city.  Never did the waters of heaven pour down on a forlorner head.  Yet I tried ten days at a sort of a friend’s house; but it was large and straggling,—­one of the individuals of my old long knot of friends, card-players, pleasant companions, that have tumbled to pieces, into dust and other things; and I got home on Thursday, convinced that I was better to get home to my hole at Enfield, and hide like a sick cat in my corner.  Less than a month, I hope, will bring home Mary.  She is at Fulham, looking better in her health than ever, but sadly rambling, and scarce showing any pleasure in seeing me, or curiosity when I should come again.  But the old feelings will come back again, and we shall drown old sorrows over a game of piquet again.  But it is a tedious cut out of a life of fifty-four, to lose twelve or thirteen weeks every year or two.  And to make me more alone, our ill-tempered maid is gone, who, with all her airs, was yet a home-piece of furniture, a record of better days; the young thing that has succeeded her is good and attentive, but she is nothing.  And I have no one here to talk over old matters with.  Scolding and quarrelling have something of familiarity and a community of interest; they imply acquaintance; they are of resentment, which is of the family of dearness.

* * * * *

I bragged formerly that I could not have too much time; I have now a surfeit.  With few years to come, the days are wearisome.  But weariness is not eternal.  Something will shine out to take the load off that flags me, which is at present intolerable.  I have killed an hour or two in this poor scrawl.  I am a sanguinary murderer of time, and would kill him inch-meal just now.  But the snake is vital.  Well, I shall write merrier anon.  ’T is the present copy of my countenance I send, and to complain is a little to alleviate.  May you enjoy yourself as far as the wicked world will let you, and think that you are not quite alone, as I am!  Health to Lucia and to Anna, and kind remembrances.

Your forlorn C. L.

[1] Mary Lamb.

CI.

TO MR. GILLMAN.

November 30, 1829.

Dear G.,—­The excursionists reached home and the good town of Enfield a little after four, without slip or dislocation.  Little has transpired concerning the events of the back-journey, save that on passing the house of ’Squire Mellish, situate a stone bow’s cast from the hamlet, Father Westwood [1], with a good-natured wonderment, exclaimed, “I cannot think what is gone of Mr. Mellish’s rooks.  I fancy they have taken flight somewhere; but I have missed them two or three years past.”  All this while, according to his fellow-traveller’s report, the rookery was darkening the air above with undiminished population, and deafening all ears but his with their cawings.  But nature has been gently withdrawing such phenomena from the notice of Thomas