y
native hankering after it, is not what it was. The streets, the shops
are left, but all old friends are gone. And in London I was frightfully
convinced of this as I past houses and places--empty caskets now. I have
ceased to care almost about any body. The bodies I cared for are in
graves, or dispersed. My old Clubs, that lived so long and flourish'd so
steadily, are crumbled away. When I took leave of our adopted young
friend at Charing Cross, 'twas heavy unfeeling rain, and I had no where
to go. Home have I none--and not a sympathising house to turn to in the
great city. Never did the waters of the heaven pour down on a forlorner
head. Yet I tried 10 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 at Picquet again. But 'tis a tedious cut
out of a life of sixty four, to lose twelve or thirteen weeks every year
or two. And to make me more alone, our illtemperd 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 quarreling have something of familiarity and a community of
interest--they imply acquaintance--they are of resentment, which is of
the family of dearness. I can neither scold nor quarrel at this
insignificant implement of household services; she is less than a cat,
and just better than a deal Dresser. What I can do, and do overdo, is to
walk, but deadly long are the days--these summer all-day days, with but
a half hour's candlelight and no firelight. I do not write, tell your
kind inquisitive Eliza, and can hardly read. In the ensuing Blackwood
will be an old rejected farce of mine, which may be new to you, if you
see that same dull Medley. What things are all the Magazines now! I
contrive studiously not to see them. The popular New Monthly