But its being by universal admission a far more striking drama than _Rienzi_, and by very far the best thing I ever wrote, it follows almost of course, that it will share the fate of its predecessor, and be tossed about the theatres for three or four years to come.

Of course I should be only too happy that it should be brought out at Covent Garden under the united auspices of Mr.Macready and Mr.Bartley.[1] But I am in constitution and in feeling a much older person than you, my dear friend, as well as in look, however the acknowledgment of age (I am 48) may stand between us; and belonging to a most sanguine and confiding person, I am of course as prone to anticipate all probable evil as he is to forestall impossible good.

He, my dear father, is, I thank Heaven, splendidly well.

He speaks of you always with much delight, is charmed with your writings, and I do hope that you will come to Reading and give him as well as me the great pleasure of seeing you at our poor cottage by the roadside.

You would like my flower-garden.