All bend their eyes on him—No longer now
Pauses the youth, but storms in wild Macbeth.
Lo! now apparent on his horrid front
Sits grim distortion. Every feature's lost,
Screw'd horrible, unhumaniz'd—On stage
Of quack itinerant thus have I seen
An Andrew wring the muscles of his face,
Deforming nature, and extort the grin
And wonder of the many-headed crowd.
He spoke; when strait a loud applauding noise