"An invitation to dine at Holland House to meet Kean. He is worth
meeting; and I hope, by getting into good society, he will be prevented
from falling like Cooke. He is greater now on the stage, and off he
should never be less. There is a stupid and under-rating criticism upon
him in one of the newspapers. I thought that, last night, though great,
he rather under-acted more than the first time. This may be the effect
of these cavils; but I hope he has more sense than to mind them. He
cannot expect to maintain his present eminence, or to advance still
higher, without the envy of his green-room fellows, and the nibbling of
their admirers. But, if he don't beat them all, why then--merit hath no
purchase in 'these coster-monger days.'

"I wish that I had a talent for the drama; I would write a tragedy
_now_. But no,--it is gone. Hodgson talks of one,--he will do it
well;--and I think M--e should try. He has wonderful powers, and much
variety; besides, he has lived and felt. To write so as to bring home to
the heart, the heart must have been tried,--but, perhaps, ceased to be
so. While you are under the influence of passions, you only feel, but
cannot describe them,--any more than, when in action, you could turn
round and tell the story to your next neighbour! When all is over,--all,
all, and irrevocable,--trust to memory--she is then but too faithful.

"Went out, and answered some letters, yawned now and then, and redde the
Robbers. Fine,--but Fiesco is better; and Alfieri and Monti's Aristodemo
_best_. They are more equal than the Tedeschi dramatists.

"Answered--or, rather acknowledged--the receipt of young Reynolds's
Poem, Safie. The lad is clever, but much of his thoughts are
borrowed,--_whence_, the Reviewers may find out. I hate discouraging a