discussed, and we harped upon the one miraculous string he fiddles on without pauses....  After dinner I read one of Miss Mitford’s hawthorny sketches out of “Our Village,” which was lying on the table; they always carry one into fresh air and green fields, for which I am grateful to them.

Wednesday, June 8th.—­While I was writing to H——­ my mother came in and told me that Mrs. Siddons was dead.  I was not surprised; she has been ill, and gradually failing for so long....  I could not be much grieved for myself, for of course I had had but little intercourse with her, though she was always very kind to me when I saw her....  She died at eight o’clock this morning—­peaceably, and without suffering, and in full consciousness....  I wonder if she is gone where Milton and Shakespeare are, to whose worship she was priestess all her life—­whose thoughts were her familiar thoughts, whose words were her familiar words.  I wonder how much more she is allowed to know of all things now than she did while she was here.  As I looked up into the bright sky to-day, while my father and mother were sadly recalling the splendor of her day of beauty and great public power, I thought of the unlimited glory she perhaps now beheld, of the greater holiness and happiness I trust she now enjoys, and said in my heart, “It must be well to be as she is.”  I had never thought it must be well to be as she was....

As soon as the news came my father went off to see what he could do for Cecilia, poor thing, and to bring her here, if she can be persuaded to leave Baker Street.  He was not much shocked, though naturally deeply grieved by the event; my aunt has now been ill so long that any day might have brought the termination of the protracted process of her death.  When he returned he said Cecilia was composed and quiet, but would not leave the house at present.  I have written to Lady Francis to decline going to Oatlands, which we were to have done this week.

At dinner my father told me some of the arrangements he has made for the summer.  We are to act at Bristol, Bath, Exeter, Plymouth, and Southampton.  He then said, “Suppose we take steamer thence to Marseilles, and so on to Naples?” My heart jumped into my mouth at the thought; but how should I ever come back again?...  Everything here is so ugly, even without comparison with that which is beautiful elsewhere; from Italy how should one come back to live in London?

Thursday, June 9th.—­ ...  And so I am to act Lady Macbeth!  I feel as if I were standing up by the great pyramid of Egypt to see how tall I am!  However, it must be done; perhaps I may even do it less ill than Constance—­the greater intensity of the character may perhaps render majesty less indispensable.  Power (if one had enough of it) might atone for insufficient dignity.  Lady Macbeth made herself a queen by dint of wickedness;