Well, all is settled. We do not go to Binderton, nor anywhere in Sussex, but to the New Forest.… A month, a month—and I shall once more embrace and kiss them all. I shall feel once more at home, a feeling I have not known for almost a twelvemonth.… I shall soon, I think, be sick of Devonshire, much as I have enjoyed myself here.… But I regret to find my health going back so much; I know how it will disappoint papa and mamma.… The effect of my cold at Bradley Woods (which certainly became a fever at Marldon), together with the heat of the weather and the state of my spirits (for I am anxious and unhappy on many accounts), will certainly account for some of it.

The last day of July, which to me has flown very quickly, in so unvaried a manner has it been spent. During its course, one event interesting to us all has taken place, namely, the fixing on a new place of abode; and one event, or perhaps I should say circumstance, of consequence to me personally, which may be the beginning of what will affect my future lot in life.

This is the last letter I shall receive from Woodbury. Mamma thus describes their evening party: “We are all round the drawing-room table at nine o’clock in the evening. Papa and your sisters at their foolish books [i.e. books [209] of amusement]: Mackie out, I suppose, after his moth-catching. The day has been the hottest we have had this year, the glass having been 82 ½° in the shade. The windows are both open, and the jessamine, that is now full of flowers, perfumes the room. The limes in flower perfume all the air around them. The children say it is delightfully snug.”

I am highly amused now at seeing the strong and universal interest which is taken in the elections at present pending. The election for the county is the one now proceeding, the candidates being Mr. Parker and Sir J. Buller, Conservatives, and Mr. Bulteel, a Radical. The two first are likely to succeed, and their cause is warmly espoused in this house, especially by the two youths who are continually going to the castle yard to ascertain the state of the poll.… “Aunt,” says R., as they are assembling at tea, “that abominable boy has been into the town, and I can’t get him to tell me anything about it.” “Why, how’s that, Will?” “Why, he asked me when I was reading.” “Well, if you did that, I think he was justified in not answering you.” “No, but, aunt, just listen. I said, ‘William, have you been in the town?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Where have you been?’ ‘Elections.’ ‘And what did you see?’ ‘People.’ And that’s all he would tell me.” “Oh,” says my aunt, laughing, “if he told you that, he might as well have told you all, for it must have interrupted him full as much to say ‘Yes,’ ‘Elections,’ ‘People.’ But come, I have heard it all.” …

It is a matter of concern to us that our cousin Lord Teignmouth, who stood for Marylebone, and was thought sure of success, has failed. Another cousin, Winthrop Praed, has just come in for Aylesbury, having withdrawn from Yarmouth. Both these are Conservatives.

… On coming home, we were surprised to find our Parliamentary cousin whom I mentioned [210] yesterday, Winthrop Praed,* who had come here to vote, together with his wife, to whom he has been married two years.… He is a very clever and very agreeable man … about thirty-five years old, as thin as a lath, and almost ghastly in countenance; his pallid forehead, haggard features, and the quick glances of his bright blue eyes are all indications, I fear, of fatal disease. He seems, alas! sinking into a consumption which his Parliamentary exertions are too likely to hurry forward, if indeed he be not in one already. The profile of Winthrop’s face is very like that of Lord Byron, and at times there is a sort of wildness in his look, but the usual expression of his countenance is remarkably sweet.

This day took place the chairing of the two newly elected members for South Devon, Sir John Yarde Buller and Montague Edmund Parker, for I should have mentioned that on Saturday, Bulteel, the Radical, finding he had no chance of success, withdrew from the contest; and we now hear that the excitement, exertion, and disappointment have made him dangerously ill; nay, it is even reported that he is in a state of derangement. Our party went to see the chairing from Winthrop’s apartments in the New London Inn.…

We were there at eleven o’clock, wearing the proper colours, pink and blue, which we exhibited in the shape of a pink carnation and blue convolvulus. The chairing did not begin till after twelve. I call it chairing, but I should properly have said horsing, for at Exeter the members, instead of being chaired, ride round the city in a long procession of horsemen. On this occasion the horsemen assembled first in a dense crowd before the New London Inn, threw themselves into a sort of order, and rode to the castle, where they marshalled, and then the procession [211] began. Every window was crowded with heads and gay with banners, the street and area were thronged with spectators, and the repeated hurrahs gave notice of their approach long before they appeared. It was a fine spectacle, though not equal to what I had expected. First came a band; then a long line of men carrying boughs of oak, and flags of pink and blue with mottoes of gold; then the herald, a portly man in a sky-blue dress, with a brass helmet and bearing a bugle; then the procession of horsemen, which seemed almost endless. The members were distinguished by their bare heads, their repeated bows and looks of satisfaction.…

