quiescent, and so expressive when impassioned, that most people think
her more beautiful than she is; so great, too, is the flexibility of
her countenance, that the rapid transitions of passion are given with
a variety and effect that never tire upon the eye. Her voice is
naturally plaintive, and a tender melancholy in her level speaking
denotes a being devoted to tragedy; yet this seemingly settled quality
of voice becomes at will sonorous or piercing, overwhelms with rage,
or in its wild shriek absolutely harrows up the soul. Her sorrow, too,
is never childish--her lamentation has a dignity which belongs, I
think, to no other woman: it claims your respect along with your
tears. Her eye is brilliant and varying like the diamond; it is
singularly well placed; "it _pries_," in Shakspeare's language,
"through the portal of the head," and has every aid from brows
flexible beyond all female parallel, contracting to disdain, or
dilating with the emotions of sympathy, or pity, or anguish. Her
memory is tenacious and exact--her articulation clear and
distinct--her pronunciation systematic and refined.

Nor has Nature been partially bountiful: she has endowed her with a
quickness of conception, and a strength of understanding equal to the
proper use of such extraordinary gifts. So entirely is she mistress of
herself, so collected, and so determined in gestures, tone, and
manner, that she seldom errs, like other actors, because she doubts
her powers or comprehension. She studies her author attentively,
conceives justly, and describes with a firm consciousness of
propriety. She is sparing in her action, because English nature does
not act much; but it is always proper, picturesque, graceful, and
dignified: it arises immediately from the sentiments and feeling, and
is not seen to prepare itself before it begins. No studied trick or
start can be predicted;--no forced tremulation of the figure, where