He is very clever and agreeable, and I like him greatly. _Wednesday, 16th._ After breakfast, went to rehearsal. At half past twelve, Mr. ---- came to ride with me. The horse he had gotten for me was base; but never mind, the day was exquisitely mild and bright,--the sort of early spring-feeling day, when in England the bright gold and pale delicate violet of the crocus buds begin to break the rich dark mould, and the fragrant gummy leaves of the lilac bushes open their soft brown folds. We had a very pleasant ride through some pretty woodlands on the opposite side of the river. At half-past five, went to the theatre. The play was the Hunchback: the house was crowded. In the last scene, Master Walter upbraided me thus:-- The engineer Who lays the last stone of his sea-built tower, And, smiling at it, bids the winds and waves To roar and whistle now--but in a night Beholds the tempest sporting in its place, May look _agash_ as I did. Also in the exclamation,-- Fathers, make straws your children: nature's nothing, Blood nothing: once in other veins it flows, It no more _yawneth_ for the parent flood Than doth the stream that from the stream disparts. Mr. ---- and ---- came in after the play. We had a discussion as to how far real feeling enters into our scenic performances. 'Tis hard to say: the general question it would be impossible to answer, for acting is altogether a monstrous anomaly. John Kemble and Mrs. Siddons were always in earnest in what they were about; Miss O'Neill used to cry bitterly in all her tragedy parts; whilst Garrick could be making faces and playing tricks in the middle of his finest points, and Kean would talk gibberish while the people were in an uproar of applause at his. In my own individual instance, I know that sometimes I could turn every word I am saying into burlesque (_never_ Shakspeare, by the by), and at others my heart aches, and I cry real, bitter, warm tears, as earnestly as if I was in earnest. _Thursday, 17th._