be exhibited under mean aspects, the inherent elevation of his conceptions, as well as the natural majesty of his face and form, render him an unfit medium for their transmission to our sympathy. existence. The very best of his portraits of real, as contrasted with poetical or ideal manners, partake in a certain degree of this drawback on the truth of his representations. Of these the finest is Penruddock, in the Wheel of Fortune; and, as a whole, it has not been, and perhaps never may be, equalled. But even here, we sigh for the refreshment of easy and natural delivery. | Every thing is carved and indented, rather than painted. There is tremendous power and energy, and a most impressive effect results from the whole; but what we mean to say is, that it is never easy or familiar, and therefore not entirely true to nature, which, in ordinary life, delivers even the most impassioned feelings through ordinary organs. His Sir Giles Over-reach, which is also a delineation approaching to those characters which we see moving daily around us, was liable in a still greater degree to the objections here stated. This singular character is a hero of his kind, for he has courage, enterprise, talents, and ambition; but these high features, which Mr Kemble is qualified to represent so greatly, are combined with others which he cannot represent at all-grasping avarice, sturdy villainy, and vulgarity, that taints at once the manners and the soul. Now, this is a species of portrait, of which Mr Kemble can be expected to give only a part. There is in his whole appearance, deportment, and very composition, something that is at perpetual war with vulgarity, and even the ordinary manners of middle life. He is surrounded by an atmos phere of involuntary and inseparable graned will not soon forget the powerful effect deur, from which he can never emerge to breathe the common air of ordinary men; and, of course, where coarse passions are to His Roman characters, accordingly, are those, we think, by which he is completely distinguished from all competitors, and stands quite out of the reach of rivalry. So far as dramatic history can be relied on, such a combination of requisites has never before been found, to embody the idea of the Roman patriot in full force and identity. The majestic figure and noble countenance of the performer, the classical propriety of his costume, the severe and simple grace of his action, and the general air of grandeur which spreads itself around him, presents through the eye to the imagination so lively a reality, that, in the fervour of the moment, the spectator feels himself mingling in scenes which long ages have covered, and holding communion with the awful fathers of mankind. Every thing aids the deception. The commanding presence and stately march of language which sometimes chill and overawe the sympathies exacted for domestic afflictions, give, to the lofty sorrows of Cato, a truth, as well as power, of colouring, which converts a picture into reality. We shall select this character, and that of Coriolanus, as specimens of his paramount skill in this species of delineation, although it may be difficult to select instances of peculiar excellence from performances, the whole of which were so perfect. Those who witness of the emotions he exhibited, when, alarmed at the idea of his son's possible unworthiness, he exclaimed Ha! what has he done? Has he forsook his post? Has he given way? Did he look tamely on, and let 'em pass? Nor the stifled grief which shook his steady soul in uttering the words, "I am satisfied!" The contention of those agonies that on such an occasion will force their way into the heart, with the principle of patriot self-devotion, which a disciple of the stoic philosophy held paramount to Nature herself, was awfully affecting and magnificent. The Horatian precept teaches us, that he who would draw tears from others, must first shed them himself. Mr Kemble's representation of Cato formed an exception to this rule; for he moved his audience most when he himself appeared to be moved least. Unless we should hold, that though his tears " flowed not o'er his own dear son," they were wept within. And assuredly his demeanour, amidst his struggles for apathy, agitated his hearers in a degree more bitterly powerful than the tears that escaped down his cheeks for the fall of his country. The famed soliloquy upon death was delivered with profound skill and effect; and we cannot here withhold our praise from an instance of minute but classical propriety, which could have occurred only to a mind learnedly attentive to the truth of costume. We need not remind our readers, that in addressing the shade of Plato, the ordinary receptacle of this philosopher's reasonings, which Cato is supposed to have been previously studying, is a goodly octavo, well-bound and lettered, which the performer brandishes in his hand, without the least thought of its utter absurdity. Mr Kemble, with true propriety, exhibited two or three long rolls of parchment, tied together in imitation of the ancient papyrus, upon which the speculations of Plato might be supposed to have been transcribed The languor and fainting agonies, the expiring intonations and anxious eagerness of the feelings of the dying man, were given with the painful reality of nature. But of all his characters, that which appears to be the most peculiarly and exclusively his own, is Coriolanus. A Roman, in the proudest age of Roman glory, the first among a race of warriors, holding his existence for Rome alone, yet burning with an uncontrollable pride, which would sacrifice even Rome before its offended majesty; a son, a husband, a father-glowing with the affections of all these relations, yet trampling upon them all, when the god of self-idolatry was to be propitiated-such are the mixed and jarring elements which Shakespeare has combined in this striking portraiture. Impetuous and affectionate, generous yet selfish and vindictive, devoted to Rome yet carrying devastation into her bosom, this haughty republican exhibits that compound of conflicting elements, in embodying which the skill of Mr Kemble is most eminently conspicuous. His mind seems fitted for receiving them with unequalled precision and force, and his singular powers of countenance and action enable him to place them before the spectators in all the vividness and energy with which they exist in himself. From this high union of physical and intellectual endowments, nothing can be imagined more absolutely perfect than his representation of Coriolanus; whether we regard the inimitable truth and spirit of his patrician pride, the unmeasured indignation which turned his arms against his country, the struggling submission to nature which tardily preserved it, or the sublime display of conflicting emotions in the scene preceding his catastrophe. The recent visit of this great performer to Edinburgh, was distinguished by a pecu liar and melancholy interest, for it was known that it was his last. He had wisely and vigorously resolved,-in the words of Penruddock, which on this occasion were heard with striking effect,-that