ness had subsided, and when he was on the point of his self-exile to America. I never saw a man so changed; he had all the air of desperation about him. He looked bloated with rage and brandy; his nose was red, his cheeks blotched, his eyes blood-shot; I really pitied him. He had lodgings in Regent-street; but I believe very few of his former friends, of any respectability, now noticed him. The day I saw him he sat down to the piano, notwithstanding the agitated state of his mind, and sang for me "Lord Ullin's daughter," with a depth, and power, and sweetness that quite electrified me. I had not heard him sing for many years; his improvement was almost incredible; his accompaniment was also far superior to his former style of playing. I could not repress a deep sentiment of sorrow at the wreck he presented of genius, fame, and wealth. At this period I believe he had not one hundred pounds left of the many thousands he had received. His mind seemed shattered; he was an outcast on the world. He left England a few days afterwards, and I never dreamt of seeing him again.

There was, no doubt, a latent feeling of selfishness mixed with my regret, and for the following reason. I had written, some years before, (long previous to my having attempted the prose writings which afterwards met such unhoped-for success,) a tragedy, the most prominent character of which was meant for Kean.* Other pursuits, however, turned my attention from it, (and, fortunately for myself, from poetry altogether,) and the MS. lay by me for several years, almost forgotten, until I met with Kean at Boulogne, as before stated, in 1824.

My attention to it was revived by this rencontre, and his asking me if I had never thought of writing for the stage? I told him of my early attempt, and promised to have it copied and forwarded to him to London; he, in his turn, assuring me of every exertion on his part to have it brought forward with all possible advantage. The ruin which followed his trial with Alderman Cox frustrated the whole project, and I gave up every hope of ever seeing the play represented.

Within two years of this time, Kean, to the surprise of every one, returned from America, having reaped a full harvest of dollars, much of which he had prudence enough to transmit to London before him. The furious outcry against him had subsided. The public longed for him once more; and he came back (to use his own not inexpressive phrase) as the representative of Shakspeare's heroes."

When I heard of the brilliant success which attended his reappearance, I immediately sent over the MS. of "Ben Nazir, the Saracen." I soon followed the MS., and found it literally in Kean's hands. He had read it with avidity; and, placing to any account that may be chosen, the enthusiastic terms in which he spoke of it to me, one fact proves the value which he really set on it. He chose it out of five or six, which were put before him by Mr. Price, the manager, (one of them being Mr. Knowles's "Alfred,") as that in which he would make his regenerated appearance in a new character before a London audience.

* This admission of having written for a particular actor may appear, in the common view of the case, very servile; but my opinion on that subject differs from the generally received one. I have somewhat developed it in an article on the "Living French Poets," in the "New Monthly Magazine;" and I shall content myself with quoting from that essay, that “the disgrace does not lie in writing up to genius, but in writing down to grimace."

Oct.-VOL. XXXIX. NO. CLIV.

L

His whole situation, appearance, and conduct at this critical period of his career were very remarkable and characteristic. He presented a mixture of subdued fierceness, unsatisfied triumph, and suppressed debauchery. He had, in a great measure, recovered his place before the public; but he had lost all the respectability of private life. He lived in the Hummums Hotel, Covent-garden: his wife occupied obscure lodgings in Westminster, and was, as well as his son, quite at variance with him. His health had been greatly shattered during his Americau campaign, chiefly, I believe, from his mental sufferings. He told me he had been mad, at Montreal or Quebec, for several days, and related an incident which proved it, namely, his having mounted a fiery horse, dressed in the full costume of the Huron tribe of Indians, of which he had been elected a chief; and, after joining them in their village or camp, haranguing them, parading them, and no doubt amusing them much, being carried back, by some pursuing friends, to the place from whence he came, and treated for a considerable time as a lunatic.

The recital of such adventures seemed to gratify him much. He evidently gloried in the singularity of this conduct, unconscious of its buffoonery.

When I first called on him at the Hummums, one day early in 1827, he was sitting up in his bed, a buffalo-skin, wrapped round him, a huge hairy cap, decked with many coloured-feathers, on his head, a scalpingknife in his belt, and a tomahawk in his hand. He was making up his face for a very savage look. A tumbler glass of white-wine negus stood at the bed-side; two shabby-looking heroes were close by, with similar potations in their reach; and a portrait painter was placed before an easel at the window, taking the likeness of the renowned Alanienonideh, the name in which the chieftain (most sincerely) rejoiced.*

I was announced by a black boy in livery. I saw Kean's eye kindle, somewhat, perhaps, with pleasure at my visit; but more so, I thought, from the good opportunity of exhibiting himself in his savage costume. He gave a ferocious roll of his eyes, and a flourish of his tomahawk; then threw off his cap and mantle, and cordially shook me by the hand, producing from under his pillow the part of "Ben Nazir," written out from the prompter's book.

