matters. I shall not be surprised to hear of the worst. Haydon too, in consequence of his eyes, is out at elbows. I live as prudently as it is possible for me to do. I have not seen Haslam lately. I have not seen Richards for this half year, Rice for three months, or Charles Cowden Clarke for God knows when.

He

When I last called in Henrietta Street1 Miss Millar was very unwell, and Miss Waldegrave as staid and selfpossessed as usual. Henry was well. There are two new tragedies—one by the apostate Maw, and one by Miss Jane Porter. Next week I am going to stop at Taylor's for a few days, when I will see them both and tell you what they are. Mr. and Mrs. Bentley are well, and all the young carrots. I said nothing of consequence passed at Snooks's-no more than this-that I like the family very much. Mr. and Mrs. Snooks were very kind. We used to have a little religion and politics together almost every evening,—and sometimes about you. proposed writing out for me his experience in farming, for me to send to you. If I should have an opportunity of talking to him about it, I will get all I can at all events; but you may say in your answer to this what value you place upon such information. I have not seen Mr. Lewis lately, for I have shrunk from going up the hill. Mr. Lewis went a few mornings ago to town with Mrs. Brawne. They talked about me, and I heard that Mr. L. said a thing I am not at all contented with. Says he, "O, he is quite the little poet." Now this is abominable-You might as well say Buonaparte is quite the little soldier. You see what it is to be under six foot and not a lord. There is a long fuzz to-day in the Examiner about a young man who delighted a young woman with a valentine-I think it must be Ollier's. Brown and I are thinking of passing the summer at Brussels-If we do, we shall go about the first of May. We-i.e. Brown and I-sit opposite one another all day authorizing (N.B., an "s" instead of a "z" would 1 I.e. on George Keats's mother-in-law, Mrs. Wylie.

give a different meaning). He is at present writing a story of an old woman who lived in a forest, and to whom the Devil or one of his aides-de-feu came one night very late and in disguise. The old dame sets before him pudding after pudding-mess after mess-which he devours, and moreover casts his eyes up at a side of Bacon hanging over his head, and at the same time asks if her Cat is a Rabbit. On going he leaves her three pips of Eve's Apple, and somehow she, having lived a virgin all her life, begins to repent of it, and wished herself beautiful enough to make all the world and even the other world fall in love with her. So it happens, she sets out from her smoky cottage in magnificent apparel.— The first City she enters, every one falls in love with her, from the Prince to the Blacksmith. A young gentleman on his way to the Church to be married leaves his unfortunate Bride and follows this nonsuch-A whole regiment of soldiers are smitten at once and follow her A whole convent of Monks in Corpus Christi procession join the soldiers.-The mayor and corporation follow the same road-Old and young, deaf and dumb,—all but the blind,—are smitten, and form an immense concourse of people, who- - what Brown will do with them I know not. The devil himself falls in love with her, flies away with her to a desert place, in consequence of which she lays an infinite number of eggs-the eggs being hatched from time to time, fill the world with many nuisances, such as John Knox, George Fox, Johanna Southcote, and Gifford.

There have been within a fortnight eight failures of the highest consequence in London. Brown went a few evenings since to Davenport's, and on his coming in he talked about bad news in the city with such a face I began to think of a national bankruptcy. I did not feel much surprised and was rather disappointed. Carlisle, a bookseller on the Hone principle, has been issuing pamphlets from his shop in Fleet Street called the Deist. He was conveyed to Newgate last Thursday;

he intends making his own defence. I was surprised to hear from Taylor the amount of money of the bookseller's last sale. What think you of £25,000? He sold 4000 copies of Lord Byron. I am sitting opposite the Shakspeare I brought from the Isle of Wight—and I never look at him but the silk tassels on it give me as much pleasure as the face of the poet itself.1

In my next packet, as this is one by the way, I shall send you the Pot of Basil, St. Agnes Eve, and if I should have finished it, a little thing called the Eve of St. Mark. You see what fine Mother Radcliff names I have-it is not my fault-I do not search for them. I have not gone on with Hyperion-for to tell the truth I have not been in great cue for writing lately-I must wait for the spring to rouse me up a little. The only time I went out from Bedhampton was to see a chapel consecrated-Brown, I, and John Snook the boy, went in a chaise behind a leaden horse. Brown drove, but the horse did not mind him. This chapel is built by a Mr. Way, a great Jew converter, who in that line has spent one hundred thousand pounds. He maintains a great number of poor Jews-Of course his communion plate was stolen. He spoke to the clerk about it-The clerk said he was very sorry, adding, “I dare shay, your honour, it's among ush."

