of my personal tastes and feelings, which must be sacrificed to real and useful results for myself and others.  You see, I write as I talk, still about myself; and I am sometimes afraid that my very desire to improve keeps me occupied too much about myself and will make a little moral egotist of me.  I am going to bid good-by to Miss W——­ this morning; I should like her to like me; I believe I should value her friendship as I ought.  Good friends are like the shrubs and trees that grow on a steep ascent:  while we toil up, and our eyes are fixed on the summit, we unconsciously grasp and lean upon them for support and assistance on our way.  God bless you, dear H——.  I hope to be with you soon, but cannot say at present how soon that may be.

F. A. K.

A very delightful short visit to my friend at Ardgillan preceded my resuming my theatrical work at Liverpool, whence I wrote her the following letter: 

LIVERPOOL August 19, 1830. 
DEAR H——­,

I received your letter about an hour ago, at rehearsal, and though
I read it with rather dim eyes, I managed to swallow my tears, and
go on with Mrs. Beverley.

The depth and solemnity of your feelings, my dear H——­, on those important subjects of which we have so often spoken together, almost make me fear, sometimes, that I am not so much impressed as I ought to be with their awfulness.  I humbly hope I fear as I ought, but it is so much easier for me to love than to fear, that my nature instinctively fastens on those aspects of religion which inspire confidence and impart support, rather than those which impress with dread.  I was thinking the other day how constantly in all our prayers the loftiest titles of might are added to that Name of names, “Our Father,” and yet His power is always less present to my mind than His mercy and love.  You tell me I do not know you, and that may very well be, for one really knows no one; and when I reflect upon and attempt to analyze the various processes of my own rather shallow mind, and find them incomprehensible, I am only surprised that there should be so much mutual affection in a world where mutual knowledge and understanding are really impossible.

My side-ache was much better yesterday.  I believe it was caused by the pain of leaving you and Ardgillan:  any strong emotion causes it, and I remember when I last left Edinburgh having an attack of it that brought on erysipelas.  You say you wish to know how Juliet does.  Why, very well, poor thing.  She had a very fine first house indeed, and her success has been as great as you could wish it; out of our ten nights’ engagement, “Romeo and Juliet” is to be given four times; it has already been acted three successive nights to very great houses.  To-night it is “The Gamester,” to-morrow “Venice Preserved,” and on Saturday we act at Manchester, and on Monday here again.  You will hardly imagine how irksome it was to me to