William Combe, 1812 (1741-1823)
“Dr. Syntax in the Pit of Covent Garden Theatre.”
Critic.—
“Oh, what a Falstaff! Oh, how fine!
Oh, ’tis great acting—’tis divine!”
Syntax.—
“His acting’s great—that I can tell ye;
For all the acting’s in his belly.”
Critic.—
“But, with due def’rence to your joke,
A truer word I never spoke
Than when I say—you’ve never been
The witness of a finer scene.
Th’ admir’d actor whom you see
Plays the fat knight most charmingly:
’Tis in this part he doth excel;
Quin never played it half so well.”
Syntax.—
“You ne’er saw Quin the stage adorn:
He acted ere your sire was born,
And critics, sir, who liv’d before you,
Would have disclos’d a different story.
This play I’ve better acted seen
In country towns where I have been.
I do not hesitate to say—
I’d rather read this very play
By my own parlour fireside,
With my poor judgment for my guide,
Than see the actors of this stage,
Who make me gape at Shakespeare’s page.
When I read Falstaff to myself,
I laugh like any merry elf;
While my mind feels a cheering glow
That Shakespeare only can bestow.
The swaggering words in his defence,
Which scarce are wit and yet are sense;
The ribald jest—the quick conceit—
The boast of many a braggart feat;
The half-grave questions and replies
In his high-wrought soliloquies;
The dubious thought—the pleasant prate,
Which give no time to love or hate,
In such succession do they flow,
From no to yea—from yea to no,
Have not been to my mind convey’d
By this pretender to his trade.
The smile sarcastic, and the leer
That tells the laughing mock’ry near;
The warning look, that ere ’tis spoke
Aptly forbodes the coming joke;
The air so solemn, yet so sly,
Shap’d to conceal the ready lie;
The eyes, with some shrewd meaning bright,
I surely have not seen to-night:
Again, I must beg leave to tell ye,
’Tis nought of Falstaff but his belly.”
Critic.—
“All this is fine—and may be true;
But with such truths I’ve nought to do.
I’m sure, sir, I shall say aright,
When I report the great delight
Th’ enraptur’d audience feel to-night;
It is indeed, with no small sorrow,
I cannot your opinions borrow
To fill the columns of to-morrow.
My light critique will be preferr’d,
The public always takes my word;
Nay, the loud plaudits heard around
Must all your far-fetch’d thoughts confound:
I truly wonder when I see
You do not laugh as well as me.”
Syntax.—
“My muscles other ways are drawn:
I cannot laugh, sir,—while I yawn.”
Critic.—
“But you will own the scenes are fine?”
Syntax.—
“Whate’er the acting, they’re divine,
And fit for any pantomime.
Of this it is that I complain;
These are the tricks which I disdain:
The painter’s art the play commends;
On gaudy show success depends:
The clothes are made in just design;
They are well character’d and fine.
The actors now, I think, Heav’n bless ’em,
Must learn their art from those who dress ’em;
But give me actors, give me plays,
On which I could with rapture gaze,
Tho’ coats and scenes were made of baise:
For if the scene were highly wrought;
If actors acted as they ought;
You would not then be pleased to see
This heavy mass of frippery.
Hear Horace, sir, who wrote of plays
In Ancient Rome’s Augustan days:—
‘Tanto cum strepitu ludi spectantur, et artes,
Divitiæque peregrinæ: quibus oblitus actor
Cum stetit in scena, concurrit dextera lævæ.
Dixit adhuc aliquid? Nil sane. Quid placet ergo?
Lana Tarentino violas imitata veneno.’”
Critic.—
“Your pardon, sir, but all around me
There are such noises they confound me:
And though I full attention paid,
I scarcely know a word you said.
To say the truth, I must acknowledge
’Tis long since I have quitted college:
Virgil and Horace are my friends,
I have them at my fingers’ ends.
But Grecian lore, I blush to own,
Is wholly to my mind unknown.
I therefore must your meaning seek:
Oblige me, sir, translate your Greek.
But see, the farce is now begun,
And you must listen to the fun,
It sure has robb’d you of your bile;
For now, methinks, you deign to smile.”
Syntax.—
“The thing is droll, and aptly bent
To raise a vulgar merriment:
But Merry-Andrews, seen as such,
Have often made me laugh as much.
An actor does but play the fool
When he forsakes old Shakespeare’s rule,
And lets his own foul nonsense out,
To please th’ ill-judging rabble rout:
But when he swears, to furnish laughter,
The beadle’s whip should follow after.”
The Tour of Dr. Syntax in search of the Picturesque. 1812, Canto XXIV. ll. 173 sq.
Tanto cum strepitu, etc., Horace, Epistles, II. i. 203-7.