Tuesday, 21st.— ... After tea dropped John at Mr. Murray's in Albemarle Street, and went on to the theater to see the new opera; our version of "Robert the Devil." The house was very full. Henry Greville was there, with the Mitfords and Mrs. Bradshaw. What an extraordinary piece, to be sure! I could not help looking at the full house and wondering how so many decent Englishmen and women could sit through such a spectacle.... The impression made upon me by the subject of Meyerbeer's celebrated opera appears to have entirely superseded that of the undoubtedly fine music; but I never was able to enjoy the latter because of the former, and the only shape in which I ever enjoyed "Robert the Devil" was in M. Levassor's irresistibly ludicrous account of it in the character of a young Paris badaud, who had just come from seeing it at the theater. His version of its horrors was laughable in the extreme, especially when, coming to the episode of the resurrection of the nuns, he contrived to give the most comical effect of a whole crowd—gibbering, glissading women greeting one another with the rapid music of the original scene, to which he adapted the words—

"Quoi c'est moi c'est toi,
Oui c'est toi c'est moi;
Comme nous voila bien dégommés."

Mendelssohn's opinion of the subjects chosen for operas in his day (even such a story as that of the Sonnambula) was scornful in the extreme.

Friday, 24th.— ... Dined with the Fitzhughs, and after dinner proceeded to the Adelphi, where we went to see "Victorine," which I liked very much. Mrs. Yates acted admirably the whole of it, but more particularly that part where she is old and in distress and degradation. There was a dreary look of uncomplaining misery about her, an appearance as of habitual want and sorrow and suffering, a heavy, slow, subdued, broken deportment, and a way of speaking that was excellent and was what struck me most in her performance, for the end is sure to be so effective that she shares half her merit there with the situation. Reeve is funny beyond anything; his face is the most humorous mask I ever saw in my life. I think him much more comical than Liston. The carriage was not come at the end of the first piece, so we had to wait through part of "Robert the Devil" (given at last, such was its popularity, at every theater in London). Of course, after our own grand diablerie, it did not strike me except as being wonderfully well done, considering the size and means of their little stage. [Yates made a most capital fiend: I should not like a bit to be Mrs Yates after seeing him look that part so perfectly.]

Great Russell Street, February 24, 1832.

Dearest H——,

I have this moment received your letter, and though rather disappointed myself, I am glad you are to see Dorothy as well as we, so that your visit southward is to be two pleasures instead of one. The representation of "Francis I." is delayed until next Wednesday, 7th March; not on account of cholera, but of scenery and other like theatrical causes of postponement....

I am greatly worried and annoyed about my play. The more I see and hear of it the stronger my perception grows of its defects, which, I think, are rendered even more glaring by the curtailments and alterations necessary for its representation; and the whole thing distresses me as much as such a thing can. I send you the cast of the principal characters for the instruction of my Ardgillan friends, by whose interest about it I am much gratified. My father is to be De Bourbon; John Mason, the king; Mr. Warde, the monk; Mr. Bennett, Laval. These are the principal men's parts. I act the queen-mother; Miss Taylor, Margaret de Valois; and Miss Tree, Françoise de Foix.

I am reading Cooper's novel of "The Borderers." It is striking and powerful, and some of it I think very beautiful, especially all that regards poor Ruth, which, I remember, is what struck you so much. I like the book extremely. There is a soft sobriety of color over it all that pleases me, and reminds me of your constant association of religion and the simple labors of an agricultural life. It is wonderful how striking the description of this neutral-tinted existence is, in which life, love, death, and even this wild warfare with the savage tribes, by which these people were surrounded, appear divested of all their natural and usual excitements. Religion alone (and this, of course, was inevitable) is the one imaginative and enthusiastic element in their existence, and that alone becomes the source of vehement feeling and passionate excitement which ought least to admit of fanciful interpretations and exaggerated and morbid sentiment. But the picture is admirably well drawn, and I cannot help sometimes wishing I had lived in those days, and been one of that little colony of sternly simple and fervently devout Christian souls. But I should have been a furious fanatic; I should have "seen visions and dreamed dreams," and fancied myself a prophetess to a certainty.

That luckless concern, in which you are a luckless shareholder (Covent Garden), is going to the dogs faster and faster every day; and, in spite of the Garrick Club and all its noble regenerators of the drama, I think the end of it, and that no distant one, will be utter ruin. They have been bringing out a new grand opera, called "Robert the Devil," which they hope to derive much profit from, as it is beyond all precedent absurd and horrible (and, as I think, disgusting); but I am almost afraid that it has none of these good qualities in a sufficient degree to make it pay its own enormous cost. I have seen it once, and came home with such a pain in my side and confused chaos in my head that I do not think I shall ever wish to see it again. Write me a line to say when I may look for you.