John has finished his Anglo-Saxon book, and Murray has undertaken to publish it for him, offering at the same time to share with him whatever profits may accrue from it.  The work is of a nature which cannot give either a quick or considerable return; but the offer, like all Mr. Murray’s dealings with me, is very kind and liberal, for a publisher is not easily found any more than readers for such matter. (The book was the Anglo-Saxon Poem of Beowulf.) He asked me to let him publish “Francis I.,” as it is to be acted, without the fifth act, but this I would not consent to.  I have rather an affection for my last scene in the Certoso at Pavia, with the monks singing the “De Profundis” while the battle was going on, and the king being brought in a prisoner and making the response to the psalm—­which is all historically true....

I must bid you good-by, dear, as I am going to the Angerstein
Gallery with the Fitzhughs....

Yours ever affectionately,
F. A. K.

Saturday, 4th.—­I was obliged to send an excuse to Turnerelli.  I could not sit to him this morning, as it is now determined that “Francis I.” is to be brought out, and received official notice that it was to be read in the greenroom to-day.  We went to the theater at eleven, and all the actors were there.  I felt very uncomfortable and awkward; but, after all, writing a play is not a sin, so I plucked up my courage and sat down with the rest.  My father read it beautifully, but even cut as it is, it is of an unendurable length.  They were all very kind and civil, and applauded it very much; but I do not love the sound of clapping of hands, and did not feel on this occasion as if I had done the sort of thing that deserves it....

At half-past five went to the theater; it was the first night of the opera, and rained besides, both which circumstances thinned our house; but I suspect “Katharine of Cleves” has nearly lived her life.  Driving to the theater, my father told me that they had entirely altered the cast of “Francis I.” from what I had appointed, and determined to finish the play with the fourth act.  I felt myself get very red, but I didn’t speak, though I cannot but think an author has a right to say whether he or she will have certain alterations made in their work.  My position is a difficult one, for did I not feel bound to comply with my father’s wishes I would have no hand in this experiment.  I would forfeit fifty—­nay, a hundred—­pounds willingly rather than act in this play, which I am convinced ought not to be acted at all.  Any other person might do this, but with me it is a question of home duty, instead of a mere matter of business between author, actress, and manager.  They couldn’t act the play without me, and but for my father I should from the first have refused to act in it at all.  I do not think that they manage wisely; it is a mere snatch at a bit of profit by a way of