that which preys upon the mind cannot be communicated, confers a kind of indulgence upon the grieved party to express itself, even to its heart’s dearest object, in the language of a temporary alienation; but it is not alienation, it is a distraction purely, and so it always makes itself to be felt by that object:  it is not anger, but grief assuming the appearance of anger,—­love awkwardly counterfeiting hate, as sweet countenances when they try to frown:  but such sternness and fierce disgust as Hamlet is made to show, is no counterfeit, but the real face of absolute aversion,—­of irreconcilable alienation.  It may be said he puts on the madman; but then he should only so far put on this counterfeit lunacy as his own real distraction will give him leave; that is, incompletely, imperfectly; not in that confirmed, practised way, like a master of his art, or as Dame Quickly would say, “like one of those harlotry players.”

I mean no disrespect to any actor, but the sort of pleasure which Shakspeare’s plays give in the acting seems to me not at all to differ from that which the audience receive from those of other writers; and, they being in themselves essentially so different from all others, I must conclude that there is something in the nature of acting which levels all distinctions.  And, in fact, who does not speak indifferently of the Gamester and of Macbeth as fine stage-performances, and praise the Mrs. Beverley in the same way as the Lady Macbeth of Mrs. S.?  Belvidera, and Calista, and Isabella, and Euphrasia, are they less liked than Imogen, or than Juliet, or than Desdemona?  Are they not spoken of and remembered in the same way?  Is not the female performer as great (as they call it) in one as in the other?  Did not Garrick shine, and was he not ambitious of shining, in every drawling tragedy that his wretched day produced,—­the productions of the Hills, and the Murphys, and the Browns,—­and shall he have that honor to dwell in our minds forever as an inseparable concomitant with Shakspeare?  A kindred mind!  O who can read that affecting sonnet of Shakspeare which alludes to his profession as a player:—­

  “Oh for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
  The guilty goddess of my harmless deeds,
  That did not better for my life provide
  Than public means which public custom breeds—­
  Thence comes it that my name receives a brand;
  And almost thence my nature is subdued
  To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand.”—­

Or that other confession:—­

  “Alas! ’tis true, I have gone here and there,
  And made myself a motley to thy view,
  Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear—­”