The painter quickly retired; the satellite visitors soon followed, having first emptied their tumblers, and paid some extravagant compliments to their patron. Left alone with Kean, he entered fully into his situation. There was a mortified elation in his bearing which it is hard to describe. He explained the hoax under which he had been led to leave America so abruptly, and showed me the letter on which he had acted. This purported to be from Mr. Price, the manager of Drury-lane, and proposed to Kean to return forthwith, to take possession of the management of the theatre, which was only held by him (Price) in trust for 66 its true inheritor"-Kean.

This preposterous humbug was greedily swallowed by Kean, who arrived in London in the full belief that he was about to enter on the functions and the fancied profits of manager. The mortification of find

Kean made use of visiting-cards at this time, with his own proper name engraved at one side, and this adopted one, with a miniature likeness of himself, "in character," on the other.

ing himself duped would have been dreadful, had it not been an engagement for twelve nights at 100 guineas each, followed up by a reception from the public which amply atoned for former suffering and present disappointment.

When I first entered the room, Kean told me he had the gout in his foot; but when the painter and the others retired, he acknowledged that he was confined to his bed by a very bad sore leg, for which he was daily attended by surgeon Carpue, who prescribed the strictest regimen, and abstinence from all strong liquors, which Kean was endeavouring to obey as well as he could. By pursing himself in this manner, for two days together, he was enabled to play three times a week; but still, in the exertion of acting, suffering considerable fatigue and pain.

My visit that day was interrupted by the arrival of two other persons, gloomily dressed and closely veiled, who were introduced by the black boy with suitable mystery, but whose sex was less doubtful than their character. Kean took care to inform me (in a stage whisper, which they must have heard in the adjoining sitting-room) that they were sisters-lovely creatures-the daughters of a clergyman of high respectability; that they had both fallen desperately in love with him, and came up to London together with the most unlimited offers for his acceptance. I had no wish to pursue the subject further, but left him with the sentimental pair. I paid him several visits afterwards, alone, and to meet Mr. Price, and talk over the preliminary arrangements for our common affair.

Kean felt deeply the importance of this projected appearance in " Ben Nazir." He knew that a crisis had arrived in his professional fate; the whole tide of public feeling was with him. He had regained his place at the head of the acted drama. To confirm him there, beyond competition or cavil, there was only wanting one vigorous display of power in a new part, and that part was now ready written to his hand. Nothing, in short, could exceed the ardour with which he undertook the study of "Ben Nazir." He carried it away with him on the provincial tour on which he set out after playing his dozen nights in London to enthusiastic audiences; and his being prepared to appear in the play, in the second week of the next May, was one of the stipulations, in his renewed engagement for twenty nights, to begin at that period.

It may be supposed that I followed with some anxiety the accounts of Kean's progress on his provincial expedition. I had every reason to believe that he was working hard to perfect himself in his new part; that he lived abstemiously; and was gradually recovering his health and spirits.

The newspapers contained a copy of the address spoken by him on his benefit night, in Dublin, in the character and costume of an Indian chief; but the private accounts transmitted to me by some friends, who inquired about him, neutralized the apprehension excited by that absurd display, and convinced me he had no actual relapse of his Canadian complaint.

In due time Kean arrived in London, enthusiastic, and, as he said, perfect in his part; and his leg, which a thousand sinister reports and prophecies should long since have deprived him of, so far recovered as to enable him to "strut his hour," either on the stage or in the streets, with perfect ease. I repaired to London. My first visit, on my arrival,

was to Mr. Wallack, the stage-manager. Everything I heard from him was most encouraging. I next saw Mr. Price, who confirmed all I had heard from his second in command. Mr. Wallack was indefatigable in every way.

Kean's confidence in the part and in himself was sufficient to deceive a less sanguine temperament than mine. He repeatedly said that he hoped to reap as much fame from it as from Maturin's "Bertram," and that he reckoned on playing it a hundred nights. His portrait in the part was to be immediately engraved. A new wherry, which Kean was then getting built for his annual prize race on the Thames, was to be called the "Ben Nazir." The dress in which he was to appear was to be the most splendid possible; and a notion may be formed on that head, from the fact that Kean was to pay 50 guineas for it, over and above the allowance from the Theatre. I might cite many other proofs of his enthusiasm.

