" There is a nerveless despondency about it that
seems to me more intolerable than all the vivid palpitating anguish
of the tragedy of Verona; it is like dying of slow poison, or
malarial fever, compared with being shot or stabbed or even
bleeding to death, which is life pouring out from one, instead of
drying up in one's brains. I think the lines beginning--
"I have seen the last look of her heavenly eyes,"
some of the most poignantly pathetic I know. I afterward read over
again Mr. Procter's play; it is extremely well written, but I am
afraid it would not act as well as it reads. I believe I told you
that "Inez de Castro" was finally given up.
Sally and Lizzy Siddons came and sat with me for some time; they
seem well and cheerful. Their mother, they said, was not very well;
how should she be! though, indeed, regret would be selfish. Her son
is gone to fulfill his own wishes in pursuing the career for which
he was most fit; he will find in his uncle George Siddons's house
in Calcutta almost a second home. Sally, whom you know I respect
almost as much as love, said it was surprising how soon they had
learned to accept and become reconciled to their brother's
departure.
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