29 October 1832 – 4 November 1832

At eleven o'clock, went to rehearsal: came home, began letter to ——. Called with my father upon Mrs. ——: the servant committed that awfullest of blunders, letting one into the house, and then finding out that nobody was at home. Came home, practised for some time: all of a sudden the door opened, and in walked Colonel —— with my father. He had just arrived from New York. He dined with us. After dinner, finished letter to ——. At six, went to the theatre. The house was very good; play, Much Ado about Nothing. I played well; but what an audience it is! I have been often recommended, in cases of nervousness on the stage, to consider the audience as just so many cabbages, and, indeed, a small stretch of fancy would enable me to do so here. Colonel —— supped with us. Found an invitation to dinner from the ——. "One exception makes a rule," say the scholars; by that same token, therefore, the Philadelphians are about the most inhospitable set of people it ever was my good fortune to fall in with. Towards the end of supper, we fell into a strange discussion as to the nature of existence. A vain and fruitless talk, after all; for life shall be happy or sad, not, indeed, according to its events, but according to the nature of the individuals to whom these events befall. Colonel —— maintained that life was in itself desirable; abounding in blessings, replete with comforts, a fertile land, where still, as one joy decays, another springs up to flourish in its place. He said that he felt thankful every day, and every hour of the day, for his existence; that he feared death, only because life was an absolute enjoyment, and that he would willingly, to-morrow, accept the power of beginning his again, even though he should be placed on the world's threshold, a lonely friendless beggar: so sure was he that his prospects would brighten, and friends spring up to him, and plenty reward labour, and life become pleasant, ere it had grown many years old. How widely human beings differ! It was but an hour before, that I, in counting how many stars I had already seen go down below the horizon of existence,—Weber, Lawrence, Scott, all of whom I have known,—was saying to D——, "How sad a thing, and strange, life is!" adding, what I repent me for, "I wish that I were dead!" Oh, how can any human being, who looks abroad into the world, and within upon himself, who sees the wondrous mystery of all things, the unabidingness which waits on all matter, the imperfection which clogs all spirit; who notes the sovereignty of change over the inanimate creation, of disease, decay, and death over man's body, of blindness and delusion over his mind, of sin over his soul; who beholds the frailty of good men; who feels the miserable inconsistency of his own nature; the dust and ashes of which our love, and what we love, is made; the evil that, like an unwholesome corpse, still clings to our good; the sorrow that, like its shadow, still walks behind our joy;—oh, who that sees all this can say that this life is other than sad—most sad? Yet, while I write this, God forbid that I should therefore want eyes to see, or sense to feel, the blessings wherewith he has blessed it; the rewards with which he sweetens our task, the flowers wherewith he cheers our journey's road, the many props wherewith he supports our feet in it. Yet of all these, the sweetest, the brightest, the strongest, are those which our soul draws from him, the end of its desire, not those it finds here. And how should not that spirit yearn for its accomplishment? If we seek knowledge here, a thousand mists arise between our incapable senses and the truth, how, then, should we not wish to cast away this darkness, and soar to the fountains of all light? If we strive to employ those faculties which, being of our soul, have the strength and enduring of immortality, the objects whereon we expend them here are vague, evanescent, disappointing; how then should we not desire to find food for our capacities, abiding as themselves? If we long to love—ah, are not the creatures in whom we centre our affections frail, capable of change; perishable, born to decay? How then should we not look with unutterable yearning for that life where affection is unchangeable, eternal? Surely, if all the hopes, the fears, the aims, the tendings of our soul, have but their beginning here, it is most natural, it is most fitting, to turn to that future where they shall be fulfilled. But there lies a road between. * * * * * * * * * * A break—a break—a break! So much the better; for the two last days have been nothing but annoyance, hard work, and heartach. * * * * * * * * * *

A bright sunny day; too hot for a fire; windows open, shutters closed, and the room full of flowers. How the sweet summer-time stays lingering here. Found Colonel —— in the drawing-room. After breakfast, began writing to ——. Mr. —— called: he stayed but a short time, and went out with Colonel ——. My father went out soon after, and I began to practise. Mrs. —— came in and sat with me: she played to me, and sang "Should those fond hopes ever leave thee." Her voice was as thin as her pale transparent hands. She appeared to me much better than when last I saw her; but presently told me she had just been swallowing eighty drops of laudanum, poor thing! When she was gone, went on practising, and writing, till my father came home. Walked with him and D—— to call on old Lady ——. The day was so hot that I could scarcely endure my boa. The election was going on; the streets full of rabblement, the air full of huzzaing, and the sky obscured with star-spangled banners, and villanous transparencies of "Old Hickory," hung out in all directions. We went round the Town-House, and looked at the window out of which Jefferson read the Act of Independence, that proclaimed the separation between England and America. Called at a music-shop, tossed over heaps of music, bought some, and ordered some to be sent home for me to look over. Came home, put out things for the theatre. Dined at three. * * * * * * * * * * Received another beautiful nosegay. After dinner, went on with letter to ——; tried over my music; Heber's song that I wanted is not among them. At six, went to the theatre. The sunset was glorious, the uprising of the moon most beautiful. There is an intensity, an earnestness, about the colour of the sky, and the light of its bright inhabitants here, that is lovely and solemn, beyond any thing I ever saw. Can Italy have brighter heavens than these? surely nothing can exceed the beauty of these days and nights. We were obliged to go all manner of roundabouts to the play-house, in order to avoid the rabble that choked up the principal streets. I, by way of striking salutary awe into the hearts of all rioters who might come across our path, brandished my father's sword out of the coach window the whole way along. The play was Venice Preserved; my father played Jaffier. * * * * * * * * * * I played pretty well. The house was very good; but at the end I really was half dead. * * * * * On our return home, met a procession of electioneerers carrying triangular paper lanterns upon poles, with "sentiments" political scribbled thereon, which, however, I could not distinguish. Found a most exquisite nosegay waiting for me at home, so sweet, so brilliant, so fragrant and fresh. * * * * * Found nothing for supper that I could fancy. Drank some tea, wrote journal. Colonel —— came in after supper, and wondered that I had played better to my father's Jaffier than to Mr. Keppel's. Heaven bless the world, for a conglomerated amalgamation of fools!