In the mean time the rehearsals were going on admirably. Every one was already perfect in their parts, with one exception, but this one was, unfortunately, out of control, and consequently beyond discovery. Kean attended but two rehearsals, and both of these with the written part in his hand. On one occasion, he read his part with great energy and effect. It was every thing I could wish; no one had a shadow of doubt as to the impression it would produce on an audience. Congratulations were poured on me on all sides, with premature profusion.

Kean now claimed the privilege of absenting himself from the subsequent rehearsals, alleging his unwillingness to lose time from the close study he wished to give to the minutest details of his part. It was thought better to let Kean have everything his own way, in a matter into which he had so evidently put his heart and soul, and which was of infinitely more importance to him than to any one else. I was quite satisfied, for I saw him almost daily, and witnessed the unceasing industry with which he laboured at the part. He used regularly to order his carriage after breakfast, and set off for Kensington Gardens, where he studied a couple of hours. Frequently he sailed in his boat on the river, and there spouted away to the free benefit of the watermen and the Naiades. I often called on him at night, knowing that my presence would keep away others; and about ten or eleven o'clock he invariably went to bed, "and went to bed sober."

At his suggestion I made several slight alterations in the play, and one material one; the object of the latter being to gratify Kean's desire of speaking the last word, and ending the play by his death. He wanted the whole impression made on the audience to be his work. This was in the spirit of some former conduct of his, years before, which made him so many enemies, and did him such mischief with the public,

of

I also conceded many minor points to the judicious suggestions of Mr. Wallack, who deserved every consideration on my part, I had been led to expect great annoyance from the performers, from the report authors, who were probably more tenacious of their rights than I was: but I really met nothing of the kind; I was willing to take advice from the experience of the actors, and what they did offer was with modesty and good sense, particularly Mr. Cooper, who was assiduous to the whole business of the scene.

The night of representation was at last fixed. Up to the preceding

week Kean persisted in assurances that he was quite prepared; still, however, declining to appear even at the last rehearsal, under the pretext that it would only confuse and annoy him, and perhaps destroy the effect which he wished to reserve for the public performance of the part. All this, rather obscurely put forward, began to give us some uneasiness; at length it was absolutely necessary either to announce" Ben Nazir” from the stage, or to substitute some other play, and put it off for a few nights longer. It was nine o'clock that evening before I finally put the question to Kean. He consented to the postponement, at the same time persisting in his readiness to perform on the night first fixed, and an announcement was made of the postponement of "Ben Nazir."

The night at length arrived. Every thing was ready: I saw Kean in the morning; he expressed himself with the utmost confidence; strutted about his drawing-room in his lodgings, Duke-street, Adelphi, decked out in his magnificent dress; and declaimed with great vigour some of his favourite passages-the book in his hand. Notwithstanding all this I had serious doubts of the night's result. I was certain he would be imperfect; but I reckoned fully on his giving the principal passages with ample effect; and I calculated on subsequent representations repairing any defects which might appear on the first."

In this mood I took leave of Kean, resolved not to interfere with him further; and I prepared to go to the theatre, in a state of some anxiety certainly, but one more pleasurable than the contrary. Mr. Wallack had secured me a private box behind the dress circle, to which I repaired about half an hour before the play began. The house was crowded in all parts; and I may here observe that not one friend of my own was there by my solicitation. The manager had not offered me, nor did I ask, a single free admission.

I certainly felt considerable satisfaction as I sat, quite unseen, and contemplated the crowded house. The chief of my literary longings had ever been for dramatic success; and although I had always looked on my present play as a very indifferent drama, a mere experiment in fact, and rested its whole chance on the performance of the chief part, I was greatly strengthened in my hopes of it by the various concurrent reasons before detailed. A fair share of applause was given to some of the early passages; and the audience seemed well prepared for Kean's appearance, with which the third scene was to open.

He did at length appear. The intention of the author, and the keeping of the character, required him to rush rapidly on the stage, giving utterance to a burst of joyous soliloquy. What was my astonishment to see him, as the scene opened, standing on the centre of the stage, his arms crossed, and his whole attitude one of thoughtful solemnity! His dress was splendid; and thunders of applause greeted him from all parts of the house. To display the one and give time for the other, were the objects for which he stood fixed for several minutes, and sacrificed the sense of the situation. He spoke; but what a speech! The one I wrote consisted of eight or nine lines; his was of two or three sentences, but not six consecutive words of the text. His look, his manner, his tone, were to me quite appalling; to any other observer they must have been incomprehensible. He stood fixed, drawled out his incoherent words, and gave the notion of a man who had been half-hanged and then dragged through a horse-pond. My heart, I confess it, sank deep in my breast.