ANONYMOUS, 1778
“Shakespeare’s Bedside, or his Doctors enumerated.”
Old Shakespeare was sick;—for a doctor he sent;—
But ’twas long before any one came:
Yet at length his assistance Nic Rowe did present,
Sure all men have heard of his name.
As he found that the Poet had tumbled his bed,
He smooth’d it as well as he could;
He gave him an anodyne, comb’d out his head,
But did his complaint little good.
Doctor Pope to incision at once did proceed,
And the Bard for the simples he cut;
For his regular practice was always to bleed,
Ere the fees in his pocket he put.
Next Theobald advanc’d, who at best was a quack,
And dealt but in old women’s stuff;
Yet he caus’d the Physician of Twick’nam to pack,
And the patient grew cheerful enough.
Next Hanmer, who fees ne’er descended to crave,
In gloves lily-white did advance;
To the Poet the gentlest of purges he gave,
And, for exercise, taught him to dance.
One Warburton then, though allied to the Church,
Produc’d his alternative stores;
But his med’cines the case so oft left in the lurch,
That Edwards kick’d him out of doors.
Next Johnson arriv’d to the patient’s relief,
And ten years he had him in hand;
But, tir’d of his task, ’tis the general belief,
He left him before he could stand.
Now Capell drew near,—not a Quaker more prim,—
And numbered each hair on his pate;
By styptics, call’d stops, he contracted each limb,
And crippled for ever his gait.
From Gopsall then strutted a formal old goose,
And he’d cure him by inches, he swore;
But when the poor Poet had taken one dose,
He vow’d he would swallow no more.
But Johnson, determin’d to save him, or kill,
A second prescription display’d;
And, that none might find fault with his drop or his pill,
Fresh doctors he call’d to his aid.
First Steevens came loaded with black-letter books,
Of fame more desirous than pelf;
Such reading, observers might read in his looks,
As no one e’er read but himself.
Then Warner, by Plautus and Glossary known,
And Hawkins, historian of sound;
Then Warton and Collins together came on,
For Greek and Potatoes renown’d.
With songs on his pontificalibus pinn’d,
Next Percy the great did appear;
And Farmer, who twice in a pamphlet had sinn’d,
Brought up his empirical rear.
“The cooks the more numerous, the worse is the broth,”
Says a proverb I well can believe;
And yet to condemn them untried I am loth,
So at present shall laugh in my sleeve.
Gentleman’s Magazine, 1787, vol. lvii. ii. 912. Muses’ Mirror, 1778, i. 90.
“Edwards,”—the author of Canons of Criticism, see p. 281.
“Capell . . . numbered each hair on his pate,”—Edward Capell (see p. [107]), of whom Dr. Johnson remarked that his abilities “were just sufficient to enable him to select the black hairs from the white for the use of periwig makers.” He gave most of his attention to the production of an accurate text, based on a careful collation of the old copies, and he did his work very thoroughly.
“From Gopsall . . . a formal old goose,”—Charles Jennens (1700-1773), who printed some of Shakespeare’s tragedies, and brought upon himself the unmerciful ridicule of George Steevens. He lived at Gopsall in Leicestershire.
“Warner,”—Richard Warner (1713?-1775), the botanist and classical scholar. He made extensive collections for an edition and for a glossary of Shakespeare. Neither was published.
“Hawkins,”—Sir John Hawkins (1719-1789), who published The General History of the Science and Practice of Music, 1776.
“Warton and Collins,”—Joseph Warton (1722-1800) and William Collins (1721-1759) were school-fellows at Winchester, and life-long friends.
“Percy,”—Bishop Percy of Percy’s Reliques.
“Farmer,”—Richard Farmer (1735-1797), author of the Essay on the Learning of Shakespeare, 1767.
