him ? Tyke* Where did I leave him I Why- — Come, come^ talk of something else. [Seems disturbed,) Lord Avo7i, Impossible ! — Have you to human being ever told from v/hom you received that child ? Tyke, No. Lord Avon, Then'my secret's safe» Tyke, I've said so. Lord Avon, Why that frown? What! not even to your father ? Tyke. Who! {Starts,) Lord Avon, What agitates you ?— You had a father. Tyke, Had a father ! be quiet, be quiet» [Walks ahut greatly agitated,) 118 TH£ THESPIAN PRECEPTOR, Lord Avon. By the name of him who indignantly looks down on us, tell me Tyke. {Striking his J$rehead,) Say no more about that, and you shall hear all. — Yes, I had a father ; and when he heard of my disgrace, the old man walked, wi* heavy heart ! v/arrant, all the way tid' jail to see me; and he prayed up to heaven for me — [Pointings but not darl- ing to look up.) — just the same as if I had still been the pride of his heart like. [Speaks zoith dijficulty^ and sighs heavily.) Lord Avon. Proceed, Tyke. Presently. Lord Avon. Did you entrust the child to his care ? Tyke. I did. Lord Avon. Do not pause — you rack me. Tyke. Rack you 1 — well, you shall hear the end out. I meant to tell father all about the child ; but, when part- ing came, old man could not speak, and I could not speak ; — well, they put me on board a ship,, and I saw father kneeling on the shore with the child in his arms. — Lord Avon. Go on. Tyke. 'Tis soon said — fColleEling his fortitude.) — When the signal gun for sailing was fired, I saw my old father drop down dead — and somebody took up the child and carried it away. I felt a kind of dizziness ; my eyes flashed fire, the blood gushed out of my mouth — I saw no more. [Sinks exhausted into a chair.) Lord Avon. Horrible ! What ! record a father's death without a tear ? Tyke., Tear ! Do you think a villain who has a father^ GRIEF, PITY, AND JOY. 119 tJeath to answer for can cry ? — No, no, I feel a pack of dogs worrying my heart, and my eyes on fire — but I can^t cry. [A vacant stare of horror.) Lord Avon, And is this desolation my work? Oh, repent, repent I Tyke. {Starting up.) For what ? Is not father dead ? A'n't I a thief — cursed — hated — hunted ? — Why should I be afraid of the devil ? don't I feel him here ? My mouth ^s parched Lord Avon. Within is wine. Tyke. Brandy, brandy ! Lord Avon. Compose yourself — follow me — you want sleep. Tyke. Sleep, ha, ha! under the sod I may. [Points Jown, and groans heavily,) " School of Reform^ GRIEF, PITY, AND JOY. Mr, and Mrs, Malfort. ^Malfort, with a deep sigh^ thows himself ijito a chair. Mrs. Malfort comes from "where she was seated^ and leaning pensively on his shoulder^ takes his hand ^ and looking tenderly on him, speaks-^'J " Mrs* M, Henry ! Malf. My love? ( Ajter much emotion. J -^ThQ indX is past. All is gone ! the merciless creditors have shared among them the little remnant of our all 5 and we are left without a friend — a home — a shillins: ' 120 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR, Mrs* M. And yet we may still be happy. Malf^ Never — never. I am marked by fate, a vidim for despair. By heaven ! were it not for you and my poor suffering innocent, Vd not endure this weight of sor- row and disgrace. To bear the taunting mocks of bloated affluence ! — pointed at as the ruined wretch, whom trea- cherous fortune crushed in her angriest mood, and levelled with the dust ! — torture ! torture ! Airs, M. Nay ; for my sake, check these tumultuous passions. Consider, Henry : in your prosperous days, when did the unrelieved beggar pass your gate ? was your hand ever shut against the orphan's cry ? or did the wretched widow's plaint pass unheeded through your ear ? The Power that punishes, can reward :~if vice, though late, must meet the scourge of retribution—- virtue has claims that Providence will foster. Malf, Sweet comforter ! If you can endure, 'twere impious in me to murmur: — yet fate will have it so. Oh ! could the best of fathers and of men — if yet he lives^-pierce the gloom of distance which now obscures us from each other's sight ; did he but know the virtuous partner of my sufferings, for whose sad sake, and my poor endearing little one, I thus am shook with agonising tor- ments ; his generous spirit would burst through all re- straining bonds, to banish misery, and all its haggard train of pale-faced sorrows ! — Oh ! multiplying horrors crowd upon my bewildered imagination ! — Houseless !