I think the best thing I can do will be to take ship from Liverpool and sail to the United States.”  I choked a little at this, but presently found voice to say, “Ebben son pronta;” but he replied, “No, that he should go alone.”  That you never should, my own dear father!...  But I do hate the very thought of America.

     Saturday, July 9th. ...  In the afternoon drove out in an open
     carriage with Dall to Shirehampton, by the same road my father and
     I took in our ride the other day.

                                             BRISTOL, July 10th, 1831. 
     MY DEAR MRS. JAMESON,

I can neither bid you confirm nor deny any “reports you may hear,” for I am in utter ignorance, I am happy to say, of the world’s surmisings on my behalf, and had indeed supposed that my time for being honored by its notice in any way was pretty well past and over.

I am glad you are having rest, as you speak of it with the enjoyment which those alone who work hard are entitled to.  I trust, too, that in the instance of your eyes no news is good news, for you say nothing of them, and I therefore like to hope that they have suffered you to forget them.

I’m disappointed about your Shakespeare book.  I should like to have had it by my next birthday, which is the 27th of November, and to which I look forward with unusually mingled feelings.  However, it cannot be helped; and I have no doubt the booksellers are right in point of fact, for we are embarked on board too troublous times to carry mere passe temps literature with us.  “We must have bloody noses and cracked crowns,” I am afraid, and shall find small public taste or leisure for polite letters.

     I like this place very well; it is very quiet, and my life is
     always a happy one with my father.  He always spoils me, and that is
     always pleasant, you know.

The Bristol people are rather in a bad state just now for our purposes, for trade here is in a very unprosperous condition; and the recent failure of many of their great mercantile houses does no good to our theatrical ones.  The audiences are very pleasant, however, and the company by no means bad.  We are here another week, and then take ship for Ilfracombe, and thence by land to Exeter; after that Plymouth and Southampton....  I wish I could be in London for “Anna Bolena.”  I cannot adequately express my admiration for Madame Pasta; I saw her in Desdemona the Saturday night on which I scrawled those few lines to you.  I think if you knew how every look and tone and gesture of hers affects me, you would be satisfied.  She is almost equal to an imagination; more than that I cannot say.  If you rate “imagination” as I think you must, I need say nothing more.  We shall certainly be back in London by the end of September, if not before.  In the mean time believe me ever yours most truly,

F. A. K.