I wrote you word lately, that I was better; since that time I have been almost constantly unwell. One ought never to boast of anything, as the old women say; for, adds Walter Scott, "it is unlucky to announce things which are not yet certain." This indeed I have often experienced. As to my health, it is as unintelligible as all the rest of me. You doubtless wonder that I remain in London in this thankless season; but I have still friends here--besides, I have settled into this quiet life, which is only interrupted by the noise and clatter of the little troop of 'couturières' in the house; the theatre too has begun to interest me, and the serenity of this seclusion refreshes me after the former tumult. It is indeed so quiet and solitary, that, like the celebrated prisoner in the Bastille, I have formed a 'liaison' with a mouse,--a darling little creature, and doubtless an enchanted 'lady:' when I am at work, she glides timidly out of her hole, looks at me from a distance with her little eyes twinkling like stars, becomes tamer every day; and enticed by bits of cake which I regularly deposit six inches from her residence, in the right corner of my room.--At this moment she is eating one with great grace--and now she frisks about the room quite at her ease. But what do I hear? an incessant loud cry in the street! Mousey has fled in terror to her corner. "What is the matter?" said I; "what an infernal noise!" "War is proclaimed--a second edition of The Times is cried about the streets." "War, with whom?" 'I don't know.' This is one branch of trade among the poor devils in London: when they can contrive nothing else, they cry some 'great news,' and sell an old paper to the curious for sixpence; you seize it in a hurry, you understand nothing clearly, you look at the date, and laugh at finding you have been taken in. As is always the case when I live alone, I have unfortunately so completely turned day into night, that I seldom breakfast before four in the afternoon, dine at ten or eleven after the play, and walk or ride in the night. It is generally not only finer but ('mirabile dictu') brighter in the night. The days are so foggy that even if there are lamps and candles you can't see them a yard off; but in the night the gas-lights sparkle like diamonds, and the moon shines as bright as in Italy. As I galloped home last night through the wide and quiet streets, white and coal-black clouds coursed each other swiftly over her face, and afforded a singularly wild and enchanting spectacle. The air was serene and mild; for the late cold has been succeeded by almost spring weather.