afternoon, I found my mother deep in her French novel, from which she read me two very striking passages—­the description of Esmeralda, which was like a fine painting, and extremely beautiful, and the sketch of Quasimodo’s life, ending with his riding on the great bell of the cathedral.  Very powerful and very insane—­a sort of mental nightmare, giving one as much the idea of disorder of intellect as such an image occurring to one in a dream would of a disordered stomach.  Harmony, order, the beauty of goodness and the justice of God, are alike ignored in such works.  How sad it is for the future as well as for the present!

Monday, 30th.—­King Charles’ martyrdom gives me a holiday to-night.  Excellent martyr!  Victor Hugo has set my mother raving.  She didn’t sleep all night, and says the book is bad in its tendency and shocking in its details; nevertheless, she goes on reading it....

Tuesday, January 31st.—­ ...  Went to Turnerelli’s.  He is making a bust of me, that will perhaps be like—­the man in the moon.  Dall was kind enough to read to me Mrs. Jameson’s “Christina” while I sat.  I like it extremely.  After I came home, read Shirley’s play of “The Two Sisters.”  I didn’t like it much.  It is neither very interesting, very witty, nor very poetical, and might almost be a modern work for its general want of power and character.  The women appear to me a little exaggerated—­the one is mad and the other silly.  At the theater in the evening the house was very good indeed—­the play, “Katharine of Cleves;” but poor Mr. Warde was so ill he could hardly stand.

Wednesday, February 1st.—­ ...  Drove out with Henry in the new carriage.  It is very handsome, but by no means as convenient or capacious as our old rumble.  Oh, these vanities!  How we sacrifice everything to them!

Thursday, 2d. ...  Rode out with my father.  The whole world was abroad in the sunshine, like so many flies.  My mother was walking with John and Henry, and Henry Greville.  I should like to tell him two words of my mind on the subject of lending “Notre Dame de Paris” about to women.  At any rate, we vulgar females are not as much accustomed to mental dram-drinking as his fine-lady friends, and don’t stand that sort of thing so well....  In the evening we went to the theater to see “The Haunted Tower.”  Youth and first impressions are wonderful magicians. (I forget whether the music of this piece was by Storace or Michael Kelly.) This was an opera which I had heard my father and mother talk of forever.  I went full of expectation accordingly, and was entirely disappointed.  The meagerness and triteness of the music and piece astonished me.  After the full orchestral accompaniments, the richly harmonized concerted pieces and exquisite melodies lavished on us in our modern operas, these simple airs and their choruses and mean finales produce an effect from their poverty of absolute musical starvation.

                               GREAT RUSSELL STREET, January 31, 1832. 
     MY DEAREST H——­ G——­,