HORACE WALPOLE, EARL OF ORFORD, 1788
(1717-1797)
My histrionic acquaintance spreads. I supped at Lady Dorothy Hotham’s with Mrs. Siddons, have visited and been visited by her, and have seen and liked her much, yes, very much, in the passionate scenes in “Percy”; but I do not admire her in cool declamation, and find her voice very hollow and defective. I asked her in which part she would most wish me to see her? She named Portia in the “Merchant of Venice”; but I begged to be excused. With all my enthusiasm for Shakespeare, it is one of his plays that I like the least. The story of the caskets is silly, and, except the character of Shylock, I see nothing beyond the attainment of a mortal; Euripides, or Racine, or Voltaire might have written all the rest.
Letter to the Countess of Ossory, 15 Jan. 1788. Letters, ed. Peter Cunningham, 1859, vol. ix. p. 124.
PAUL WHITEHEAD, 1790
(1710-1774)
While here to Shakespeare Garrick pays
His tributary thanks and praise;
Invokes the animated stone,
To make the poet’s mind his own;
That he each character may trace
With humour, dignity, and grace;
And mark, unerring mark, to men,
The rich creation of his pen:
Preferr’d the prayer—the marble god
Methinks I see, assenting, nod,
And, pointing to his laurell’d brow,
Cry—“Half this wreath to you I owe:
Lost to the stage, and lost to fame;
Murder’d my scenes, scarce known my name;
Sunk in oblivion and disgrace
Among the common scribbling race,
Unnotic’d long thy Shakespeare lay,
To dulness and to time a prey:
But now I rise, I breathe, I live
In you—my representative!
Again the hero’s breast I fire,
Again the tender sigh inspire;
Each side, again, with laughter shake,
And teach the villain-heart to quake;
All this, my son! again I do—
I?—No, my son!—’Tis I, and you.”
While thus the grateful statue speaks,
A blush o’erspreads the suppliant’s cheeks—
“What!—Half this wreath, wit’s mighty chief?—
O grant,” he cries, “one single leaf;
That far o’erpays his humble merit,
Who’s but the organ of thy spirit.”
Phoebus the generous contest heard—
When thus the god address’d the bard:
“Here, take this laurel from my brow,
On him your mortal wreath bestow;—
Each matchless, each the palm shall bear,
In heav’n the bard, on earth the play’r.”
“Verses dropped in Mr. Garrick’s Temple of Shakespeare.” Poems and Miscellaneous Compositions, 1790.
Garrick had in his garden at Hampton a temple dedicated to Shakespeare, containing a statue of the poet by Roubiliac.
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.
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)
The human race had now reached a stage of progress so far beyond what the wisest and wittiest men of former ages had ever dreamed of, that it would have been a manifest absurdity to allow the earth to be any longer encumbered with their poor achievements in the literary line. Accordingly, a thorough and searching investigation had swept the booksellers’ shops, hawkers’ stands, public and private libraries, and even the little bookshelf by the country fireside, and had brought the world’s entire mass of printed paper, bound or in sheets, to swell the already mountain-bulk of our illustrious bonfire. Thick, heavy folios, containing the labours of lexicographers, commentators, and encyclopedists, were flung in, and, falling among the embers with a leaden thump, smouldered away to ashes, like rotten wood. The small, richly-gilt French tomes of the last age, with the hundred volumes of Voltaire among them, went off in a brilliant shower of sparkles, and little jets of flame; while the current literature of the same nation burnt red and blue, and threw an infernal light over the visages of the spectators, converting them all to the aspect of parti-coloured fiends. A collection of German stories emitted a scent of brimstone. The English standard authors made excellent fuel, generally exhibiting the properties of sound oak logs. Milton’s works, in particular, sent up a powerful blaze, gradually reddening into a coal, which promised to endure longer than almost any other
material of the pile. From Shakespeare there gushed a flame of such marvellous splendour, that men shaded their eyes as against the sun’s meridian glory; nor even when the works of his own elucidators were flung upon him, did he cease to flash forth a dazzling radiance beneath the ponderous heap. It is my belief that he is still blazing as fervidly as ever.
“Could a poet but light a lamp at that glorious flame,” remarked I, “he might then consume the midnight oil to some good purpose.”
“That is the very thing which modern poets have been too apt to do, or at least to attempt,” answered a critic. “The chief benefit to be expected from this conflagration of past literature undoubtedly is, that writers will henceforth be compelled to light their lamps at the sun or stars.”
