day, and was shocked to find her looking wretchedly ill; she has not yet got rid of the erysipelas in her legs, and complained of intense headache.  Poor woman! she suffers dreadfully....  Cecilia’s life has been one enduring devotion and self-sacrifice.  I cannot help wishing, for both their sakes, that the period of her mother’s infirmity and physical decay may be shortened.  I received a charming letter from Theodosia yesterday, accompanying a still more charming basketful of delicious flowers from dear Cassiobury—­how much nicer they are than human beings!  I don’t believe I belong to man (or woman) kind, I like so many things—­the whole material universe, for example—­better than what one calls one’s fellow-creatures.  She told me that old Foster (you remember the old cottager in Cassiobury Park) was dying.  The news contrasted sadly with the sweet, fresh, living blossoms that it came with.  The last time that I saw that old man I sat with him under his porch on a bright sunny evening, talking, laughing, winding wreaths round his hat, and singing to him, and that is the last I shall ever see of him.  He was a remarkable old man, and made a strong impression on my fancy in the course of our short acquaintance.  There was a strong and vivid remnant of mind in him surviving the contest with ninety and odd years of existence; his manner was quaint and rustic without a tinge of vulgarity; he is fastened to my memory by a certain wreath of flowers and sunset light upon the brook that ran in front of his cottage, and the smell of some sweet roses that grew over it, and I shall never forget him.

I went to the opera the other night and saw Pasta’s “Medea” for the first time.  I shall not trouble you with any ecstasies, because, luckily for you, my admiration for her is quite indescribable; but I have seen grace and majesty as perfect as I can conceive, and so saying I close my account of my impressions.  I fancied I was slightly disappointed in Taglioni, whose dancing followed Pasta’s singing, but I suppose the magnificent tragical performance I had just witnessed had numbed as it were my power of appreciation of her grace and elegance, and yet she seemed to me like a dancing flower; so you see I must have like her very much.

God bless you, dear; pray write to me very soon.  I want some consolation for not seeing you, nor the dear girls, nor the sea.  I could think of that fresh, sparkling, fresh looking, glassy sea till I cried for disappointment.

Ever yours,
F. A. K.

The Miss Inverarity mentioned in this letter was a young Scotch singer of very remarkable talent and promise, who came out at Covent Garden just at this time.  She was one of the tallest women I ever saw, and had a fine soprano voice as high as herself, and sang English music well.  She was a very great favorite during the short time that I remember her on the stage.

MY DEAREST H——­,