When they were gone, read a canto in Dante, and sketched till four o'clock. I wish I could make myself draw. I want to do every thing in the world that can be done, and, by the by, that reminds me of my German, which I must _persecute_. At four o'clock sent for a hair-dresser, that I might in good time see that I am not made an object on my first night. He was a Frenchman, and after listening profoundly to my description of the head-dress I wanted, replied, as none but a Frenchman could, "_Madame, la difficulté n'est pas d'exécuter votre coiffure, mais de la bien concevoir_." However, he conceived and executed sundry very smooth-looking bows, and, upon the whole, dressed my hair very nicely, but charged a dollar for so doing; O nefarious! D---- and I dined _tête-à-tête_; the evening was sulky--I was in miserable spirits. * * * * * Sat working till my father came home, which he did at about half past six. His account of his dinner was any thing but delightful; to be sure he has no taste for rainy ruralities, and his feeling description of the damp ground, damp trees, damp clothes, and damp atmosphere, gave me the _rheumatiz_, letting alone that they had nothing to eat but turtle, and that out of iron spoons.--"Ah, you vill go a pleasuring." * * * * * * * * * * He had a cold before, and I fear this will make him very ill. He went like wisdom to take a vapour bath directly. ---- came, and sat with us till he returned. Had tea at eight, and embroidered till midnight. The wind is rioting over the earth. I should like to see the Hudson now. The black clouds, like masses of dark hair, are driven over the moon's pale face; the red lights and fire engines are dancing up and down; the streets, the church bells are all tolling--'tis sad and strange. 'Tis all in vain, it may not last, The sickly sunlight dies away, And the thick clouds that veil the past Roll darkly o'er my present day. Have I not flung them off, and striven To seek some dawning hope in vain? Have I not been for ever driven Back to the bitter past again? What though a brighter sky bends o'er Scenes where no former image greets me? Though lost in paths untrod before, Here, even here, pale Memory meets me. Oh life--oh blighted bloomless tree! Why cling thy fibres to the earth? Summer can bring no flower to thee, Autumn no bearing, spring no birth. Bid me not strive, I'll strive no more, To win from pain my joyless breast; Sorrow has plough'd too deeply o'er Life's Eden--let it take the rest! _Wednesday, 12th._ Rose at eight. After breakfast, heard my father say Hamlet. How beautiful his whole conception of that part is! and yet it is but an actor's conception too. * * * * * * * * * *