Tuesday, 24th.—­ ...  Read over “The Star of Seville,” as Mr. Bartley (our worthy stage manager) has cut it, with a view to its possible performance.  He has cut it with a vengeance—­what one may call to the quick.  However, I suppose they know their own business (though, by the by, I am not always so sure of that).  At any rate, I shall make no resistance, but be silent while I am sheared....

I rode in the park with John.  My mare was ill, and Mew (the stable-keeper) had sent me one of his horses, a great awkward brute, who, after jolting me well up Oxford Street, no sooner entered the park than he bolted down the drive as fast as legs could carry him, John following afar off.  In Rotten Row we were joined by young T——....  When I thought the devil was a little worked out of my horse, I raised him to a canter again, whereupon scamper the second—­I like a flash of lightning, they after me as well as they could.  John would not force my father’s horse, but Mr. T——­, whose horse was a thoroughbred hunter, managed to keep up with me, but lamed his horse in so doing.  We then walked soberly round the park and saw our friends and acquaintances, and, turning down the drive, I determined once more to try my horse’s disposition, whereupon off he went again, like a shot, leaving John far behind.  I flitted down Rotten Row like Faust on the demon horse, and as I drew up and turned about I heard, “Well, that woman does ride well,” which was all, whoever said it, knew of the matter; whereas, in my mad career, I had passed Fozzard, who shook his head lamentably at John, exclaiming, “Oh, Miss Fanny!  Miss Fanny!” After this last satisfactory experiment I made no more, and we cut short our ride on account of my unmanageable steed....

We had a dinner party at home, and in the evening additional guests, among them Thackeray, who is very clever and delightful.  We had music and singing and pleasant, bright talk, and they departed and left us in great good humor.

Wednesday, 25th.—­Read the “Prometheus Unbound.”  How gorgeous it is!  I do not think Shelley is read or appreciated now as enthusiastically as he was, even in my recollection, some few years ago.  I went over my part, and at half-past five to the theater.  The play was “Katharine of Cleves,” the house very good; and, to please Henry Greville, I resumed the gold wreath I had discarded and restored the lines I had omitted.  After the play came home and supped, and at eleven went to Lady F——­’s....  A very fine party; “everybody”—­that is in town—­was there, and Mrs. Norton looking more magnificent than “everybody.”  Old Lady S——­ like nothing in the world but the mummy carried round at the Egyptian feasts, with her parchment neck and shoulders bare, and her throat all drawn into strings and cords, hung with a dozen rows of perfect precious stones glittering in the glare of the lights with the constant shaking of her palsied head. [This lady continued