Of Coleridge I hear nothing, nor of the Morgans. I hope to have him like
a reappearing star, standing up before me some time when least expected
in London, as has been the case whilere.

I am _doing_ nothing (as the phrase is) but reading presents, and walk
away what of the day-hours I can get from hard occupation. Pray accept
once more my hearty thanks and expression of pleasure for your
remembrance of me. My sister desires her kind respects to Mrs. S. and to
all at Keswick.

Yours truly,

C. LAMB.

LVII.

TO MISS HUTCHINSON. [1]

_October_ 19, 1815.

Dear Miss H.,--I am forced to be the replier to your letter, for Mary
has been ill, and gone from home these five weeks yesterday. She has
left me very lonely and very miserable. I stroll about, but there is no
rest but at one's own fireside; and there is no rest for me there now. I
look forward to the worse half being past, and keep up as well as I can.
She has begun to show some favorable symptoms. The return of her
disorder has been frightfully soon this time, with scarce a six-months'
interval. I am almost afraid my worry of spirits about the E. I. House
was partly the cause of her illness: but one always imputes it to the
cause next at hand,--more probably it conies from some cause we have no
control over or conjecture of. It cuts sad great slices out of the time,
the little time, we shall have to live together. I don't know but the
recurrence of these illnesses might help me to sustain her death, better
than if we had had no partial separations. But I won't talk of death. I
will imagine us immortal, or forget that we are otherwise. By God's
blessing, in a few weeks we may be making our meal together, or sitting
in the front row of the pit at Drury Lane, or taking our evening walk
past the theatres, to look at the outside of them, at least, if not to
be tempted in. Then we forget we are assailable; we are strong for the
time as rocks,--"the wind is tempered to the shorn Lambs." Poor C. Lloyd
and poor Priscilla! I feel I hardly feel enough for him; my own
calamities press about me, and involve me in a thick integument not to
be reached at by other folks' misfortunes. But I feel all I can, all the
kindness I can, towards you all. God bless you! I hear nothing from
Coleridge.

Yours truly,

C. LAMB.

[1] Mrs. Wordsworth's sister.

LVIII.

TO MANNING.

_December_ 25, 1815.

Dear Old Friend and Absentee,--This is Christmas Day, 1815, wi