University of Virginia Library

I once more address you on a subject that I
fear will be found irksome, and may chafe
that testy disposition (forgive my freedom) with

which you are afflicted. Exert, however, the good
humour of which, at bottom, I know you to have a
plentiful stock, and hear me patiently through. It
is the anxious fear I entertain of your sinking into
the gloomy abyss of criticism, on the brink of
which you are at present tottering, that urges me
to write.

I would set before you the rights and wrongs of
an actor; and by painting in strong colours the
peculiarity of his situation, call your good sense
into action.

The world, my friend Oldstyle, has ever been
prone to consider the theatrical profession in a
degraded point of view. What first gave rise to
this opinion, I am at loss to conceive; but I
consider it as the relic of one of those ancient
prejudices, which the good sense of the world is
daily discarding; and I flatter myself it will in a
little time be totally exploded. Why the actor
should be considered inferior in point of respectability
to the poet, the painter, or any other person
who exerts his talents in delineating character, or
in exhibiting the various operations of the human
mind, I cannot imagine. I know you, friend Oldstyle,
to be a man of too liberal sentiments not to
be superior to these little prejudices; and also
one who regards an actor, provided his private

character be good, with equal respect as the member
of any other profession. Yet you are not
quite aware of the important privileges solely
attached to the dramatic performer. These I
will endeavour to point out.

The works of a poet or painter you may freely
criticise—nay, they offer them for that purpose—
they listen attentively to your observations, and
profit by your censures. But beware how you
exercise such conduct towards an actor; he needs
no instruction—his own impartial judgment is
sufficient to detect and amend all his imperfections.
Attempt to correct his errors, and you
ruin him at once—he'll starve to spite you; he is
like a decayed substance, that crumbles at the
touch.

No, Sir—when an actor is on the stage, he is in
his own house—it is his castle—he then has you
in his power—he may there bore you with his
buffoonery, or insult you with his pointed remarks,
with perfect impunity. You, my friend, who are
rather apt to be dissatisfied, may call it hard treatment,
to be thus annoyed, and yet compensate the
annoyer for his trouble. You may say, that as
you pay an equivalent for your amusement, you
should have the liberty of directing the actor in his
attempts; and as the Chinese does his ear-tickler,

tell him when his instrument offends, and how he
overdoes himself in the operation. This is an
egregious mistake: you are obliged to him for his
condescension in exerting his talents for your instruction;
and as to your money, why he only
takes it to lessen in part the weight of your obligation.

An actor is, as I before observed, competent to
judge of his own abilities; he may undertake
whatever character he pleases, tragedy, comedy,
or pantomime, however ill adapted his audience
may think him to sustain it. He may rant and
roar, and wink and grin, and fret and fume his
hour upon the stage, and “who shall say nay?”
He is paid by the manager for using his lungs
and limbs, and the more he exerts them, the better
does he fulfil the engagement, and the harder
does he work for his living—and who shall deprive
him of his “hard-earned bread?”

How many an honest, lazy genius, has been
flogged by these unfeeling critics into a cultivation
of his talents, and attention to his profession!—
how have they doomed him to hard study and unremitting
exertion!—how have they prejudiced the
public mind, so that what might once have put an
audience in convulsions of laughter, now excites
nothing but a slight pattering from the hands of

the little shavers who are rewarded with seats in
the gallery, for their trouble in keeping the boxes.
Oh! Mr. Oldstyle, it cuts me to the soul to see
a poor actor stamp and storm, and slap his forehead,
his breast, his pocket holes, all in vain; to
see him throw himself in some attitude of distraction
or despair, and there wait in fruitless expectation
the applauses of his friends in the gallery.
In such cases, I always take care and clap him
myself, to enable him to quit his posture, and resume
his part with credit.

