with its falling laces and standing brocades.  The part of Lady Townley was not only beyond my powers, but has never been seen on the English stage since the days of Mrs. Abington and Miss Farren, the latter elegant and spirited actress being held by those who had seen both less like the original great lady than her predecessor; while even the Theatre Francais, where consummate study and reverend tradition of elder art still prevail, has lost more and more the secret of la grande maniere in a gradual descent from the grande dame of Mademoiselle Contat to the pretty, graceful femme comme il faut of Mademoiselle Plessis; for even the exquisite Celimene of Mademoiselle Mars was but a “pale reflex” of Moliere’s brilliant coquette, as played by her great instructress, Contat.  The truth is, that society no longer possesses or produces that creature, and a good deal of reading, not of a usual or agreeable kind, would alone make one familiar enough with Lady Townley and her like to enable an actress of the present day to represent her with any verisimilitude.  The absurd practice, too, of dressing all the serious characters of the piece in modern costume, and all the comic ones in that of the time at which it was written, renders the whole ridiculously incoherent and manifestly impossible, and destroys it as a picture of the manners of any time; for even stripped of her hoop and powder, and her more flagrant coarseness of speech, Lady Townley is still as unlike, in manners, language, and deportment, any modern lady, as she is unlike the woman of fashion of Hogarth’s time, whose costume she has discarded.

The event fully justified my expectation of far less friendly audiences out of London than those I had hitherto made my appeals to.  None of the personal interest that was felt for me there existed elsewhere, and I had to encounter the usual opposition, always prepared to cavil, in the provinces, at the metropolitan verdict of merit, as a mere exhibition of independent judgment; and to make good to the expectations of the country critics the highly laudatory reports of the London press, by which the provincial judges scorned to have a decision imposed upon them.  Not unnaturally, therefore, I found a much less fervid enthusiasm in my audiences—­who were, I dare say, quite justified in their disappointment—­and a far less eulogistic tone in the provincial press with regard to my performances.  Our houses, however, were always very crowded, which was the essential point, and for my own part I was quite satisfied with the notices and applause which were bestowed on me.  My cousin, John Mason, was the Romeo to whom I have referred in this letter.  He was my father’s sister’s son, and, like so many members of our family, he and one of his brothers and his sister had made the stage their profession.  He had some favorable physical qualifications for it:  a rather striking face, handsome figure, good voice, and plenty of fire and energy; he was tolerably clever and well-informed, but without either imagination or refinement.  My father, who thought there was the making of a good actor in him, was extremely kind to him.