w which one of thy
favourites drew of human life! I deposited my account of the play at the
Morning Chronicle office in the afternoon, and went to see Miss Stephens
as Polly. Those were happy times, in which she first came out in this
character, in Mandane, where she sang the delicious air, 'If o'er the
cruel tyrant, Love' (so as it can never be sung again), in _Love in a
Village_, where the scene opened with her and Miss Matthews in a painted
garden of roses and honeysuckles, and 'Hope, thou nurse of young Desire'
thrilled from two sweet voices in turn. Oh! may my ears sometimes still
drink the same sweet sounds, embalmed with the spirit of youth, of
health, and joy, but in the thoughts of an instant, but in a dream of
fancy, and I shall hardly need to complain! When I got back, after the
play, Perry called out, with his cordial, grating voice, 'Well, how did
she do?' and on my speaking in high terms, answered, that 'he had been
to dine with his friend the Duke, that some conversation had passed on
the subject, he was afraid it was not the thing, it was not the true
_sostenuto_ style; but as I had written the article' (holding my
peroration on the _Beggar's Opera_ carelessly in his hand), 'it might
pass!' I could perceive that the rogue licked his lips at it, and had
already in imagination 'bought golden opinions of all sorts of people'
by this very criticism, and I had the satisfaction the next day to meet
Miss Stephens coming out of the editor's room, who had been to thank him
for his very flattering account of her.

I was sent to see Kean the first night of his performance in Shylock,
when there were about a hundred people in the pit; but from his masterly
and spirited delivery of the first striking speech, 'On such a day you
called me a dog,' etc., I perceived it was a hollow thing. So it was
given out in the _Chronicle_; but Perry was continually at me as other
people were at him, and was afraid it would not last. It was to no
purpose I said _it would last:_ yet I am in the right hitherto. It
has been said, ridiculously, that Mr. Kean was written up in the
_Chronicle._ I beg leave to state my opinion that no actor can be
written up or down by a paper. An author may be puffed into notice, or
damned by criticism, because his book may not have been read. An artist
may be overrated, or undeservedly decried, because the public is not
much accustomed to see or judge of pictures. But an actor is judged
by his peers, the