nor concentrativeness requisite for writing upon it.  The simplicity of its effect is what makes it so fine; and any poetry written upon it would probably fail to be as simple, and therefore as powerful, as itself.  I cannot even promise you to attempt it, but if ever I fall in with a suitable frame of mind for so bold an experiment, I will remember you and the rocks of St. Helena.  “My lady” (an Italian portrait on which I had written some verses) “Mia Donna,” or “Madonna,” more properly to speak, was a most beautiful Italian portrait that I saw, not in Augustin’s gallery, but in a small collection of pictures belonging to Mr. Day, and exhibited at the Egyptian Hall.  Sir Thomas Lawrence told me when I described it to him, that he thought it was a painting of Giordano’s.  It was a lovely face, not youthful in its character of beauty; there is a calm seriousness about the brow and forehead, a clear, intellectual severity about the eye, and a sweet, still placidity round the mouth, that united, to my fancy, all the elements of beauty, physical, mental, and moral.  What an incomparable friend that woman must have been!  Why is it that we rejoice that a soul fit for heaven is constrained to tarry here, but that, in truth, the fittest for this is also the fittest for that life?  For it seems to me more natural not to wish to detain the bright spirit from its brighter home, and not to sorrow at the decree which calls it hence to perfect its excellence in higher spheres of duty....

I think a blight of uncertainty must have pervaded the atmosphere when I was born, and penetrated, not certainly my nature, but my whole earthly destiny, with its influence; from my plans and projects for to-morrow on to those of next year, all is mist and indistinct indecision.  I suppose it is the trial that suits my temper least, and therefore fits it best.  It surely is that which “willfulness, conceit, and egotism” find hardest to endure.  Yesterday I determined so far to escape from, or cheat, my destiny as to have a peep into futurity by the help of a gypsy.  Riding with my father, and the whole hour, time, day, and scene, were in admirable harmony:  the dark, sunburnt face, with its bright, laughing eyes and coal-black curls and flashing teeth; the old gateway against which she was leaning; the blue summer sky and sunny road skirted with golden corn-fields—­the whole picture in which she was set was charming.

        “I know it is a sin to be a mocker;”

and I am sure I need not tell you that I am sincerely grateful for all the kindness and civility that is bestowed upon us wherever we go....  What with riding, rehearsing, and acting, my days are completely filled.  We start for Plymouth to-morrow at eight, and act “Romeo and Juliet” in the evening, which is rather laborious work.  We play there every night next week.  When next I write I will tell you of our further plans, which are at this moment still uncertain....

Affectionately yours,
F. A. K.