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with sable, and a turban hat or cap, at the command of the tyrant on came the desire of all eyes, Master William Henry West Betty. With the sagacity of an old stager I walked quietly into the house at the end of the first act, made my way into the lobby of the first circle, planted myself at the back of one of the boxes outside, and saw him make his bow, and never stirred till the curtain fell at the end of the play. I had a good glass, and saw him perfectly. He was

a fair, pleasing youth, well formed, and remarkably graceful. The first thing that struck me was that it was passion for the profession that made him an actor; he was doing what he loved to do, and put his whole force into it. The next thing I felt was that he had amazing docility, and great aptitude at catching what he was taught he could convey passions which he had never felt nor seen in operation but upon the stage. Grace, energy, fire, vehemence were his own the understanding was of a maturer brain. He seemed, however, to think all he said, and, had he been taught to pronounce with accuracy, there was nothing beyond his obvious requisites for the profession.

All boys have nearly the same defects in dec

lamation; they either hoot out their words or mouth them; they do not clear off their syllables, they hang and drawl. They endeavour to move you by a monotonous, heavy cadence, such as even great actresses moan out when they do not choose to think while they speak, no rare occurrence; but they get tired of repetition, are frequently unwell, and the substitute passes where the ears are sufficiently long.

Had Betty died at this time he would exactly have resembled the character given by Ben Jonson of Salathiel Pavy, one of the children of Queen Elizabeth's chapel, of whom the laureate thus writes:

"Weep with me all you that read

This little story:

And know for whom a tear you shed

Death's self is sorry.

'Twas a child that so did thrive

In grace and feature,

As Heav'n and Nature seem'd to strive

Which own'd the creature.

Years he number'd scarce thirteen

When fates turn'd cruel,

Yet three fill'd zodiacs had he been

The stage's jewel."

But he is before me, and I therefore proceed.

Embarrassment Betty did not seem to have the

He turned

slightest, nor to think of his audience. himself like a veteran to his work; his eye never wandered from the true mark, and, though not dark, it was quick and meaning. He did not wring his features into distortion at any time to look impressive, nor roll his eye, as is the practice, to imply subtlety. There was no trick about him. The first thunder that followed the flash of his kindled fancy was at his delivery of this passage, and he spoke it perfectly. It is his feigned assassination of himself:

"While night drew on, we leap'd upon our prey;
Full at his heart brave Omar aim'd the poniard,
Which Selim shunning, wrench'd it from his hand,
Then plung'd it in his breast; — I hasted on,
Too late to save, yet I reveng'd my friend —
My thirsty dagger, with repeated blows,
Search'd every artery - they fell together,
Gasping in folds of mortal enmity,

And thus in frowns expir'd."

All this, it is true, was trimmed and tuned to the fine ear of Garrick. But Betty waited its effect with his eye, as he described the action, like a master. The trial of Othman's principles and the ultimate communication that Selim was

yet alive — the lowered tone of voice, the prying

caution lest he should be overheard, were all as

finished efforts as if such a man as my friend Waldron, with all his impresssions of Garrick as vivid as they were at first, had shown the youth the manner in which the mighty master moved himself through all the business of the scene. The part of Selim is kept rising judiciously to the close of the act, and he left his audience perfectly transfixed in admiration and astonishment.

The third act showed the mere boy. Irene, young and beautiful, excited nothing consonant in him. He was a stranger to the passion of love, and time had not yet matured him into the expression of its language. All his tenderness was devoted to his mother. Nature could speak in

him as a son, it seemed, though not as a lover., The message to Zaphira, which Achmet delivers to her from her son, whom she supposes at a distance,

is well written on the model of Addison:

"Bid her remember that the ways of Heaven,

Tho' dark, are just; that oft some guardian pow'r
Attends unseen to save the innocent!

But if high Heaven decrees our fall! oh! bid her
Firmly to wait the stroke, prepar'd alike

To live and die. And then he wept, as I do."

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Nothing can be prettier than this address of

Selim in the last line. But the soliloquy with

which the act ends, and, young as the speaker then looked, the destruction of the tyrant there menaced, was the prime favourite. His energy was so striking as to keep it from ridiculous bravado. The difficulty vanished before him. The fourth act had some fine bursts. The fifth has little or nothing for the actor. Doctor Brown, as a dramatic poet, could do nothing but what had been done before. He had not even the talent of new combination in a slight degree. His play, in fact, is "Merope," new-named.

Some of the faults of this singular youth have been hinted already. The most decided flatterer could not talk down the most obvious one; it proceeded from a want that can only be corrected by advanced, perhaps begun education. He did not syllabicate; his notion of a word was often caught from vulgar speakers, and Selim, in his utterance, was sometimes Coelum. He did not aspirate where he should probably did not know that others do it. I saw little beyond Selim in any of his other characters, there was no original conception of the part; it was the prompter's tradition of great men executed by a surprising boy.

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At Covent Garden he also acted Young Norval, another Selim, and Frederick, in "Lovers' Vows."

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