The chapel is built in Mr. Way's park. The consecration was not amusing. There were numbers of carriages—and his house crammed with clergy-They sanctified the Chapel, and it being a wet day, consecrated the burial-ground through the vestry window. I begin to hate parsons; they did not make me love them that day when I saw them in their proper colours. A parson is a Lamb in a drawing-room, and a Lion in a vestry. The notions of Society will not permit a parson to give way to his temper in any shape-So he festers in himself -his features get a peculiar, diabolical, self-sufficient, iron stupid expression. He is continually acting-his 1 The tassels were a gift from his sister-in-law.

mind is against every man, and every man's mind is against him-He is a hypocrite to the Believer and a coward to the unbeliever-He must be either a knave or an idiot—and there is no man so much to be pitied as an idiot parson. The soldier who is cheated into an Esprit du Corps by a red coat, a band, and colours, for the purpose of nothing, is not half so pitiable as the parson who is led by the nose by the Bench of Bishops and is smothered in absurdities-a poor necessary subaltern of the Church.

Friday, Feb. 18.

The day before yesterday I went to Romney Street -your Mother was not at home--but I have just written her that I shall see her on Wednesday. I call'd on Mr. Lewis this morning-he is very well -and tells me not to be uneasy about Letters, the chances being so arbitrary. He is going on as usual among his favourite democrat papers. We had a chat as usual about Cobbett and the Westminster electors. Dilke has lately been very much harrassed about the manner of educating his son-he at length decided for a public school-and then he did not know what school— he at last has decided for Westminster; and as Charley is to be a day boy, Dilke will remove to Westminster. We lead very quiet lives here-Dilke is at present in Greek histories and antiquities, and talks of nothing but the electors of Westminster and the retreat of the tenthousand. I never drink now above three glasses of wine--and never any spirits and water. Though by the bye, the other day Woodhouse took me to his coffee house and ordered a Bottle of Claret-now I like Claret, whenever I can have Claret I must drink it, 'tis the only palate affair that I am at all sensual in. Would

it not be a good speck to send you some vine roots— Icould it be done? I'll enquire-If you could make some wine like Claret to drink on summer evenings in an arbour! For really 'tis so fine-it fills one's mouth with a gushing freshness-then goes down cool and feverless

-then you do not feel it quarrelling with your liverno, it is rather a Peacemaker, and lies as quiet as it did in the grape; then it is as fragrant as the Queen Bee, and the more ethereal Part of it mounts into the brain, not assaulting the cerebral apartments like a bully in a bad-house looking for his trull and hurrying from door to door bouncing against the wainstcoat, but rather walks like Aladdin about his own enchanted palace so gently that you do not feel his step. Other wines of a heavy and spirituous nature transform a Man to a Silenus: this makes him a Hermes-and gives a Woman the soul and immortality of Ariadne, for whom Bacchus always kept a good cellar of claret-and even of that he could never persuade her to take above two cups. I said this same claret is the only palate-passion I have-I forgot game-I must plead guilty to the breast of a Partridge, the back of a hare, the backbone of a grouse, the wing and side of a Pheasant and a Woodcock passim. Talking of game (I wish I could make it), the Lady whom I met at Hastings and of whom I said something in my last I think has lately made me many presents of game, and enabled me to make as many. She made me take home a Pheasant the other day, which I gave to Mrs. Dilke; on which to-morrow Rice, Reynolds and the Wentworthians will dine next door. The next I intend for your Mother. These moderate sheets of paper are much more pleasant to write upon than those large thin sheets which I hope you by this time have received -though that can't be, now I think of it. I have not said in any Letter yet a word about my affairs-in a word I am in no despair about them-my poem has not at all succeeded; in the course of a year or so I think I shall try the public again-in a selfish point of view I should suffer my pride and my contempt of public opinion to hold me silent-but for yours and Fanny's sake I will pluck up a spirit and try again. I have no doubt of success in a course of years if I persevere-but it must be patience, for the Reviews have enervated and