his religious doubts or moral delinquencies, I cannot at all agree with Mr. Moore that upon the showing of his own works Byron was a “good man.”  If he was, no one has done him such injustice as himself; and if he was good, then what was Milton? and what genial and gentle Shakespeare?

Good-by, dear H——­; write me along “thank you” for this longest of
mortal letters, and believe that I am your ever affectionate

F. A. K.

I began living upon my allowance on New Year’s Day, and am keeping a most rigorous account of every farthing I spend.  I have a tolerable “acquisitiveness” among my other organs, but think I would rather get than keep money, and to earn would always be pleasanter to me than to save.  I act in “Fazio” to-night, Friday, and Monday next, so you will know where to find me on those evenings.

         &nb
sp;                                               MONDAY, 27th. 
     DEAR H——­,

Horace Twiss has been out of town, and I have been obliged to delay this for a frank.  You will be glad, I know, to hear that “Fazio” has made a great hit.  Milman is coming to see me in it to-night; I wish I could induce him to write me such another part.

We are over head and ears in the mire of chancery again.  The question of the validity of our—­the great theater—­patents is now before Lord Brougham; I am afraid they are not worth a farthing.  I am to hear from Mr. Murray some day this week; considering the features of my handwriting, it is no wonder it has taken him some time to become acquainted with the MSS.

                               GREAT RUSSELL STREET, January 29, 1831. 
     MY DEAR H——­,

All our occupations have been of a desultory and exciting kind, and all our doings and sayings have been made matter of surprise and admiring comment; of course, therefore, we are disinclined for anything like serious or solid study, and naturally conclude that sayings and doings so much admired and wondered at are admirable and astonishing.  A——­ is possessed of strong powers of ridicule, and the union of this sarcastic vein with a vivid imagination seems to me unusual; their prey is so different that they seldom hunt in company, I think.  When I heard that she was reading “Mathilde” (Madame Cottin), I was almost afraid of its effect upon her.  I remember at school, when I was her age, crying three whole days and half nights over it; but I sadly overrated her sensibility.  Her letter to me contained a summary, abusive criticism of “Mathilde” as a book, and ended by presenting to me one of those ludicrous images which I abhor, because, while they destroy every serious or elevated impression, they are so absurd that one cannot defend one’s self from the “idiot laughter” they excite, and leave one no associations but grinning ones with one’s romantic ideals.  Her letters are very clever and make me laugh exceedingly, but