— friend- less ! — my wife I my child ! — defenceless and forlorn ! w^ithout the means of satisfying one scanty meal— too proud to beg — willing to toii^ but unequal to the task-— GRIEF. PITY, AND JOY, 121 no hand to succour — no friend to advise — no faithful bo« som to repose my sorrows on ! Mrs. M, Yes — here is a hand to succour — a friend to advise — a bosom to repose your sorrows on ! Malf. What have I said ? — forgive me, Harriet — I shall be calm. Mrs, M, O Henry ! distress, affliffionj want of food and raiment, I could endure with you — barefoot and wretched, I could take my infant in these arms, and bear her proudly, though disgrace and misery marked my steps, would you but smile at fortune's angry frown, and bear your lot with patient manly suffering. Malf, Oh I fin extreme agony of grief, J Mrs. AU It is for me you feel these strong emotions, and for my child — I know it, Henry ! Yet hope ! — for what is not hope ? It is the prisoner's freedom, the sick man's health, the Christian's consolation. Malf, I cannot speak — -I feel thee my superior, and am lost in wonder at thy virtues! (Tlirozcs himself into a chair^ extremely moved-^she turns, looks at hivi^ clasps her hands in an agony of sorrozv, and then seats herself, — A pause, J Julia, (Entering hastily,) O dear— he's gone!— I never yet saw any stranger that I lov'd so well: — When he talk'd of you, mamma, he sigh'd, grew pale as ashes, and wip'd his eyes so often : — he asked me if I was fond of dolls and toys ? — I said, ' to be sure, sir — all little girls love their dolls.' -Then, said he, take this money, my little angel, and let your mamma buy some for you — and then he kissed mc, wiped his eyes, ajid stepp'd into a L 122 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. carriage, Only look here, father ! — La ! what nice thin paper he has wrapped it in ! (Unfolding a dollar^ or xrown-piece^ she hands the coin to her mother^ and shews the paper to her jathtr») Malf, (Looking with astonishment on the paper.) Oh, Providence ! — Providence !— Why should the wretch despair ? Mrs* Malf. [Observing Malfort — looks over his shoul- der on the paper,) Two hundred pounds ! — Riches! — Happiness ! — New life ! \jSinks into his arms — the Child ^ distressed and alarmed^ catches her Mother's garment^ and looks in her face with an anxious and soli* citous concern," Soldier's Daughter. WONDER. Matthew Daw, Mrs, Hamilton, and Lord Belmour. " Daw» ' 1 judge this letter will inform thee '[ Mrs. Ham, What letter ?— from Lord Belmour ? Daw, No; a man who called himself his friend did | write it in my presence. Moreover, he did say it would f silence all thy scruples, concerning the note thou would^st i have returned. I Mrs, Ham, (Taking the letter^ breaks the seal, J Ah! ■I WONDER. 123 — \ what do I see, my husband's signature ! f Aside, J Is it possible he could know to whom he wrote ? Daw, Verily, he seemed not ignorant of thy condi- tion* \^Exit,. Mrs* Ham. f Reads zoith great emotion,) — ^ Madam, < I think it proper to caution you against attempting to * draw Lord Belmour into a lasting engagement, for I am * too much his friend to allow him to be made the dupe * of appearances : thus far I will pledge myself that you « shall receive from him a handsome maintenance, whilst ^ you behave with candour to merit it. * Your's, E. Epworth*' Enter Lord ^'E.i.yiQ\5K (gaily.) Lord BeL I come, my dear madam, to express my grateful thanks for the honour you have done me, by ac- cepting the note, — I have seen your servant — I am afraid I have been too scrupulous. (Taking out his pocket* book,) Mrs. Ham. Hold, my lord ! Hitherto you have be- held me a weak woman, sinking under the weight of my affliftions — now, sir, behold me a resolute one — I com- mand you to leave me. Lord Bel. What can