rehearsals, a piece
ran, as the saying is, twenty nights, leaving me all the mornings
and three evenings in the week at my own disposal. Here we rush
from place to place, at each place have to drill a new set of
actors, and every night to act a different play; so that my days
are passed in dawdling about cold, dark stages, with blundering
actors who have not even had the conscience to study the words of
their parts, all the morning. All the afternoon I pin up ribbons
and feathers and flowers, and sort out theatrical adornments, and
all the evening I enchant audiences, prompt my fellow-mimes, and
wish it had pleased Heaven to make me a cabbage in a corner of a
Christian kitchen-garden in--well, say Hertfordshire, or any other
county of England; I am not particular as to the precise spot....
Whenever I can I get on horseback; it is the only pleasure I have
in this world; for my dancing days are drawing to a close. But I
mean to ride as long as I have a hand to hold a rein, or a leg to
put over a pommel. By the by, I ought to beg your pardon for the
last sentence; I ought to have said a foot to put into a stirrup;
for if you are not ashamed of having legs you ought to be--at
least, we are in this country, and never mention, or give the
slightest token of having such things, except by wearing very short
petticoats, which we don't consider objectionable.... I am glad you
have furbished up and completed your little room, because it is a
sign you mean to stay where you are, and I like to know where to
find you in my imagination.... I have just seen dear Washington
Irving, and it required all my sense of decent decorum to prevent
my throwing my arms round his neck, he looked so like a bit of
home, England.

You will be glad to hear that we are thriving, in body and estate.
We are all well, and our work is very successful. The people flock
to see us, and nothing can exceed the kindness which we meet with
everywhere and from everybody.... I read nothing whatever since I
am in this blessed land. The only books I have accomplished getting
through have been Graham's "History of North America,"
Knickerbocker's "History of New York," which nearly killed me with
laughing; "Contarini Fleming," which is very affected and very
clever; sundry cantos of Dante, su