Perhaps no author did benefit more, and injured more at the same time a national theatre, than Shakspeare. Such an extraordinary genius wrote plays, which have not the common sense. Andronichus for instance, is such an ugly monster, which must astonish every body who judge by themselves, how Shakspeare could write such an unnatural play. Andronichus is neither a tragedy, nor a parody. As Shakspeare had never been crazy, I am inclined to believe he was drunk, when he wrote Andronichus. That it was written by Shakspeare and by no body else, I have no doubt, since we find the style, the wit, and the might of his genius in it; a language which no body, but Shakspeare had ever been able to coin. The Andronichus of Shakspeare proves, that men judge like parrots in literature. Down to our days, all the learned say, that all the works of Shakspeare are the nature itself. They cannot say even, which is the best of them! He who would deny a mighty genius in Shakspeare, might say, that the sun is a dark body. But, he who would approve a Lavinia, acting more than three acts, after Chiron and Demetrius had chopped off her arms, and tongue, without going to bed, it shows how ridiculous must be those, who find beauties in every thing Shakspeare did write. My purpose here, is not to write a criticism on Shakspeare: but, no lady in the world could fall in love with Richard the third, the murderer of her husband, king Edward the fourth; and at the very moment in which she is going to bury him. Were Elizabeth not a lady, the love of ambition, might change a woman into a monster, at least, a month after the crime was committed. But, to love a cruel monkey, in the street, before the very victim, and this victim her beloved husband, over whom five minutes ago she shed bitter tears; to love the very Richard still reeking with her husband’s blood, at the very time in which he uses violence in stopping the sacred burial, to love him, I say, because he flatters her, it is the very parody, and the ridiculous caricature with which he wanted demonstrate the power of flattery in woman’s breast. Were woman such a selfish, vain, degraded being, the honest man would shudder at, and feel aversion rather than love the beauty. And if one of the best ladies has so low a mind, what shall we think of those less perfect than Elizabeth? But, the hyperbole is such a big one, for which nature wishes to have nothing to do with it. And such a satire to woman, instead of striking at the purpose, it becomes but a ridiculous exaggeration. I brought here only these two instances to demonstrate, that, if the english theatre has not yet reached the italian, or french perfection, it is owing to a national, religious veneration for every thing written by Shakspeare; and when the english critic will not be awed by the great Shakspeare, and, really, Shakspeare is great, I do not see why the english theatre will not be as good as any.