With regard to change as we contemplate it when parting from those we love, I confess I should shrink from the idea of years intervening before you and I met again; not that I apprehend any diminution of our affection, but it would be painful to be no longer young, or to have grown suddenly old to each other.  But I hope this will not be so; I hope we may go on meeting often enough for that change which is inevitable to be long imperceptible; I hope we may be allowed to go on wondering together, till we meet where you will certainly be happy, if wonder is for once joined to knowledge.  I remember my aunt Whitelock saying that when she went to America she left my father a toddling thing that she used to dandle and carry about; and the first time she saw him after her return, he had a baby of his own in his arms.  That sort of thing makes one’s heart jump into one’s mouth with dismay; it seems as if all the time one had been living away, unconsciously, was thrown in a lump at one’s head.

J——­ F——­ told me on Thursday that her sister, whose wedding-day seemed to be about yesterday, was the mother of four children; she has lost no time, it is true, but my “yesterday” must be five years old.  After dinner, yesterday, I wrote a new last scene to “Francis I.”  I mean to send it to Murray.

A——­ says you seem younger to her than I do; which, considering your fourteen years’ seniority over me, is curious; but the truth is, though she does not know it, I am still too young; I have not lived, experienced, and suffered enough to have acquired the self-forgetfulness and gentle forbearance that make us good and pleasant companions to our youngers.

Henry and I are going together to the Zoological Gardens one of
these days; that lovely tigress hangs about my heart, and I must go
and see her again.  Ever your affectionate

F.A.  KEMBLE.

GREAT RUSSELL STREET, March 9, 1831. 
MY DEAR H——­,

Why are you not here to kiss and congratulate me?  I am so proud and happy!  Mr. Murray has given me four hundred and fifty pounds for my play alone! the other things he does not wish to publish with it.  Only think of it—­was there ever such publishing munificence!  My father has the face to say it is not enough! but looks so proud and pleased that his face alone shows it is too much by a great deal; my mother is enchanted, and I am so happy, so thankful for this prosperous result of my work, so delighted at earning so much, so surprised and charmed to think that what gave me nothing but pleasure in the doing has brought me such an after-harvest of profit; it is too good almost to be true, and yet it is true.

But I am happy and have been much excited from another reason to-day.  Richard Trench, John’s dear friend and companion, is just returned from Spain, and came here this morning to see us.