When the procession had passed, all our party went back to Baring Crescent, except me, Mrs. W. Praed having kindly offered to take me with her to hear the speeches after the election dinner.… We three sat down in the inn to a quiet dinner; presently some one tapped at the door. It was Mr. Parker, come to call Winthrop to the dinner, where every one was waiting. So away they went. When we had dined, Lady Frances Stephens and her daughter, Miss Bentinck, friends of the Praeds, came to offer us tickets of admission to the orchestra, where we were to look down on the electors, and to tell us that it was time to come and secure good places. So away we went. We ascended the orchestra, where we had two front places which Lady Frances had kept for us. It was a fine sight, four hundred electors seated at four long tables; the wine and dessert were just being brought in.… I shall not assume the office of the newspaper, and detail all the proceedings which took place. I presume they were all much as usual. The chairman gave the toasts, accompanying each with a pompous and prosy speech. As the whole was a scene quite new to me, I was much amused to see the whole body of electors rise at every toast, wave their glasses in the air, and with united voice [212] fill the whole room with hurrahs. I think the most thundering cheers of all were received by the toast “Church and State,” and next, perhaps, “The Duke of Wellington.” Mr. Taylor, of Bishop’s Teignton, a very young man, returned thanks for the “Army” in a speech not worth hearing, which indeed may be said of all that I heard spoken, with one exception, which I shall presently mention. Sir John Buller’s speech was perfectly commonplace, and his delivery very bad—a kind of measured, unvaried sing-song. Mr. Parker’s was evidently learnt by heart, and was delivered in a solemn, funereal, hesitating voice, in the manner of an ill-preached sermon. Nevertheless both were much clapped, especially when the electors were informed that they had shown their independence, and had made their own choice.

At last was given “Winthrop Praed.” Immediately followed shouts of “Praed! Praed!” and a long loud hurrah. Then “Sir Robert Peel and the Conservative Members of the House of Commons,” a toast Mrs. Praed and I had been anxiously expecting, as it was the signal for Winthrop to speak, and we knew he would far outshine all the rest.

He rose when the hurrahs had ended. During the preceding time he had been sitting silent, grave, and thoughtful; to my eyes there was even a shade of melancholy across his pale and interesting countenance, as if he had secret forebodings of the result of the unseen malady within him, that malady which is so often the accompaniment of fine genius and deep feeling. But when he had risen and begun to speak, the pensive look was gone, and was succeeded by a union of intellect and animation; his eyes lighted up, and, as he kindled, flashed round him with bright and rapid glances.

His speech was long and excellent, and his delivery ready, natural, and graceful. Both matter and manner [213] were as different from those of the other orators as light from darkness. Sir John Buller’s was full of awkward pauses between numbers of sentences; Winthrop’s was spoken with perfect ease and fluency. Mr. Parker’s was learnt by heart; much of Winthrop’s must have been quite unpremeditated, as it referred to what he had just heard uttered. In short, it was quite a treat to hear him, and so the electors thought; they listened far more attentively than they had previously done, and continually gave the most hearty and universal cheers. In Winthrop’s speech alone there was point and wit, which frequently produced loud laughter. He wound up very cleverly, and finally sat down amid roars of deafening applause.…

I must just add a few lines to say that I have taken up the paper, and that Winthrop’s speech is most incorrectly reported. I was quite provoked to see it. The mistakes made are ridiculous; all the point and wit are destroyed, and the whole is shamefully abridged. No one would think it a good speech from this edition of it.

I was much amused to read of “the glorious phalanx of ladies who graced the orchestra, whose bright eyes and sweet smiles, from behind the Old English heart of oak, told far more than words how deeply they felt the success of the Conservative cause.” Now, I was one of this glorious phalanx, and I think it would be more correct, at least in some instances, to say that their broad grins and hearty laughter showed the high entertainment they derived from the scene. I am sure this was my case.

Uncle Paul, like papa, takes pupils; and his vacation being ended, one came back this morning, for which I am very sorry. He is a Mr. Carden,* of Irish family, and is a very [214] handsome youth, of pleasing appearance; but I understand that he is by no means an agreeable inmate.

