A LECTURE ON MIMICRY, As it was delivered with great Applauſe, at the Theatres in Covent-Garden and the Hay-Market, and the great Room in Panton-Street. In the Courſe of which were introduced A GREAT VARIETY OF THEATRICAL IMITATIONS. To which is added JERRY SNEAK's RETURN FROM THE REGATTA; AND A LECTURE ON LECTURES. BY GEORGE SAVILLE CAREY.
LONDON. Printed for J. BEW, No. 28, PATER-NOSTER-ROW. M.DCC.LXXVI. [Price ONE SHILLING.]
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
[]- Mr. Fiddleſtick,
- Mr. F-ſh-r
- Mr. Smallcoal,
- Mr. C-lm-n
- Mrs. Artichoke,
- Mrs. H-rt—y
- Bouana Figli.
- Sig. S-ſt-ni
- Patent,
- Mr. G-r-k
- Richard IIId.
- Mr. W.ſt-n.
- Shylock in Macbeth,
- Mr. M-ckl-n.
- What alas ſhall
- Sig. M—ll-co
- Roſy Wine,
- Miſs C-t—y
- The early Horn,
- Mr. L-we
- This is Sir,
- Mr. B-n—ſter
- From Morn 'till
- Mrs. B-rt—n
- Think, O! think
- Mr. V-r—n
- Sweet Willy O!
- Mrs. B-d-ley
- The Mulberry
- Mr. K-ar
- Ye Warwickſhire Lads, &c. a Duette,
- Mr. V—n and Mr. D—n.
- Mr. Br—by, Mr. D-dd, Mrs. P.-rſ-ns, and others.
- Othello,
- Mr. B-r-y
- Cymbeline,
- Mr. H—ſt
- Jacimo,
- Mr. P-lm-r
- Poſthumus,
- Mr. R—diſh
- The Riva Singers and the Determination of Dr. GUTTLE,
- Mr. D—d-n, Mr. Q—ck, Dr. A-ne.
A Diologue between ARISTOPHANES and BILLY BUCKRAM.
POETICAL INTRODUCTION.
[]LECTURES ON MIMICKRY.
[]A SUDDEN tranſition, from the gloomy ſhades of oblivion, to the ſunſhine of pro⯑ſperity, has different effects on different objects; the man of ſenſe ſhews it in a modeſt reſerve; a coxcomb in a ſuperficial glare of oſtentation, which renders him the laughing-ſtock of all mankind. A tom-boy is always pleas'd with a new coat, let it fit him ever ſo ill; and when he ſhould rather hide himſelf, his vanity leads him into the great world; hence he is proud of eſta⯑bliſhing a character, though a ridiculous one.
I beg leave to give my auditors a novel ſcene in another peep behind the curtain.
Hollo! you carpenters, what the devil are you all about there?
Drawing up the clouds to make room for an Italian ſky.
Why, you make ſuch a tugging and a pulling, you'll tear all the clouds to pieces.
Somebody has taken away the laurel from the figure of Apollo, ſir, and we have not another in the houſe.
Oh! I have got that, it fits me very well, and I intend to wear it in the character of A⯑pollo, at the maſquerade this evening. There, there, what the devil are you about now, hey!
'Tis only one of the ropes that ſnap'd.
The devil ſnap you, what do you mean by that; do you know that the fourth part of every rope in this houſe belongs to me.
'Twas only the rope that was tied about the neck of Apollo; there is rope enough left to hang all the Apollo's in England.
A good morning ſir, pray ſir, is not your name Mr. Fiddleſtick.
Timothy Fiddleſtick, Eſq. if you pleaſe.
I beg your pardon ſir.
Well, what do you want here?
Sir, I came to offer myſelf.
Offer yourſelf, to do what!
To play, ſir.
Hey, well, what do you play the fiddle?
No, ſir.
Can you ſing?
No, ſir.
Then I would not give a fig for you.
I am a tragedian, ſir.
Damn your tragedies and your comedies,— I wiſh they were at the bottom of the ſea, with all my heart;—'Tis a great pity they were ever in⯑troduced upon the ſtage;—there is more ſound ſenſe in a good ſolo, or a concerto, than all the tragedies and comedies in the world. But here comes Mr. Smallcoal,—you'd better ſpeak to him. Hey, what, well—Mr. Smallcoal, here is a gentleman who ſays he is a tragedian.
A tragedian is he.
did you ever play in any company.
Oh! yes ſir, very often.
What company, ſir?
Sometimes in one company, and ſometimes another.