he "would not be made a spectacle in his dotage ;" and had therefore determined that his sand-glass should be turned, while the measure of time was yet running strongly. The first feeling which a retreat in such circumstances naturally excites, is regret that it should have taken place while it yet appeared unnecessary; but the next tells us, that it would be equally impolitic in the actor, and painful to his admirers, were retirement delayed till infirmities compelled it. Like the eve of the tropic sun, the beams of Mr Kemble's setting blazed to the last : Dyes the wide wave with bloody light, He performed several of his best characters with wholly untouched vigour, and repeated Coriolanus three times. The houses overflowed, and the applause evidently proceeded from hearts that felt its object was fast retiring from their reach. The character fixed upon, with happy propriety, for his closing scene, was Macbeth, in which he took his final leave of Scotland on the evening of Saturday, the 29th March, 1817. He had laboured under a severe cold for a few days before, but on this memorable night the physical annoyance yeilded to the energy of his mind. "He was," he said in the green-room, immediately before the curtain rose, "determined to leave behind him the most perfect specimen of his art which he had ever shewn ;" and his success was complete. At the moment of the tyrant's death, the curtain fell by the universal acclamation of the audience. The applauses were vehement and prolonged : they ceased-were resumed-rose againwere reiterated-and again were hushed. In a few minutes, the curtain ascended, and Mr Kemble came forward, in the dress of Macbeth, (the audience by a consentaneous movement rising to receive him) to deliver his Farewell. THE FAREWELL ADDRESS. As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's sound, 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: 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 forgetO, how forget!—how oft I hither came In anxious hope, how oft return'd with fame! How oft around your circle this weak hand And I have felt, and you have fann'd the flame ! O favour'd Land! renown'd 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 play'd, my knell is rung, When e'en your praise falls faultering from my tongue; And all that you can hear, or I can tell, Is Friends and Patrons, hail and FARE YOU WELL! Mr Kemble delivered these lines with exquisite beauty, and with an effect that was evidenced by the tears and sobs of many of the audience. His own emotions were very conspicuous. When his Farewell was closed, he lingered long on the stage, as if unable to retire. The house again stood up, and cheered him with the waving of hats and long shouts of applause. At length he finally retired, and, in so far as regards Scotland, the curtain dropped upon his professional life for ever.* * The tenacious memory of some readers may perhaps discover, that some parts of the preceding strictures are not new to them. They are right. They form a portion of a series of dramatic criticisms which the writer of this article from time to time inserted in the Edinburgh Courant; but he felt that he was justified in resuming a part of what he had given, both because it was his own, and because he believed that opinions elicited by the glow of the occasion, were likely to be more just, as well as more spirited, than any recollec Mr JOHN PHILIP KEMBLE has left the stage a few years younger, if we do not mistake, than Mr Garrick did. Mr Kemble is just turned of fifty-nine, having been born on the February, 1758. His health has not for many years been robust, although his complaints are of a nature which produce only a temporary effect, and do not prevent him, unless at intervals, either from making those splendid profes sional efforts which have given celebrity to his name, or from enjoying the delights of literary leisure, or social intercourse. The dread which generally follows the retirement of men who have been much in the world's eye, that they may become the victims of ennui, has little foundation in the case of Mr Kemble; for he has been long given to studious enjoyments, and carries into privacy an amply-stored and well-regulated mind. If we are rightly informed, the world may expect to receive the fruits of his long and learned professional studies, in an edition of a part, if not the whole, of the plays of Shakspeare. And now, we would fain linger as he lingered, for the task of saying adieu to a valued friend is very painful; but we must at length conclude as he concluded, with— Edinburgh, printed by James Ballantyne & Co. For John Ballantyne, Hanover-Street. THE SALE-ROOM. No. XV.] SATURDAY, APRIL 12, 1817. A Periodical Paper, published weekly at No. 4, Hanover-Street, Edinburgh. Another and another. Fair Penitent. WE ventured to hazard an opinion in our last Number, which we feared might be regarded as somewhat startling,-that of all the classes of persons into which the mass of polished society is divided, those who in the greatest degree occupied and interested the attention of the others, were the thoughtless and often improvident, but generally good-humoured and light-hearted votaries of the stage. This opinion, we have reason to think, has met fewer opponents than we were disposed to anticipate; for even those grave persons who profess that they have no such feelings themselves, do not deny (no doubt it is with a shrug) that they may be likely enough to be found amongst others, who are younger and gayer than they. This admission we are resolved to consider as decisive of our hypothesis; for, otherways, how should we dare again, and so immediately, to introduce the subject of the Drama, and its he roes, into the pages of the Sale-Room? But there are still other reasons which determine us upon making this additional experiment upon the patience of our readers. We are positively assured by our publisher that there has been a greater demand for the paper containing our theatrical speculations than for any one of its predecessors; -a fact from which we are compelled to draw one of two inferences,-either that the subject itself is more than usually attractive, or that our mode of treating it is more than usually eloquent. Now, as we are not so blind as to be seduced into the adoption of the last alternative, nothing remains for us but to claim assent to the first. Assuming, therefore, that we have opened a vein in the literary quarry, which promises to yield a few light specimens of marcasite, if not something more valuable or brilliant, we shall boldly proceed to work it; or, getting quit of the metaphor, (which we suspect is not quite sterling) since the public appear to have been tolerably satisfied with Mr Kemble, we shall now serve up to them Mr Kean. It is certainly an interesting æra in the dramatic annals of the Scottish stage, that has brought before us, with scarcely an interval between them, the two greatest actors of the past, and of the present day;for, with reference to his retirement from public life, and to his having delighted the grandfathers of many of the present gene P |