To Henry Acland

[Feb., 1845.]

… I have this moment received a letter from Richmond saying he is going to dine with me, but that his eyes are so weak he is obliged to use another's hand. This is very bad—all owing to his sitting up at night, I imagine, added to his day's work, which alone would blind me. I cannot draw delicate things more than two hours a day. I suppose he has six or seven at least, stippling on white paper—at least I know I always find others with him, go when I will.

I met Jelf a day or two ago looking unsatisfactory. He asked me which way I was going to vote on the 13th. I said I didn't know anything about the 13th, what was the matter? I wish you had seen Jelf open his eyes. He proceeded to open mine with much indignation, which didn't abate when I said I didn't know anything about Mr. Ward or his book, but that they might strip his gown over his ears as soon as they liked for anything I cared, it couldn't do any harm. I got up the article in the Quarterly about him; his book seems to be very much like Modern Painters—plenty of hard words and not much reasoning. It is the plague of these people that one never can get at the bottom of them; they are nut within nut, and a maggot inside. I quarrelled with Clayton, as I told you, about his good works, and all that I can get out of him is that “he doesn't see any reason why he should answer in my last.”