But what company, ſir?
Sometimes at the Faulcon in Fetter-lane, ſometimes at the Horn in Doctor's Commons, ſometimes at the Gooſe-and-Gridiron in St. Paul's Church-yard.
I never ſaw ſuch a gooſe as you are, I'm ſure
Can you read, ſir?
O yes. ſir.
Can you write?
Yes, ſir.
Then I'll be damn'd if you'll ever do for me: for you fellows that write and read are always too conceited; there is no making any thing of you.
I thought it was impoſſible to be an actor without ſuch requiſites, ſir.
You thought?—who gave you the pri⯑vilege of thinking, ſir?—that's another proof of your ſtupidity—an actor ſhould never think for himſelf.
No, ſir?
No, he ſhould always leave that to a Ma⯑nager.—Did you ever hear Mrs. Hartichoke?
No, ſir.
No?—call her in—now you ſhall hear the very pattern of an actreſs.
Prithee, my dear girl, give me your favourite ſpeech in ſhore.—Oh, ſhe has all the charming monotony of the cuckoo.
There, there, what do you think of her?
Very clever indeed Sir;—but ſurely ſhe could never have arriv'd at ſuch a pitch of excellence, without knowing how to write and read.
Not a word, ſir—not a ſyllable—all nature and my aſſiſtance;—beſides, when ſhe has loſt the power of acting—ſhe will be able to get her living by ſqueezing oranges and lemons at a coffee-houſe.
Sir, a good morning to you—I'm ſorry I have been ſo troubleſome.
So am I, ſir, [hey Fiddleſtick] but I am afraid you have the greateſt trouble to come.
What trouble, ſir?
The trouble of taking yourſelf away as you came. [hey Fiddleſtick]
'Tis a ſad misfortune to be bit by a mad player;—however, I have one reſource left yet. I'll e'en to my old friend Billy Buſtle;—he's hand-and-glove with Patent; Patent will ſoon [12] find out my genius, tho' theſe purblind dunciads have overlook'd it.
SCENE II.
We've loſt it, we've loſt it, we've loſt it
What have you loſt—your ſenſes?
It is the cauſe, it is the cauſe.
What cauſe, Billy, what cauſe?
That damn'd illiterate cauſe;—Milton, Shake⯑ſpeare, Johnſon, Dryden, Pope, Addiſon, and all the whole liſt of worthies are gone to hell.
The devil they are!—where did you get this intelligence?
From thoſe double-dy'd devils in Weſtminſter-Hall.
What do you mean?
My property is gone; it is indeed—indeed it is —Our family have had an illiterate property for many generations—I can prove my copy-right, granted to my great, great grand-father's grandfather, to the following illiterate produc⯑tions: Sir John Gower's Poems, Jeffery Chau⯑cer's Canterbury Tales, Drayton's Polyalbian, Spencer's Fairy Queen, Sir John Harrington's Orlando Furioſo, from the Italian of Arioſto.
And they're gone, are they, Billy?
For ever!
Well, don't deſpair, I have a conſolation for you yet.
Is it poſſible?
You ſhall have my productions, they will be the property of the living.
I'm happy, I'm happy; let the copy-right of the dead die with their illiterate maſters for what [14] I care.—Odds bobs I had like to have forgot—I have a preſent for you.
What is it, Billy-boy?
A genius.
Indeed!
A voice like a lion, and an eye——Oh here he comes. I'll leave you together alone.
Walk in, Sir; your ſervant, Sir, your ſervant—have you any particular buſineſs with me?
Yes, ſir, my friends have lately diſcovered that I have a genius for the ſtage.
Oh, you would be a player, would you, ſir?— pray, ſir, did you ever play?
No, ſir, but I flatter myſelf—
I hope not, ſir; flattering one's-ſelf is the very worſt of hypocriſy.
You'll excuſe me, ſir.
Aye, ſir, if you'll excuſe me for not flattering you.—I always ſpeak my mind.
I dare ſay you will like my manner, ſir.
No manner of doubt, ſir—I dare ſay I ſhall— pray, ſir, with which of the ladies are you in love?
In love, ſir!—ladies!
Aye, ſir, ladies—Miſs Comedy, or Dame Tragedy?
I'm vaſtly fond of Tragedy, Sir.
Very well, Sir; and where is your fort?
Sir?
I ſay, ſir, what is your department?
[14]Department?—Do you mean my lodging, ſir?
Your lodgings, ſir?—no, not I;—ha, ha, ha, I ſhould be glad to know what department you would wiſh to poſſeſs in the tragic walk—the ſighing lover, the furious hero, or the ſly aſſaſſin?