… The last stage before Southampton is Stoney Cross, eleven miles from that place. Here we put on lanterns, for it was between eight and nine o’clock, and a thick cloudy night. Soon after, the welcome sound of a drag-chain rattling beneath us fell on my ear, and, to my great delight, we descended into deep dark, uninterrupted forest, the road seeming pierced through dense wood. The lateness of the hour prevented my distinguishing much; the trees each successively gleamed with a frosty white, as they came within the area of the light cast from the lanterns, and then each passed rapidly away into the thickening mass of gloom behind. I saw that there must be “interminglings mild of light and shade,” though at present the shade was that of night, and the light only the rapidly moving illumination of the lantern and the sparks of fire which streamed brilliantly from the drag-chain as it struck the stones on the road. I was greatly delighted. “At last,” thought I, “we have really reached the New Forest.” We continued to travel through thick wood till we reached Cadnam, a village about a mile from Bartley Lodge. A little beyond Cadnam, on the roadside, stands a public-house, called the Coach and Horses. Here it was arranged that papa should meet us. The coach stopped; my heart beat quick with expectation. Through the darkness I distinguished two individuals. I knew one of them, who approached the coach-door. I held out my hand; it was seized by dear papa, and I was happy.

All went down to prayers before I was dressed; when I descended, I saw a group of happy smiling faces assembled round the breakfast table, a sight to which I had long been unaccustomed.

In a shrubbery round the little wicket-gate I saw a yew tree. I stopped before it and remarked to my sisters who were with me, “I hope the golden-crested wrens will build here; it is just the place for them.” I had scarcely uttered the words when I suddenly perceived, suspended from a bough, the elegant nest of the very bird of which I had been speaking. “Why, here’s the nest!” I exclaimed in amazement. The young were flown; I broke off the bough and carried my prize into the house.

… And now I will do what I have long waited to do—describe my room, my dear little room, the possession of which is a true delight to me. I call it my lion’s den. It is quite my property, and I feel completely independent in it; I can spend here whatever time I like, sit up in it when all the house are gone to bed and suppose me gone too, and can arrange its contents as I think proper. Everything in it is my own, and everything which is my own is in it.

To begin: it is at one end of the long passage in the second story; its aspect is north-east, looking into the garden; its dimensions are near eighteen feet by twelve feet four inches, and it has two windows with white curtains. On one of the long sides is a four-posted bedstead, hung with moreen; opposite to which is the fireplace, which has a handsome carved chimney-piece. On one side of the bed, near the windows, is a cupboard with five shelves, opposite to which is the washhand-stand; on the other side [217] of it, between it and the door, is a bonnet-press. The dressing-table is between the windows, and at the opposite end of the room are a mahogany chest of drawers and a painted bookcase of five shelves. Before the fireplace stands a little mahogany table, at which I am now writing. The room contains three chairs.

And now I must describe the ornaments of the walls, which consist of various engravings, likenesses, and charts drawn up by myself, altogether fifty-eight in number, quite covering the paper-hangings, against which I have fastened them with pins. The engravings are views, groups of figures, heads, birds, and beasts, etc., besides a framed one of Potton Church over the chimney-piece. The likenesses are shades, cut in full length, representing Grandmamma Shore, my uncle, Aunt D., Aunt B., papa, and William. The charts are tables of chronology, and a set of arguments against dissipation, all fastened to the wall with tin-tacks.

In one window is a chair, in the other a little chest of drawers of chestnut-wood, holding my collection of insects. Between the bed and the cupboard are pegs to hang up cloaks, etc. The cupboard contains, on the first shelf, stuffed birds and large birds eggs; on the second, the nests of the baya and golden-crested wren; on the third, drawing-books, scrap-books, manuscripts, etc.; on the fourth, map-books. On the chimney-piece stand bottles of lavender and eau-de-Cologne, a little writing-box, the bronze-mounted thermometer which Anna gave me, a bag, and a morocco case.

On the table there is nothing just now but my rosewood desk, at which I am writing, a china candlestick, and a drawing-book. Near it is a deal box containing dresses. The bookcase contains the greater part of my library of one hundred and twenty-eight volumes, besides five of my own works bound up. On the top shelf stand also a work-box, a pen-box, a paint-box, and a botanical tin case.

[218] Between the fireplace and bookcase stand against the wall a bonnet-box, a drawing-frame, and a “System of Birds” glued on a board.

Between the bookcase and chest of drawers stands a little cabinet or portable cupboard of two shelves—one filled with letters; the other containing shells, a palette, bottles of gold and silver dust, chalks for drawing, ornamental baskets, locks of hair, etc.

On this cabinet stands a deal box filled with birds’ eggs. On the chest of drawers are placed a great portfolio filled with Penang ferns and mosses, a portfolio of my drawings and drawing-paper, a portfolio of maps, a little black leather portfolio containing various miscellaneous articles, my registering book of birds’ songs, and two bound volumes of the Diffusion Society Maps.

Between the drawers and the door is a trunk of dresses. On the bonnet-press is a box of minerals and other curiosities, and on the box my large old mahogany desk, and on the desk a work-basket.

And so ends the description of my room, the appearance of which is somewhat grotesque and singular. I like it all the better in consequence.

[In a ramble through the glades an adder was killed by the youngest boy.]

