the combat was over, when the lion was to be looked upon as dead
according to the received rules of the drama. Besides, this is what
is practised every day in Westminster Hall, where nothing is more
usual than to see a couple of lawyers, who have been tearing each
other to pieces in the court, embracing one another as soon as they
are out of it.

I would not be thought in any part of this relation to reflect upon
Signior Nicolini, who, in acting this part, only complies with the
wretched taste of his audience: he knows very well that the lion
has many more admirers than himself; as they say of the famous
equestrian statue on the Pont-Neuf at Paris, that more people go to
see the horse than the king who sits upon it. On the contrary, it
gives me a just indignation to see a person whose action gives new
majesty to kings, resolution to heroes, and softness to lovers, thus
sinking from the greatness of his behaviour, and degraded into the
character of the London Prentice. I have often wished that our
tragedians would copy after this great master in action. Could they
make the same use of their arms and legs, and inform their faces
with as significant looks and passions, how glorious would an
English tragedy appear with that action which is capable of giving a
dignity to the forced thoughts, cold conceits, and unnatural
expressions of an Italian opera! In the meantime, I have related
this combat of the lion to show what are at present the reigning
entertainments of the politer part of Great Britain.

Audiences have often been reproached by writers for the coarseness
of their taste; but our present grievance does not seem to be the
want of a good taste, but of common sense.