come, and which shall fill up her inheritance of glory.

Siddons was then witching the world--witching, in its more solemn sense;
for though her smile was exquisite, she might have sat for the picture
of a Sybil or a Pythoness. The stage had never seen her equal, and will
probably never see another so completely formed to command all its
influences. Yet her beauty, her acting, even her movement, were
characteristic, and their character was noble melancholy. I never saw so
mournful a countenance combined with so much beauty. Her voice, though
grand, was melancholy--her step, though superb, was melancholy; her very
smile was melancholy; and yet there was so much of living intellect in
her expression, such vast variety of passion in her look and gesture;
she so deeply awoke the feelings, or so awfully impressed the mind; thus
it was impossible to escape the spell, while she moved upon the stage.

In this language there is not the slightest exaggeration. I have seen a
whole audience burst into tears at a single tone of her voice. Her
natural conception was so fine, that the merest commonplace often
received a living spirit from her lips. I have seen a single glance from
her powerful eye hush an audience--I have seen her acting sometimes even
startle and bewilder the actors beside her. There is perhaps a genius
for every art, and hers was the genius of the stage--a faculty of
instant communication between the speaker and the hearer, some
unaccountable sympathy, the power to create which belongs to but one in
millions, and which, where it exists, lifts its possessor to the height
of the Art at once, and constitutes perfection.

It may be presumed that I saw this extraordinary being whenever it was
possible. But her _chef-d'oeuvre_, in my eyes, was the "wife of
Macbeth." The character seemed made for her, by something of that