I see Novello flourishes in the Del Capo line, and dedications are not forgotten.  I read the Atlas.  When I pitched on the Ded’n I looked for the Broom of “Cowden knows” to be harmonized, but ’twas summat of Rossini’s.

I want to hear about Hone, does he stand above water, how is his son?  I have delay’d writing to him, till it seems impossible.  Break the ice for me.

The wet ground here is intolerable, the sky above clear and delusive, but under foot quagmires from night showers, and I am cold-footed and moisture-abhorring as a cat; nevertheless I yesterday tramped to Waltham Cross; perhaps the poor bit of exertion necessary to scribble this was owing to that unusual bracing.

If I get out, I shall get stout, and then something will out —­I mean for the Companion—­you see I rhyme insensibly.

Traditions are rife here of one Clarke a schoolmaster, and a runaway pickle named Holmes, but much obscurity hangs over it.  Is it possible they can be any relations?

’Tis worth the research, when you can find a sunny day, with ground firm, &c.  Master Sexton is intelligent, and for half-a-crown he’ll pick you up a Father.

In truth we shall be most glad to see any of the Novellian circle, middle of the week such as can come, or Sunday, as can’t.  But Spring will burgeon out quickly, and then, we’ll talk more.

You’d like to see the improvements on the Chase, the new Cross in the market-place, the Chandler’s shop from whence the rods were fetch’d.  They are raised a farthing since the spread of Education.  But perhaps you don’t care to be reminded of the Holofernes’ days, and nothing remains of the old laudable profession, but the clear, firm, impossible-to-be-mistaken schoolmaster text hand with which is subscribed the ever-welcome name of Chas. Cowden C. Let me crowd in both our loves to all.  C.L.

Let me never be forgotten to include in my rememb’ces my good friend and whilom correspondent Master Stephen.

How, especially, is Victoria?

I try to remember all I used to meet at Shacklewell.  The little household, cake-producing, wine-bringing out Emma—­the old servant, that didn’t stay, and ought to have staid, and was always very dirty and friendly, and Miss H., the counter-tenor with a fine voice, whose sister married Thurtell.  They all live in my mind’s eye, and Mr. N.’s and Holmes’s walks with us half back after supper.  Troja fuit!

["The Companion.”  Leigh Hunt’s paper lasted only for seven months.  Madame Pasta, of whom too much was written, was Giudetta Pasta (1798-1865), a singer of unusual compass, for whom Bellini wrote “La Somnambula.”

The following is the account of the Sliding Watchman in the essay, “Walks Home by Night in Bad Weather.  Watchmen":—­