Sir, I ſhould like to play King Richard the Third.
A damn'd good character—a very good cha⯑racter; and I dare ſay you will play it vaſtly well, ſir.
I hope you'll have no reaſon to complain, ſir.
I hope not. Well, ſir, have you got any fa⯑vourite paſſage ready?
I have it all by heart, ſir.
You have, ſir, have you?—I ſhall be glad to hear you.
Hold, ſir, hold—in pity hold; za, za, za, ſir, —ſir—why dam'me, ſir, 'tis not like humanity. You won't find me ſo great a barbarian as Rich⯑ard,—you ſay he had neither, pity, love nor fear,—now, ſir, you will find that I am poſſeſs'd of all thoſe feelings for you at preſent,—I pity your conceit, I love to ſpeak my mind; and damme I fear you'll never make a player.
Do you think ſo, ſir.
Do I think ſo, ſir?—Yes, I know ſo ſir!— now ſir, only look at yourſelf—your legs kiſſ⯑ing as if they had fall'n in love with one an⯑other; [18] —and your arms, dingle dangle, dingle dangle, like the fins of a dying turtle,
'pon my ſoul, ſir, 'twill never do,—pray, ſir, are you of any profeſſion?
Yes, ſir, a linen draper!
A linen draper!—a damn'd good buſineſs; a very good buſineſs—you'll get more by that than by playing,—you had better mind your thrumbs and your ſhop, and be damn'd to you— and don't peſter me here any more with your Richard and your—za, za, za—this is a genius damn ſuch geniuſſes I ſay.
It will be acknowledged, I believe, that ſome, the moſt ingenious of mankind, who now ſtand dignified in the court of Fame, have been often more indebted to chance than induſtry.
Painters have drawn converſation pieces from the figures they have fancied to have ſeen in a fire; beautiful landſcapes from the broken plaiſter in a wall;—formidable caverns, and terrifick mountains from the inſide of a rotten cheeſe.
Muſicians have compoſed fav'rite airs, from the creaking hinges of a door, the gurgling in [19] the neck of a bottle, or the wind whiſtling through ſome little cranny.
Famous actors too have often formed their mode of ſpeaking from the howling of a wolf, the roaring of a lion, or the braying of an aſs.
There is a modern theatrical hero, "whom I have heard many praiſe, and highly too" as Hamlet ſays, who fell in love with the mono⯑tony of a chimney ſweeper.
Little Peter Polliſh took his hints from a dif⯑ferent object. This gentleman has often been heard to ſay, that a windmill was one of the moſt graceful ſtructures in the world, and that it always put him in mind of a flying Mercury; but how he made it out, heaven only knows; [20] 'tis certain he had ſtudied the motion of a wind⯑mill, and the figure of a Mercury, for he had ever the action of the one, and the attitude of the other; 'tis ſaid he was a profound politician too, and has been often heard muttering to him⯑ſelf, concerning the precarious and tickliſh finances of poor Old England, our trade declin⯑ing, frequent bankruptcies, combuſtions in the ſtate, city ſquabbling, public complainings; and no Popery.
Once in a ſudden guſh of exclamation, he broke out in a quotation from Barbaroſſa, ſome⯑times ingeniouſly making one ſyllable into two.
[21]A certain veteran of the ſtage, perceiving a dearth of genius and the theatre in an abſolute decline, ſtood forth at ſeventy-five to ſave it from a total fall. Othello, he obſerv'd, had loſt his legs, and Roſcius his inclination.—Shall we for ever bid good by'e to Romeo—Adieu to Caſta⯑lio,—and farewell to Macbeth;—no, I will ſtep forth myſelf, and convince the world there is no occaſion for leg, tooth, or eye to play ſuch characters; and without any of thoſe corporeal requiſites, my auditors ſhall ſee that I will act them to a charm.
SECOND PART.
[]THE Italians make the ladies the objects of their imitation. Who does not laugh to hear a gigantic hero, from whoſe appearance one might expect the roar of a bellowing Taurus, warble out the commands of the conqueror of the world, with the execrable ſqueaking of a guinea-pig.
I know no difference there can be in this be⯑tween a C*T**Y in breeches, and a S***S**O in petticoats.
'Tis not every ear that is ſo refin'd; ſome will liſten with more ſatisfaction to the natural and unaffected manner of an Engliſh ſinger, than to the debilitated extravagance of an Italian.
