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 made indolent men's minds--few think for themselves. These Reviews too are getting more and more powerful, especially the Quarterly--they are like a superstition which the more it prostrates the Crowd and the longer it continues the more powerful it becomes just in proportion to their increasing weakness. I was in hopes that when people saw, as they must do now, all the trickery and iniquity of these Plagues they would scout them, but no, they are like the spectators at the Westminster cock-pit--they like the battle and do not care who wins or who loses. Brown is going on this morning with the story of his old woman and the Devil--He makes but slow progress--The fact is it is a Libel on the Devil, and as that person is Brown's Muse, look ye, if he libels his own Muse how can he expect to write? Either Brown or his Muse must turn tail. Yesterday was Charley Dilke's birthday. Brown and I were invited to tea. During the evening nothing passed worth notice but a little conversation between Mrs. Dilke and Mrs. Brawne. The subject was the Watchman. It was ten o'clock, and Mrs. Brawne, who lived during the summer in Brown's house and now lives in the Road, recognised her old Watchman's voice, and said that he came as far as her now. "Indeed," said Mrs. D., "does he turn the Corner?" There