derers. A knocking is heard at the gate of the castle. Macbeth trembles, and gazes with terror on his blood-stained hands. He has not power to fly, and Lady Macbeth drags him to his chamber. From that moment Macbeth seems to be absorbed in a continual dream. Amidst the splendour of his usurped greatness, his diseased imagination feeds itself on superstition, and the Weird Sisters, by their artful prophecies, excite his impatience and urge him to his destruction.

I was fearful that Kean would descend to some of those trivialities, which, though perfectly natural in Richard, would have compromised the dignity which a less bold usurper, such as Macbeth, must feel the necessity of maintaining. Familiarity would be utterly inconsistent with the situation of a king de facto, who, being conscious of his own weakness, and feeling his throne totter beneath him, naturally clings to any support, whether real or imaginary. Kean has evidently studied Shakspeare profoundly. He has philosophically analysed all those characters, with which, on the stage, he seems to identify himself by inspiration.

On the evening on which I saw Kean in Macbeth, Cooper sustained the part of Macduff. He performed this character very much in the style in which he played Richmond, and his fencing was admirable. He was very effective in the scene where Rosse informs him that his wife, children, and servants have been slaughtered by the tyrant, and where, on his friends wishing to console him

by the hope of vengeance on Macbeth, he exclaims-" He has no children!"

I will not attempt to analyse the piece which concluded the evening's entertainments. Monsieur Tonson is one of those insipid productions founded on absurd blunders, the author of which exposes himself to ridicule in attempting to entertain the galleries by a supposed caricature of the French. M. Tonson is an emigrant, who turns perruquier, apparently with no other object than to confirm John Bull in the belief that Providence has assigned to the English the honour of supplying Europe with clever heads, and to France the task of providing those heads with wigs. A coxcomb diverts himself by tormenting the old man, by exciting his fear and impatience; and poor M. Tonson becomes rather an object of pity than ridicule. I could not bring myself to laugh at the stupid blunders which were uttered by Gattie, his grotesque faces, or the accommodating easiness. with which he suffered himself to be mystified. The performers of Drury Lane theatre seem to possess more talent for broad farce than for genuine comedy.

LETTER XXXII.

TO M. DESFONTAINES.

I HAVE seen Kean in Othello; but I shall not give you any account of his performance until I see the same play represented at Covent Garden. I subjoin for your amusement a few particulars, which I have collected respecting the Roscius of Drury Lane.

Edmund Kean was born on the 4th of November, 1787. His father was a tailor, and resided in London, and his grand-father, Moses Kean, enjoyed some reputation as a mimic and ventriloquist. Kean's parents, who were too poor to maintain him, procured for him, as soon as he could walk, an engagement at Drury Lane theatre, where he used to perform in pantomime. He was placed under the tuition of a celebrated posture master, who subjected his limbs to so many contortions, that they acquired wonderful flexibility. The English would, in all probability, have had a rival to our Mazurier, had not the child's health suffered by this system of training. His joints became distorted and deformed. By the advice of the faculty, all the remedies of orthopedia were employed, and his limbs were put into irons. Young Kean had before personated Cupid, in Garrick's afterpiece of Cymon; but the manager now gave him the part of a goblin, for

the perfect personification of which it was only necessary for him to conceal his fine expressive countenance. The child submitted to this metamorphosis, and endured the jokes that were passed upon his figure, with more philosophic cheerfulness than might have been expected. He soon discovered that he had to rely solely on himself, and in spite of his neglected education, he gave proofs of singular intrepidity and independence of mind. After performing until he was about five years of age, he was dismissed from the theatre for a trick, which excited the inexorable indignation of the celebrated John Kemble. That great tragedian, who was then manager of Drury Lane, conceived the idea of making some additions to one of the scenes in Macbeth, which was to be brought out with extraordinary splendour. He recruited a number of children, who were to represent a troop of fiends and goblins of various colours, and to dance round the cauldron in which the Weird Sisters prepare the charm that is to ruin the regicide. Young Kean was, of course, selected to personate one of these infernal spirits; but just as Macbeth entered the cavern, Kean pretended to stumble against the boy who stood next him, and pushed him down. The latter, in his fall, knocked down another, and in a moment the whole party, as if overthrown by a shock of electricity, lay prostrate on the ground. Kemble, who was always extremely anxious to maintain the strictest decorum on the stage, was completely disconcerted by this ludicrous occurrence, and he

immediately disbanded the whole troop of goblins, addressing a smart reprimand to the author of this infraction of the rules of the sublime. Kean felt his dignity wounded by the reproof of the manager, and he was not sorry to find himself released from his engagement. However, he was not long in the enjoyment of liberty. His parents sent him to a school, the rules of which, though certainly not very rigid, were insupportable to him, and he ran away and entered himself as cabin-boy on board of a vessel, which was about to sail for Madeira. He was, as may readily be supposed, soon disgusted with his new situation, and the severe restraint to which it subjected him. But escape was now impossible, and his only hope was to devise some means of getting himself dismissed. He would not have scrupled to neglect his duty, but this appeared to him not a very certain mode of gaining his object, and besides, it would have subjected him to an arbitrary punishment. He thought of feigning illness; but he was afraid of being put upon a short allowance of food. Deafness appeared to be the only malady which was at all reconcileable with the cravings of his appetite. He accordingly pretended to be deaf, and he played his part so ably, that the captain sent him ashore and placed him in an hospital, where, for the space of two months, he deceived his medical attendants, who declared that nothing but his native air would have the effect of restoring his hearing. He set sail for England on board of the same vessel, and he soon