gone from us, and warning us how soon it would
be beyond the ken of our aching eyes.... The carriage was
announced, and with a heavy heart and aching head, I drove to the
theater.... The play was "Francis I.," for the first time. The
house was very fine; I acted abominably, but that was not much to
be wondered at. However, I always have acted this part of my own
vilely; the language is not natural--mere stilted declamation from
first to last, most fatiguing to the chest, and impossible for me
to do anything with, as it excites no emotion in me whatever....

EDINBURGH, July 8, 1832.
MY DEAREST H----,

I had just left my father at the window that overlooks the Forth,
watching my poor mother's ship sailing away to England, when I
received your letter; and it is impossible to imagine a sorer,
sadder heart than that with which I greeted it.... Thank you for
the pains you are taking about your picture for me; crammed with
occupation as my time is here, I would have done the same for you,
but that I think in Lawrence's print you have the best and likest
thing you can have of me.... I cannot tell you at what hour we
shall reach Liverpool, but it will be very early on Monday
morning.... I am glad you have not deferred sitting for your
picture till you came to Liverpool, for it would have encroached
much upon our time together. I remember when I returned from
abroad, a school-girl, I thought I had forgotten my mother's face.
This copy of yours will save me from that nonsensical morbid
feeling, and you will surely not forget mine.... You bid me, if
anything should go ill with me, summon you across the Atlantic.
Alas! dear H----, you forget that before a letter from that other
world can reach this, more than a month must have elapsed, and the
writer may no longer be in either. You say you hope I may return a
new being; and I have no doubt my health will be benefited, and my
spirits revived by change of external objects; but oh, how dreary
it all is now! You bid me cheer my father when my mother shall have
left us, without knowing that she is already gone. I make every
exertion that duty and affection can prompt; but, you know, it is
my nature rather to absorb the sorrow of others than to assist them
in throwing