this sudden indignation mean ? I came not, madam, to insult your misfortunes. Mrs, Ham. My misfortunes ; no, no, no — it is ray husband that is unfortunate, not me : at this moment I feel my superiority — 'tis such v/eahh as worlds should not tempt me to barter— it has soothed me in affliftion, sup- ported me in adversity, guided me through all hazards ; it L 2 124 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. lias arm'd me with courage in danger, and now exalts me ^ above this indignity ; ^tis the riches of an uncorrupted 1 heart ! j Lord Bel, Hear me, madam. ; Mrs. Ham. What ! abandon his wife to the base soli- \ citations of his friend ! — Monstrous, monstrous. I Lord BeL Madam, you dome wrong, if you suspecl — ■ by heaven ! Mrs. Ham, Dreadful profanation ! Do you call heaven ] to witness your friend's perjuries or your own ? Lord BeL Madam, understand me rightly. j Mrs. Ham. Sir, this letter has sufficiently informed ] me. Oha Sir Edward Epworth, to what have you ex- \ posed me ! j Lord BeL Madam, did I hear right ? Sir Edward \ Epworth ! Can it be ? is it possible that Mrs. Hamilton ^ is the wife of Sir Edward Epworth ? \ Mrs. Ham. Sir, I understand your reproach — I have \ been more tender of his honour than he has been of \ mine. Lord Bel. Reproach you ! I honour, esteem, adore | your virtues. Madam, from this moment I abjure all I fellowship with Sir Edward ; — trust me, you have nothing I to fear from any future importunities. I will only ask of j you to look upon me as a brother ; I have a house, ma- j dam, make it yours — you have a child, in my affeQion he shall find a father. Mrs. Ham. Sir, you behold me abandoned by my hus- : band ; my soul fired with indignation at his unnatural desertion of me — torn with conSifting agonies for the fate AVARICE, 125 of my beloved child — but, my lord, you behold me a zoije — as such, I am accountable to the world for my c M 134 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. Why she is of herself a sufficient load of misery for any one poor pair of mortal shoulders. Always fretful, her suspicions never sleep — and her tongue always awake — constantly making her observations, like a vessel sent out upon discovery—ever on the watch, like an armed cutter, to cut off any little contraband toy, and to intercept any harmless piece of smuggled amusement, Manly^ Oh ! 'tis dreadful, neighbour, quite dreadful, indeed. Cltvt. Take comfort, my friend What did I come here for ? Take comfort, I say -There is your son too* Manly. Yes, my son too, an abandoned profligate. Cleve, Nay, if that were all, there might be hopes — the early little irregularities that grow out of the honest passions of our nature are sometimes an advantage to the ripened man ; they carry their own remedy along with them ; and when remedied, they generally leave the per- son wiser and better than they found him — wiser for his experience, and better for the indulgence which they gave him towards the infirmities of others but a canting, whining, preaching profligate — a sermon-maker at twenty — a fellow that becomes a saint, before he's a man — a beardless hypocrite— a scoundrel that cannot be content with common homely sinning, but must give it a relish by joining a prayer with it in his mouth — of such a fellow there can be no hopes, no hopes indeed. Manly. None, none.— Oh miserable that I am, where will my affliction end ! Where shall I find conso- lation ? Cleve. Consolation »— ^in me, to be sure ! — —-What IRONY. 135 eise was the purpose of my visit ? I forbear to say any thing of your daughter, poor unhappy girl. Manly. Conceal nothing from me. What has hap- pened to my poor child — what has happened to her ? She was my favourite. Miserable man ! O miserable man ! Ckvt. Nay, if it will give you any comfort, I will tell you : it is my duty to do so Why, she, you know, was desperately in love with Charles Welford. He ' has turned her oflF, I find, discharged her the service, and has fallen in with somebody else ; so that I suppose hy to- morrow morning we may look for her birth, poor girl, in the ambush of a willow, or the