sterday evening with some very pleasant people here, who
are like old-fashioned English folk, the Catons, Lady Wellesley's
father and mother. They are just now in deep mourning for Mrs.
Caton's father, the venerable Mr. Carroll, who was upward of
ninety-five years old when he died, and was the last surviving
signer of the Declaration of Independence. I saw a lovely picture
by Lawrence of the eldest of the three beautiful sisters, the
daughters of Mrs. Caton, who have all married Englishmen of rank.
[The Marchioness of Wellesley, the Duchess of Leeds, and Lady
Stafford. The fashion of marrying in England seems to be
traditional in this family. Miss McTavish, niece of these ladies,
married Mr. Charles Howard, son of the Earl of Carlisle.]

The Baltimore women are celebrated for their beauty, and I think
they are the prettiest creatures I have ever seen as far as their
faces go; but they are short and thin, and have no figures at all,
either in height or breadth, and pinch their waists and feet most
cruelly, which certainly, considering how small they are by nature,
is a work of supererogation, and does not tend to produce in them a
state of grace.... We act every night this week, and as we are
obliged to rehearse every morning, of course I have no time for any
occupations but my strictly professional ones. I do not approve of
this quantity of hard work for either my father or myself, but I do
not like to make any further protest upon the subject....

Good-by, dearest H----.
I am ever your affectionate
F. A. K.

TO MRS. JAMESON.

BALTIMORE, January 11, 1833.

Thank you across the sea, dear Mrs. Jameson, for your letter of the
1st of November. I had been wondering, but the day before it
reached me, whether you had ever received one I wrote to you on my
first arrival in New York, or whether you were accusing me of
neglect, ingratitude, forgetfulness, and all the turpitudes that
the delay of a letter sometimes causes folk to give other folk
credit for. My occupations are incessant, or rather, I should say,
my occupation, for to my sorrow I have but one. 'Tis not with me
now as in the fortunate days when, after six