ABSTRACT
Theatrical exhibitions always afford a delicate entertainment to all whose hearts are capable of being touch’d with the more refin’d sensations; and it almost moves my contempt when I reflect that a mob of unmeaning two-legged creatures, the mere apes of humanity, will venture their precious limbs in jostling one another to have an opportunity of staring at the pretty feats of a dumb Harlequin, while the empty benches reproach their deficiency of understanding, when Shakespeare or Jonson in vain exert the affecting powers of reason and judgment. To the disgrace of common sense be it remembered that Othello has been play’d at CoventGarden to the rejected refuse which has been disappointed of places at the other crowded house, because forsooth ’twas the twentieth night of Queen Mab. (227)
[On Mrs Cibber’s Lady Macbeth] Nothing could be equal to that amazement which dwelt upon her brow just before and immediately after Macbeth had done the deed; and the contrition she shew’d when in her sleep she seem’d to smell to her fingers was painted on her countenance beyond the faint colouring of the most masterly artist.
