turn from a Salamanca to admire a _Sir John Brute's_ wig; Waterloo
sinks into insignificance before the amber-headed cane of a _Sir Peter
Teazle_. What is St. Stephen's to him--what the memory of Burke and
Chatham? To be sure, Sheridan is well remembered; but then Sheridan
wrote the _Critic_.

A mackerel lives longer out of water than does an Actor out of his
element: he cannot, for a minute, "look abroad into universality."
Keep him to the last edition of a new or old play, the burning of the
two theatres, or an anecdote of John Kemble, and our Actor sparkles
amazingly. Put to him an unprofessional question, and you strike him
dumb; an abstract truth locks his jaws. On the contrary, listen to the
stock-joke; lend an attentive ear to the witticism clubbed by the whole
green-room--for there is rarely more than _one_ at a time in
circulation--and no man talks faster--none with a deeper delight to
himself--none more profound, more knowing. The conversation of our
Actor is a fine "piece of mosaic." Here Shakspeare is laid under
contribution--here Farquhar--here Otway. We have an undigested mass of
quotations, dropping without order from him. In words he is absolutely
impoverishable. What a lion he stalks in a country town! How he stilts
himself upon his jokes over the sleek, unsuspecting heads of his
astonished hearers! He tells a story; and, for the remainder of the
night, sits embosomed in the ineffable lustre of his humour.--_Monthly
Mag_.

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