ur and industry will but push the unhappy endeavourer, in that way,
the further off his wishes.

Such an actor as Mr. Betterton ought to be recorded with the same
respect as Roscius among the Romans. The greatest orator[251] has
thought fit to quote his judgment, and celebrate his life. Roscius was
the example to all that would form themselves into proper and winning
behaviour. His action was so well adapted to the sentiments he
expressed, that the youth of Rome thought they wanted only to be
virtuous to be as graceful in their appearance as Roscius. The
imagination took a lively impression of what was great and good; and
they who never thought of setting up for the arts of imitation, became
themselves imitable characters.

There is no human invention so aptly calculated for the forming a
free-born people as that of a theatre. Tully reports that the celebrated
player of whom I am speaking used frequently to say, "The perfection of
an actor is only to become what he is doing." Young men, who are too
unattentive to receive lectures, are irresistibly taken with
performances. Hence it is, that I extremely lament the little relish the
gentry of this nation have at present for the just and noble
representations in some of our tragedies. The operas which are of late
introduced can leave no trace behind them that can be of service beyond
the present moment. To sing and to dance are accomplishments very few
have any thoughts of practising; but to speak justly, and move
gracefully, is what every man thinks he does perform, or wishes he did.

I have hardly a notion, that any performer of antiquity could surpass
the action of Mr. Betterton in any of the occasions in which he has
appeared on our stage. The wonderful agony which he appeared in, when he
examined the circumstance of the handkerchief in "Othello"; the mixture
of love that intruded upon his mind upon the innocent answers Desdemona
makes, betrayed in his gesture such a variety and vicissitude of
passions, as would admonish a man to be afraid of his own heart, and
perfectly convince him, that it is to stab it to admit that worst of
daggers, jealousy. Whoever reads in his closet this admirable scene,
will find that he cannot, except he has as warm an imagination as
Shakespeare himself, find any but dry, incoherent, and broken sentences:
but a reader that has seen Betterton act it, observes there could not be
a word added; that longer speeches had been unnatural, nay impos