iciently, at least, to
call up the beautiful ideal.'

FANNY KEMBLE.

'When in Boston, I saw the Kembles twice,--in "Much ado about
Nothing," and "The Stranger." The first night I felt much
disappointed in Miss K. In the gay parts a coquettish, courtly
manner marred the wild mirth and wanton wit of Beatrice. Yet,
in everything else, I liked her conception of the part; and
where she urges Benedict to fight with Claudio, and where she
reads Benedict's sonnet, she was admirable. But I received no
more pleasure from Miss K.'s acting out the part than I have
done in reading it, and this disappointed me. Neither did
I laugh, but thought all the while of Miss K.,--how very
graceful she was, and whether this and that way of rendering
the part was just. I do not believe she has comic power within
herself, though tasteful enough to comprehend any part. So
I went home, vexed because my "heart was not full," and my
"brain not on fire" with enthusiasm. I drank my milk, and went
to sleep, as on other dreary occasions, and dreamed not of
Miss Kemble.

'Next night, however, I went expectant, and all my soul was
satisfied. I saw her at a favorable distance, and she looked
beautiful. And as the scene rose in interest, her attitudes,
her gestures, had the expression which an Angelo could give
to sculpture. After she tells her story,--and I was almost
suffocated by the effort she made to divulge her sin and
fall,--she sunk to the earth, her head bowed upon her knee,
her white drapery falling in large, graceful folds about this
broken piece of beautiful humanity, _crushed_ in the very
manner so well described by Scott when speaking of a far
different person, "not as one who intentionally stoops,
kneels, or prostrates himself to excite compassion, but like a
man borne down on all sides by the pressure of some invisible
force, which crushes him to the earth without power of
resistance." A movement of abhorrence from me, as her
insipid confidante turned away, attested the triumph of the
poet-actress. Had not all been over in a moment, I believe
I could not have refrained from rushing forward to raise the
fair frail being, who seemed so prematurely humbled in her
parent dust. I burst into tears; and, with the stifled,
hopeless feeling of a real sorrow, continued to weep till the