retirement of a fish-pond* Manly. Now the sum of my calamities is complete* {Weeps,) Now, indeed, the cup is full— poor undone man, miserable husband, wretched father ! Cleve. Aye, and all to come upon you at your time of life too Had your misfortunes reached you when you were in the vigour of your days {Old Manly dries his eyes, and looks resentfully.) when you retained enough of bodily strength and force of mind to cope witk them but — at your time of day, when the timbers are approaching fast towards decay, when ihe lights of the understanding are upon the glimmer, and the reckoning of life is pretty nearly out— Oh ! ^tis too horrible. Faith, after all, I don't know how to comfort you. Manly, {in a rage. Both rising.) I believe not, in- deed ; you fusty, musty, old, foul-mouthed, weather- beaten coxcomb — timbers approaching to decay ! Whose timbers do you mean, old jury-mast ? Look at your owa M;2 138 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. crazy hulk — do — and don't keep quoting your damn'd log-book criticisms upon your juniors and your betters, Cleve. Nay, my good friend. Manly* Damn your friendship and your goodness too I I don't like friendship, that only wants me to hate myself— and goodness, that only goes to prove every thing bad about me, Soj good Mr. Yellow Admiral, sheer off—do ; and till you can stuff your old vessel with a cargo of more eommoditable merchandize, don't let me see you in my latftude again. Ckve. Sir^ let me tell you, you may repent of this language ; and were it not for pity of your age and your iXiisfortunes— — Manly, O curse your pity ; and as for misfoi tunes, I know of none eqiial to your consolation," Fugitive* The delivery of ironical speeches must be with a sneer, and every point expressed emphatically : ihe countenance should also be marked with a smile, in order to convey to ihe auditors the author's real meaning. LOQUACITY, Sir Miles Mowbra y and Mr. Wrangle. «« Sir M. What's the matter now ? why do you round mc with a circumbendibus in this manner, when I so often desire you to speak plainly, and to the point at once ? LOQUACITY—BURLESQUE. 187 Mr, W^ Weil, sir, then to the point at once. Sir M, To be sure, that's the way to be undcrstooc^, son Wrangle ; whereas to be verbose and circumstantial, is to be tedious ; and when a man is tedious, you know, 'tis ten to one if his hearers are not tired with his preamble, before he lets them into the body of his bill. Mr, W. At the present moment I conceive that fault does not lie with me. Sir M. I don't say it does, I don't say it does ; yet a fault it is, lie where it will, and every man has his faults, which it is the part of a friend to tell him of, it is the part of a father — You yourself are not without faults, son Wrangle." First Love, In parts of volubility, the performer must be very perfeft, as the least pause or hesitation will spoil the cha- rafter; and should the other performer not immediate- ly answer, a loquacious charafter may repeat hi« words; it being one great mark of a good a6lor not to keep the stage waiting. ' BURLESQUE, or FARCICAL HUMOUR. We shall now conclude this chapter with an ex- ample of the burlesque; observing, that all such extra- vaganzas will admit of the most whimsical gesture? and; b.uffooncry. M3 138 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. FusTiAK^ and Dagger wood discovered— Y\xsii2^x\ sit- ting in one chair^ Daggerwood asleep in another. The Clock strikes eleven. ^^ Fustian. Eight, nine, ten, eleven !— Zounds, eleven o'clock ; and here I have been waiting ever since nine, for an interview with the manager. fA Servant cresses the stage, J ^--Harkye, young man, is your master visible yet ? Serv, Sir ! Fus. I say, can I see your master ? Serv. He has two gentlemen with him at present, sir. Fus. Ay, the old answer. Who is this asleep here in the corner ? Serv. Oh! that, sir, is a gentleman who wants to come out. Fus. Come out! then jwake him, and open the door* 'Gad, the greatest difficulty at this house is to get in. Serv. Ha! ha! I mean, he wants to^ appear on the stage, sir ; 'tis Mr. Sylvester Daggerwood, of the Dun- stable company. Fus. Oho I a country candidate for a London trun» cheon, a sucking Prince of Denmark — Damme, he snores like a tinker, fatigued with his journey, I suppose, Serv. No, sir, — he has taken a nap in this room these five mornings — but hasn't been able to obtain an audience here, yet. Fus. No, nor at Dunstable^ neither^ I take u. FARCICAL HUMOUR.' 