And splendid old man as he is in his healthful
and vigorous age, I cannot but recollect that he is seventy-five, and
that he is my only tie upon earth--the only relation (except, indeed,
a few very distant cousins, Russells, Greys, Ogles, and Deans, whom I
am too proud and too poor to hook on upon), my only relation in the
wide world. This is a desolate view of things; but it explains a
degree of clinging to that one most precious parent which people can
hardly comprehend. You can scarcely imagine how fine an old man he is;
how clear of head and warm of heart. He almost wept over your letter
to-day, and reads your book with singular delight and satisfaction,
in spite of the difference in politics. He feels strongly, and so, I
assure you, do I, your kind mention of me and my poor writings--a sort
of testimony always gratifying, but doubly so when the distinguished
writer is a dear friend. Even in this desolation, your success--that
of your last work [_Paris and the Parisians_] especially must be
satisfactory to you. I have no doubt that two volumes on Italy will
prove equally delightful to your readers, whilst the journey will be
the best possible remedy for all that you have suffered in spirits and
health.
"I am attempting a novel, for which Messieurs Saunders and Ottley have
agreed to give 700_l_. It is to be ready some time in September--I
mean the MS.--and I am most anxious upon every account to make it as
good as possible, one very great reason being the fair, candid, and
liberal conduct of the intended publishers.
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