Somebody very civilly has sent me that beautiful book, Rogers's Italy: it set me wild again with my old frenzy for the south of Europe. Wrote to ----; after dinner, practised for an hour; at half-past five, off to the theatre. The house was crammed: the play, the Stranger. It is quite comical to see the people in the morning at the box-office: our window is opposite to it, and 'tis a matter of the greatest amusement to me to watch them. They collect in crowds for upwards of an hour before the doors open, and when the bolts are withdrawn, there is a yelling and shouting as though the town were on fire. In they rush, thumping and pummelling one another, and not one comes out without rubbing his head, or his back, or showing a piteous rent in his clothes. I was surprised to see men of a very low order pressing foremost to obtain boxes, but I find that they sell them again at an enormous increase to others who have not been able to obtain any; and, the better to carry on their traffic, these worthies smear their clothes with molasses, and sugar, etc., in order to prevent any person of more decent appearance, or whose clothes are worth a cent, from coming near the box-office: this is ingenious, and deserves a reward. Our other window looks out upon a large churchyard, in the midst of which stands a cenotaph, erected by Franklin in honour of his father. Between the view of the play-house, and the view of the burial-ground, my contemplations are curiously tinged. This house (the Tremont) is admirably quiet and comfortable. _Thursday, 18th._ After breakfast, went to rehearsal,--the School for Scandal,--however, half the people were not there, so the rehearsal was nought. Came home, and at half-past eleven rode out; the day was beautifully bright: we rode to a beautiful little mere, called Jamaica Pond, through some country very like Scotland. We turned from the road into a gentleman's estate, and rode up a green rise into an enclosed field, which commanded an extensive view of the country below. But the spring tarries still, and though her smile is in the sky, the trees are leafless, and blossomless, and wintry-looking still. We came in by a pretty village called Roxbury, about two miles and a half distant from Boston: here we stopped to get a nosegay for my Lady Teazle, at a very pretty green-house, kept by a mechanic, who has devoted his leisure hours to the pleasurable and profitable pursuits of gardening. We returned to town at about half-past two. I ran into the drawing-room, and found ---- sitting with my father. * * * * * * * * * * _Saturday, 20th._