in distress, at the non-arrival of the Caledonia.  You may conceive what our joy was, when, while we were dining out yesterday, H. arrived with the joyful intelligence of her safety.  The very news of her having really arrived seemed to diminish the distance between ourselves and home, by one half at least.

And this morning (though we have not yet received our heap of despatches, for which we are looking eagerly forward to this night’s mail),—­this morning there reached us unexpectedly, through the government bag (Heaven knows how they came there), two of our many and long-looked-for letters, wherein was a circumstantial account of the whole conduct and behavior of our pets; with marvellous narrations of Charley’s precocity at a Twelfth Night juvenile party at Macready’s; and tremendous predictions of the governess, dimly suggesting his having got out of pot-hooks and hangers, and darkly insinuating the possibility of his writing us a letter before long; and many other workings of the same prophetic spirit, in reference to him and his sisters, very gladdening to their mother’s heart, and not at all depressing to their father’s.  There was, also, the doctor’s report, which was a clean bill; and the nurse’s report, which was perfectly electrifying; showing as it did how Master Walter had been weaned, and had cut a double tooth, and done many other extraordinary things, quite worthy of his high descent.  In short, we were made very happy and grateful; and felt as if the prodigal father and mother had got home again.

What do you think of this incendiary card being left at my door last night?  “General G. sends compliments to Mr. Dickens, and called with two literary ladies.  As the two L.L.’s are ambitious of the honor of a personal introduction to Mr. D., General G requests the honor of an appointment for to-morrow.”  I draw a veil over my sufferings.  They are sacred.

We have altered our route, and don’t mean to go to Charleston, for I want to see the West, and have taken it into my head that as I am not obliged to go to Charleston, and don’t exactly know why I should go there, I need do no violence to my own inclinations.  My route is of Mr. Clay’s designing, and I think it a very good one.  We go on Wednesday night to Richmond in Virginia.  On Monday we return to Baltimore for two days.  On Thursday morning we start for Pittsburg, and so go by the Ohio to Cincinnati, Louisville, Kentucky, Lexington, St. Louis; and either down the Lakes to Buffalo, or back to Philadelphia, and by New York to that place, where we shall stay a week, and then make a hasty trip into Canada.  We shall be in Buffalo, please Heaven, on the 30th of April.  If I don’t find a letter from you in the care of the postmaster at that place, I’ll never write to you from England.

But if I do find one, my right hand shall forget its cunning, before I forget to be your truthful and constant correspondent; not,