proprietors (of course not my poor father) had summoned a meeting of all the actors to try and induce them to accept for the present a reduced rate of salary till the theater can be in some measure relieved of its most pressing difficulties.  I knew nothing of this, and, finding them all very solemnly assembled in the greenroom, asked them cheerfully why they were all there, which must have struck them strangely enough.  I dare say they do not know how little I know, or wish to know, about this disastrous concern.  On my return home, I heard that Dr. Watson had seen my father, and requested that Dr. Wilson might be sent for.  They fear inflammation of the lungs; he has gone to the very limit of his tether, for had he continued fagging a night or two longer the effects might have been fatal.  Poor, poor father!...

Lady Francis and Mrs. Sullivan called in the afternoon; I was feeling miserable, and exhausted with my rehearsal.  In the evening I helped my mother to move all the furniture, which I think is nothing in the world but a restless indication of her anxiety about my father; it is the fourth time since she same back from the country.

Tuesday, December 1st.—­ ...  It seems that in the arrangement, whatever it may be, which has taken place between the actors and the management, Mr. Harley and Mr. Egerton are the only ones who have declined the proposed accommodation.  Young has behaved like an angel, offering to play for nothing till Christmas; how kind and liberal he is!  Mr. Abbott, Mr. Duraset, Mr. Ward, and all the others, have been as considerate and generous as possible.  But the thing is doomed, and will go to the ground, in spite of every effort that can be made to stave the ruin off.

I was greeted this morning, when I came down to breakfast, with a question that surprised and amused we very much.  “Pray, Fanny,” said John, “did you ever thank Mr. Bacon (one of the editors of the Times) for his book (the “Life of Francis I.” which Mr. Bacon had been kind enough to send me); for here is a very abusive critique in to-day’s Times of the play last night.”  “Well,” thought I, “that’s a comical sequitur, and a fine estimate of criticism;” but the conclusion was droller still.  I had not forgotten to thank the friendly author for his book, nor had he written the article in question; but it seems a young gentleman, much in love with Miss Phillips (a promising and very handsome young actress at Drury Lane), had found pulling me to pieces the easiest way of showing his admiration for her.  That is not a very exalted style of criticism either, but it is just as well that one should occasionally know what the praise and blame one receives may be worth.  It seems that when it was determined that Miss Sheriff should come out, Mr. Welsh, whose pupil she was, made a great feast, and invited two-and-twenty gentlemen connected with the press to a private hearing of her....  In