Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 137.djvu/214

208 when we met upon the stage to make some little changes in the play, Mr Kemble spoke openly of the help I had been to him, making very much more of it than it deserved, and above all, marvelling at the self-command of the little novice, coming with so much readiness to support an old actor, who should have been on the look-out to do that office for her. I was much ashamed to be praised for so small a thing. But how quietly glad was the little mouse when she found that she had helped, ever so slightly, her good friend the noble lion!

Mr Kemble seemed to my eyes before everything pre-eminently a gentleman. And this told, as it always must tell, when he enacted ideal characters. There was a natural grace and dignity in his bearing, a courtesy and unstudied deference of manner in approaching and addressing women, whether in private society or on the stage, which I have scarcely seen equalled. Perhaps it was not quite as rare in his day as it is now. What a lover he must have made! What a Romeo! What an Orlando! I got glimpses of what these must have been in the readings which Mr Kemble gave after he left the stage, and which I attended diligently, with heart and brain awake to profit by what

I heard. How fine was his Mercutio? What brilliancy, what ease, what spontaneous flow of fancy in the Queen Mab speech! The very start of it was suggestive – "Oh, then, I see Queen Mab" (with an emphasis on "Mab") "hath been with you! " How exquisite was the play of it all, image rising up after image, and crowding one upon another, each new one more fanciful than the last! "Thou talk'st of nothing," says Romeo; but oh, what nothings! As picture after picture was brought before you by Mr Kemble's skill, with the just emphasis thrown on every word, yet all spoken "trippingly on the tongue," what objects that one might see or touch could be more real? I was disappointed in his reading of Juliet, Desdemona, &c. His heroines were spiritless, tearful, creatures too merely tender, without distinction or individuality, all except Lady Macbeth, into whom I could not help thinking some of the spirit of his great sister, Mrs Siddons, was transfused. But, in truth, I cannot think it possible for any man's nature to simulate a woman's, or vice versâ. Therefore it is that I have never cared very much to listen to "readings" of entire plays by any single person. I have sometimes given them myself; but only, like Beatrice, "upon great persuasion."