I did not ride, but took a stroll with papa about the garden and grounds. Papa took me to the stables, which I had not seen. As soon as we had opened the door, to our great amazement, Mackworth presented himself, and, walking up, exhibited the skin of his viper stretched on a stick. We burst into a fit of laughter. It is quite entertaining to see the silent absorbing interest of that boy in his own pursuits in natural history and natural philosophy. He has not a spark of vaunting or bragging; he killed and carried home this viper without a word of exultation or self-congratulation, as if it had been [219] a matter of indifference to him, yet it has been in his mind ever since. The first thing I saw on coming into the drawing-room in the morning was a pencil sketch he had taken of the animal, and his copy-book to-day contained an account of it.

In looking back on the beginning of my illness, I feel sure that one of the principal causes of it was overworking my mind with too hard study, which is no uncommon cause of consumption. For many months before I was actually ill, I tasked my intellectual powers to the utmost. My mind never relaxed, never unbent; even in those hours meant for relaxation, I was still engaged in acquiring knowledge and storing my memory. While dressing, I learnt by heart chapters of the Bible, and repeated them when I walked out, and when I lay in bed; I read Gibbon when I curled my hair at night; at meals my mind was still bent on its improvement, and turned to arithmetic, history, and geography. This system I pursued voluntarily with the most unwearied assiduity, disregarding the increasing delicacy of my health, and the symptoms that it was giving way.

I am going to turn author. I am writing some articles for the Penny Magazine, which I shall first send to Arthur for his inspection. I shall explain to him, with mamma’s high approval, and consult him about it, my plan of publishing a book entitled “Extracts from a Naturalist’s Journal.” I want to know if the market for such works is overstocked.

… My packet to Arthur consists of a letter to him, and a sketch of Ugbrook, and some articles for the Penny Magazine. The articles are on “The Golden-crested Wren,” “Account of a Young Cuckoo,” two anecdotes in natural history, and my “Epitaph on a Goldfinch killed by a Cat.” The sketch is meant as a specimen; I want to publish in the Penny Magazine a [220] series of views of Devonshire scenery, with short notices of each, and this is to be one, if approved.

… My cough is gradually returning with the approach of winter, more than it did last year. My short breath and palpitations of the heart on moving or lying down are very annoying; my heart beats so loud at night that it is like the ticking of a clock. I am subject, too, to pains in the chest and side; and altogether I am very weak and out of health. I feel as if I should never recover the strength of body and unwearied vigour and activity of mind I once possessed. God’s will be done, it is meant for the best, though so early in life, when I have but just quitted childhood; it is a painful prospect, and a severe trial both in endurance and anticipation.

I am installed housekeeper; mamma has given the whole of the household accounts into my keeping. I am glad of it; it will greatly assist mamma, and will be of much service to me. I am highly pleased at the idea of making myself of use in some way, now that I cannot do it by teaching my brothers and sisters.

I began regularly to-day the plan of study I intend to pursue for some time. The books I am reading are, “Sketches of Venetian History,”43 “India,” in the “Modern Traveller,” and the “History of the United States” in Lardner’s Cabinet Cyclopædia.44 In the morning, I am up but a short time before breakfast, and am employed in my room in reading the Bible till prayer-time. After breakfast, while my own room is being put to rights, I sit in the drawing-room, employed with the “United States.” I first draw out (from the book) a short chronological abridgment of my preceding day’s lesson; then I read a fresh portion, of course with maps. Then I go and sit in mamma’s room, painting one or two maps, by way of relaxing my mind sufficiently. Then I go to my own room, and study chronology. This I do by [221] means of my tables of comparative chronology; I carefully read through a portion of one, and then learn by heart all the dates I think it necessary to remember. This occupies me for some time. Then I take up the Venetian History, doing the same as with that of the United States. I then take up the “India.” As yet I have not got further than the geography, natural history, etc., so I do not yet abridge it. In these readings of history, I make great use both of my chronological tables and of the Society maps, which I take in. All this occupies me till about two or three o’clock; till tea at eight, I am employed in taking exercise, in desultory reading, in lying down, and in accidental occupations. After tea I read, in the “Biographie Universelle,”45 the life or lives of one or more distinguished individuals mentioned in my English studies of the day, which both keeps up my knowledge of French, and impresses the history more strongly on my memory.

In addition to this, I learn by heart, or rather keep up what I have already learnt, from the New Testament. This I do while I am curling my hair in the morning.

I do not know whether I shall be strong enough to pursue this system of study very long, particularly as my health seems getting worse. Mamma is afraid of my overworking my mind again; still I cannot bear the idea of living, even in sickness, without systematically acquiring knowledge. So I shall devote myself at present to making myself mistress of history, chronology, and geography; the study of languages, mathematics, arithmetic, and the sciences of mechanics, etc., I must leave till I am quite restored to health.

