self--earn enough to enable us to
live in the south of France. This monstrous theater and its
monstrous liabilities will banish us all as it did my uncle Kemble.
But that I should be sorry to live so far out of the reach of
H----, I think the south of France would be a pleasant abode: a
delicious climate, a quiet existence, a less artificial state of
society and mode of life, a picturesque nature round me, and my own
dear ones and my scribbling with me--I think with all these
conditions I could be happy enough in the south of France or
anywhere.

The audience were very politically inclined, applied all the loyal
speeches with fervor, and called for "God save the King" after the
play. The town is illuminated, too, and one hopes and prays that
the "Old Heart of Oak" will weather these evil days, but sometimes
the straining of the tackle and the creaking of the timbers are
suggestive of foundering even to the most hopeful. The lords have
been vindicating their claim to a share in _common_ humanity by
squabbling like fishwives and all but coming to blows; the bishops
must have been scared and scandalized, lords spiritual not being
fighting men nowadays.

After the play Mr. Stewart Newton, the painter, supped with us--a
clever, entertaining man and charming artist; a little bit of a
dandy, but probably he finds it politic to be so. He told us some
comical anecdotes about the Royal Academy and the hanging of the
pictures.

The poor, dear king [William IV.], who it seems knows as much about
painting as _una vacca spagnuola_, lets himself, his family, and
family animals be painted by whoever begs to be allowed that honor.
So when the pictures were all hung the other day, somebody
discovered in a wretched daub close to the ceiling a portrait of
Lady Falkland [the king's daughter], and another of his Majesty's
favorite _cat_, which were immediately _lowered_ to a more
honorable position, to accomplish which desirable end, Sir William
Beechey [then president of the academy] removed some of his own
paintings. On a similar occasion during the late King George IV.'s
life, a wretched portrait of him having been placed in one of the
most conspicuous situations in the room, the Duke of Wellington and
sundry other distinguished _cognoscenti_ complimente