The reason of all this is, that a Frenchman requires on the stage neither nature nor deception, but only wit and sentiment: he requires only to be diverted, and cares not whether what he sees be a true or false representation of nature. No body goes here to the theatre for the pleasure of seeing the play, but for the sake of seeing, and being seen, by the company, and to catch a subject for conversation after the play is over. The actor with them is always the actor, never the character he represents. He who gives himself those important airs of an universal sovereign is not the emperor Augustus, it is only Baron. The relict of Pompey is no other than Adrienne, Alzira is mademoiselle Gaussin, and that formidable savage is no other than the civil Grandval. The comedians, on the other hand, give themselves no trouble to keep up an illusion which no body expects. They place the venerable heroes of antiquity between six rows of young, spruce Parisians: they have their Roman dresses made up in the French fashion: the weeping Cornelia is seen bathed in tears, with her rouge laid on two fingers thick: Cato has his hair dressed and powdered, and Brutus struts along in a Roman hoop-petticoat; yet no body is shocked at all this absurdity, nor doth it hinder the success of the piece; for, as the actors only are seen in the characters, so what respects the author is the only thing considered in the play; and, though propriety should be entirely neglected, it is easily excused, for every one knows that Corneille was no tailor, nor Crebillon a peruke-maker.