Certainly it is the natural evil of the human mind, and not the supernatural agency in the story of its development, that makes Macbeth so terrible; it is the hideousness of a wicked soul, into which enter more foul ingredients than are held in the witches’ caldron of abominations, that makes the play so tremendous.  I wish we had read that great work together.  How it contrasts with what we did read, the “Tempest,” that brightest creation of a wholesome genius in its hour of happiest inspiration!

I believe some people think it presumptuous to pray for any one but themselves; but it seems to me strange to share every, feeling with those we love and not associate them with our best and holiest aspirations; to remember them everywhere but there where it is of the utmost importance to us all to be remembered; to desire all happiness for them, and not to implore in their behalf the Giver of all good.  I think I pray even more fervently for those I love than for myself.  Pray for me, my dear H——­, and God bless you and give you strength and peace.  Your affectionate

F. A. K.

I have not seen the railroad yet; if you do not write soon to me,
we shall be gone to Manchester.

My objection to the dramatic profession on the score of its uselessness, in this letter, reminds me of what my mother used to tell me of Miss Brunton, who afterward became Lady Craven; a very eccentric as well as attractive and charming woman, who contrived, too, to be a very charming actress, in spite of a prosaical dislike to her business, which used to take the peculiar and rather alarming turn of suddenly, in the midst of a scene, saying aside to her fellow-actors, “What nonsense all this is!  Suppose we don’t go on with it.”  This singular expostulation my mother said she always expected to see followed up by the sadden exit of her lively companion, in the middle of her part.  Miss Brunton, however, had self-command enough to go on acting till she became Countess of Craven, and left off the nonsense of the stage for the earnestness of high life.

A very serious cause for depression had added itself to the weariness of spirit with which my distaste for my profession often affected me.  While at Liverpool, I received a letter from my brother John which filled me with surprise and vexation.  After his return from Germany he had expressed his determination to go into the Church; and we all supposed him to be in the country, zealously engaged in the necessary preparatory studies.  Infinite, therefore, was my astonishment to receive from him a letter dated from Algeciras, in Spain, telling me that he and several of his college companions, Sterling, Barton, Trench, and Boyd among others, had determined to lend the aid of their enthusiastic sympathy to the cause of liberty in Spain.  The “cause of liberty in Spain” was then represented by the rash and