I think a little change has taken place in my intellect lately--I cannot bear to be uninterested or unemployed, I, who for so long a time have been addicted to passiveness. Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers. As an instance of this--observe--I sat down yesterday to read King Lear once again: the thing appeared to demand the prologue of a sonnet, I wrote it, and began to read--(I know you would like to see it.) ON SITTING DOWN TO KING LEAR ONCE AGAIN. O golden-tongued Romance with serene Lute! Fair-plumed Syren, Queen of far-away! Leave melodising on this wintry day, Shut up thine olden volume and be mute. Adieu! for once again the fierce dispute Betwixt Hell torment and impassion'd Clay Must I burn through; once more assay The bitter sweet of this Shakspearian fruit. Chief Poet! and ye clouds of Albion, Begetters of our deep eternal theme, When I am through the old oak forest gone Let me not wander in a barren dream, But, when I am consumed with the Fire, Give me new Phoenix-wings to fly at my desire. So you see I am getting at it, with a sort of determination and strength, though verily I do not feel it at this moment--this is my fourth letter this morning, and I feel rather tired, and my head rather swimming--so I will leave it open till to-morrow's post.-- I am in the habit of taking my papers to Dilke's and copying there; so I chat and proceed at the same time. I have been there at my work this evening, and the walk over the Heath takes off all sleep, so I will even proceed with you. I left off short in my last just as I began an account of a private theatrical--Well it was of the lowest order, all greasy and oily, insomuch that if they had lived in olden times, when signs were hung over the doors, the only appropriate one for that oily place would have been--a guttered Candle. They played John Bull, The Review, and it was to conclude with Bombastes Furioso--I saw from a Box the first Act of John Bull, then went to Drury and did not return till it was over--when by Wells's interest we got behind the scenes--there was not a yard wide all the way round for actors, scene-shifters, and interlopers to move in--for 'Nota Bene' the Green Room was under the stage, and there was I threatened over and over again to be turned out by the oily scene-shifters, there did I hear a little painted Trollop own, very candidly, that she had failed in Mary, with a "damn'd if she'd play a serious part again, as long as she lived," and at the same time she was habited as the Quaker in the Review.--There was a quarrel, and a fat good-natured looking girl in soldiers' clothes wished she had only been a man for Tom's sake. One fellow began a song, but an unlucky finger-point from the Gallery sent him off like a shot. One chap was dressed to kill for the King in Bombastes, and he stood at the edge of the scene in the very sweat of anxiety to show