of the darkness of our skies and the dulness of
our mode of life here as intolerable and oppressive to the last
degree....

I cannot believe happiness to be the purpose of life, for when was
anything ordained with an unattainable purpose?... But life, which, but
for duty, seems always sad enough to me, appears sadder than usual when
I try to look at it from the point of view of the happiness it contains.

The children are well; Lane has taken a charming likeness of them, of
which I promise you a copy. God bless you, dearest H----. I do not lean
on human love; I do not depend or reckon on it; nor have I ever MISTAKEN
any human being for my _best friend_.

Affectionately yours,
FANNY.

CLARGES STREET, May 21st.
DEAREST H----,

From the midst of this musical Maelstrom I send you a voice, which, if
heard instead of read, would be lamentable enough. We are lifted off our
feet by the perfect torrent of engagements, of visits, of going out and
receiving; our house is full, from morning till night, of people coming
to sing with or listen to my sister. How her strength is to resist the
demands made upon it by the violent emotions she is perpetually
expressing, or how any human throat is to continue pouring out such
volumes of sound without rest or respite, passes my comprehension. Now,
let me tell you how I am surrounded at this minute while I write to you.
At my very table sit Trelawney and Charles Young, talking to me and to
each other; farther on, towards my father, Mr. G---- C----; and an
Italian singer on one side of my sister; and on the other, an Italian
painter, who has brought letters of introduction to us; then Mary Anne
Thackeray; ... furthermore, the door has just closed upon an English
youth of the name of B----, who sings almost as well as an Italian, and
with whom my sister has been singing her soul out for the last two
hours.... We dined yesterday with the Francis Egertons; to-morrow
evening we have a gathering here, with, I beg you to believe, nothing
under the rank of a viscount, Beauforts, Normanbys, Wiltons,
_illustrissimi tutti quanti_. Friday, my sister sings at the Palace, and
we are all enveloped in a golden cloud of fashionable hard work, which
rather delights my father; which my sister lends herself to, complaining
a little of the trouble, fatigue, and lat