[65]. Of the two the latter alternative is more likely to happen. We abuse and imitate them. They laugh at but do not imitate us.
[66]. The title of Ultra-Crepidarian critics has been given to a variety of this species.
[67]. This Essay was written in January, 1821.
[68]. Losing gamesters thus become desperate, because the continued and violent irritation of the will against a run of ill luck drives it to extremity, and makes it bid defiance to common sense and every consideration of prudence or self-interest.
[69]. Some of the poets in the beginning of the last century would often set out on a simile by observing—‘So in Arabia have I seen a Phœnix!’ I confess my illustrations are of a more homely and humble nature.
[70]. I beg the reader to consider this passage merely as a specimen of the mock-heroic style, and as having nothing to do with any real facts or feelings.
[71]. I have heard of such a thing as an author, who makes it a rule never to admit a monosyllable into his vapid verse. Yet the charm and sweetness of Marlow’s lines depended often on their being made up almost entirely of monosyllables.
[72]. See Wilkie’s Blind Fiddler.
[73]. We sometimes see a whole play-house in tears. But the audience at a theatre, though a public assembly, are not a public body. They are not incorporated into a frame-work of exclusive, narrow-minded interests of their own. Each individual looks out of his own insignificance at a scene, ideal perhaps, and foreign to himself, but true to nature; friends, strangers, meet on the common ground of humanity, and the tears that spring from their breasts are those which ‘sacred pity has engendered.’ They are a mixed multitude melted into sympathy by remote, imaginary events, not a combination cemented by petty views, and sordid, selfish prejudices.
[74]. Mr. Munden and Mr. C— went one Sunday to Windsor, to see the King. They passed with other spectators once or twice: at last, his late majesty distinguished Munden in the crowd, and called him to him. After treating him with much cordial familiarity, the king said, ‘And, pray, who is that with you?’ Munden, with many congées, and contortions of face, replied, ‘An please your majesty, it’s Mr. C—, of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane.’ ‘Oh! yes,’ said the king, ‘I know him well—a bad actor, a bad actor, a bad actor!’ Why kings should repeat what they say three times, is odd: their saying it once is quite enough. I have always liked Mr. C—’s face since I heard this anecdote, and perhaps the telling it may have the same effect on other people.