d
about fencing, enclosing, draining, ditching, and ploughing, till I fell
asleep, fancying myself Ceres.

This morning, after some debate with myself about staying away from
church, I deliberately came to the conclusion that I would do so,
because I had a bad headache. (Doesn't that sound like a child who
doesn't want to go to church, and says it has got a stomach-ache? It's
true, nevertheless.) But--_and_ because I have such a number of letters
to write to America, that I thought I would say my prayers at home, and
then do that.

And now, before beginning my American budget, I have written one to Lady
Dacre, one to Emily, one to my brother, and this one to you; and shall
now start off to the other side of the Atlantic, by an epistle to J----
C----, the son of the afore-mentioned agriculturist, a friend of mine,
who when I last left America held me by the arm till the bell rang for
the friends of those departing by the steamer to abandon them and regain
the shore, and whose verses about me, which I mentioned to you in my
last night's letter, please me more than his father's account of
top-dressing, subsoiling, and all the details of agriculture, which,
however, I believe is the main fundamental interest of civilization.

Before this, however, I must go and take a walk, because the sun shines
beautifully, and

"I must breathe some vital air,
If any's to be found in Cavendish Square."

I'm sorry to say we are going to leave this comfortable lodging and our
courteous landlord, whose civilities to me are most touching. I do not
know what my father intends doing, but he talked of taking a house at
_Brompton_. What a distance from everything, for him and for me!

I have just had a kind note from the M----s, again earnestly bidding me
down to Hampshire; another affectionate invitation from Lord and Lady
Dacre to the Hoo, and a warm and sympathizing letter from Amelia Twiss,
for whom, as you know, I entertain even a greater regard and esteem than
for her sisters....

My dear Hal, when my father told me that he was going to Brighton for
three weeks, it seemed quite impossible that we should sail for America
on December 4th. Now that that question is settled, at any rate
temporarily, I feel restored to something like calm, and think I shall
probably go and see the M----s, and perhaps run down to Hastings to
visit--Dorothy Wilson, of course.

God bless you, dear. Does Dorothy write better about nothing than I do