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ly near one to make us painfully interested in its joys or sorrows—its success or failure. We watch its movements, more as a matter of curiosity than of sympathy; for we are satisfied, that whatever may be the causes or the consequences of those movements, we are beyond their reach, if not out of their sphere. The manner in which Mr Kean gives these kind of characters is very striking. Into most of his parts he is apt to throw a superabundance of intellect,—so that they are sometimes thinking, when they ought to be feeling,—but in these there cannot be too much. His conceptions, too, with whatever rapidity they may follow each other, are embodied with such vividness and precision, that they cannot be mistaken or overlooked; and they never seem strained or superfluous, on account of their perpetual variety, and the perfect ease and unconsciousness which always accompany them. It is in these characters, more than in any others (and we allude particularly to Richard III.), that Mr Kean displays that sustained and sustaining vigour of thought,—that intense mental energy,—which is another of his characteristics; and which pervades all his performances, in a greater or less degree. This it is which enables him to point a home truth with such cutting severity, and steep a sarcasm in such unalloyed bitterness. This it is which makes his eyes strike like basilisks, and his words pierce like daggers. This it is which gives such endless variety, and appropriateness, and beauty, to the expression of his face and action. Indeed, Mr Kean's look and attitude are at all times precisely such as a consummate painter would assign to the particular situation and character in which they occur; and this, not because he studies to make them so, but because the operations of the mind and senses, when they are real and intense, are always accompanied by correspondent bodily expression. It is a law of our nature that this should be the case; and, accordingly, look and action are among the certain criteria by which to judge of the truth and strength of a performer's feelings and conceptions.

Another remarkable feature of Mr Kean's acting is, that notwithstanding the immense variety of his powers, there is always a perfect unity of purpose among them,—there is, if we may use the expression, an understanding between them. They always preserve their distinctness and identity, yet never jostle and disturb each other, but blend with, and adapt themselves to, that one among them which circumstances require to take the lead. He reads a character over—forms a certain conception of it—and then throws his whole powers into it, and suffers it to mould and modify them as it will. This is always the case when he is playing characters that are worthy of him. He does not make them what he pleases, but they make him what they please. They seize on him, not he on them. They are seen through him, not he through them. He is "subdued to the very quality" of what he is engaged in; and never, for an instant, by a single glance or reminiscence, reminds you that he is, or can be, any thing else. This unity of purpose is finely adapted to illustrate Shakspeare, whose best plays all possess it in a most wonderful degree; and they are the only plays that do possess it. Even where they may seem to blend and interfere with each other, a further examination shews us that each is itself alone. As examples of what we mean, both with respect to actor and author, we would refer to Richard II., Macbeth, and Richard III. The ruling spring of action in each of these dramas is ambition; but what can be more distinct than the puling, and childish, and legitimate ambition of Richard II.,—the faultering, feeble, and cowardly ambition of Macbeth,—and the proud, reckless, and triumphant ambition of Richard III.?

In this hasty estimate of Mr Kean's merits, we must not neglect to notice, that he is the first actor who has dared to introduce the familiarities of daily life into tragedy,—the first who has discovered that heroes are only men. It is true, that valets-de-chambre are said to have made this discovery before him; but there is not a little credit due to his courage, in venturing_to publish it to the world. In this he evinced a noble consciousness of power, and a noble dependence on that power. It was not for one who felt himself worthy to walk hand in hand with the kindred spirits of a better age,—to stalk along upon a pair of French stilts;—it was not for a being who felt the inextinguishable flame of genius burn within him, to seek for artificial light and heat from the lustre of stars and