like a little galley slave, and by tea-time I had finished my play.  “Oh, joy forever! my task is done!” I came down rather tipsy, and proclaimed my achievement.  After tea I began copying the last act, but my father desired me to read it to them; so, at about half-past nine, I began.  My mother cried much; what a nice woman she is!  My father, Dall, and John agreed that it was beautiful, though I believe the two first excellent judges were fast asleep during the latter part of the reading, which was perhaps why they liked it so much.  At the end my mother said to me, “I am proud of you, my dear;” and so I have my reward.  After a little congratulatory conversation, I came to bed at two o’clock, and slept before my head touched the pillow.  So now that is finished, and I am glad it is finished.  Is it as good as a second piece of work ought to be?  I cannot tell.  I think so differently of it at different times that I cannot trust my own judgment.  I will begin something else as soon as possible.  I wonder why nowadays we make all our tragedies foreign?  Romantic, historical, knightly England had people and manners once picturesque and poetical enough to serve her play-writers’ turn, though Shakespeare always took his stories, though not his histories, from abroad; but people live tragedies and comedies everywhere and all time.  I think by and by I will write an English tragedy. [I little thought then that I should write a play whose miserable story was of my own day, and call it “An English Tragedy.”]

Sunday, 15th.—­ ...  In the afternoon hosts of people called; among others Lady Dacre, who stayed a long time, and wants us to go to her on Thursday.  Copied “The Star of Seville” all the evening.  At ten dear Mr. Harness came in, and stayed till twelve.

Monday, 16th.—­Rehearsed “Katharine of Cleves” at eleven, but as Lord Francis did not come till twelve we had to begin it again, and kept at it until two.  The actors seem frightened about it.  Mr. Warde quakes about the pinching (an incident in the play taken, I suppose, from Ruthven’s proceeding toward Mary Stewart at Lochleven).  I am only afraid I cannot do anything with my part; it is a sort of melodramatic, pantomimic part that I have no capacity for.  The fact is, that neither in the first nor last scenes are my legs long enough to do justice to this lady.  The Douglas woman who barred the door with her arm to save King James’s life must have been a strapping lass, as well a heroine in spirit.  I am not tall enough for such feats of arms.  Copied my play till time to go to the theater.  My aunt Victoire came to my dressing-room just as I was going on, and persuaded dear Dall, who has never once seen me act, to go into the front of the house.  She came back very soon in a state of great excitement and distress, saying she could not bear it.  How odd that seems!  Dear old Dall! she cannot bear seeing me make-believe miserable.  The