for “Hernani,” and the W——­s, who seem in a dreadful fright about the present state of the country.  I do not suppose they would like to see Heaton demolished.

     In the evening we went to the Cartwrights’.  It is only in the
     morning that one goes there to be tortured; in the evening it is to
     eat delicious dinners and hear delightful music.

Hummel, Moscheles, Neukomm, Horsley, and Sir George Smart, and how they did play! a l’envi l’un de l’autre.  They sang, too, that lovely glee, “By Celia’s Arbor.”  The thrilling shudder which sweet music sends through one’s whole frame is a species of acute pleasure, very nearly akin to pain.  I wonder if by any chance there is a point at which the two are one and the same thing!

Tuesday, May 3d.—­I wrote the fourth scene of the fifth act of my play ["The Star of Seville"], and acted Lady Teazle for the first time; the house was very good, and my performance, as I expected, very bad; I was as flat as a lady amateur.  I stayed after the play to hear Braham sing “Tom Tug,” which was a refreshment to my spirit after my own acting; after I came home, finished the fifth act of “The Star of Seville.”  “Joy, joy for ever, my task is done!” I have not the least idea, though, that “heaven is won.”

Wednesday, May 4th.—­A delightful dinner at the B——­s’, but in the evening a regular crush; however, if one is to be squeezed to death (though ’tis an abolished form of torture), it may as well be in good company, among the fine world, and lots of pleasant people besides:  Milman, Sotheby, Lockhart, Sir Augustus Calcott, Harness, Lady Dacre, Joanna Baillie, Lady Calcott, etc.

Friday, May 6th.—­Real March weather:  cold, piercing, damp, wretched, in spite of which I carried Shakespeare to walk with me in the square, and read all over again for the fiftieth time all the conjectures of everybody about him and his life.  How little we know about him, how intimately we seem to know him!  I had the square all to myself, and it was delicious:  lilac, syringa, hawthorn, lime blossoms, and new-mown grass in the midst of London—­and Shakespeare to think about.  How grateful I felt for so much enjoyment!  When I got home, corrected the proof-sheets of “Francis I.,” and thought it looked quite pretty in print.

     Out so late dancing, Wednesday and Thursday nights, or rather
     mornings, that I had no time for journal-writing.  What a life I
     do lead!

Friday, May 13th.—­At twelve o’clock to Bridgewater House for our first rehearsal of “Hernani.”  Lady Francis wants us to go down to them at Oatlands.  I should like of all things to see Weybridge once more; there’s many a nook and path in those woods that I know better than their owners.  The rehearsal lasted till three, and was a tolerably tidy specimen of amateur acting.  Mr. Craven is