I think you knew before you left England that my next subject would be "the fall of Hyperion." I went on a little with it last night, but it will take some time to get into the vein again. I will not give you any extracts because I wish the whole to make an impression. I have however a few Poems which you will like, and I will copy out on the next sheet. I shall dine with Haydon on Sunday, and go over to Walthamstow on Monday if the frost hold. I think also of going into Hampshire this Christmas to Mr. Snook's[87]--they say I shall be very much amused--But I don't know--I think I am in too huge a Mind for study--I must do it--I must wait at home and let those who wish come to see me. I cannot always be (how do you spell it?) trapsing. Here I must tell you that I have not been able to keep the journal or write the Tale I promised--now I shall be able to do so. I will write to Haslam this morning to know when the Packet sails, and till it does I will write something every day--After that my journal shall go on like clockwork, and you must not complain of its dulness--for what I wish is to write a quantity to you--knowing well that dulness itself will from me be interesting to you--You may conceive how this not having been done has weighed upon me. I shall be able to judge from your next what sort of information will be of most service or amusement to you. Perhaps as you were fond of giving me sketches of character you may like a little picnic of scandal even across the Atlantic. But now I must speak particularly to you, my dear Sister--for I know you love a little quizzing better than a great bit of apple dumpling. Do you know Uncle Redhall? He is a little Man with an innocent powdered upright head, he lisps with a protruded under lip--he has two Nieces, each one would weigh three of him--one for height and the other for breadth--he knew Bartolozzi. He gave a supper, and ranged his bottles of wine all up the Kitchen and cellar stairs--quite ignorant of what might be drunk--It might have been a good joke to pour on the sly bottle after bottle into a washing tub, and roar for more--If you were to trip him up it would discompose a Pigtail and bring his under lip nearer to his nose. He never had the good luck to lose a silk Handkerchief in a Crowd, and therefore has only one topic of conversation--Bartolozzi. Shall I give you Miss Brawne? She is about my height--with a fine style of countenance of the lengthened sort--she wants sentiment in every feature--she manages to make her hair look well--her nostrils are fine--though a little painful--her mouth is bad and good--her Profile is better than her full-face which indeed is not full but pale and thin without showing any bone. Her shape is very graceful and so are her movements--her Arms are good her hands baddish--her feet tolerable. She is not seventeen--but she is ignorant--monstrous in her behaviour, flying out in all directions--calling people such names that I was forced lately to