le makes me
want to say the more! How the least of little things, once taken up as
a thing to be imparted to you, seems to need explanations and
commentaries; all is of importance to me--every breath you breathe,
every little fact (like this) you are to know!

I was out last night--to see the rest of Frank Talfourd's theatricals;
and met Dickens and his set--so my evenings go away! If I do not bring
the _Act_ you must forgive me--yet I shall, I think; the roughness
matters little in this stage. Chorley says very truly that a tragedy
implies as much power _kept back_ as brought out--very true that is. I
do not, on the whole, feel dissatisfied--as was to be but
expected--with the effect of this last--the _shelve_ of the hill,
whence the end is seen, you continuing to go down to it, so that at
the very last you may pass off into a plain and so away--not come to a
stop like your horse against a church wall. It is all in long
speeches--the _action, proper_, is in them--they are no descriptions,
or amplifications--but here, in a drama of this kind, all the
_events_, (and interest), take place in the _minds_ of the actors ...
somewhat like 'Paracelsus' in that respect. You know, or don't know,
that the general charge against me, of late, from the few quarters I
thought it worth while to listen to, has been that of abrupt,
spasmodic writing--they will find some fault with this, of course.

How you know Chorley! That is precisely the man, that willow blowing
now here now there--precisely! I wish he minded the _Athenaeum_, its
silence or eloquence, no more nor less than I--but he goes on
painfully plying me with invitation after invitation, only to show me,
I feel confident, that _he_ has no part nor lot in the matter: I have
_two_ kind little notes asking me to go on Thursday and Saturday. See
the absurd position of us both; he asks more of my presence than he
can want, just to show his own kind feeling, of which I do not doubt;
and I must try and accept more hospitality than suits me, only to
prove my belief in that same! For myself--if I have vanity which such
Journals can raise; would the praise of them raise it, they who
praised Mr. Mackay's own, own 'Dead Pan,' quite his own, the other
day?--By the way, Miss Cushman informed me the other evening that the
gentleman had written a certain 'Song of the Bell' ... 'singularly
like Schiller's; _considering that Mr. M. had never_ seen it!' I am
told he writes for the _Athenaeum_,