… It is no small delight to me to possess the works of Massinger and Ford.46 They are amongst the most celebrated of our admirable old English dramatists; Massinger is often considered inferior to none but Shakespeare. They are very little read in modern [222] times, and I shall have great pleasure in exploring their unknown or forgotten beauties.

… I rode on my pony, accompanied only by papa. We explored some lovely glades on the right of the Lyndhurst road, between the road to Mistead and our common. There was nothing to be seen that had life, but the wild deer or an occasional jay, and no sound to be heard but the cries of blue-tits and the whisper of the golden-crested wren. Sometimes on the little open common we fall in with peasants loading a waggon with fern, or a girl carrying a bundle of faggots on her head, and driving home a few cows to be milked, the tinkling of the cow-bell sounding through the arches of the trees.

The first fine Sunday since we have been at Bartley Lodge; but I, of course, could not go to church. Being unable to walk, I sat out of doors for an hour or two in the afternoon, in a little sheltered spot in front of the house, before the eastern wing, which recedes a few feet back. It is a very small piece of grass, between rhododendrons on one side, and laurustinus on the other, with the wall of the house covered with jessamines behind. In front is the park and forest; so that altogether it is a sweet little spot, and I enjoyed sitting here very much. It was a calm, delicious day, the forest bathed in sunlight, the sky a pure pale blue. On my left, close to the wall of the house, is an oak grey with lichens; here I watched the merry ox-eyes flitting from twig to twig, and tapping them with head downwards; and the handsome nuthatch, with his loud clear whistle, running up the boughs like a mouse, and hammering at them with all the concentrated force of his powerful body. In the herbage of the park, I heard the mingled tinkling warble of a dozen goldfinches; the sweet song of the robin sounded from tree to tree. From the forest arose a few melodious notes of the thrush, and the loud laugh of the green woodpecker. A pied [223] wagtail with his cheerful “chippeet” alighted on the roof of the house above me; a lark flew across the park, uttering his pretty plaintive cry. In the garden, the scream of the jay and the chattering of jackdaws completed the gay, though not always melodious, concert.

It is a great satisfaction to me to find myself daily making a very visible progress in my present studies. I have just finished the first volumes of the Venetian and American histories, abridging each as I go on. With neither of these histories have I been previously acquainted, so that the reading of both adds greatly to my stock of knowledge. I am particularly pleased at the insight the former gives me into the different and complex annals of the great families and principalities of Northern Italy, such as the Carrara of Padua, the della Scala of Verona, and the Visconti of Milan, of whom I before knew little but the name. Really there is hardly any pleasure equal to that of acquiring knowledge. And yet, at the same time, every step we make in the path of learning opens to us so vast a number of endless vistas and newer tracks (just as in our forest rambles), that it quite discourages one. It is hopeless to think of exhausting all the stores of knowledge. In chronology, too, I am making great progress. I really think my memory is improving, which at my age is more than I could expect.

I took up Shakespeare this evening, and read parts of “Hamlet.” This is my favourite play; I do admire it most thoroughly. The whole interest, indeed, is swallowed up in Hamlet, but how deep, how absorbing is that interest! His profound melancholy, the struggles and conflicting passions in his noble mind, his painful sense of his own want of resolution, unite in forming one of the grandest conceptions and creations of even Shakespeare’s mighty genius. There is no character in any of his [224] plays (at least of those which I have read, and I know all the best except “Othello”) which displays such a splendid depth of talent. Nor am I acquainted with anything in the range of the drama so intensely pathetic as the character of Hamlet.

Winthrop and Mrs. Praed came to-day, as we had hoped, and we enjoyed their visit very much. Poor Winthrop looks exceedingly delicate; he is so pale and thin that he seems as if a breath would blow him away.… He was, as usual, very agreeable, and I like his wife as much as ever.

… From dinner to tea I was busily occupied in studying those parts of Keightly’s “Outlines of History” (Lardner’s Cyclopædia), of Russell’s “Modern Europe,” and of Muller’s “Universal History,” which relate to the times of Charles VIII., Louis XIII., and Francis I. of France, the Popes Alexander VI., Julius XII., and Leo X., Maximilian I. and Charles V., of Germany, which I have reached in the Venetian History; being of the opinion that to read the history of the same period in different books is an excellent way of impressing it on one’s memory.

… I have finished learning from my four charts of general history down to the present time; they are complete in themselves, and begin with ancient history. The first chart contain the histories of the Jews, Greece, Rome, Egypt, and Syria, in comparative columns, to the Christian era; the second, the Roman emperors, those of the East and West, Persia, the caliphs, and miscellaneous history; the third, Italy, the emperors of the East (succeeded, where they end, by Greece), Persia, the caliphs (succeeded by Poland), miscellaneous history, and the Ottomans.

