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Jan. 23, 1839. I see, by casting my eyes back, that I commenced the last sheet in praise of London. I feel in a mood quite the reverse to-day, and have so felt for several days. I again have a dismal cold. Give me the freezing, crystal weather of New England, rather than these murky, foggy days, freighted with disease and death. Three cruel colds in the space of two months,—the worst that have ever befallen me—admonish me to hasten nearer to the sun. I shall be off for Italy. But you will be glad to hear of the poet of this fair country. I believe I have often written you about Rogers. Of course, I have seen him frequently in society; never did I like him till I enjoyed his kindness at breakfast. As a converser Rogers is unique. The world, or report, has not given him credit enough for his great and peculiar powers in this line. He is terse, epigrammatic, dry, infinitely to the point, full of wisdom, of sarcasm, and cold humor. He says the most ill-natured things, and