in the part of Macbeth; on which occasion he delivered the following address, written by his friend, Sir Walter Scott:

"As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's sound
Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws the ground;
Disdains the ease his generous lord assigns,
And longs to rush on the embattled lines;
So I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear,
Can scarce sustain to think our parting near;
To think my scenic hour for ever past,
And that those valued plaudits, are my last,

"But years steal on; and higher duties crave Some space between the theatre and grave; That, like the Roman in the capitol,

I may adjust my mantle ere I fall;

My life's brief act in public service flown,
The last, the closing scene, must be my own.

"Here then, adieu! while yet some well-graced parts
May fix an ancient favourite in your hearts,
Not quite to be forgotten, even when
You look on better actors, younger men:
And if your bosoms own this kindly debt
Of old remembrance, how shall mine forget?
O how forget how oft I hither came

In anxious hope, how oft returned with fame!
How oft around your circle, this weak hand
Has waved immortal Skakspeare's magic wand,
Till the full burst of inspiration came,

And I have felt, and you have fann'd the flame !

By mem'ry treasured, while her reign endures,
These hours must live and all their claims are yours.

"O favoured land! renowned for arts and arms,
For manly talent, and for female charms,
Could this full bosom prompt the sinking line,
What fervent benedictions now were thine!
But my last part is played, my knell is rung,

When e'en your praise falls faltering from my tongue;
And all that you can hear, or I can tell,

As we are now approaching the close of Mr. Kemble's professional life, the present is perhaps the most fit opportunity for saying something of his general qualifications for the stage, and of a few of the characters in the representation of which he was so transcendent.

Mr. Kemble combined in an eminent degree, the physical and mental requisites for the highest rank in his profession. To a noble form, and classical and expressive countenance, he added the advantages of a sound judgment, indefatigable industry, and a decided genius, and ardent love for the art of which he was so distinguished an ornament. He possessed besides, that essential characteristic of a first-rate tragic actor, an air of intellectual superiority, and a peculiarity of manner and appearance, which impressed the spectator, at a glance, with the conviction that he was not of the race of common men. His voice was defective in the undertones necessary for soliloquy; but in declamation it was strong and efficient; and in tones of melancholy, indescribably touching. No music was ever heard which could better revive the tale of past times. It was indeed one of the most exquisite beauties of his performances, that a single passage frequently recalled to the mind "a whole history." At the same time, it must be confessed that there were occasions, principally while he was suffering from the languor of indisposition, when his enunciation was unpleasingly elaborate and prolonged.

To young and inexperienced critics, he appeared to have too much art. Judging more from feelings than from principles, they regarded him as departing from propriety in the same degree in which they saw him depart from the character of nature, as it existed in their own minds. Comparing him with their own notions, indeed in many cases with their own knowledge of the prototype in nature of the part which he was performing, they felt that the representation and the reality had very little resemblance; and, that they had never met with any one who walked, looked, and spoke

and a fourthtime, they began to understand the source of their error, and the character of his excellence. They perceived that his whole performance was the result of profound study; that he departed intentionally from simple nature, because he had seen that nature, artificially combined, would produce a greater effect; that his playing therefore was not to be judged by its resemblance to ordinary nature, and general character, but by its conformity with what nature would appear and become under certain selected circumstances. They saw that acting, like poetry, or painting, ought not to take its subject from merely common nature; and that an actor, like a poet or a painter, could never possess the genuine feelings, spirit, and genius of his art, unless he formed himself by a beau ideal in his own imagination.