The number of dates out of all these, which I have learnt by heart, amounts to three hundred and sixty-five, [225] and I dare say that I shall add to it continually, besides beginning another set of charts.

Finding myself stronger, I am resolved to begin again the study of languages. I rather think I shall study Greek one week and Latin another. I began to-day with Greek, and spent about half an hour on it, which is the utmost I shall give to either that or Latin at present. My intention is to resume Herodotus, of which I have already read three books, pursue it regularly through, and, besides, read alternately a speech of Demosthenes and a Greek play. As my time is now so much more occupied, I only read the Indian History every other day.

A horrible accident, accompanied by fearful loss of life, has occurred at Southampton. A rocket, amongst the fireworks on the 5th November, set fire to an oil and turpentine warehouse on the water-side. Nobody was in it; but a number of respectable tradesmen and others rushed to the spot and attempted to save the property, when a large quantity of turpentine within blew up, burying the poor men under the ruins of the building. It is supposed that as many as thirty suffered this fate; several have been dug out, mostly dead, but some few still alive.…

… I find Herodotus (as I can read it quite easily) so very entertaining. It is as easy to me, pretty nearly, as French, only that I have every now and then to look out a word in the dictionary; and when once I take it up, I find it difficult to lay it down again. Demosthenes is much harder work, and requires close attention.

… This reading of lives is very laborious, and always leaves me thoroughly fatigued. Papa and mamma are both afraid that I am overtasking my brain again. But what shall I do? It is so delightful to be at all able to study again, and I have so much lost time to make up for, that I really cannot restrain myself. Sometimes [226] I am quite disheartened at the huge mountain of knowledge which I have to climb, and feel myself like an ant at the foot of the Andes. Still it is encouraging to see what can be done by exertion and industry, and I am gratified to find myself making a very visible progress every day. I now generally spend the last half-hour or twenty minutes before tea in reading Shakespeare, being then so tired with my matter-of-fact studies as to require some relaxation in the way of works of imagination. I am at present engaged with the “Tempest.”

I have begun to teach geography to Mackworth regularly on the following plan:—I give him the name of some town, as Jerusalem; he is to examine the maps, and find out every town of note on the same degree of latitude; the next day he is to tell me them, and give an account of their situation, and everything he can find in books about their history, natural productions, etc. This is, I think, a useful and entertaining way of learning geography.

… I usually repeat a chapter from the Bible by heart while I am dressing in the morning, and a chart of genealogy (from about seventy to a hundred dates) while undressing at night.

During this week I have been reading “Romeo and Juliet” to mamma and the three young ones, who all enjoy it exceedingly.… I am always obliged, for health’s sake, to limit myself in the use of the pen, so I shall only add that, to my mind, one of the most touching parts of the whole play—touching from its exquisite yet solemn simplicity—is that short speech of Friar Lawrence to Juliet, when she wakes in the tomb and finds Romeo dead.

… We took another drive to Romsey, where I have not yet been, and I enjoyed it very much. The cottages hereabouts are remarkably pretty and picturesque; the eaves of the roofs project, and are [227] supported by slender columns of the trunks of firs, so as to form little rustic verandahs; the porches are formed in the same way, and are adorned with creeping plants. The entrance into Romsey is strikingly beautiful; indeed, it excels that of any other town I know, except Torquay, and perhaps Hastings, which places have the advantage of the sea. From the top of a steep hill you look down on the old dark-red town lying beneath you, with its noble cathedral-like church towering above every other building, and a rich extent of distant wooded country behind; to our right and left were beautiful green sweeping hills with little dells between them, and their sides and summits mantled with thick woods, now of course nearly naked. The appearance of the distant country from behind the waving outlines of these hills is very fine. We drove down into Romsey by a road bordered with elms, and crossed at the entrance of the town by the pretty little river Test, on whose wooded banks, in a sweet situation, is Lord Palmerston’s place. Romsey is a neat old town of some size; the most singular feature in it is a little narrow stream or aqueduct, bricked in, very clear and very rapid, which flows for perhaps half a mile along the side of the principal street, turning two mills on its way, and falls into the Test. It runs close to the houses all the way, and is crossed by little bridges, much in the manner of the stream at Budleigh Salterton. Its clearness is remarkable; every stone at the bottom can be distinctly seen. In most parts I think it cannot be more than two yards across, though it sometimes dilates.…

