NORE,
_Thursday, Jan. 28th, 1847._

MY DEAR SIR,

Before you read any more, I wish you would take those tablets out of
your drawer, in which you have put a black mark against my name, and
erase it neatly. I don't deserve it, on my word I don't, though
appearances are against me, I unwillingly confess.

I had gone to Geneva, to recover from an uncommon depression of spirits
consequent on too much sitting over "Dombey" and the little Christmas
book, when I received your letter as I was going out walking, one
sunshiny, windy day. I read it on the banks of the Rhone, where it runs,
very blue and swift, between two high green hills, with ranges of snowy
mountains filling up the distance. Its cordial and unaffected tone gave
me the greatest pleasure--did me a world of good--set me up for the
afternoon, and gave me an evening's subject of discourse. For I talked
to "them" (that is, Kate and Georgy) about those bright mornings at the
Peschiere, until bedtime, and threatened to write you such a letter next
day as would--I don't exactly know what it was to do, but it was to be a
great letter, expressive of all kinds of pleasant things, and, perhaps
the most genial letter that ever was written.

From that hour to this, I have again and again and again said, "I'll
write to-morrow," and here I am to-day full of penitence--really sorry
and ashamed, and with no excuse but my writing-life, which makes me get
up and go out, when my morning work is done, and look at pen and ink no
more until I begin again.

Besides which, I have been seeing Paris--wandering into hospitals,
prisons, dead-houses, operas, theatres, concert-rooms, burial-grounds,
palaces, and wine-shops. In my unoccupied fortnight of each month, every
description of gaudy and ghastly sight has been passing before me in a
rapid panorama. Before that, I had to come here from Switzerland, over
frosty mountains in dense fogs, and through towns with walls and
drawbridges, and without population, or anything else in particular but
soldiers and mud. I took a flight to London for four days, and went and
came back over one sheet of snow, sea excepted; and I wish that had been
snow too. Then Forster (who is here now, and begs me to send his kindest
regards) came to see Paris for himself, and in showing it to him, away I
was borne again, like an enchanted rider. In short, I have had no rest
in my play; and on Monday I am going to work agai