WE are got into a custom of mentioning Shakespeare and Jonson together, and many think them of equal merit, tho’ in different ways. In my opinion, Jonson is one of the dullest writers I ever read, and his plays, with some few exceptions, the most unentertaining I ever saw. He has some shining passages now and then, but not enough to make up for his deficiencies. Shakespeare, on the contrary, abundantly recompenses for being sometimes low and trifling. One of his commentators much admires his great art in the construction of his verses—I dare say they are very perfect; but it is as much out of my power to think upon the art of verse-making when I am reading this divine poet, as it is to consider of the best way of making fiddle-strings at a concert. I am not master of myself sufficiently to do any thing that requires deliberation: I am taken up like a leaf in a whirlwind, and dropped at Thebes or Athens, as the poet pleases!

I have seldom any pleasure from the representation of Shakespeare’s plays, unless it be from some scenes of conversation merely, without passion. The speeches which have any thing violent in the expression, are generally so over-acted as to cease to be the “mirror of nature”—but this was always the case—“Oh! it offends me to the soul, to see a robustious perriwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters:”—’tho’ this is a “lamentable thing,” yet it appears to be without remedy. An actor, in a large theatre, is like a picture hung at a distance, if the touches are delicate, they escape the sight: both must be extravagant to be seen at all, and hence the custom of the ancients to make use of the Persona and Buskin. Acting has a very different effect in the stage-box from what it has in the back of the gallery. In the one, every thing appears rough and rude, like a picture of Spagnolet’s near the eye; in the other, it is with difficulty that the play can be made out. Perhaps, the best place is the front of the first gallery; as being sufficiently removed to soften these hardnesses, yet near enough to see and hear with advantage. But there is no place can alter the impropriety of rant and turgid declamation, which the performer naturally runs into by endeavouring to be strong enough to be heard—so that, as I observed, the evil seems to be incurable.