We were truly inclined to give Mr. Forrest credit for too much good sense, to be tempted into any such absurd extravagance as he has been guilty of, in attempting to foist his new reading of Richard upon an intelligent public. He must have discarded all authority, and taken it upon himself to settle this question with the world; and he _has_ settled it, in a way most lamentable for his judgment. The first three acts of Richard were really pitiable. There was a lack of every thing which we had long supposed belonged to the character. His sarcasms--those biting sentences which Kean made so withering--were turned to absolute jests--regular Joe Millers in blank verse! Gloster murdered in joke, and all his villanies became, as Mr. Forrest presented them, no more than the peccadilloes of Punch. The scene with Queen Anne had no propriety whatever. It was not the wily Gloster, whose tongue could 'wheedle with the devil,' but the gay, slashing Corinthian, paying his devoirs to a moonlight Cyprian. The Duke of Gloster was a gentleman, bloody-minded enough, truly, but with the polish of a court about him, and an air of nobility as inseparable as his hump; both of which Mr. Forrest discarded long before the Duke of Gloster gave up the ghost. The last two acts, and especially the very last, were powerful, so far as physical effort could render them powerful. The tent-scene was terrific in this respect; it was like the 'tic doloureux,' deafening and dull. It was heavy physical force, with very little of genius to thrill or to startle; a sort of artificial thunder, without the lightning. Strange that any can be found to uphold such extravagance; but rant and fustian seem the order of the day; and he whose lungs are the stoutest, seems the victor among modern tragedians. 'The rabble knows not where our dramas shine, But when the actor roars, 'By Jove! that's fine!' * * * * *