Amen! Amen!

I brought a manuscript with me of another curious sort, entitled
_The Diamond Necklace._ Perhaps it will be printed soon as an
Article, or even as a separate Booklet,--a _queer_ production,
which you shall see. Finally, I am busy, constantly studying
with my whole might for a Book on the French Revolution. It is
part of my creed that the Only Poetry is History, could we tell
it right. This truth (if it prove one) I have not yet got to the
limitations of; and shall in no way except by _trying_ it in
practice. The story of the Necklace was the first attempt at
an experiment.

My sheet is nearly done; and I have still to complain of you for
telling me nothing of yourself except that you are in the
country. Believe that I want to know much and all. My wife too
remembers you with unmixed friendliness; bids me send you her
kindest wishes. Understand too that your old bed stands in a new
room here, and the old welcome at the door. Surely we shall see
you in London one day. Or who knows but Mahomet may go to the
mountain? It occasionally rises like a mad prophetic dream in
me, that I might end in the Western Woods!

From Germany I get letters, messages, and even visits; but now
no tidings, no influences, of moment. Goethe's Posthumous Works
are all published; and Radicalism (poor hungry, yet inevitable
Radicalism!) is the order of the day. The like, and even more,
from France. Gustave d'Eichthal (did you hear?) has gone over to
Greece, and become some kind of Manager under King Otho.*