Now I will beg leave to introduce the manner of a gentleman who has a little more pudding in his voice.
[25]There is generally a greater ſhare of affecta⯑tion in ſingers than in actors, and they are fre⯑quently more indebted to art than to nature. To imitate the diſſonant jargon of an unpoliſhed African, requires a mimical capacity but no great ſhare of vocal abilities.
Deer heart, deer heart, what a terrible life am I led, &c.
The Italians, whoſe anceſtors were the ſweeteſt of all poets, ſeem to have aboliſhed that celeſtial ſcience, as if they thought poetry and good ſenſe unneceſſary, where there is fine ſinging. A famous air in an Italian Opera has been li⯑terally tranſlated thus:
Paintings in ſtill life ſeem to have loſt their eſtimation—but we have capital ſingers in ſtill life, in high eſteem, who think it unneceſſary to move hand or foot; nay ſometimes indeed even diſdain to open their mouths.
Our moſt ſanguine wiſhes are frequently diſ⯑appointed by the moſt provoking contrarieties. Some there are who poſſeſs enchanting tones, but are deſtitute of taſte; and on the other hand, we meet with thoſe who are endowed with every requiſite but a voice. When therefore a paſſion for imitation is guided by taſte and judgment, it will always give ſatisfaction; and we are ever pleas'd to view good action, fine feelings, and ſuperior taſte ſupply the deficiency of a voice.
When an actor or a ſinger is poſſeſſed of an extravagance of action, it deſtroys all effect of ſenſe or ſound; and renders the moſt elegant compoſition farcical.
I have heard the tree of our immortal Shake⯑ſpeare celebrated in the melodious ſtrains of an itinerant crier of wooden ware.
As I have already given Mungo in diſtreſs, and Amintor in love, give me leave to introduce them once more in the ruſtic Ballad Singers.
PART III.
[]IT rarely happens that we meet with a ROSCIUS, whoſe imitative genius can comprehend the great variety of human paſſions, and arrive at ſuperior excellence in each.
There are many characters in which the figure of the figure of an actor gives us a diſguſt, and were they poſſeſſed of every other requiſite, the part would always ſhew an awkward deficiency. —A crook-back'd Richard ſix feet high, will prejudice us againſt the character.—An Othello or a Mark Anthony, have the ſame effect, when repreſented by a diminutive figure.—But I have ſeen thoſe characters acted by a modern tragedian, who hath impreſſed on me ſo ſtrong an idea, that I have ſometimes thought he had juſt left the great originals, and came to mimic them on the ſtage.
It has been too often obſerved the managers of our theatres pay too little deference to their Kings. I have ſeen his Majeſty of Denmark repreſented by a gentleman who would have made an excellent waiter at a tavern, and Cymbeline put into the hands of another who would have done more credit to Snuffle in the Mayor of Garrat than any other actor on the ſtage.
[33]When a hero makes his complaints, they ſhould be expreſſed with the ſpirit of a hero; but when he whimpers them like a ſchool-boy, it renders him perfectly ridiculous.
Comedy has never a better effect on our paſ⯑ſions than when two characters are happily con⯑traſted, like light and ſhade in painting, each ſerves to foil the other;—the ludicrous vocife⯑ration of a Major Sturgeon, and the vacant timidity of a Jerry Sneak, give a double ſatis⯑faction, being oppoſed to each other.
DIALOGUE.
[34]Your ſervant, Maſter Stophanes.
Ah, what my little waddling, ſwaddling Billy Buckram, how goes the world with you?—I thought old Charon had punted you over long enough ago.—I thought you was loſt!
No, I am not loſt—I was juſt found —I was in Heaven, as it were—I walked, I do not know how I walked—mechanically, like a clock, or Moore's machine.
What, you've been with the damn'd Methodiſts again, I find.
Damn'd Methodiſts!—Oh, thou ſhalt broil for that; thou ſhalt ſtand at the Devil's gate, and I will pelt thee, yea, I will pelt thee with red hot cinders.
The devil you will—Red hot cinders!—I fancy you talk of things too hot to hold, hey, Billy—Come, prithee, be thy goodly ſelf again, put off that damn'd face and begin.
Begin What?
Johnny Pringle, to be ſure.
Nay, I can be merry an I chuſe.
Then prithee chuſe to be merry.
So I will maſter 'Stophanes, for I loves you for old acquaintance ſake.
But I am a-weary of this wicked world for all that.
Its more than I am.
And yet by your ſhining face, it ſeems to make you ſweat, too.
