ng occurs to remind me of
its whirling, I lose my breath, and am bewildered. So your handwriting
last night had as startling an effect upon me, as though you had sealed
your note with one of your own eyes.

I remember my promise, as in cheerful duty bound, and with Heaven's
grace will redeem it. At this moment, I have not the faintest idea how,
but I am going into Scotland on the 19th to see Jeffrey, and while I am
away (I shall return, please God, in about three weeks) will look out
for some accident, incident, or subject for small description, to send
you when I come home. You will take the will for the deed, I know; and,
remembering that I have a "Clock" which always wants winding up, will
not quarrel with me for being brief.

Have you seen Townshend's magnetic boy? You heard of him, no doubt, from
Count D'Orsay. If you get him to Gore House, don't, I entreat you, have
more than eight people--four is a better number--to see him. He fails in
a crowd, and is _marvellous_ before a few.

I am told that down in Devonshire there are young ladies innumerable,
who read crabbed manuscripts with the palms of their hands, and
newspapers with their ankles, and so forth; and who are, so to speak,
literary all over. I begin to understand what a blue-stocking means, and
have not the smallest doubt that Lady ---- (for instance) could write
quite as entertaining a book with the sole of her foot as ever she did
with her head. I am a believer in earnest, and I am sure you would be if
you saw this boy, under moderately favourable circumstances, as I hope
you will, before he leaves England.

Believe me, dear Lady Blessington,
Faithfully yours.

[Sidenote: Mr. L. Gaylord Clark.]

_September 28th, 1841._

MY DEAR SIR,

I condole with you from my heart on the loss[14] you have sustained, and
I feel proud of your permitting me to sympathise with your affliction.
It is a great satisfaction to me to have been addressed, under similar
circumstances, by many of your countrymen since the "Curiosity Shop"
came to a close. Some simple and honest hearts in the remote wilds of
America have written me letters on the loss of children--so numbering my
little book, or rather heroine, with their household gods; and so
pouring out their trials and sources of comfort in them, before me as a
friend, that I have been inexpressi