increase the number of his victims.

When he comes to claim the reward of his services, Richard affects not to hear him, and at length repels his importunity by an equivocal answer, which, however, is sufficiently explained by the fatal tone in which he adds,

"Thou troublest me; I am not in the vein."

Meanwhile, Richard's tyranny occasions a rebellion. He is aware of the difficulties he has created; and he too well knows the extent of his danger, not to feel momentary alarm. But he is still capable of a powerful struggle, and there is something heroic in the last efforts of his courage. He no longer trusts to dissimulation, but shows himself in the frightful reality of his character. Kean often expresses, by a single word, the suspicion, hatred, scorn, and rage which agitate him; and when he exclaims,

"A thousand hearts are great within my bosom,"

he seems endowed with the strength of a whole army.

At length the crisis of his fate draws near. The remorse of a guilty conscience conjures up the horrors of a frightful dream, and Richard wakes to give vent to his terror in a wild incoherent speech. Though subdued by an invisible power, he still preserves an air of tranquillity in the midst of his dejection; and when he receives the note, in which the enemy insults him in the anticipation

of his defeat, he lets it fall from his hands with the most disdainful and dignified indifference.

The battle represented on the stage is like the canto of an epic poem put into action. In the heat of the conflict, Richard finds all his energy restored. "A horse," he cries,

"a horse! my kingdom for a horse!

I think there be six Richmonds in the field;
Five have I slain to-day instead of him.”

The two rivals meet and cross their swords. Victory remains long undecided between them, while they each give proofs of high courage and skill. This is a real encounter of arms, or at least it is one so perfectly counterfeited, that even a French audience would forget its accustomed gravity, and burst into a tumult of applause. The part of Richmond was supported by a Mr. Cooper, a person of a very graceful figure, which was rendered still more striking by the effect of his helmet, coat of mail, &c. Cooper managed the foil with great dexterity, but the astonishing address and activity of Kean would undoubtedly have earned him the victory, but that the irrevocable laws of the drama required him to die by the hand of Richmond. He fell with dignity, amidst the applause of the whole theatre. In the mean time, the combat had almost put the tragedy out of my head, and I could easily have persuaded myself that I was witnessing the defeat of a knight, at one of the tournaments of the middle ages.

Kean is the only actor I have spoken of in

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,

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 clever in giving effect to the burthen of a song, by running it over with singular rapidity.

very

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