There is another comedy infinitely worth seeing—Monsieur Le Texier. He is Pr`eville, and Caillaud, and Garrick, and Weston, and Mrs. Clive, all together; and as perfect in the most insignificant part, as in the most difficult.(239) To be sure, it is hard to give up loo in such fine weather, when one can play from morning till night. In London, Pam can scarce get a house till ten o’clock. If you happen to see the General your husband, make my compliments to him, Madam; his friend the King of Prussia is going to the devil and Alexander the Great.
(239) M. Le Texier was a native of Lyons, where he was directeur des fermes. The following account of the readings of this celebrated Frenchman, is from a critique on Boaden’s Life of Kemble, in the Quarterly Review, vol. xxxiv. p. 241:—“On one of the author’s incidental topics we must pause for a moment with delightful recollection. We mean the readings of Le Texier, who, seated at a desk, and dressed in plain clothes, reads French plays with such modulation of voice, and such exquisite point of dialogue, as to form a pleasure different from that of the theatre, but almost as great as we experience in listening to a first-rate actor. When it commenced, M. Le Texier read over the dramatis persome, with the little analysis of character usually attached to each name, Using the voice and manner with which he afterwards read the part: and so accurately was the key-note given, that he had no need to name afterwards the person who spoke; the stupidest of the audience could not miss to recognise him.” Madame du Deffand, in a letter to Walpole, says of him— “Soyez s`ur, que lui tout seul est la meilleure troupe que nous avons:” and again in one to Voltaire—“Assis dans un fauteuil, avec un livre `a la main, il jouc les comedies o`u1 il y a sept, huit, dix, douze personnages, si parfaitement bien, qu’on ne saurait croire, m`eme en le regardant, que ce soit le m`eme homme qui Parle. Pour moi, l’illusion est parfaitc."-E.
Our letters probably passed by each other on the road, for I wrote to you on Tuesday, and have this instant received one from you, which I answer directly, to beg pardon for my incivility, nay, ingratitude, in not thanking you for your present of a whole branch of most respectable ancestors, the Derehaughs—why, the Derehaughs alone would make gentlemen of half the modern peers, English or Irish. I doubt my journey to France was got into my head, and left no room for an additional quarter-but I have given it to Edmondson, and ordered him to take care that I am born again from the Derehaughs. This Edmondson has got a ridiculous notion into his head that another, and much ancienter of my progenitors, Sir Henry Walpole, married his wife Isabella Fitz-Osbert, when she was widow to Sir Walter Jernegan; whereas, all the Old Testament says Sir Walter married Sir Henry’s widow. Pray send me your authority to confound this gainsayer, if you know any thing particular of the matter.