I act in Manchester on Friday, and after that we shall spend some days with Lord and Lady W——­, at their seat near there; and then I return to London to begin my winter campaign, when I hope to see you less oppressed with anxiety and vexation than you were when we parted there.  And now, what shall I say to you?  My life for the last three weeks has been so hurried and busy that, while I have matter for many long letters, I have hardly time for condensation; you know what Madame de Sevigne says, “Si j’avais eu plus de temps, je t’aurais ecrit moins longuement.”  I have been sight-seeing and acting for the last month, and the first occupation is really the more exhausting of the two.  I will give you a carte, and when we meet you shall call upon me for a detail of any or all of its contents.

I have seen the fine, picturesque old town of Chester; I have seen Liverpool, its docks, its cemetery, its railway, on which I was flown away with by a steam-engine, at the rate of five and thirty miles an hour; I have seen Manchester, power-looms, spinning-jennies, cotton factories, etc.; I have stayed at the pleasant modern mansion of Heaton; I have visited Hopwood Hall, built in the reign of Edward the First, and still retaining its carved old oaken chimneys and paneled chambers and latticed windows, and intricate ups and downs of internal architecture, to present use apparently as purposeless and inconvenient as if one was living in a cat’s-cradle.  I have seen a rush-bearing with its classical morris dance, executed in honor of some antique observance by the country folk of Lancashire, with whom this commemoration, but no knowledge of its original significance, remains.  I have seen Birmingham, its button-making, pin-making, plating, stamping, etc.; I have seen Aston Hall, an old house two miles from the town, and two hundred from everything in it, where Charles the First slept after the battle of Edge Hill, and whose fine old staircase still retains the marks of Cromwell’s cannon,—­which house, moreover, possesses an oaken gallery one hundred and odd feet long, hung with old portraits, one of the most delightful apartments imaginable.  How I did sin in envy, and long for that nice room to walk up and down and dream and poetize in; but as I know of no earthly way of compassing this desirable acquisition but offering myself in exchange for it to its present possessor (who might not think well of the bargain), il n’y faut plus penser.  Moreover, as the grapes are sour, I conclude that upon the whole it might not be an advantageous one for me.  I am at this moment writing in a drawing-room full of people, at Heaton (Lord W——­’s place), taking up my pen to talk to you and laying it down to talk to others.  I must now, however, close my double and divided conversation, because I have not brains enough to play at two games at once.  I am ever yours, very sincerely,

F. A. K.