You was much irritated the other evening, at
what you termed an ungenerous and unmanly attempt
to bring forward an ancient maiden in a ridiculosu
point of view. But I don't see why that
should be made a matter of complaint. Has it
not been done time out of mind? Is it not sanctioned
by daily custom in private life? Is not the
character of Aunt Tabitha, in the farce, the same
we have laughed at in hundreds of dramatic pieces?
Since, then, the author has but travelled in
the same beaten track of character so many have
trod before him, I see not why he should be
blamed as severely as if he had all the guilt of
originality upon his shoulders.

You may say that it is cruel to sport with the
feelings of any class of society; that folly affords

sufficient field for wit and satire to work upon,
without resorting to misfortune for matter of ridicule;
that female sensibility should ever be sacred
from the lash of sarcasm, &c. But this is
all stuff—all cant.

If an author is too indolent or too stupid to
seek new sources for remark, he is surely excusable
in employing the ideas of others for his
own use and benefit. But I find I have digressed
imperceptibly into the “rights of authors,” so let
us return to our subject.

An actor, when he “holds the mirror up to nature,”
may, by his manœuvres, twist and turn it
so as to represent the object in any shape he
pleases—nay, even give a caricature where the
author intended a resemblance; he may blur it with
his breath, or soil it with his dirty fingers, so that
the object may have a colouring from the glass in
which it is viewed, entirely different from its natural
appearance. To be plain, my friend, an actor
has a right, whenever he thinks his author not
sufficiently explicit, to assist him by his own wit
and abilities; and if by these means the character
should become quite different from what was originally
intended, and in fact belong more to the
actor than the author, the actor deserves high
credit for his ingenuity. And even though his

additions are quaint and fulsome, yet his intention
is highly praiseworthy, and deserves ample encouragement.

Only think, my dear sir, how many snug little
domestic arrangements are destroyed by the officious
interference of these ever dissatisfied critics.
The honest King of Scotland, who used to dress
for market and theatre at the same time, and
wear with his kelt and plaid his half boots and
black breeches, looking half king, half cobbler,
has been obliged totally to dismiss the former
from his royal service; yet I am happy to find, so
obstinate is his attachment to old habits, that all
their efforts have not been sufficient to dislodge
him from the strong hold he has in the latter.
They may force him from the boots—but nothing
shall drive him out of the breeches.

Consider, my friend, the puerile nature of such
remarks. Is it not derogating from the elevated
character of a critic, to take notice of clubbed
wigs, red coats, black breeches, and half boots!
Fie! fie upon it! I blush for the critics of the
day, who consider it a matter of importance
whether a Highlander should appear in breeches
and boots, or an Otaheitan in the dress of a New-York
coxcomb. Trust me, friend Oldstyle, it is
to the manner, not the appearance of an actor,

we are to look; and as long he performs his part
well, (to use the words of my friend Sterne,) “it
shall not be inquired whether he did it in a black
coat or a red.”

Believe me, friend Oldstyle, few of our modern
critics can show any substantial claim to the character
they assume. Let me ask them one question
—Have they ever been in Europe? Have they
ever seen a Garrick, a Kemble, or a Siddons? If
they have not, I can assure you, (upon the words
of two or three of my friends, the actors,) they
have no right to the title of critics.

They may talk as much as they please about
judgment, and taste, and feeling, but this is all
nonsense. It has lately been determined, (at the
Theatre,) that any one who attempts to decide
upon such ridiculous principles, is an arrant goose,
and deserves to be roasted.

Having thus, friend Oldstyle, endeavoured in a
feeble manner to show you a few of the rights of
an actor, and of his wrongs; having mentioned his
constant and disinterested endeavours to please
the public, and how much better he knows what
will please them, than they do themselves;
having also depicted the cruel and persecuting
nature of a critic; the continual restraint he lays
on the harmless irregularity of the performer, and

the relentless manner in which he obliges him to
attend sedulously to his professional duty, through
fear of censure—let me entreat you to pause!
Open your eyes to the precipice on which you are
tottering, and hearken to the earnest warning of