comedians, Dodd. The feeling expresssd in
those lines comes home to us in connexion with
the admirable actor whom we have lately lost
with a touching appropriateness. And the
appropriateness is increased by the marked
resemblance that must have existed between the
peculiarities of Dodd and the peculiarities of
Keeley. "In expressing slowness of
apprehension" (says Charles Lamb) "this actor
surpassed all others. You could see the first
dawn of an idea stealing slowly over his
countenance, climbing up by little and little,
with a painful process, till it cleared up at
last to the fulness of a twilight conception—
its highest meridian. He seemed to keep back
his intellect, as some have had the power to
retard their pulsation. The balloon takes less
time in filling, than it took to cover the expression
of his broad moony face, over all its
quarters, with expression. A glimmer of
understanding would appear in a corner of his
eye, and, for lack of fuel, go out again. A
part of his forehead would catch a little
intelligence, and be a long time in communicating it
to the remainder."

There is a world of imaginativeness, of
course, in this charming piece of descriptive
writing. Dodd himself would, perhaps, have
been somewhat astonished to hear that he
could convey all this with a look, and that his
countenance was as full of meaning as Lord
Burleigh's nod. But, due allowance made
for Lamb's style, we detect in this passage a
piece of thoughtful and appreciative criticism,
so vivid, that to those to whom Elia's essays
are familiar (as they should be to all lovers
of pure English), the fortunate actor whom
he commemorates seems a living reality.
To see Keeley act especially in the part of Sir
Andrew Aguecheek—it was to Dodd's
performance of that character that Charles Lamb
in his essay specially alluded—was to create,
in fancy, an irresistible association with this
criticism, and to feel that what was written
of Dodd might have been written of the actor
of our time. Who does not confess how
infinitely more telling wit is, when the speaker's
face seems all unconscious of the humour of
his words? There is an infection of pleasantness,
no doubt, in the man who laughs heartily
at his own fun; but he always gives us an
impression of being like the child who writes
under the efforts of his early art, "This is a
horse;" "This is a dog," in order that there
may be no mistake about them. "This is a
joke—laugh at it." The grave humorist, who
is a perpetual puzzle—leaving us never able
to make out whether he is in fun or earnest—
may have less universal power to please; but
over those whom he does please, his power is
much greater. The quietness and subtlety of
Keeley might have prevented him from being
such a favourite as he was, with the many,
but for the personal peculiarities which, in his
case, supplied the breadth of effect that was
absent from his delicate acting. The quaint
figure in its diminutive rotundity, and the
"expansion of the broad moony face," were
irresistible in their suggestiveness of fun, even
when the actor was gravest.

Dodd's face, it is easy to gather from Elia's
description, must have been a triumph of
gravity. Indeed, we are told, in the same essay,
that he wore, in private life, a countenance "full
of thought and carefulness." Lamb meets Dodd,
for some months retired from the stage, strolling
in the Temple-gardens, and judges him,
"from his grave air and deportment, to be one
of the old Benchers of the Inn." On closer
inspection, he detects his mistake. "Was
this the face," he says—"manly, sober, intelligent
—which I had so often despised, made mocks
at, made merry with? The remembrance of
the freedoms which I had taken with it came
upon me with a reproach of insult. I could
have asked it pardon. I thought it looked
upon me with a sense of injury." This gravity
of face and bearing which distinguished Dodd
among the "pleasant fellows" of his time was
the inheritance of Keeley, just as the infectious
spirits and sprightliness of Bannister were
revived in Harley.

Low comedy is no limited sphere; it ranges
over many and various degrees of art and
acting, from the comedy of Touchstone and
Dogberry, to the broad humour or no-humour of
modern farce. Through all these various
degrees, Keeley was equally admirable. Harley
was an excellent artist in his way; but he
was always full of his own humour, and showed
it, as much as to say, "See how funny I am!"
His audiences were willing enough to admit
that he was, and indeed who could help it?
but Keeley's was the truer art. In their
respective performances of Dogberry, the
difference was remarkable. The blunders of the old
constable fell from Harley's lips as if he felt
their absurdity, and enjoyed it; from Keeley's,
with the most immovable and pompous stolidity,
as from one who believed that the whole
weight of Messina was on his shoulders, and
that he was well worthy to bear it, and well
able to bear it. If anybody had told the one
Dogberry that he was a funny fellow, tempted
thereto by the merry twinkle in his eye, he
would have been treated to a glass of liquor at
the nearest wine-shop; if he had so far
forgotten himself as to offer such an insult to the
dignity of the other, he would have been
incontinently "moved on," or comprehended
as a vagrom man of the most dangerous sort.
No doubt in some characters, Harley's face
and style, expressing mirthfulness in activity,
gave him an advantage; as in Launcelot
Gobbo, who is eminently "a wag," or believes
himself one, and of whom it may be true
that the total want of point betrayed by many
of his utterances was intentional—a satirical
comment on the funny man who, because he is
very amusing sometimes, "will always be
flouting," and often fails in being anything
but silly. But the majority of Shakespeare's
"clowns" are unconscious or saddened humorists;
and their jokes are far more in keeping
with the grave face than the gay. Sometimes
we meet with two of them placed side by side