139' Se7v» I am so loth to disturb him, poor geiuieman, that I never wake him till a full half hour after my mas- ter is gone out. Fus. Upon my soul, that's very obUging ! I must keep watch here, I find, like a Jynx. Well, friend, you'll let your master know Mr, Fustian is here, when the two gentlemen have left hirn at leisure. Strv, The moment they make their exit. [_Exit Serv, Fus. Make their exit ! this fellow must have lived here some time, by his language, and 111 v^arrant him, lies by rote like a parrot. [Sits dozon, and pulls out a maiui^ script,) If I could nail this manager for a minute, I'd read him such a tragedy. Dag. {^dreaming). Nay, and thou'lt mouth^ — PU rant as well as the — — - Fus. Eh ! damme, he's talking in his sleep ! afting Hamiet before twelve tallow candles in the country. Dag. ^' To be or not to be.*' Fus. Yes — he's at it — ^let me see^^-^[Turmng over the leaves of his play,) I think there's no doubt of its runniflg. Dag, f Dreaming,) <« That is the question,''—- Who would fardies bear'' Fus. Zounds ! there's no bearing you ! — His Grace's patronage will fill half the side boxes, and I warrant we'il stufFthe critics into the pit. Dag. {'Drea7?iing,) « To groan and sweat'* '• When he himself might his quietus make''— Fus. Quietus ! I wish with all my heart I could make your's, — The Countess of Crambo insists on the b^^t HO THE THES?IAN PRECEPTOR, places for the first night of performance ; she'll sit in the stage box. Dag, (Still dreaming. J " With a bare bodkin !" Fus. O, the devil, there's no enduring this ! Sir, sir ! f Waking him, J Do you intend to sleep any more ? Dag, [Waking.) Eh! what? — when? <^ Methought I heard a voice cry, sleep no more." Fus, Faith, sir^ you heard something very like it, and that voice was mine. Dag, Sir, I am your respeftive servant to command,. Sylvester Daggerwood — whose benefit is fixed for the ele- venth of June, by particular desire of several persons of distin6lion; you'd make an excellent Macbeth, sir* Fus. Sir ! Dag, ^' Macbeth doth murder sleep, the innocent sleep, balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course." — Faith, and very often the first course, too ; when a din- . ner is unavoidably deferred, by your humble servant to command, Sylvester Daggerwood. Fus, 1 am very sorry, sir, you should ever have occa^ sion to postpone so pleasant a performance. Dag,. Eating, sir! is a most popular entertainment for man and horse, as I may say — but I am apt to appear nice, sir — and somehow or other, I never could manage to sit down to dinner in a bad company. Fus, Has your company been bad, then, of late, sir ? Dp.g, Damn'd bad, indeed, sirr — The Dunstable com- pany — where I have eight shillings a week, four bits of. candle, one wife, three shirts, and nine children, FuSi A very numerous family. ECCENTRICITY. 141 Dag. A crouded house to be sure, sir, but not very profitable. Mrs. Daggerwood, a fine figure, but, unfor- tunately, stutters ; so of no use in the theatrical line. Chil- dren too young to make a debut, except my oldest, Mas- ter Apollo Daggerwood, a youth of only eight years old, who has twice made his appearance in Tom Thumb, to an overOowing and brilliant barn-house, I mean— with un- bounded and universal applause. Fus. Have you been long on the stage, Mr, Dagger- wood ? Dag, Fifteen years since I first smelt the lamp, sir J my father was an eminent button-maker, at Birmingham, and meant to marry me to Miss Molly Motre, daughter to the rich director of the coal-works at Wolverhampton ; but I had a soul above buttons, and abhorred the idea of a mercenary marriage— I panted for a liberal profession — so rail away from my father, and engaged with a travel- ling company of comedians ; in