involved in difficulties every day; and my father, worried almost to death with anxiety, vexation, and hard work, had a serious illness.

Saturday, November 25th.—­My father was not quite so well this morning.  I took Dr. Wilson home in the carriage; he talked a great deal about this horrible burking business (a series of atrocious murders committed by two wretches of the names of Burk and Bishop, for the purpose of obtaining, for the corpses of their victims, the price paid by the Edinburgh surgeons for subjects for dissection; the mode of death inflicted by these men came to be designated by the name of the more hardened murderer as burking).

I called at Fozzard’s for the boys, and set them down at Angelo’s (a famous school for fencing, boxing, and single-stick, where my brothers took lessons in those polite exercises).  In the evening, at the theater, dear Charles Young played “The Stranger” for the last time; the house was very full, and I played very ill.  After the play Young was enthusiastically called for.  I have finished “Tennant’s Tour in Greece,” which I rather liked.  I have been reading “Bonaparte’s Letters to Josephine;” the vague and doubting spirit which once or twice throws its wavering shadow across his thoughts, startles one in contrast with the habitual tone of the mind, which assuredly ne doubtait de rien, especially of what his own power of will could accomplish.  The affection he expresses for his wife is sometimes almost poetical from its intensity, in spite of the grossness of his language.  He seems to have believed in nothing but volition, and that volition is in itself, perhaps, a mere form of faith.  It’s a dangerous worship, for the devil in that shape does obey so long and so well before he claims his due; so much is achieved precisely by that belief in what can be achieved; the last round of the ladder, somehow or other, however, always seems to break down at last, and then I doubt if the people who fall from it can all declare, as Holcroft did when he fell from his horse, and, as his surgeon assured him, broke his ribs, that he was positive he had not, because in falling he had exerted the energy of will, and could not therefore have broken his bones.

Sunday, 29th.—­The great good fortune of a good sermon at church.  After church Mrs. Jameson, John Mason, and Mr. Loudham called; the latter said he had good news about that fatal theater of ours, for that Mr. Harris seemed to be inclined to come into some accommodation, and so perhaps this cancer of a Chancery suit may stop eating our lives away.  Oh dear!  I am afraid this is too good news to be true.  I went to my father’s room and sat by him for a long time, and talked about the horse I had bought for him; and there he lies in his bed, and God knows when he will even be able to walk again.

Monday, 30th.—­I went to rehearsal.  It seems that the managers and