With the single exception of St. Albans, this is beyond comparison the most magnificent country church I have anywhere seen. The size is considerable, and the plan that of a cathedral, with transepts, and side aisles to both nave and choir, and, moreover, a space behind the choir, as in French cathedrals. Nearly the whole church is in the Norman style of architecture, and Norman of very rich [228] character, far surpassing the interior of Ely, or anything at Dunstable. The beauty of the capitals is remarkable. There are some interesting specimens of transition from one style to another, especially in the nave, which is chiefly Early English, Norman arches having been hewn into pointed ones in a very curious manner. The western window is a very fine specimen of plain Early English three tall lancets with deep mouldings, like those at Jesus Chapel, Cambridge. The font is a curious piece of old stonework, which we had not time to examine. There are some Decorated windows, and a beautiful Decorated arch over an old monument; there are several other old monuments and brasses, and many details of various kinds deserving minute attention; but unfortunately we had only a few minutes to spare.

… I finished “Timon of Athens.” I am ill qualified, I know, to pass any opinion on the matter, but if I were to give one, I should say that it was not the work of Shakespeare. Not but that I admire it exceedingly, and think it a noble play, but it seems to me that the style and language are not those of the author of “Hamlet.” The poetical descriptions, many of which are exceedingly beautiful, seem to me to be written differently; the choice of words, the construction of the sentences, the cast of ideas, are peculiar; the tone of the dialogues between Timon and Apemantus, in particular, is not like that which pervades most of Shakespeare’s scenes.…

I think dramatic writing one of the highest efforts of human genius. To excel in it, one must not merely think what it is likely that the characters would do and say in the situation in which they are placed—we must think what we ourselves should do in those situations,—no, rather, we should throw our whole soul into the character we are depicting, and make it, as it were, our own, so as to feel ourselves, naturally and deeply, every passion which racks [229] his soul, and be able to express it by expressing our own unstudied sensations at the moment. How strange it seems, then, that the dramatist, who must thus be personifying himself, should be able, by so doing, to personify so many various and conflicting characters, and to paint passions which in the natural state of his own mind he may have never felt! He must as it were multiply his own character, and create new feelings in himself; all which requires a mind which soars infinitely above the common level.

I received a letter from dearest Eliz.… I do not remember the time when she was unknown to me; she was a dear friend of papa and mamma before I was born.… Sometimes it appears but the other day that I saw her last and kissed her last; sometimes, that I kissed her and laughed and talked with her years before she went away; sometimes ages, a lifetime, a separate existence, appear to have passed since then. I can hardly realize it. Indeed, it is now a different existence; life seems changed to me, young as I am, since I parted with Eliz.; one of its chief features is blotted out of the landscape. My heart aches when I think of those past pleasant days, and as I now write this my eyes are almost blinded with tears. So I will think of it, if I can, no more just now. Farewell, my kind, most beloved friend Eliz.

The unusual interruption of visitors prevented me from attending to all my studies to-day. But when I went up to bed I could not resist the temptation of taking up my favourite Herodotus, and I sat up reading him till after eleven o’clock. I have now nearly finished the fourth book; it is the most entertaining work I ever read.

I have at last finished the “Thirty Years’ Correspondence of Knox and Jebb.”47 I was beginning to get rather tired of it; the second volume is far less interesting than the first.… Both had an exceeding [230] dislike to the Bible Society, their reasons seeming to be that it receives the support of all denominations of religion indiscriminately, and that it publishes the Bible without comment, neither of which appears to me to be any objection. They had a dislike, however, to the whole Evangelical party. By the way, I have a great horror of this division of Christians into two parties.… In Devonshire the two parties will not even speak to each other; they each profess to hate the other, and avoid them as serpents; even my cousins say, “If you find that any persons have prayer-meetings, they are of the professing party—avoid them!” I cannot bear that prayer-meetings, or the Bible Society, or anything else should be made a test of party. I abhor tests.

… The sensation created through half the south of England by the late catastrophe at Southampton is really extraordinary, and amounts to a mania. Subscriptions for the survivors and the destitute families have been received from Winchester, Oxford, London, and many other places. Above £4000 have been collected, which is more than is wanted, and is a great pity; for these are not the only objects deserving of charity, and such extravagant aid to these will render it difficult to give adequate assistance to others.

… The little village of Cadnam is celebrated for its oak, which is said to put forth leaves on Christmas Day. This, called the Cadnam Oak, is described in the Saturday Magazine. It is a small half-withered tree, with part of the trunk gone, and only one bough left; it stands on a rising ground close to the road, on the banks of a rill, with a vigorous young tree by it, just as represented in the Saturday Magazine. We have been talking about this tree lately, and resolving to examine it at Christmas, for it appears that about that time it really does shoot forth. This evening Mr. Trower, who had visited it in his walk with Henry Mallet, brought me two little twigs [231] from it, which he had found with great difficulty high up in the tree. One of these twigs has two young leaves perfectly formed, and the other one smaller ones. The largest leaf is about two inches long. Both twigs are covered with little brown buds, but this is the case also with all trees at this time of year. It is almost a fortnight before the reputed time of sprouting.… Even though the oaks and beeches are bare, there is still great variety in the foliage—the contrast of brown woods in the foreground, blue woods in the distance, and, close to the roads, of bright green hollies with scarlet berries, ivy round the naked stems of the oaks, moss on those of the beeches, and hawthorns hung with festoons of ivy and thick grey lichens.