my travels I had soon the happiness of forming a romantic attachment with the present Mrs. Daggerwood, wife to Sylvester Dagger- wood, your humble servant to command, whose benefit is fixed for the eleventh of June, by particular desire of several persons of distinftion— so you see, sir, I have a taste. Fus, Have you? then sit down, and Pll read you my tragedy : I am determined somebody shall heiir it before I go out of the house. (^Sits dozuiuj Dag, A tragedy ! — Sir, I'll be ready for you in a moment ; let me prepare for woe, [Takes out a very rag- 142 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. gtd pocket handkerchief.) « This handkerchief did an Egyptian to my mother give.'^ Fus. Faith, I shou'd think so — and, to all appearance, one of the Norwood party. Dag. Now, sir, for your title, and then for the dra- matis personae. Fus. The title, I think, will strike : the fashion of plays, you know, is to do away old prejudices, and to rescue certaiji characters from the illiberal odium with which custom has marked them. Thus we have a General — Israelite, an amiable Cynic— and so on. Now, sir, I call my play — The Humane Footpad ! Dag. What! Fus. There's a title for you ! Isn't it happy ?. — Eh, how do you like my Footpad ? Dag. Humph ! — Why, I think he'll strike — but then he ought^to be properly executed. Fus. Oh, sir, let me alone for that. ^An exception to a general rule is, now, the grand secret for dramatic com- position. Mine is a freebooter of benevolence, and plun- ders with seniiment. Dag. There may be something in that ; and, for my part, I was always with Shakspeare — <« Who steals my purse, steals trash,'*— I never had any weighty reasons yet for thinking other- wise. Now, sir, as we say, please to " leave your damn- able faces, and begin.'' Fus. My damnable faces ! Dag. Come— «« we'll to't like French falconers,** Fus. {reading, j Scene first— A dark wood — night. EXTRAVAGANZA. 143 Dag. A very awful beginning. Fus, [reading,) The moon behind a clouds Dag. That's new. An audience never saw a moon behind a cloud before — but it will be deviUsh difficult to paint. Fus. Don't interrupt — where was I ? — Oh, behind a clouds Dag. " The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces,** Fus. Hey, the devil ! what are you at ? Dag. ^tg pardon ; but that speech never comes int© my head but it runs away with me. Proceed, Fus. Enter [redding,) Dag. " The solemn temple'' — Fus. Nay, then, I've done. Dag. So have I, I'm dumb. Fus. Enter Egbert, musing, ^reading.) Dag. O. P. Fus. Pshaw ! what does that signify ? Dag. Not much — " Tke great globe itself.'^ — Fus. [reading.) Egbert musing, clouded in night, I come — Dag. [Starting up,) *• The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces, " The solemn temples," &c. &c. Fus. [Gets up.) Damme, he's mad! a bedlamite I raves like Lear, and foams out a folio of Shakspeare without drawing breath : I'm almost afraid to stay in the room with him. Enter Servant. Oh, I'm glad you are come, friend ! now I shall be de- 144 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. livered : your master would be glad to see me, I warrant, Scrv, My master is just gone out, sir, \ .Fus, Gone out ! Dag. «« Oh, day and night, but this is wond'rous ] strange!" Fus, What, without seeing me, who have been waiting ; for him these three hours ! Dag. Three hours! pugh— rve slept here for five ] mornings in his old arm chair, \ Serv. He ordered me to tell you, gentlemen, he was \ particularly sorry — but he is obliged to hurry down to \ the Haymarket, The theatre opens this evening, and \ Mr. Bannister, jun. and Mr. Suett, are to meet him \ there on particular business. ] Fus. They are! and what the devil/ friend, have I to 1 do with Mr. Bannister, jun.? Damn Mr, Bannister, jun. ! | Dag. And damn Mr. Suett ! what the devil have I to J do with Mr. Suett ? Now he has shirted us : I'll lay you I an even bett he has gone to neither of them. \ Fus* Pretty treatment ! pretty treatment, truly ! to be - kept here, half the morning, kicking my heels in a mana- ■ ger's anti-room, shut up with a mad D unstable aftor. i Dag. Mad! Zounds, sir! I'd have you to know, ' that " when the wind^s southerly, I know a hawk from a hand-saw." i i Fus^ Tell your master, friend, tell your master- — but I no matter ; he don^t catch rae here again, that's all ; dam- me, I-ll go home, turn my play into a pageant, put a triumphal procession at the end on't, and bring it out at one of the winter theaJtres. [^£;Kit. SOLILOQUIES. 