Under all circumstances, I should hardly wish a contest with
Philodrama--Philo-Drury--Asbestos, H----, and all the anonymes and
synonymes of Committee candidates. Seriously, I think you have a chance
of something much better; for prologuising is not my forte, and, at all
events, either my pride or my modesty won't let me incur the hazard of
having my rhymes buried in next month's Magazine, under "Essays on the
Murder of Mr. Perceval." and "Cures for the Bite of a Mad Dog," as poor
Goldsmith complained of the fate of far superior performances [2].
I am still sufficiently interested to wish to know the successful
candidate; and, amongst so many, I have no doubt some will be excellent,
particularly in an age when writing verse is the easiest of all
attainments.
I cannot answer your intelligence with the "like comfort," unless, as
you are deeply theatrical, you may wish to hear of Mr. Betty [3], whose
acting is, I fear, utterly inadequate to the London engagement into
which the managers of Covent Garden have lately entered. His figure is
fat, his features flat, his voice unmanageable, his action ungraceful,
and, as Diggory [4] says, "I defy him to extort that damned muffin face
of his into madness." I was very sorry to see him in the character of
the "Elephant on the slack rope;" for, when I last saw him, I was in
raptures with his performance. But then I was sixteen--an age to which
all London condescended to subside. After all, much better judges have
admired, and may again; but I venture to "prognosticate a prophecy" (see
the 'Courier') that he will not succeed.
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