“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. CHARLES LAMB, 1826. (1775-1834) Your fair critic in the coach reminds me of a Scotchman who assured me that he did not see much in Shakespeare. I replied, I dare say _not_. He felt the equivoke, lookd awkward, and reddish, but soon returnd to the attack, by saying that he thought Burns was as good as Shakespeare: I said that I had no doubt he was—to a _Scotchman_. We exchangd no more words that day. Letter to J. B. Dibdin, June 30, 1826. _Works of Charles and Mary Lamb._ Ed. E. V. Lucas. 1903-4. Vol. vii. NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, 1845 (1804-1864)