"'Divesne prisco et natus ab Inacho, Nil interest, an pauper, et infima De gente, sub dio moreris, Victima nil miserantis Orci. * * * * * Omnes eodem cogimur.' "Is there any thing beyond?--_who_ knows? _He_ that can't tell. Who tells that there _is_? He who don't know. And when shall he know? perhaps, when he don't expect, and generally when he don't wish it. In this last respect, however, all are not alike: it depends a good deal upon education,--something upon nerves and habits--but most upon digestion. "Saturday, Feb. 19. "Just returned from seeing Kean in Richard. By Jove, he is a soul! Life--nature--truth without exaggeration or diminution. Kemble's Hamlet is perfect;--but Hamlet is not Nature. Richard is a man; and Kean is Richard. Now to my own concerns. "Went to Waite's. Teeth all right and white; but he says that I grind them in my sleep and chip the edges. That same sleep is no friend of mine, though I court him sometimes for half the twenty-four. "February 20. "Got up and tore out two leaves of this Journal--I don't know why. Hodgson just called and gone. He has much _bonhommie_ with his other good qualities, and more talent than he has yet had credit for beyond his circle. "An invitation to dine at Holland House to meet Kean. He is worth meeting; and I hope, by getting into good society, he will be prevented from falling like Cooke. He is greater now on the stage, and off he should never be less. There is a stupid and under-rating criticism upon him in one of the newspapers. I thought that, last night, though great, he rather under-acted more than the first time. This may be the effect of these cavils; but I hope he has more sense than to mind them. He cannot expect to maintain his present eminence, or to advance still higher, without the envy of his green-room fellows, and the nibbling of their admirers. But, if he don't beat them all, why then--merit hath no purchase in 'these coster-monger days.' "I wish that I had a talent for the drama; I would write a tragedy _now_. But no,--it is gone. Hodgson talks of one,--he will do it well;--and I think M--e should try. He has wonderful powers, and much variety; besides, he has lived and felt. To write so as to bring home to the heart, the heart must have been tried,--but, perhaps, ceased to be so. While you are under the influence of passions, you only feel, but cannot describe them,--any more than, when in action, you could turn round and tell the story to your next neighbour! When all is over,--all, all, and irrevocable,--trust to memory--she is then but too faithful. "Went out, and answered some letters, yawned now and then, and redde the Robbers. Fine,--but Fiesco is better; and Alfieri and Monti's Aristodemo _best_. They are more equal than the Tedeschi dramatists.