three times over throughout, and many parts of
it five or six), and of course my ill health does not improve my
powers of composition. This wet summer and autumn have been terribly
against me. I am lamer even than when Mr. Ticknor saw me, and
sometimes cannot even dip the pen in the ink without holding it in
my left hand. Thank God my head is spared, and my heart is, I think,
as young as ever.

I had a letter to-day from Mr. Chorley; he has been staying all the
autumn with Sir William Molesworth, now a Cabinet Minister, but he
complains terribly about his own health, notwithstanding he has a
play coming out at the Olympic, which Mr. Wigan has taken. Mrs.
Kingsley, a most sweet person, has a cough which has forced them to
send her to the sea. You shall be sure to see both him and Mr.
Willmott if I can compass it; but we live, each of us, seven miles
apart, and these country clergymen are so tied to their parish that
they are difficult to catch. However, they both come to see me
whenever they can, and we must contrive it. You will like both in
different ways. Mr. Willmott is one of the most agreeable men in the
world, and Mr. Kingsley is charming. I have another dear friend, not
an author, whom I prefer to either,--Hugh Pearson. He made for
himself a collection of De Quincey, when a lad at Oxford. You would
like him, I think, better than anybody; but he too is a country
clergyman, living eight miles off. Poor Mr. Norton! His letters were
charming. He is connected in my mind with Mrs. Hemans, too, to whom
he was so kind. You must say everything for me to dear Mrs. Sparks.
I seem most ungrateful to her, but I really have little power of
writing letters just now. Did I tell you that Mr. ---- sent me a
poem called ----, which I am very sorry that he ever wrote. It has
shocked Mr. Bennoch even more than it did me. You must get him to
write more poems like ----. A young friend of mine has brought out a
little volume in which there is striking evidence of talent; but
none of these young writers take pains. How very pretty is that
scrap on a country church! Mrs. Browning is at Florence, but is
going to Rome. She says that your countryman, Mr. Story, has made a
charming statuette, I think of Beethoven, or else of Mendelssohn,
which ought to make his reputation. She is crazy about mediums. She