it off; and when one's own heart is all but frozen, one
knows not where to find warmth to impart to those who are shivering
with misery beside one.... I have left myself scarcely any room to
tell you of my present life. I work very hard, rehearsing every
morning and acting every night, and spending the intervening time
in long farewell rides round this most beautiful and beloved
Edinburgh. Mr. Combe says I am wearing myself out, body and mind;
but I am already looking better, and less thin, than when I left
London; and besides, I shall presently have a longer rest--holiday
I cannot call it--on board ship than I have had for the last three
years. We acted "Francis I." here last night, for the first time;
and I am sure that, mingled with the applause, I heard very
distinct hissing; whether addressed to the acting, which was some
of it execrable, or to the play itself, which I think quite
deserving of such a demonstration, I know not.... You know my
opinion of the piece; and as, with the exception of the two parts
of De Bourbon and the Friar, and not excepting my own, it really
was vilely acted, hissing did not appear to me an unnatural
proceeding, though perhaps, under the circumstances, not altogether
a courteous one on the part of the modern Athenians. I tell you
this, because what else have I to tell you, but that I am your ever
affectionate

F. A. K.

_Tuesday, 10th._--At half-past twelve rode out with Liston and his
daughter, Mr. Murray, and Allen (since Sir William, the celebrated
artist, friend, and painter, of Walter Scott and his family).... In
the evening, at the theater, the house was very full, and I acted
very well, though I was so tired that I could hardly stand, and
every bone in my body ached with my hard morning's ride. While I
was sitting in the greenroom, Mr. Wilson came in, and it warmed my
heart to see a Covent Garden face. He tells me Laporte is giving
concerts in the poor old playhouse: well, good luck attend him,
poor man (though I know it won't, for "there's nae luck about that
house, there's nae luck at a'"). Walter Scott has reached
Edinburgh, and starts for Abbotsford to-morrow: I am glad he has
come back to die in his own country, in his own home, surrounded by