ABSTRACT

GENTLEMEN—If you think the following particulars worth the space they will occupy in your excellent journal, perhaps you will not object to their insertion. I was in one of the boxes of Covent-Garden theatre, on Monday, the twenty-fifth of March, 1833; the last night that great actor, Edmund Kean, appeared on the stage. His health, for months, had been so rapidly declining, and his physical energies become so visibly impaired by those long-indulged irregularities, which had broken down a naturally vigorous but abused constitution, that his acting was rendered generally feeble, unsatisfactory, and often painful, and even his inability to appear at all when announced, was by no means a rare occurrence.... There was nothing distinguishable in Kean's performance of the first and second acts, from his usual personification of Othello, except a more than ordinary feebleness in his voice, action and gait; which, as he had not many weeks previous broken down in the midst of the part, was imputed to a designed reservation, or perhaps the fear of too early exhausting what physical strength he might otherwise be enabled to call up in order to sustain the third and latter acts: when, however, he came to that memorable apostrophe—'Now, forever, farewell!' etc., the whole of it was breathed forth with all that melodious melancholy, so noted in his brighter days, and so happily described by the critic, Hazlitt, as 'striking upon the heart and imagination like some divine music,' only mingled with a far greater degree of feeling than I had ever before observed; in fact, so deeply affecting were his tones, that, as he half sobbed out the last line, 'Farewell!—Othello's—occupation's—gone! ' I remarked to a friend near me, "Poor fellow! I fear that a consciousness of Othello's despairing moans being applicable to himself personally, has touched his own feelings.' I seldom remember Kean's failing, in this particular point, to elicit less than three hearty rounds on ordinary occasions; but on this, they were increased in number and duration. He remained abstracted and motionless, his chin resting on his breast, and his eyes fixed on the ground for many seconds after every murmur of applause had subsided then raising his head from his chest, as from a forgetful slumber, he seemed partially aroused into a sense of his situation with the audience and the necessity of proceeding; but, instead of that sudden and infuriate alternation—that towering passion which used to threaten the destroyer of his peace with irresistible and immediate annihilation; he turned slowly and feebly, tottered a few steps towards Iago, (who seeing his sinking state, approached him,) and, leaning on his arm for support, and unable to seize him by the throat, he uttered in disjointed accents, only audible to those quite near him—'Villain—be—sure—you—prove'—then throwing himself upon his son's neck, in a faint and faltering voice, added, 'Oh God! I am dying! speak to them, Charles!' The house, though somewhat prepared for a result of the kind, did not anticipate such a decided prostration of his faculties, and kept up their applause for nearly a minute. ... I have the honour to be, gentlemen, very respectfully your friend and obedient servant,