P.S.—­This is my summer tour—­Bath, Edinburgh, Dublin, Liverpool, Manchester, and Birmingham.  I am Miss Fanny Kemble, because Henry Kemble’s daughter, my uncle Stephen’s granddaughter, is Miss Kemble by right of birth.

The lady who spoiled my pretty cream-colored poplin dress by spilling coffee on the front of it, instantly, in the midst of her vehement self-upbraidings and humble apologies for her awkwardness, adopted a very singular method of appeasing my displeasure and soothing my distress, by deliberately pouring a spoonful of coffee upon the front breadth of her own velvet gown.  My amazement at this proceeding was excessive, and it neither calmed my wrath nor comforted my sorrow, but exasperated me with a sense of her extreme folly and her conviction of mine.  The perpetrator of this singular act of atonement was the beautiful Julia, eldest daughter of the Adjutant-General, Sir John Macdonald, and the lady whom the Duke of Wellington pronounced the handsomest woman in London; a verdict which appeared to me too favorable, though she certainly was one of the handsomest women in London.  An intimate acquaintance subsisted between her family and ours for several years, and I was indebted to Sir John Macdonald’s assistance, most kindly exerted in my behalf, for the happiness of giving my youngest brother his commission in the army, which Sir John enabled me to purchase in his own regiment; and I was indebted to the great liberality of Mr. John Murray, the celebrated publisher, for the means of thus providing for my brother Henry.  The generous price (remuneration I dare not call it) which he gave me for my play of “Francis the First” obtained for me my brother’s commission.

                             JAMES STREET, BUCKINGHAM GATE, March 9th. 
     DEAREST H——­,

I have been so busy all this day, signing benefit tickets, that I hardly feel as if I could write anything but “25th March, F.A.K.”  Our two last letters crossed on the road, and yours was so kind an answer to mine, which you had not yet received, that I feel no further scruple in breaking in upon you with the frivolity of my worldly occupations and proceedings.

I was sorry that the newspapers should give you the first account of my Mrs. Beverley, but my time is so taken up with “an infinite deal of nothing” that I have not had an hour to call my own till this evening, and this evening is my only unengaged one for nearly three weeks to come.

The papers will probably have set your mind at ease as to the result of my appearance in “The Gamester;” but although they have forestalled me in the sum total of the account, there are some small details which may perhaps interest you, of which they can give you no knowledge.  I shall talk to you much of myself, dearest H——­, and hope it will not weary you; that precious little self is just now so fully occupied with its own