yet sure, that they might not be as much owing to the false judgment of the spectator, as the actor.  While the million are so apt to be transported, when the drum of their ear is so roundly rattled; while they take the life of elocution to lie in the strength of the lungs, it is no wonder the actor, whose end is applause, should be so often tempted, at this easy rate, to excite it.  Shall I go a little farther? and allow that this extreme is more pardonable than its opposite error.  I mean that dangerous affectation of the monotone, or solemn sameness of pronunciation, which to my ear is insupportable; for of all faults that so frequently pass upon the vulgar, that of flatness will have the fewest admirers.  That this is an error of ancient standing seems evident by what Hamlet says, in his instructions to the players, viz.

  Be not too tame, neither, &c.

The Actor, doubtless, is as strongly ty’d down to the rule of Horace, as the writer.

      Si vis me flere, dolendum est
  Primum ipsi tibi——­

He that feels not himself the passion he would raise, will talk to a sleeping audience:  But this never was the fault of Betterton; and it has often amaz’d me, to see those who soon came after him, throw out in some parts of a character, a just and graceful spirit, which Betterton himself could not but have applauded.  And yet in the equally shining passages of the same character, have heavily dragg’d the sentiment along, like a dead weight; with a long ton’d voice, and absent eye, as if they had fairly forgot what they were about:  If you have never made this observation, I am contented you should not know where to apply it.

A farther excellence in Betterton, was that he could vary his spirit to the different characters he acted.  Those wild impatient starts, that fierce and flaming fire, which he threw into Hotspur, never came from the unruffled temper of his Brutus (for I have more than once seen a Brutus as warm as Hotspur) when the Betterton Brutus was provoked, in his dispute with Cassius, his spirit flew only to his eye; his steady look alone supply’d that terror, which he disdain’d, an intemperance in his voice should rise to.  Thus, with a settled dignity of contempt, like an unheeding rock, he repell’d upon himself the foam of Cassius.  Perhaps the very words of Shakespear will better let you into my meaning: 

  Must I give way, and room, to your rash choler? 
  Shall I be frighted when a madman flares?

And a little after,

  There is no terror, Cassius, in your looks! &c.

Not but, in some part of this scene, where he reproaches Cassius, his temper is not under this suppression, but opens into that warmth which becomes a man of virtue; yet this is that hasty spark of anger, which Brutus himself endeavours to excuse.

But with whatever strength of nature we see the poet shew, at once, the philosopher and the heroe, yet the image of the actor’s excellence will be still imperfect to you, unless language cou’d put colours in our words to paint the voice with.