145 Dag. ("To the servant.) Yoang man, you know me, I shall come to the old arm-chair again to-morrow, but. must go to Dunstable the day after, for a week, to finish my engagement — Wish for an interview — inclination to tread the London boards, and so on : you know my name — Mr, Sylvester Daggerwood, whose benefit is fixed for the eleventh of June, by particular desire of several per- sons of distinQion. Serv. I shall be sure to tell him, sir. Dag, *^ I find thee apt — And duller would'st thou be than the fat weed, That rots itself at ease on Lethe's wharf, Would^st thou not stir in this.'* Open the street door : go on, I'll follow thee." \^Exit. New Hay at the Old Market, CHAP. V. Soliloquies — Declamation — Prologue and Epilogue speaking. Soliloquies are to be spoken in a thoughtful medi- tating manner; — the aftor being supposed to be then alone and speaking to himself^ of course he is not to take the least notice of the audience. The eyes are generally fixed upon the ground, but occasionally raised to heaven. Boisterous rant is to be avoided, except when something is supposed to ruffle the speaker's temper, N 146 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. In declaiming or haranguing, the audience are likewise \ not to be noticed ; the aftor's eyes must be fixed on those \ only whom he is addressing. Take for example \ *ROLLA^s ADDRESS TO THE SOLDIERS. ^ i ^* My brave associates — partners of my toil, my feel- 1 ings and my fame I—can Rolia's words add vigour to the ] virtuous energies which inspire your hearts ? No — ] YOU have judged as I have, the foulness of the crafty : plea by which these bold invaders would delude you | Your generous spirit has compared as mine has, the mo- tives, which, in a war like this, can animate their minds, j and OURS. — They, by a strange frenzy driven, fight for | power, for plunder, and extended rule — we, for our | eeuntry, our altars, and our homes. — They follow an Adventurer whom they fear — and obey a power which j they hate — we serve a Monarch whom we love—a God | whom we adore. Whenever they move in anger, desola- I tion tracks their progress ! — Where'er they pause in I amity, affli6!ion mourns their friendship! — ^They boast, t they come but to improve our state, enlarge our thoughts, and free us from the yoke of error! — Yes — they will ! give enlightened freedom to our minds, who are themselves the slaves of passion, avarice, and pride. — They offer us their proteclion — Yes, such protection as vultures give to lambs — covering and devouring them ! — They call on us to barter all of good we have inherited and jjroved, for the desperate chance of something better which they pre- * See ihe Plate. PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUE SPEAKING. 147 niise. — Be our own 'plain answer this : The throne wfi honour is the People's Choice — the laws we reve* rence are our brave Fathers' legacy— the faith we follow teaches us to live in bonds of charity with all mankind, and diQ with hope of bliss beyond the grave. Tell your invaders this, and tell them too, we seek no change ; and, least of all, such change as they would bring us." Pizarro. In speaking Addresses, Prologues, and Epilogues, the a6lor then directs his discourse to the audience in general, or to boxes, pit, and galleries, occasionally. The chief •requisites for Prologue-speaking are, distinft articulation, easy affion, and a modest demeanour. The speaker should also be perfe6t in his lines, and not trust too much to the prompter, or to any mean subterfuge ; (such as finding his cue from a paper concealed in his hat, &c.) A reten- tive memory is absolutely necessary to render the delivery graceful, and to give every point its due force. In Prologues, Epilogues, &c. the aftor generally ap- pears in his 0Z071 ch2LTd.