... As for any disappointment of mine about anything, dear H——, though some things are by no means light to me, I soon make up my mind to whatever must be, and I think those who do not endure well what cannot be avoided are only less foolish than those who endure what they can avoid. "Francis I." will not, I think, interfere with your visit to us. Murray wishes it to be postponed till after the publication of the Quarterly, which will come out about the 11th or 12th. Lockhart, and not Milman, has reviewed it very favorably, I hear, and Murray expects to sell one edition immediately upon the publication of the article in the Quarterly. So that you can stay at Fulford some time yet; and should the play be given before you wish to leave it, I shall not expect you in person, but feel sure that you are with me in spirit; and the next day I will write you word of the result.
Dearest H——, I am just now much burdened with anxiety. I will tell you more of this when we meet. Thank God, though not of a sanguine, I am not of a desponding nature; and though I never look forward with any great satisfaction to the future, I seldom find it difficult to accept the present with tolerable equanimity.... I spent the evening on Wednesday with Mrs. Jameson. She is just returned to town, and came immediately, thinking you were here, to engage us for the next evening; and as you did not come I went, and spent three hours very pleasantly with her. She knows so much, and I am so very ignorant, that her conversation is delightfully instructive as well as amusing, full of interest and information. Poor woman! she left Tedsley and a very agreeable party to come up to town upon a false alarm of "Francis I.'s" coming out. I think I have told you of the work upon Shakespeare she is engaged with; she has been teaching herself to etch, and has executed some charming designs, with which she means to illustrate it. I have not an idea what our plans for this summer are to be; whether America, or the provinces, or the King's Bench; but I suppose we shall see a little more clearly into the future by the time you come to us; and if we do not, abundantly "sufficient for the day is the evil thereof" with us just now.... I have been reading nothing but Daru's "History of Venice" lately. How could you tell me to read that sad story, "The Borderers"! I half killed myself with crying over it, and did not recover from the effect it had upon me for several days.
Dearest H——, I am writing nonsense, and with an effort, for I am very low; and so I will leave off.
Your affectionate
F. A. K.
Friday, March 2d.—I read Shirley's "Gentleman of Venice," and did not like it much.... While I was riding in the park with John, Mr. Willett came up to us, and told me, as great good news, that they were out of Chancery, and had obtained an order to have their money out of court. I thought this indeed good news, and we cantered up the drive in hopes of meeting my mother in the carriage; but she had gone home. On reaching home, I ran to look for her, but thought she would like better to hear the news from my father.
I told Dall of it, however; and she, who had just seen my father, said that he considered what had happened a most unfortunate thing for him; and so my bright, new joy fell to the ground, and was broken all to pieces. Upon further explanation, however, it seems that it is an advantage to the other proprietors, though not to him; no part of the recovered money returning to him, because he had borrowed his share of it from Mr. Willett; and the only difference is that he will not have to pay the interest on it any more, and so far it is a small advantage to him. But it is a great one to them, poor men! and therefore we ought to be glad, and not look only at our own share of the business, though naturally that is the most interesting to us. I sometimes doubt, after all, if we have really by any means a clear and comprehensive view of the whole state of that concern, receiving our impressions from my father, who naturally looks at it only from the side of his own personal stake in it.... After dinner John read me a letter he had just received from Richard Trench—a most beautiful letter. What a fine fellow he is, and what a noble set of young men these friends of my brother's are! After tea read Arthur Hallam's essay on the philosophical writings of Cicero. It is very excellent; I should like to have marked some of the passages, they are so admirably clear and true; but he has only lent it to me. His Latin and Greek quotations were rather a trial, but I have no doubt his English is as good as anything he quotes. Surely England twenty years hence should be in a higher state of moral and intellectual development than it is now: these young heads seem to me admirably good and strong, and some score years hence these fine spirits will be influencing the national mind and soul of England; and it pleases me much to think so. [Alas! as far as dear Arthur Hallam was concerned, my prophetic confidence was vain.] After finishing Hallam's essay, I took up "King Lear," and read the end of that, "and my poor fool is hanged!" O Lord, what an agony! In reading "Lear," one of Mr. Harness's criticisms on my "Star of Seville" recurred to me. In the scene where Estrella deplores her brother's death, I have used frequent repetition of the same words and exclamations. I wrote upon impulse, without deliberation, and simply as my conception of sorrow prompted me, such words as grew from my heart and not my understanding. But in reading "King Lear," the iteration in the expression of deep grief confirms me in the opinion that it is natural to all men, and not peculiar to myself, for Shakespeare has done it. In the scene where Gloster tells Cornwall and Regan of Edgar's supposed wickedness, the wretched old father uses frequent repetition, as, "Oh, madam, my old heart is cracked; it's cracked!" "Oh, lady, lady, shame would have it hid!" "I know not, madam: 'tis too bad, too bad!" and in the last scene, that most piteous and terrible close that story ever had, the poor old king, in his moanings over Cordelia, repeats his words over and over again. I defend my conception, not my execution of it; and true and touching as these repetitions of Shakespeare's are, mine may be "damnable iteration," and nothing else. Heart-broken sorrow has but few words; utter bereavement is not eloquent; and David, when the darling of his soul was dead, did but cry, "O Absalom, my son, my son! would God I had died for thee, my son!" A vastly different expression of a vastly different grief from that which poured itself out in the sad and noble dirge, "The beauty of Israel is slain upon thy high places: how are the mighty fallen!"
Saturday, 3d.—Henry has obtained his commission; one great piece of good fortune amid all the bad, for which God be thanked. [The liberal price given me by Mr. Murray for my play of "Francis I." enabled me to purchase my brother's commission, which, however, the money would not have obtained without the extremely kind interest exerted in his favor by Lord Hill, then commander, and Sir John Macdonald, adjutant-general of the forces.]
Sunday, 4th.— ... My father is in deplorable spirits, and seems bowed down with care. I believe all that befalls us is right. I know we must bear it; all I pray for is health, strength and courage to bear it well. In the evening the Harnesses drank tea with us.
Monday, 5th.—Got ready things for the theater, and went over my part.... In the afternoon, I hoped to hear the result of the meeting that had been held by the creditors of the theater; but my father had been obliged to leave it before anything was settled, and did not know what had been the termination of the consultation. At the theater the house was not good, neither was my acting. My father acted admirably, to my amazement: for he has been in a most wretched state of depression for the last week, and to-day at dinner his face looked drawn and haggard and absolutely lead-colored.