Richard III., because, in fact, the whole piece rests upon him, not only from the almost exclusive importance of his part, but from the insignificance of the performers about him, who are admirable representatives of those courtiers without character, by whom tyranny naturally wishes to be surrounded. At Covent Garden one may see three tragic actors rivalling each other: at Drury Lane, Kean stands alone. The actresses in particular, are almost as insignificant at the latter theatre, as those of the Rue Richelieu, and reminded me of Bourgoin's whining declamation. None of them, indeed, utter those horrible shrieks with which Mademoiselle Duchesnois tears her unfortunate lungs to pieces; but at the same time not one of them can breathe forth those pathetic tones, by which that actress occasionally reconciles us even to her defects. The monotonous delivery of the inferior actors of the English stage, gives to the varied measure of Shakspeare the melancholy cadence of our alexandrines, and reminded me of the perpetual drawling chorus of some of our old ballads.

Great advantages are, of course, enjoyed on such a stage, by an actor who has to perform a part like Richard III., and who is able to give proper effect to it! It must be confessed that Kean displays, throughout its performance, extraordinary energy and truth in the management of his countenance, voice, and action. His bitter words and terrific glances go like a poignard to the heart. His attitudes are always such as a

painter would employ in representing a similar subject, and yet they seem not so much the effect of study, as the natural expression of passion. But I must see Kean once more, at least, before I shall be qualified to pass a decided opinion on his talents.

The piece performed after Richard III. was the musical extravaganza, as it is called, of Don Giovanni in London. The hero is first discovered in the infernal regions, under the form of Madame Vestris, a very favourite actress. Molière's Don Juan is converted into a mischievous young rake, who makes it his business to disturb the peaceful government of Pluto. The prince of Tartarus expels him from his dominions, and Juan, on taking his departure, charitably carries off with him three London ladies, whose husbands are, in the mean time, consoling themselves for their loss by copious, libations with Leporello. The only comic scene, and even that is not a new one, which occurs in this dramatic monstrosity, is that in which these topers (who, by the bye, are admirable caricatures) are surprised by the resuscitation of their better halves, who interrupt them in the midst of one of their drinking choruses, and lead them very coolly by the ears into their respective shops.

"It is a pity," observed B--, "that Harley, who is now performing Leporello, should throw away his talents so frequently on farce. This piece is written by Moncrief, whose productions,

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though they are tolerated here, would be hissed off the boards of your Boulevard theatres.

"Giovanni in London is his chef d'œuvre, and yet I will defy any one to point out a single instance of sentiment, wit, or gaiety in the dialogue. The piece has neither plot nor character, and you must have observed, that there was an actress introduced in one of the scenes, merely to sing a popular song, without having any part assigned her."

Henry was in the right. Don Giovanni in London is a most absurd production; and it is distressing to see Harley reduced to the footing of a pantomimic buffoon, by the poverty of the part he has to support. Harley has an admirable comic countenance, an air of easy assurance, and a degree of bustling activity, which would make him an excellent Scapin on our stage. He is very clever in giving effect to the burthen of a song, by running it over with singular rapidity.

LETTER XXX.

TO MAHOMET OF CYPRUS,

SUPERINTENDENT OF

HIS HIGHNESS'S THEATRES.

In spite of the satires of Scarron, Le Sage, Smollet, &c. just as they frequently are, I have always

had a partiality for players. In my younger years, when I was happy in many illusions, from which I have only to regret having been awakened, I used to picture the gay children of Thespis surrounded by every pleasure, and identified with the heroes, whose existence they nightly revive for the space of a few short hours. I used to be continually urging reasons good and bad against the prejudice which banishes actors from the better part of society, and thus forces them to adopt the vices with which they are reproached. At all events, I never expected to find that this illiberal caprice existed in the land of freedom. I have often indulged in the hope of making a pilgrimage to the tombs of Mrs. Oldfield and Garrick, which are erected among the monuments of kings, by those islanders whom I pictured to myself as a nation of philosophers; but who, with respect to practical philosophy, are, perhaps, like others, merely a nation of quacks. All our French prejudices against actors are cherished in full force by the English, who certainly set up a false pretence of disclaiming these prejudices, when they boasted of having erected a funeral monument to their Roscius. The subscriptions of a few individuals must not be regarded as the homage of a nation. The sarcophagi of Oldfield and Garrick are but a feeble expiation of the prejudices to which English, as well as French, actors are subjected.

How many institutions, shameful in their origin, now claim respect, while the brotherhood of the

ministers of Thalia are treated with insult and disdain, though they were primitively connected with our religion. In France, they are excluded from our churches, and even denied the rites of Christian burial. In England, they are in some measure outlawed, and are liable to be punished as rogues and vagabonds.

"These are monarchs none respect,
Heroes yet an humbled crew,
Nobles whom the crowd correct,
Wealthy men whom duns pursue;
Beauties shrinking from the view
Of the day's detecting eye;
Lovers, who, with much ado,
Long forsaken damsels woo,
And heave the ill-feign'd sigh."

CRABBE.

There is, however, an exception in favour of their Majesty's Servants, which is the title assumed by the performers belonging to the theatres of Covent Garden and Drury Lane. The English actresses, too, have a better chance than the French one's of marrying noblemen, and such an occurrence is looked upon here as a sort of civil baptism, which washes away the original stain. Why should this sacrament have more virtue in England than in France? When a woman of equivocal character gets married here, her husband is said to make an honest woman of her: this phrase, you know, occurs in the Vicar of Wakefield. The aristocracy of talent also invests English actors with all its privileges, and Garrick was