sing in solitude, after he had transformed
his drawing-room into a stage in miniature.

* Barry Cornwall's Life of Edmund Kean, Vol. II. p. 85

"Here," says his biographer, "with a dozen candles, some on the
floor, some on the table, and some on the chimney-piece, and near the
pier-glass, he would act scene after scene: considering the emphasis,
the modulation of the verse, and the fluctuations of the character with
the greatest care." And this, remember, has relation to one who was
presumably about the most spontaneous and impulsive actor who ever
flashed meteor-like across the boards of a theatre. Whoever has the soul
of an artist grudges no labour given to his art, be he reader or actor,
author or tragedian. Charles Dickens certainly spared none to his
Readings in his conscientious endeavour to give his own imaginings
visible and audible embodiment. The sincerity of his devotion to his
task, when once it had been taken in hand, was in its way something
remarkable.

Acting of all kinds has been pronounced by Mrs. Butler--herself in her
own good day a rarely accomplished reader and a fine tragic actress--"a
monstrous anomaly."{*}

* Fanny Kemble's Journal, Vol. II. p. 130.

As illustrative of her meaning in which phrase, she then adds, "John
Kemble and Mrs. Siddons were always in earnest in what they were about;
Miss O'Neil used to cry bitterly in all her tragic parts; whilst Garrick
could be making faces and playing tricks in the middle of his finest
points, and Kean would talk gibberish while the people were in an uproar
of applause at his." Fanny Kemble further remarks: "In my own individual
instance, I know that sometimes I could turn every word I am saying into
burlesque,"--immediately observing here, in a reverential parenthesis
"(never Shakspere, by-the-bye)--and at others my heart aches and I cry
real, bitter, warm tears as earnestly as if I was in earnest." Reading
which last sentence, one might very safely predicate that in the one
instance, where she could turn her words into burlesque, she would be
certain to act but indifferently, whereas in the other, with the hot,
scalding tears running down her face, she could not by necessity do
otherwise than act to admiration.

So thorough and consistent throughout his reading career was the
sincerity of Dickens in his impersonations, that his words and looks,
his thoughts and emotions were never mere make-believes, but always, so
far as the most vig