While depicting, in the most powerful manner possible, the fiercest rage, the bitterest hatred, or the wildest desperation of a perturbed spirit, — while representing, in short, the 66 very whirlwind of passion," he was always at a distance from the confines of extravagance: he was always careful to "beget a temperance that might give it smoothness." His acting was the finest exemplification conceivable of the truth, that distortion of visage, and writhing of limb are ineffective, in proportion as they are outrageous; that eternal starts, and chafings, and restlessness, are significant only of littleness and imbecility; that all such ingenuities are wretched substitutes for essential expression; and are, to adopt the language of La Rochefoucault, "mysteries of the body to conceal the defects of the mind." To this the manner of Kemble was directly opposed. In all his numerous performances there were to be remarked no laborious effort, no painful tension of his faculties, no search after extrinsic embellishment, or false and conceited contrast. Every thing had its distinct meaning; every look, every tone, and every gesture were impressive, not only in themselves, but because they all converged to one point; they were all determined by, and had reference to, one pervading idea, which influenced and governed the

Whether on or off the stage, Mr. Kemble never lost sight of his profession. While performing, he was ever attentive to the minutest circumstance, whether relating to his own part, or to the parts of others; when off the stage, he was diligently engaged in the pursuit of whatever was connected with the history, or illustration of his art. He therefore, at a prodigious expence, made an unrivalled collection of the dramatie works of British genius, and of books relative to the history of the stage; and, during the long period of his management, in the two winter theatres, the public were indebted to his researches into our ancient drama, for the revival of many pieces of acknowledged value, which had been long neglected, and were almost forgotten; but which his judicious alterations contributed to restore to their former popularity

In speaking of the merits of Mr. Kemble, in some of his chief theatrical characters, it is impossible to say any thing absolutely new. We shall therefore do little more than adopt, with certain modifications, a few of the numerous criticisms which his performances called forth from some of the best judges of dramatic excellence.

In the vigour of his life, the Hamlet of Mr. Kemble was his best and most favourite character. During his latter years, time had furrowed his fine forehead and face. more deeply than even profound grief could have worn the countenance of the young Danish Prince; but in Mr. Kemble's prime, he was an admirable personation of the melancholy, the graceful, the gentle Hamlet, The scholar shone in him with learned beauty. The soldier's spirit decorated his person. His mourning dress was in unison with the noble and severe sorrow of his face. The spectator could not take his eye from the dark intensity of Kemble's, or look on any meaner form while Kemble's matchless figure stood in princely perfection before him. The very blue ribband that suspended the picture of his father round his neck, had a courtly grace in its disposal. When he spoke, his voice, in its fine cadences, fell like an echo on the ear; and the listener was taken by its tones back with

Hamlet to his early days, and over all his griefs, until he felt himself, like Hamlet, isolated amidst the revelry of the Danish

court.

The beauty of Kemble's performance of Hamlet was its retrospective air, its intensity and abstraction. His youth seemed delivered over to sorrow; and memory was indeed with him "the warder of the brain." Other actors have played the part with more energy; have walked more "i' the sun;" have aimed more at effect; but Kemble's sensible, lonely Hamlet, has never been surpassed,

Mr. Kemble's delineation of Cato was magnificent. The hopes of Rome seemed fixed upon him. The fate of "the immortal city" appeared to have retired to his tower-like figure as to a fortress, and thence to look down upon the petty struggles of traitors and assasins. He stood in the gorgeous foldings of his robes, proudly pre-eminent. When his son was killed, and the stoicism of the Roman wrestled with the feelings of the father, the contest was terrifically displayed.

There were those who preferred him in Brutus. The Roman part of the character was certainly admirably pourtrayed; but the tenderness of heart, which occasionally rises up through all the Roman sternness, was perhaps not sufficiently marked. And yet, nothing could exceed the manner in which he spoke the three simple words,

"Portia is dead."

Uttered by a common actor, those words convey only the relation of a fact, melancholy, indeed, and therefore affecting; but when delivered by Mr. Kemble, they strikingly exhibited the workings of a mind in which anguish was with difficulty subdued by philosophy. The effect was always electrical.

Coriolanus was a Roman of quite another stamp; and Mr. Kemble seems to have been more universally liked in that part than in any other. The contempt of inferiors suited the haughty tone of his voice; and the fierce impetuosity of the brave young patrician was admirably seconded by the