I should have come to pieces in his hands, as the house-maids say of what they break.  I was dreadfully exhausted at the end of the play; there is nothing so killing as an ineffectual appeal to sympathy, and, as the Italians know, “ben servire e non gradire” is one of the “tre cose da morire.” ...

Tuesday, 3d.—­Went to the theater to rehearse....  In the evening the house was good, and the play went off very well.  I acted well, in spite of my new dresses, which stuck out all round me portentously, and almost filled the little stage.  J——­ L——­ was like a great pink bird, hopping about hither and thither, and stopping to speak, as if it had been well tamed and taught.  The audience actually laughed and applauded, and I should think must have gone home very much surprised and exhausted with the unwonted exertion.

Wednesday, 4th.—­Went to the theater to rehearse “Francis I.”  After I got home, my mother told me she had determined to leave us on Saturday, and go back to London with Sally Siddons; and I am most thankful for this resolution....  How sad it will be in that strange land beyond the sea, among those strange people, to whom we are nothing but strangers!  But this is foolish weakness; it must be; and what a world of strength lies in those two little words!...  At the theater the house was very good, and I played very well....

Thursday, 5th.—­After breakfast went to rehearse “The Gamester.” ...  In the evening the house was not good.  My father acted magnificently; I never played this part well, and am now gone off in it, and play it worse than not well; besides, I cannot bully that great, big man, Mr. Didear; it is manifestly absurd.

Friday, 6th.—­To the theater to rehearse “Francis I.”  On my return found Mr. Liston and his little girl waiting to ride with me.... [This was the beginning of my acquaintance with the celebrated surgeon Liston, who afterward became an intimate friend of ours, and to whose great professional skill my father was repeatedly indebted for relief under a most painful malady.  He was a son of Sir Robert Liston, and cousin of the celebrated comedian, between whom and himself, however, there certainly was no family likeness, Liston, the surgeon, being one of the handsomest persons I ever saw.  The last time I saw him has left a melancholy impression on my mind of his fine face and noble figure.  He had been attending me professionally, but I had ceased to require his care, and had not seen him for some time, when one morning walking, according to my custom in summer, before seven o’clock, as I came to the bridge over the Serpentine in Kensington Gardens, a horseman crossing the bridge stopped by the iron railing, and, jumping off his horse, came toward me.  It was Liston, who inquired kindly after my health, and, upon my not answering quite satisfactorily, he said, “Ah! well, you are better than I am.”