to Weybridge from London, on my running to the accustomed spot, I found the hitherto intercepted sun staring down upon the water and the bank, and a broad, smooth, white tabula rasa level with the mossy turf, which was all that remained of my cedar canopy; and though it afforded an infinitely more commodious seat than the twisted roots, I never returned there again.

To-morrow we dine with the F——­s, and there is to be a dance in the evening; on Wednesday I act Constance; Thursday there is a charade party at the M——­s’; Friday I play Mrs. Beverley; and Monday and Wednesday next, Camiola.  I hope by and by to act Camiola very well, but I am afraid the play itself can never become popular; the size of the theater and the public taste of the present day are both against such pieces; still, the attempt seemed to me worth making, and if it should prove successful we might revive one or two more of Massinger’s plays; they are such sterling stuff compared with the Isabellas, the Jane Shores, the everything but Shakespeare.  You saw in my journal what I think about Camiola.  I endeavor as much as I can to soften her, and if I can manage to do so I shall like her better than any part I have played, except my dear Portia, who does not need softening.

I am too busy just now to read “Destiny” [Miss Ferrier’s admirable novel]; my new part and dresses and rehearsals will occupy me next week completely.  I have taken a new start about “The Star of Seville” [the play I was writing], and am working away hard at it.  I begin to see my way through it.  I wish I could make anything like an acting play of it; we want one or two new ones so very much.

My riding goes on famously, and Fozzard thinks so well of my progress that the other day he put me upon a man’s horse—­an Arab—­which frightened me half to death with his high spirits and capers; but I sat him, and what is more, rode him.  Tuesday we go to a very gay ball a little way out of town; Saturday we go to a party at old Lady Cork’s, who calls you Harriet and professes to have known you well and to remember you perfectly.

Now, H——­, as to what you say of fishing, if you are bloody-minded enough to desire to kill creatures for sport, in Heaven’s name why don’t you do it?  The sin lies in the inclination (by the bye, I think that’s half a mistake).  Never mind, your inclination to fish and my desire to be the tigress at the Zoological Gardens have nothing whatever in common.  I admire and envy the wild beast’s swiftness and strength, but if I had them I don’t think I would tear human beings to bits unless I were she, which was not what I wished to be, only as strong and agile as she; do you see?  I am in a great hurry, dear, and have written you an inordinately stupid letter; never mind, the next shall be inconceivably amusing.  Just now my head is stuffed full of amber-colored cashmere and white satin.  My mother begs to be kindly remembered to Mrs. Kemble.  Always affectionately yours,

F. A. K.