To Mr. Bensley, the tragedian, so much
admired by Charles Lamb, and so little by any other critic, a curious
accident is said to have happened. He was playing Richard III. in an
Irish theatre; the curtain had risen, and he was advancing to the
foot-lights to deliver his opening soliloquy, when an unlucky nail in
the side wing caught a curl of his full-flowing majestic wig and
dragged it from his head. He was a pedantic, solemn actor, with a
sepulchral voice and a stiff stalking gait. Anthony Pasquin has
recorded a derisive description of his histrionic method:
With three minuet steps in all parts he advances,
Then retires three more, strokes his chin, prates and prances,
With a port as majestic as Astley's horse dances.
* * * * *
Should we judge of this man by his visage and note,
We'd imagine a rookery built in his throat,
Whose caws were immixed with his vocal recitals,
While others stole downwards and fed on his vitals.
Still there can be no doubt that he played with extreme
conscientiousness, and was fully impressed with a sense of his
professional responsibilities.
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