opera. Does not
this prove, that there is very near as much enchantment in the
well-governed voice of an actor, as in the sweet pipe of a eunuch? If I
tell you, there was no one tragedy, for many years, more in favour with
the town than Alexander, to what must we impute this its command of
public admiration? not to its intrinsic merit, surely, if it swarms with
passages like this I have shown you! If this passage has merit, let us
see what figure it would make upon canvas, what sort of picture would
rise from it. If Le Brun, who was famous for painting the battles of
this hero, had seen this lofty description, what one image could he have
possibly taken from it? In what colours would he have shown us _Glory
perched upon a beaver_? how would he have drawn _Fortune trembling_? or,
indeed, what use could he have made of _pale Fates_, or _immortals_
riding upon _billows_, with this blustering _god_ of his own making at
the _head_ of them! where, then, must have lain the charm, that once
made the public so partial to this tragedy? why plainly, in the grace
and harmony of the actor's utterance. For the actor himself is not
accountable for the false poetry of his author; that, the hearer is to
judge of; if it passes upon him, the actor can have no quarrel to it;
who, if the periods given him are round, smooth, spirited, and
high-sounding, even in a false passion, must throw out the same fire and
grace, as may be required in one justly rising from nature; where those
his excellencies will then be only more pleasing in proportion to the
taste of his hearer. And I am of opinion, that to the extraordinary
success of this very play, we may impute the corruption of so many
actors, and tragic writers, as were immediately mislead by it. The
unskilful actor, who imagined all the merit of delivering those blazing
rants, lay only in the strength, and strained exertion of the voice,
began to tear his lungs, upon every false, or slight occasion, to arrive
at the same applause. And it is hence I date our having seen the same
reason prevalent, for above fifty years. Thus equally misguided too,
many a barren-brained author has streamed into a frothy flowing style,
pompously rolling into sounding periods, signifying--roundly nothing; of
which number, in some of my former labours, I am something more than
suspicious, that I may myself have made one, but to keep a little closer
to Betterton.

"When this favourite play I am speaking of, from its