Mosses from an Old Manse: “Earth’s Holocaust,” ii. 146-7.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR, 1846
(1775-1864)
“Shakespeare and Bacon.”
Southey.—In so wide and untrodden a creation as that of Shakespeare’s, can we wonder or complain that sometimes we are bewildered and entangled in the exuberance of fertility? Dry-brained men upon the continent, the trifling wits of the theatre, accurate however and expert calculators, tell us that his beauties are balanced by his faults. The poetical opposition, puffing for popularity, cry cheerily against them, his faults are balanced by his beauties; when, in reality, all the faults that ever were committed in poetry would be but as air to earth, if we could weigh them against one single thought or image, such as almost every scene exhibits in every drama of this unrivalled genius. Do you hear me with patience?
Porson.—With more; although at Cambridge we rather discourse on Bacon, for we know him better. He was immeasurably a less wise man than Shakespeare, and not a wiser writer: for he knew his fellow-man only as he saw him in the street and in the Court, which indeed is but a dirtier street and a narrower; Shakespeare, who also knew him there, knew him everywhere else, both as he was and as he might be.
Southey.—There is as great a difference between Shakespeare and Bacon as between an American forest and a London timber-yard. In the timber-yard the materials are
sawed and squared and set across; in the forest we have the natural form of the tree, all its growth, all its branches, all its leaves, all the mosses that grow about it, all the birds and insects that inhabit it; now deep shadows absorbing the whole wilderness; now bright bursting glades, with exuberant grass and flower and fruitage; now untroubled skies; now terrific thunderstorms; everywhere multiformity, everywhere immensity.
“Southey and Porson.” Imaginary Conversations. Works, 1846, i. pp. 12-13.
This is from the enlarged edition of the Imaginary Conversations. It does not appear in the original Southey-Porson “Conversation” published in 1824.
WILLIAM SCHWENCK GILBERT, 1868
An Unfortunate Likeness
(b. 1836)
I’ve painted Shakespeare all my life,
“An Infant” (even then at “play”!)
“A boy” with stage-ambition rife,
Then “married to Ann Hathaway.”
“The bard’s first ticket night” (or “ben.”),
His “First appearance on the stage,”
His “Call before the curtain”—then
“Rejoicings when he came of age.”
The bard play-writing in his room,
The bard a humble lawyer’s clerk,
The bard a lawyer—parson—groom—
The bard deer-stealing, after dark.
The bard a tradesman—and a Jew—
The bard a botanist—a beak—
The bard a skilled musician too—
A sheriff and a surgeon eke!
Yet critics say (a friendly stock)
That, though it’s evident I try,
Yet even I can barely mock
The glimmer of his wondrous eye!
One morning as a work I framed,
There passed a person, walking hard:
“My gracious goodness,” I exclaimed,
“How very like my dear old bard!
“Oh what a model he would make!”
I rushed outside—impulsive me!—
“Forgive the liberty I take,
But you’re so very”—“Stop!” said he.
“You needn’t waste your breath or time,—
I know what you are going to say,—
That you’re an artist, and that I’m
Remarkably like Shakespeare. Eh?
“You wish that I would sit to you?”
I clasped him madly round the waist,
And breathlessly replied, “I do!”
“All right,” said he, “but please make haste.”
I led him by his hallowed sleeve,
And worked away at him apace,
I painted him till dewy eve,—
There never was a nobler face!
“Oh sir,” I said, “a fortune grand
Is yours, by dint of merest chance,—
To sport his brow at second hand,
To wear his cast-off countenance!
“To rub his eyes whene’er they ache—
To wear his baldness ere you’re old—
To clean his teeth when you awake—
To blow his nose when you’ve a cold!”
His eyeballs glistened in his eyes—
I sat and watched and smoked my pipe;
“Bravo!” I said, “I recognise
The phrensy of your prototype!”
His scanty hair he wildly tore:
“That’s right,” said I, “it shows your breed.”
He danced—he stamped—he wildly swore—
“Bless me, that’s very fine indeed!”