Huh, huh, ſweat?—Fry, broil, burn,—I broil characters as you broil ſprats.
Broil characters, I gad, that's odd enough.
Aye, broil characters;—What think you of Dr. Squintum, Peter Paragraph, Sir Luke Limp, Mother Cole, and the whole tribe of the Nabobs.
Oh, they are parfectly burnt to a cinder now, the town wants more coals, freſh Coles, or any thing freſh,—
They ſhall have 'em.—I'll tell you a ſecret, —ſhut the door—I'm going to have a new pan⯑tomime.—I'll tell you another,—I ſhall play harlequin myſelf.—Such a magazine for the next campaign. Characters never thought of by any bard before.—But to return to my pantomime— You ſhall be my Perriot.
Perriot! Oh, if you make a peer of me, maſter 'Stophanes, you'll be a princely gentle⯑man, indeed.
Hold your tongue, you damn'd fool you. I ſhall be harlequin, and a nimble one—— You muſt keep cloſe to my heels if you can. —And when we are purſued by all the mob of pantomimical figures, with their conſtables ſtaves, red-hot pokers, pitch-forks, &c. at laſt we are drove into ſome turn-again lane,—how are we to make our eſcape?—
I can't tell how, indeed.
You can't, why then I'll tell you.—I'll turn you into a lion, and myſelf into an aſs!
I beg to be excuſed, maſter 'Stophanes.
Hold your tongue, ye fool.——When the pantaloon and his mob comes to cloſe quarters— you ſhall roar like a lion, and I'll bray like an aſs
can't roar like a lion, maſter 'Stophanes.
I warrant you I'll make you.
How will you make me.
By a charm to be ſure.
But what ſort of a charm.
You ſhall hear—When you are ſtanding in a corner ſucking your thumbs, and wont roar, I'll lay my ſtick, thawk acroſs your ſhoulders—and I warrant you'll roar like a lion in ſpight of your teeth.
But ſhan't I make uſe of the ſame charm to you, Maſter 'Stophanes.
I beg to be excuſed—I have my part by heart —For inſtance, what mob can ſtand this
away they run—There's a touch for you.
A touch indeed!
Now, what is the next ſcene?
Nay, I can't tell.
Some beautiful water-works—with a fine caſ⯑cade—when I the gentle harlequin, by the ſide [40] of my pretty little columbine, ſhall be diſcover'd playing ſome tender air on my flute—ſuppoſe I give you a touch from Bona Figliola.
Bona, Fi-fi-fili.
Oh, that's too hard a bone for you to pick.
Oh, I ſhall like to hear it, Maſter 'Stophanes, tho' I don't underſtand it.—I'm not ſo much out of faſhion as that.
Why then you ſhall have it.
There, there, is not that enough to charm any body.—Well, in the midſt of our felicity, we are attacked again—and how do you think I got rid of 'em?
Drown 'em all, I ſuppoſe.
No—I'll turn the water-works into fire-works.
Into fire-works.
Yes, fire-works;—and you ſhall be my little match-man.—I'll be Torre behind, and you ſhall take care of the rockets in front.—Here goes a rocket.
There, there it goes, Billy.
Where, where, Maſter 'Stophanes.
Where? Why, its all in idea to be ſure.
But I can't find out the idea, Maſter 'Stophanes.
Why then you're a damn'd fool, that's all— And now Billy, now for it.
Now, what's next.
Why I ſhall turn the cathrine-wheels into a couple of cats.
A couple of cats.
Yes, a couple of cats. You remember my parrot, don't you.
I don't remember your parrot, not I.
No?—Room for cuckolds, Poll, Poll, Poll, O pretty Padle.
O Lud, I remember poor Poll vaſtly well now.
You do—Then what think you of my cats,— the am'rous courtſhip of two cats in a gutter.— 'Twill make a damn'd good moon-light ſcene.
But how will you introduce 'em, Maſter Stophanes.
How?—Why you ſhall hear—Suppoſe two cats on the top of a houſe, making love to each other; waſhing their faces; for all your true lovers ſhould go with clean faces, hey, Billy— The gentleman ſhall addreſs his lady thus:
There's for you, Billy, there's for you, boy;—if there ſhould be a ſerious face in the houſe while that ſcene is going forward, I ſhall pronounce it, the face of a murderer or a methodiſt.
JERRY SNEAK's RETURN FROM THE REGATTA.
[]SONG. The BOOKS of BRIGHTON. Tune, Cold and raw the North doth blow.
A LECTURE ON LECTURES, By LANCELOT LAST; As delivered with Applauſe in the COMIC MIRROUR. Written by G. S. CAREY.
