and then bursts forth into her furious vituperation of those whose treachery has frustrated his natural claim to greatness.  The woman, too, who in the utmost bitterness of disappointment, in the utter helplessness and desolation of betrayal, and the prostration of anguish and despair, calls on the earth, not for a shelter, not for a grave, or for a resting-place, but for a throne, is surely royally ambitious, a queen more than anything else.  Mrs. Siddons’s conception of Lady Macbeth is very beautiful, and I was particularly struck by her imagination of her outward woman:  the deep blue eyes, the fair hair and fair skin of the northern woman (though, by the by, Lady Macbeth is a Highlander—­I suppose a Celt; and they are a dark race); the frail feminine form and delicate character of beauty, which, united to that undaunted mettle which her husband pays homage to in her, constituted a complex spell, at once soft and strong, sweet and powerful, and seemed to me a very original idea.  My aunt makes a curious suggestion, supported only by her own conviction, for which, however, she demonstrates no grounds, that in the banquet scene Lady Macbeth sees Banquo’s ghost at the same time Macbeth does.  It is very presumptuous in me to differ from her who has made such a wonderful study of this part, but it seems to me that this would make Lady Macbeth all but superhuman; and in the scene with her husband that precedes the banquet, Macbeth’s words to her give me to understand that she is entirely innocent of the knowledge even of his crime.

Monday, 12th.—­Went to the theater to rehearse “Francis I.”  Miss Tree and Mr. Bennett will act their parts admirably, I think....  When I got home got ready my things for the theater, and went over my part.  The play was “Much Ado about Nothing,” and I played as ill as usual.  The house was pretty good.

[Here occurs an interruption of some weeks in my journal.]

My friend, Miss S——­, came and paid me a long visit, during which my play of “Francis I.” and Knowles’s play of “The Hunchback” were produced, and it was finally settled that Covent Garden should be let to the French manager and entrepreneur, Laporte, and that my father and myself should leave England, and go for two years to America.

[The success of “Francis I.” was one of entirely indulgent forbearance on the part of the public.  An historical play, written by a girl of seventeen, and acted in it by the authoress at one and twenty, was, not unnaturally, a subject of some curiosity; and, as such, it filled the house for a few nights.  Its entire want of real merit, of course, made it impossible that it should do anything more; and, after a few representations, it made way for Knowles’s delightful play, which had a success as great and genuine as it was well deserved, and will not fail to be a lasting favorite, alike with audiences and actors.]