I went to Hunt's and Haydon's who live now neighbours — Shelley was there — I know nothing about anything in this part of the world — every Body seems at Loggerheads. There's Hunt infatuated — there's Haydon's Picture in statu quo. There's Hunt walks up and down his painting room — criticising every head most unmercifully. There's Horace Smith tired of Hunt. "The web of our life is of mingled yarn."