[]LADIES and Gemmen, I am going pre⯑ſently, as you will preſently find, to give you a Lecture on Lectures; but firſt and fore⯑maſt, I think it neceſſary that I ſhould give ſome account of myſelf, becauſe why, a man who can give no account of himſelf, is to all intents and purpoſes a vagram.
Firſt, as to my name, Lancelot Laſt, at your ſervice, by trade, when I uſed to follow it, a Shoe-maker; but happening to ſee one of your lectures in our town, I was inſpired, as it were; [54] and knowing him to be no better a ſchollard than myſelf, I took off my apron, threw down my lap-ſtone, kick'd up my laſt, gave up my awl, and ſo ſate off to lecture.
I was a long time before I could determine with myſelf what ſubject to begin upon, at laſt Stronomy came into my head, but I found the ſtars were out of my reach, and whenever I dipp'd into that ſcience, I was preſently loſt as it were, in a cloud.
Then Ottamy came into my head, I was at home to a peg in Ottomy, for as to plucking out a tooth, picking out a corn, or curing the gripes, nobody is more ſkilful than myſelf; but when I came to the imputation of a leg, and as I am na⯑turally tender-hearted, I found it too cutting a buſineſs for me.
Then ſays I to myſelf, what think'ſt thou Lancelot Laſt of Chymiſtry, I thought as how that buſineſs was ſomething in my way, for as to your conſalves and preſarves, nobody is more larned in that way than myſelf, but then thinks I again, ſome of my auditors may have an objection to the name of phyſic, and phyſic now-a-days is nothing but a drug.
[55]Then Heraldry came into my head, but hap⯑pening to ſee the king's arms on a hackney-coach, I thought the dignity of that ſcience was gone to the dogs.
I was adviſed by a friend to ſet about Mid⯑wifery. But my mind was big with a thouſand apprehenſions whenever I thought on midwifery, ſo I gave it up because I thought I ſhould never be able to deliver myſelf on that ſubject.
I would have ſet about a Lecture on Heads, but my friend, Alexander Stevens, had diſſected every head in the kingdom ſo well, that I ſhould have been ſet down as one of his block-heads, if I had meddled with ever a one.
I thought the Heart would be no bad ſubject, but I could find ſo very few good ones, that I had not a heart to ſet about it.
Thinking of bad hearts put the Law into my head, and I thought a Lecture on the Law would be no bad thing; then ſays I to myſelf, the Law is no good thing in itſelf, but would it not be better if I could make a good ſubject out of it. I thought and I ponder'd about it 'till I found [56] myſelf like a poor fly in a cobweb. The law always puts me in mind of a coffin—once in, your never out again.
If none of theſe ſubjects will do, what in the name of Lucifer will do,—Lucifer! who the devil is Lucifer?—A great orator mayhap.— Odds-bobbs, an orator.—It directly came into my head that a lecture on oratory would be the beſt thing I could ſet about, and ſo I begins my lecture on oratory.
Ladies and gemmen, now according to the learned, and I am ſomething of a ſchollard myſelf. Oratory means jawing, becauſe why, why be⯑cauſe no orator can ſpeak without his jaws; perhaps you'll think I can't give you a Latin devination for it, now you'll find yourſelves miſtaken, what is Engliſh for Os? why bon [...] to be ſure, and the jaws being full of bones▪ they are fix'd proofs that the word oratory comes from Os.
Now I think it is neceſſary that you ſhould know what an orator is——and what is it you will ſay; I anſwer, it is a man—and what is he to do?—I anſwer, to ſpeak words——and [57] what are words?—I anſwer, letters put together, but there can be no word without a wowel;— becauſe why; why do you ſee, becauſe they can't.
What are the neceſſary qualities of an ora⯑tor——The firſt, he muſt ſpit, then wipe his mouth, then lay his hand upon his heart, then turn up his eyes, then out comes a word, then another follows it, and then, like a poſt horſe, let him get on as faſt as he can.
An orator ſhould be a good mimic too— Odds-bobbs, now I talk of mimics, I muſt take care what I am about, for I am ſurrounded by mimics here, and they will be for taking me off, perhaps, now you ſhall ſee I will ſave them the trouble, and take off myſelf.
- Zitationsvorschlag für dieses Objekt
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 5312 A lecture on mimicry as it was delivered with great applause at the theatres in Covent Garden To which is added Jerry Sneak s return from the regatta and a lecture on lectures By George Savill. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-61DC-F