be said, that the whole
city of Paris exploded them, and yet all flocked to see them represented
on the stage. Methinks Mr. de Muralt should have mentioned an excellent
comic writer (living when he was in England), I mean Mr. Wycherley, who
was a long time known publicly to be happy in the good graces of the most
celebrated mistress of King Charles II. This gentleman, who passed his
life among persons of the highest distinction, was perfectly well
acquainted with their lives and their follies, and painted them with the
strongest pencil, and in the truest colours. He has drawn a misanthrope
or man-hater, in imitation of that of Moliere. All Wycherley's strokes
are stronger and bolder than those of our misanthrope, but then they are
less delicate, and the rules of decorum are not so well observed in this
play. The English writer has corrected the only defect that is in
Moliere's comedy, the thinness of the plot, which also is so disposed
that the characters in it do not enough raise our concern. The English
comedy affects us, and the contrivance of the plot is very ingenious, but
at the same time it is too bold for the French manners. The fable is
this:--A captain of a man-of-war, who is very brave, open-hearted, and
inflamed with a spirit of contempt for all mankind, has a prudent,
sincere friend, whom he yet is suspicious of; and a mistress that loves
him with the utmost excess of passion. The captain so far from returning
her love, will not even condescend to look upon her, but confides
entirely in a false friend, who is the most worthless wretch living. At
the same time he has given his heart to a creature, who is the greatest
coquette and the most perfidious of her sex, and he is so credulous as to
be confident she is a Penelope, and his false friend a Cato. He embarks
on board his ship in order to go and fight the Dutch, having left all his
money, his jewels, and everything he had in the world to this virtuous
creature, whom at the same time he recommends to the care of his supposed
faithful friend. Nevertheless the real man of honour, whom he suspects
so unaccountably, goes on board the ship with him, and the mistress, on
whom he would not bestow so much as one glance, disguises herself in the
habit of a page, and is with him the whole voyage, without his once
knowing that she is of a sex different from that she attempts to pass
for, which, by the way, is not over natural.

The captain having blown up his