£teT I sometimes, according to the whim of the poet, he may assume the charafter of a sailor, a countryman, a counsellor, a quaker, &c. : of course he must affeft the manners and dresses of such characters, but still appear as speaking to the audience. In the generalijy of Prologues the zo/iole audience are addressed ; in some parts, however, the boxes, pit, and galleries are, after th? exordium, re^peftively accosted, as in N 2 148 THE THESPIAN PRECEPTOR. 1 \ BUCKS HAVE AT YE ALL. «* Ye social friends of claret and of wit, i Where'er dispers'd, in merry groups ye sit ; \ Whether above ye gild the glittering scene, i Or in the upper regions oft have been : i Ye Bucks, assembled at your ranger's call, ' Damme ! I know ye^ — and have at ye all : | The motive here that sets our Bucks on fire, ^ The gen'rous wish, the first and last desire ; I If you with plaudits echo to renown, j Or urg'd with fury, tear the benches down, l 'Tis still the same — to one bright goal he haste, | To shew your judgment, and approve your taste; ^1 *Tis not in nature for ye to be quiet. No, damme ! Bucks exist but in a riot I ] For instance, now — to please the ear, and charm the ad- | miring crowd, | Your Bucks of the boxes sneer and talk aloud ; } To the green box next with joyous speed you run — J Hilly, hoi ho! my Bucks — well, damme ! what's thefun? Tho' Shakspeare speaks — regardless of the play, p Ye laugh and loll the sprightly hours av^ay : For to seem sensible of real merit — I Oh! damme! its low, its vulgar — beneath us lads of spirit : Your Bucks of the pit — are miracles of learning, Who point out faults, to shew their own discerning 5 And critic-like, bestriding martyr'd sense, I Proclaim their genius and vast consequence : -^ ' PROLOGUE SPEAKING, 1 i^ The side-long row, where keener views of bliss Are chiefly center'd in some fav'iite Miss— A set of jovial Bucks who here resort, Flush from the tavern, reeling ripe for sport, Wak'd from their dreams, oft join the general roarj With bravo ! bravo ! — bravissimo ! encore ! Or, skipping that, behold these other rows, Supplied by citizens, or smiling beaux. Addressing I^iss, whose cardinal prote^Hon Keeps her quite safe from ranc'rous detraftion ; Whose lively eyes, beneath a down drawn hat. Give hint she loves a little — you know what. Ye Bucks above, who range like gods at large. Nay, pray don't grin, but listen to your charge; You who mean to change this scene of raillery 5 And out-talk players in the upper gallery : « Oh, there^s a youth, one of the sprightly sort ; I don't mean you — damme I you've no features for't — Who slily skulk unto a hidden station. Whilst we poor players follow our vocation, Whistle, off ! off ! Nosee ! nosee ! Roast beef !- there's education! Now I've expior'd this mimic world quite thro^, And set each country's little faults to view ; In the right sense receive the well-meant jest, And keep the moral still within your breast : — Convinc'd I'd not in heart or tongue offend, Your hands acquit me, an « w iiii » ii««ia i! »■— — ^ < iii^M— «piii ' i ' — — » . ^ ;• :^ T H L E N D , .^ Printed by J. Roach^ Woburn^Streit^ Drury Lane, 'V .^' .■i" ^'^^ .^^ ^> BiP ^^^°- ^^/^'^^^^V A^^ G^ <:. •e-c.^. :.-S\: "^c}^ ,iH o. H a ^ , > V vy r. "-^ - tso ^ ^ ^ \<.^^' /i<^ .\rr -^•- '.,'**>^-.^-^ cp- 0-, w: 0°^ ^ „i^ "^ Lv^^^ "^ "^ '^> Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process '^■'^ ,>vr "^ ^^ Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide \> . ^ ^ C^ Treatment Date: Oct. 2007 ^ -.0^ c ^n a"^ -^r^^vf/k^ PreservationTechnologies ; y . O' ^ ^ '^<:k^''W/yl ^- ^' ^^^^^ LEAD*ER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION ^ '^ > . 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 (724)779-2111 ^m r ^ ON ^ ..%■ rO- ...0,.-^,^ |\ '^^ ^Mi^; "'^^: :^^^i^:: ^ ^^ ^Y?" ^ ^^\# ^ :^':^^V ^ ^ '^-^^^-^ -^ r -^. %;^f^.,^_,3N .V' <.''.;.^^ -^^ ^^ '/■i. ^-'^■^^^^ /#^^^^^'^ ^^^^ > 0^ ■s>*' "'.% >G'^ 0.^^ ■:^'^'^' sjL^^ •^^ '% LIBRARY OF CONGRESS ■iliiilili 021 034 750 1 ■ •; '..1 ....■•