Well, it is of no use to go on always struggling with weakness and incapability of exertion. I cannot hold out for ever; and now I begin to feel thoroughly ill. I am afraid I must relax.

I have now concluded my batch of writings for the Penny Magazine, and I find it no small relief to be rid for the present of the cares of authorship! I do not think I could have gone on with it much longer, in my present state of health, especially as I am now suffering from pain in the side. How ridiculous that, at the age of seventeen, I should have anything to do with the cares of authorship! It makes me laugh. The articles I have just finished are, “Account of the Willow-wren,” “A Tame Squirrel,” and “Anecdotes of Dogs.”

… Being as usual wakeful at night, I could do nothing but think of Matilda and her arrival to-morrow, when a striking couplet of Cowley’s,48 which I have always admired, darted forcibly into my mind—

       “Hope, thou bold taster of delight,

Which, whilst thou shouldst but taste, devour’st it quite!”

Tilla and I fell into a long theological discussion about regeneration, the new birth, and the use of baptism, [232] points on which we disagree … It was very foolish of us to enter into the controversy, for we were neither of us qualified to decide on so deep a question. We certainly did not succeed in convincing one another, and ended by ascertaining that, after all, we agreed in loving each other very dearly.

… When I was with her (Tilla) in her room at night, she showed me some little pencil notes of E. S.—the only relic she has of that sweet and lovely girl. I read them, small and insignificant as they are in themselves, with the deepest interest; and I could not repress my tears when Tilla again talked about her now sainted friend. I never heard of any one like her; I do not suppose another E. S. ever existed. It is strange I should enter so much into the story of one so utterly unknown to me; and yet I do, as strongly as if she had been my friend too. I seem to have the image of her before me with the distinctness of reality.

… The clock had done striking, I jumped up, and stood an instant, saying, “It has struck twelve, and I am eighteen years old.” …

And am I really eighteen years old? Am I no longer a child, and are so many of the years allotted to me for intellectual and spiritual improvement already past? How quickly they have flown! How appalling is the progress of time, and the approach of eternity! To me, that eternity is perhaps not far distant; let me improve life to the utmost while it is yet mine, and if my span on earth must indeed be short, may it yet be long enough to fit me for an endless existence in the presence of my God.

Papa spent the evening in finishing to us “Othello.” What shall I say of this wonderful, wonderful, most wonderful work? To criticize it were absurd, to attempt an elaborate investigation of its merits [233] were hopeless. The only way in which I can praise it is by speaking of its effects on us all. It harrowed our feelings to a degree I never saw equalled amongst us, and produced an emotion which even astonished ourselves.… We could not speak, even to thank papa, or to express our opinion of the play. Neither shall I attempt to do so now, except to say briefly that I think it a work none has or ever can equal; it is the most glorious effort of human genius, and as much surpasses any expectations that can be formed of it, as it interests you intensely while you hear it, and astonishes you with its almost miraculous display of mental power when it is concluded, and you think it over. When I went up to Tilla’s room, I found her still with eyes full of tears; she threw her arms round my neck, and said, “Oh, Emily, I wish Shakespeare did not write so beautifully, or I wish your father did not read so beautifully, or I wish I were not a fool!”

We had this evening a little party.… And now, if I chose, I could pen an amusing and ludicrous account of the evening, and hold up to ridicule several of those who formed the party; shall I, or shall I not? I think not, though such subjects would give variety to my journal, and make it far more entertaining to write. It is no little amusement to me to watch and study characters, manners, and faces in my own mind; but to put all these observations to paper would occupy some time, and be very unsafe. And what is the good of representing in a ridiculous light the errors or follies of our acquaintance, or noticing them at all, except to avoid them and profit by the example?

I have been peeping, almost for the first time, into the celebrated “Pickwick Papers.” My brothers and sisters, and even papa and mamma, who read them with the keenest relish, have long revelled in them, and admire their wit and talent exceedingly. There seems no doubt that they are exquisitely faithful delineations of [234] real life, and also that they have as little coarseness as the nature of the subject will allow; indeed, their talent is unquestioned, except when the author attempts the pathetic. Still I cannot make up my mind to go through them all; a little of them is quite enough to satisfy me.