Thursday, 8th.—­ ...  My dear father is beginning to gain strength once more, thank Heaven!  I received a letter from Lady Francis about the play (a translation of the French piece of “Henri Trois,” by Lord Francis, the production of which at Covent Garden is being postponed in consequence of my father’s illness).  Poor people!  I am sorry for their disappointment....  I devised and tried on a new dress for Bianca; it will be very splendid, but I am afraid I shall look like a metal woman, a golden image. [The dress in question was entirely made of gold tissue; and one evening a man in the pit exclaimed to a friend of mine sitting by him, “Oh! doesn’t she look like a splendid gold pheasant?” the possibility of which comparison had not occurred to me, not being a sportsman.]

     Friday, 9th.—­ ...  I went with my mother to the theater to hear
     “Fra Diavolo,” with which, and Miss Sheriff’s singing in it, we
     were delighted.

Saturday, 10th.—­ ...  We had a talk about the fashion of southern countries of serenading, which I am very glad is not an English fashion.  Music, as long as I am awake, is a pure and perfect delight to me, but to be wakened out of my sleep by music is to wake in a spasm of nervous terror, shaking from head to foot, and sick at my stomach, with indescribable fear and dismay; certainly no less agreeable effect could possibly be contemplated by the gallantry of a serenading admirer, so I am glad our admirers do not serenade us English girls.  This picturesque practice prevails all through the United States, where the dry brilliancy of the climate and skies is favorable to the paying and receiving this melodious homage, and where musical bands, sometimes numbering fifty, are marshaled by personal or political admirers, under the balconies of reigning beauties or would-be-reigning public men.  My total ignorance of this prevailing practice in the United States led to a very prosaic demonstration of gratitude on my part toward my first serenaders; for I opened my window and rewarded them with a dollar, which one of the recipients informed me he should always keep, to my no small confusion, not knowing the nature of my gratuitous indulgence, and that, like my Lady Greensleeves in the old English ballad, “My music still to play and sing” would be, while I remained in America, a disinterested demonstration of the devotion of my friends....  My poor mother is in the deepest distress about my father.  Inflammation of the lungs is dreaded, and he is spitting blood.  I felt as if I were turning to stone as I heard it.  I came up to my own room and cried most bitterly for a long time.  In the afternoon I was allowed to go in and see my father; but I was so overcome that, as I stooped to kiss his hand, I was almost suffocated with suppressed sobs.  I did control myself, however, sufficiently to be able to sit by him for a while with tolerable composure.  Cecilia and Mrs. Wilkinson called, and were very kind