You see this life is pretty much a 'far niente,' though not a very sweet one to my taste, for I love society only in intimate circles, and attach myself with difficulty,--indeed now scarcely at all,--to new acquaintances. The ennui, which seizes me in such an indifferent state of mind, is too clearly written on my undiplomatic face not to extend to others as contagiously as yawning. Here and there I find an exception:--to-day for instance I made the acquaintance of Mr. Morier, the clever and very agreeable author of Hadji Baba; and of Mr. Hope, the imputed author of Anastasius, a work of far higher genius. This book is worthy of Byron: many maintain that Mr. Hope, who is rather remarkable for his reserve than for anything poetical in his appearance, cannot possibly have written it. This doubt derives considerable force from a work which Mr. Hope formerly published on furniture, the style and contents of which certainly contrast strangely with the glowing impassioned Anastasius, overflowing with thought and feeling. An acquaintance of mine said to me, "One thing or the other: either Anastasius is not by him, or the work on furniture." But matter so different brings with it as different a style; and as I observed Mr. Hope, perhaps with involuntary prepossession, he appeared to me no ordinary man. He is very rich, and his house full of treasures of art, and of luxuries which I shall describe hereafter. His furniture theory, which is fashioned on the antique, I cannot praise in practice:--the chairs are ungovernable; other trophy-like structures look ridiculous, and the sofas have such sharp salient points in all directions, that an incautious sitter might hurt himself seriously. On my return home at night I found your letter, which, like everything from you, gave me more pleasure than aught else can. Say not, however, that the pain of parting occasions you such deep depression,--let it not be deeper than a joyful meeting can at once remove; and that is probably not very distant. That you point to another life, as soon as things do not go precisely according to our wishes in this, seems to me, dearest, to show a want of Christian patience and confidence. No, I confess it, spite of transient fits of melancholy, I still feel the attraction of earth; and this 'span of life,' as you call it, has strong hold on my heart. If indeed you, my affectionate tutelary goddess, were also Fortuna, I should fare better than any mortal living: 'et toutes les étoiles pâliraient devant la mienne;'--but since you love me, you are my Fortuna, and I desire no better. Do not suffer your own melancholy, or mine, to deceive you. As for me, you know that a nothing raises the barometer of my spirits, and a nothing often depresses it. This is certainly too delicate a nervous organization, and little fitted for every-day, home-baked (_hausbacknen_) happiness,--which requires strong nerves. _December 5th._