“Sir,” said the grand Shakespearean boy
(Continuing to blaze away),
“You think my face a source of joy;
That shows you know not what you say.
“Forgive these yells and cellar-flaps:
I’m always thrown in some such state
When on his face well-meaning chaps
This wretched man congratulate.
“For oh! this face—this pointed chin—
This nose—this brow—these eyeballs too,
Have always been the origin
Of all the woes I ever knew!
“If to the play my way I find,
To see a grand Shakespearean piece,
I have no rest, no ease of mind,
Until the author’s puppets cease.
“Men nudge each other—thus—and say,
‘This certainly is Shakespeare’s son,’
And merry wags (of course in play)
Cry ‘Author,’ when the piece is done.
“In church the people stare at me,
Their soul the sermon never binds;
I catch them looking round to see,
And thoughts of Shakespeare fill their minds.
“And sculptors, fraught with cunning wile,
Who find it difficult to crown
A bust with Brown’s insipid smile
Or Tomkins’s unmannered frown,
“Yet boldly make my face their own,
When (oh, presumption!) they require
To animate a paving-stone
With Shakespeare’s intellectual fire.
“At parties where young ladies gaze,
And I attempt to speak my joy,
‘Hush, pray,’ some lovely creature says,
‘The fond illusion don’t destroy!’
“Whene’er I speak, my soul is wrung
With these or some such whisperings:
‘’Tis pity that a Shakespeare’s tongue
Should say such un-Shakespearean things!’
“I should not thus be criticised
Had I a face of common wont:
Don’t envy me—now, be advised!”
And, now I think of it, I don’t!
Reprinted from Fun, 14 Nov. 1868.
“The bard a lawyer”—
“Go with me to a notary: seal me there
Your single bond.”
Merchant of Venice, I. iii.
“Parson”—
“And there shall she at friar Laurence’ cell
Be shriv’d, and married.”
Romeo and Juliet, II. iv.
“Groom”—
“And give their fasting horses provender.”
Henry V., IV. ii.
“A tradesman”—
“Let us, like merchants, show our foulest wares.”
Troilus and Cressida, I. iii.
“A Jew”—
“Then must the Jew be merciful.”
Merchant of Venice, IV. i.
“A botanist”—
“The spring, the summer,
The chiding autumn, angry winter, change
Their wonted liveries.”
Midsummer Night’s Dream, II. ii.
“A beak”—
“In the county of Gloster, justice of the peace, and coram.”
Merry Wives of Windsor, I. i.
“A skilled musician”—
“What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us?”
King John, V. ii.
“A sheriff”—
“And I’ll provide his executioner.”
II Henry VI., III. i.
“A surgeon”—
“The lioness had torn some flesh away,
Which all this while had bled.”
As You Like It, IV. iii.
W. S. Gilbert.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, 1872
(1809-1894)
I wonder if anything like this ever happened:—
Author writing,—
“To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobl—”
“William, shall we have pudding to-day, or flapjacks?”
“Flapjacks an it please thee, Anne, or a pudding for that matter; or what thou wilt, good woman, so thou come not betwixt me and my thought.”
Exit Mistress Anne, with strongly accented closing of the door, and murmurs to the effect: “Ay, marry, ’tis well for thee to talk as if thou hadst no stomach to fill. We poor wives must swink for our masters, while they sit in their arm-chairs, growing as great in the girth through laziness as that ill-mannered old fat man, William, hath writ of in his books of players’ stuff. One had as well meddle with a porkpen, which hath thorns all over him, as try to deal with William when his eyes be rolling in that mad way.”
William—writing once more—after an exclamation in strong English of the older pattern,—
“Whether ’tis nobler—nobler—nobler—
To do what? O these women! these women! to have puddings or flapjacks! Oh!
“Whether ’tis nobler—in the mind—to suffer
The slings—and arrows—of—
Oh! Oh! these women! I’ll e’en step over to the parson’s, and have a cup of sack with his reverence, for methinks Master Hamlet hath forgot that which was just now on his lips to speak.”
The Poet at the Breakfast-Table, 1872, pp. 10-11.