t those destined to
his profession, who require the most careful education, are likely to
have received the most neglected one. Lucian, in his curious treatise on
Tragic Pantomime, asserts that the great actor should also be a man of
letters, and such were Garrick and Kemble.

The lively Gherardi throws out some curious information respecting this
singular art: "Any one may learn a part by rote, and do something bad,
or indifferent, on another theatre. With us the affair is quite
otherwise; and when an Italian actor dies, it is with infinite
difficulty we can supply his place. An Italian actor learns nothing by
head; he looks on the subject for a moment before he comes forward on
the stage, and entirely depends on his imagination for the rest. The
actor who is accustomed merely to recite what he has been taught is so
completely occupied by his memory, that he appears to stand, as it were,
unconnected either with the audience or his companion; he is so
impatient to deliver himself of the burthen he is carrying, that he
trembles like a school-boy, or is as senseless as an Echo, and could
never speak if others had not spoken before. Such a tutored actor among
us would be like a paralytic arm to a body; an unserviceable member,
only fatiguing the healthy action of the sound parts. Our performers,
who became illustrious by their art, charmed the spectators by the
beauty of their voice, their spontaneous gestures, the flexibility of
their passions, while a certain natural air never failed them in their
motions and their dialogue."

Here, then, is a species of the histrionic art unknown to us, and
running counter to that critical canon which our great poet, but not
powerful actor, has delivered to the actors themselves, "to speak no
more than is set down for them." The present art consisted in happily
performing the reverse.

Much of the merit of these actors unquestionably must be attributed to
the felicity of the national genius. But there were probably some secret
aids in this singular art of Extemporal Comedy which the pride of the
artist has concealed. Some traits in the character, and some wit in the
dialogue, might descend traditionally; and the most experienced actor on
that stage would make use of his memory more than he was willing to
confess. Goldoni records an unlucky adventure of his "Harlequin Lost and
Found," which outline he had sketched for the Italian company; it was
well received at Paris, but utterly fai