It is some days since I wrote the last page--and what I have been about since I have no Idea. I dined at Haslam's on Sunday--with Haydon yesterday, and saw Fanny in the morning; she was well. Just now I took out my poem to go on with it, but the thought of my writing so little to you came upon me and I could not get on--so I have began at random and I have not a word to say--and yet my thoughts are so full of you that I can do nothing else. I shall be confined at Hampstead a few days on account of a sore throat--the first thing I do will be to visit your Mother again. The last time I saw Henry he show'd me his first engraving, which I thought capital. Mr. Lewis called this morning and brought some American Papers--I have not look'd into them--I think we ought to have heard of you before this--I am in daily expectation of Letters--Nil desperandum. Mrs. Abbey wishes to take Fanny from School--I shall strive all I can against that. There has happened a great Misfortune in the Drewe Family--old Drewe has been dead some time; and lately George Drewe expired in a fit--on which account Reynolds has gone into Devonshire. He dined a few days since at Horace Twisse's with Liston and Charles Kemble. I see very little of him now, as I seldom go to Little Britain because the _Ennui_ always seizes me there, and John Reynolds is very dull at home. Nor have I seen Rice. How you are now going on is a Mystery to me--I hope a few days will clear it up. [December 30.] I never know the day of the Month. It is very fine here to-day, though I expect a Thundercloud, or rather a snow cloud, in less than an hour. I am at present alone at Wentworth Place--Brown being at Chichester and Mr. and Mrs. Dilke making a little stay in Town. I know not what I should do without a sunshiny morning now and then--it clears up one's spirits. Dilke and I frequently have some chat about you. I have now and then some doubt, but he seems to have a great confidence. I think there will soon be perceptible a change in the fashionable slang literature of the day--it seems to me that Reviews have had their day--that the public have been surfeited--there will soon be some new folly to keep the Parlours in talk--What it is I care not. We have seen three literary Kings in our Time--Scott, Byron, and then the Scotch novels. All now appears to be dead--or I may mistake, literary Bodies may still keep up the Bustle which I do not hear. Haydon show'd me a letter he had received from Tripoli--Ritchie was well and in good Spirits, among Camels, Turbans, Palm Trees, and Sands. You may remember I promised to send him an Endymion which I did not--however he has one--you have one. One is in the Wilds of America--the other is on a Camel's back in the plains of Egypt. I am looking into a Book of Dubois's--he has written directions to the Players--one of them is very good. "In singing never mind the music--observe what time you please. It would be a pretty degradation