exclaimed one of my admirers.  “Och, and bedad, she looks well by daylight too!” retorted another, though what his opportunity for forming that flattering opinion of the genuineness of my good looks had been, I cannot imagine.  What further remarks passed upon us I do not know, as we drove off laughing, and left our friends still vociferously cheering.  My father told us one day of his being followed up Sackville Street by two beggar-women, between whom the following dialogue passed, evidently with a view to his edification:  “Och, but he’s an iligant man, is Misther Char-les Kemble!” “An’ ’deed, so was his brudher Misther John, thin—­a moighty foine man! and to see his demanour, puttin’ his hand in his pocket and givin’ me sixpence, bate all the worrld!” When I was acting Lady Townley, in the scene where her husband complains of her late hours and she insolently retorts, “I won’t come home till four, to-morrow morning,” and receives the startling reply with which Lord Townley leaves her, “Then, madam, you shall never come home again,” I was apt to stand for a moment aghast at this threat; and one night during this pause of breathless dismay, one of my gallery auditors, thinking, I suppose, that I was wanting in proper spirit not to make some rejoinder, exclaimed, “Now thin, Fanny!” which very nearly upset the gravity produced by my father’s impressive exit, both in me and in the audience.

                                       DUBLIN, Friday, August 6, 1830. 
     MY DEAREST H——­,

I fear I caused you a disappointment by not writing to you yesterday afternoon, but as it was not until between five and six o’clock that I learned we were not going to Cork, when I thought of writing you to that effect I found I was too late for the post.  I hope still that Dall and I may be able to come to Ardgillan again, but we cannot leave my father alone here, and his departure for Liverpool is at present quite uncertain.  I have been trying to reason myself into patience, notwithstanding a very childish inclination to cry about it, which I think I will indulge because I shall be able to be so much more reasonable without this stupid lump in my throat.

I hope I may see you again, dear H——.  You are wrong when you say you cannot be of service to me; I can judge better of the value of your intercourse to me than you can, and I wish I could have the advantage of more of it before I plunge back into “toil and trouble.”  I have two very opposite feelings about my present avocation:  utter dislike to it and everything, connected with it, and an upbraiding sense of ingratitude when I reflect how prosperous and smooth my entrance upon my career has been.  I hope, ere long, to be able to remember habitually what only occasionally occurs to me now, as a comfort and support, that since it was right for me to embrace this profession, it is incumbent upon me to banish all selfish regrets about the surrender