; and I have no doubt the booksellers are right in
point of fact, for we are embarked on board too troublous times to
carry mere _passe temps_ literature with us. "We must have bloody
noses and cracked crowns," I am afraid, and shall find small public
taste or leisure for _polite letters_.

I like this place very well; it is very quiet, and my life is
always a happy one with my father. He always spoils me, and that is
always pleasant, you know.

The Bristol people are rather in a bad state just now for our
purposes, for trade here is in a very unprosperous condition; and
the recent failure of many of their great mercantile houses does no
good to our theatrical ones. The audiences are very pleasant,
however, and the company by no means bad. We are here another week,
and then take ship for Ilfracombe, and thence by land to Exeter;
after that Plymouth and Southampton.... I wish I could be in London
for "Anna Bolena." I cannot adequately express my admiration for
Madame Pasta; I saw her in Desdemona the Saturday night on which I
scrawled those few lines to you. I think if you knew how every look
and tone and gesture of hers affects me, you would be satisfied.
She is almost equal to an imagination; more than that I cannot say.
If you rate "imagination" as I think you must, I need say nothing
more. We shall certainly be back in London by the end of September,
if not before. In the mean time believe me ever yours most truly,

F. A. K.

_Sunday, July 10th._--My father wickedly _dawdled_ about till we
were nearly late for church, and had to scamper along the quays and
up the steep street, to poor dear Dall's infinite discomfiture, who
grumbled and puffed, and shuffled and shambled along, while I
plunged on, breathlessly ejaculating, "It is so hateful to be late
for church!" The cathedral (which I believe it is not) was quite
full, but we obtained seats in the organ gallery, where we could
not hear very well, but had a very fine view of the _coup d'oeil_
presented by the choir and church below us. The numerous and
many-colored congregation, the white surpliced choristers, the
charity-school children in their uniforms surrounding the altar,
all framed in by the dark old oak screens with their quaint