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Rh like old times to me. With all this I am by no means in spirits to write, I am so alone in this strange land, so far from those I love the best, and the future rises ofttimes dark before me. Monday, November 6. The same sad heart to-day, and but little work and much company. I was glad, however, to see those who came, among others my coach companion from Manchester, Mr. Walton, who invited me in a very friendly manner to see him often. It snowed this morning, and was quite a new sight to me, for I have not seen any for about five years—I think. The papers give such accounts of my drawings and of myself that I am quite ashamed to walk the streets; but I am dispirited and melancholy. Sunday, November 19. I do not know when I have thus pitilessly put away my journal for nearly two weeks. My head and heart would not permit me to write, so I must try to memorandum now all I have seen. What I have felt is too much for me to write down, for when these attacks of depression overwhelm me life is almost unendurable. Every day I exhibited my drawings to those who came to see them. I had many noblemen, among whom I especially liked Sir Patrick Walker and his lady; but I welcomed all ladies, gentlemen, artists, and, I dare say, critics. At last the Committee of the Royal Institution invited me to exhibit publicly in their rooms; I owe this invitation, I know, to the astonishing perseverance of some unknown friends. When my pictures were removed there I was no longer "At Home." I painted from dawn to dark, closely, and perhaps more attentively than I ever have done before. The picture was large, contained a Turkey Cock, a hen, and nine young, all the size of life. Mr. Lizars and his amiable wife visited me often; often I spent the evenings with them. Mr. David Bridges, Mr. Cameron, and several others had regular admittance, and they all saw the regular progress of my