y suspended, for the Justice to make speeches. But
the last scene was capital,--prodigious,--full of that dark, dismal,
despairing energy you would look for in a dethroned spirit, baffled,
like Mephistopheles, at the very moment his arm is outstretched, and his
long, lean fingers are clutching at the shoulder of his victim. Being
about to cross blades with his adversary, in a paroxysm of rage he
plucks at the hilt of his sword, and stops suddenly, as if struck with
paralysis, pale, and gasping for breath, and says,--in that far-off,
moaning voice we all remember in his famous farewell to the "big wars
that make ambition virtue,"--"The widow sits upon my arm, and the
wronged orphan's tear glues it to the scabbard,--it will _not_ be
drawn," etc., etc.,--or something of the sort. It was not so much a
thrilling as a curdling you felt.

* * * * *

_Young, in Sir Pertinax._--Very good, though full of stage trick, or
what they call, when they get bothered, or would like to bother you,
stage _business_;--as where he throws his pocket-handkerchief before him
on leaving the stage, somewhat after the style of Macready in Hamlet,
which Forrest called _le pas a mouchoir_, and took the liberty of
hissing. Good Scotch, generally, with a few wretched blunders, though
his "booin', and booin', and booin'," and his vehement snuff-taking, and
the declaration that "he could never stand oopright in the presence of a
great mon in a' his life," were evidently copied from, or suggested by,
George Frederick Cooke, who borrowed both from Macklin, if we may trust
surviving contemporaries.

* * * * *

_Robert Owen._--Breakfasted with Robert Owen, after having attended a
conference of the brotherhood, where they talked a world of nonsense,
and argued for a whole hour, without coming to a conclusion, about
whether we are governed by circumstances or circumstances are governed
by us. You would swear Owen was a Yankee, born and bred. He has the
shrewd, inquisitive look, the spare frame, the sharp features, of a
Connecticut farmer, and constantly reminds me of Henry Clay when he
moves about. He is evidently sincere; but such a visionary! and so
thoroughly satisfied that the world is coming to an end just as he would
have it, that he allows no misgivings to trouble him, and never loses
his temper, nor "bates one jot of heart or hope," happen what may. The
last time we met--only three days