evidence of life; but this apathy, this death! Did you ever have an
obstinate cold,--a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and
suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and everything? Yet do I try all I
can to cure it. I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in
unsparing quantities; but they all only seem to make me worse, instead
of better. I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home
late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment! Who shall deliver
me from the body of this death?

It is just fifteen minutes after twelve. Thurtell is by this time a good
way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion, perhaps. Ketch is bargaining
for his cast coat and waistcoat; and the Jew demurs at first at three
half-crowns, but on consideration that he may get somewhat by showing
'em in the town, finally closes.

C. L.

[1] Hanged that day for the murder of Weare.

LXXX.

TO BERNARD BARTON.

_January_ 23, 1824.

My dear sir,--That peevish letter of mine, [1] which was meant to convey
an apology for my incapacity to write, seems to have been taken by you
in too serious a light,--it was only my way of telling you I had a
severe cold. The fact is, I have been insuperably dull and lethargic for
many weeks, and cannot rise to the vigor of a letter, much less an
essay. The "London" must do without me for a time, for I have lost all
interest about it; and whether I shall recover it again I know not. I
will bridle my pen another time, and not tease and puzzle you with my
aridities. I shall begin to feel a little more alive with the spring.

Winter is to me (mild or harsh) always a great trial of the spirits. I
am ashamed not to have noticed your tribute to Woolman, whom we love so
much; it is done in your good manner. Your friend Tayler called upon me
some time since, and seems a very amiable man. His last story is
painfully fine. His book I "like;" it is only too stuffed with
Scripture, too parsonish. The best thing in it is the boy's own story.
When I say it is too full of Scripture, I mean it is too full of direct
quotations; no book can have too much of silent Scripture in it. But the
natural power of a story is diminished when the uppermost purpose in the
writer seems to be to recommend something else,--namely, Religion. You
know what Horace says of the _Deus intersit_? I am not able to explain
myself,--you must do it for me. My sister's part in the "Leicester
School" (about two thirds) was pure