Your friend and servant is as calm as Pecksniff, saving for his knitted brows now turning into cordage over Little Dorrit. The theatre has disappeared, the house is restored to its usual conditions of order, the family are tranquil and domestic, dove-eyed peace is enthroned in this study, fire-eyed radicalism in its master's breast. I am glad to hear that our poetess is at work again, and shall be very much pleased to have some more contributions from her. Love from all to your dear sister, and to Katie, and to all the house. We dined yesterday at Frederick Pollock's. I begged an amazing photograph of you, and brought it away. It strikes me as one of the most ludicrous things I ever saw in my life. I think of taking a public-house, and having it copied larger, for the size. You may remember it? Very square and big--the Saracen's Head with its hair cut, and in modern gear? Staring very hard? As your particular friend, I would not part with it on any consideration. I will never get such a wooden head again. Ever affectionately. [Sidenote: Miss Mary Boyle.] TAVISTOCK HOUSE, _February 7th, 1857._ MY DEAR MARY, Half-a-dozen words on this, my birthday, to thank you for your kind and welcome remembrance, and to assure you that your Joseph is proud of it. For about ten minutes after his death, on each occasion of that event occurring, Richard Wardour was in a floored condition. And one night, to the great terror of Devonshire, the Arctic Regions, and Newfoundland (all of which localities were afraid to speak to him, as his ghost sat by the kitchen fire in its rags), he very nearly did what he never did, went and fainted off, dead, again. But he always plucked up, on the turn of ten minutes, and became facetious. Likewise he chipped great pieces out of all his limbs (solely, as I imagine, from moral earnestness and concussion of passion, for I never know him to hit himself in any way) and terrified Aldersley[1] to that degree, by lunging at him to carry him into the cave, that the said Aldersley always shook like a mould of jelly, and muttered, "By G----, this is an awful thing!" Ever affectionately. P.S.--I shall never cease to regret Mrs. Watson's not having been there. [Sidenote: Rev. James White.] TAVISTOCK HOUSE, _Sunday, Feb. 8th, 1857._ MY DEAR WHITE, I send these lines by Mary and Katey, to report my love to all.