declaim the speech in question. Courtenaye was at once carried out of himself; he caught the fire of the actor; the splendid voice, the noble gesture, and the exalted sentiment, aided by the pomp of the verse, mastered his inmost soul. He was again under the influence of genius,—that influence so subtle and so intense, conquering alike time, place, and circumstance.
He was next struck by the alteration in Walter. His cheek was flushed crimson, his eyes flashed, and he seemed in the wildest spirits; for every actor he had his jest, and for every actress his compliment. He scarcely appeared to heed what was doing on the stage; perhaps Norboume was the only one who noticed the convulsive movement of the bitten lip, or the slight shudder which shook him at any unexpected sound. As to Norbourne himself, he tried in vain to speak; leant against one of the side-scenes; all he could do was to watch intently the progress, till he almost felt inclined to spring forward and implore the audience to admire. To him it seemed the
