putting on, I exclaimed, in my wrath, "All tailors are cheats, and all
men are tailors." Then I was better.

C. L.

[1] Emma Isola, Lamb's ward, daughter of one of the Esquire Bedells of
Cambridge University, and granddaughter of an Italian refugee. The Lambs
had met her during one of their Cambridge visits, and finally adopted
her.

[2] Burke and Hare, the Edinburgh resurrection-men.

[3] The Gypsy's Malison.

C.

TO BERNARD BARTON.
ENFIELD CHASE SIDE,

_Saturday, 25th of July_, A.D. 1829, 11 A.M.

There! a fuller, plumper, juicier date never dropped from Idumean palm.
Am I in the _date_ive case now? If not, a fig for dates,--which is more
than a date is worth. I never stood much affected to these limitary
specialities,--least of all, since the date of my superannuation.

"What have I with time to do?
Slaves of desks, 't was meant for you."

Dear B. B.,--Your handwriting has conveyed much pleasure to me in
respect of Lucy's restoration. Would I could send you as good news of
_my_ poor Lucy! [1] But some wearisome weeks I must remain lonely yet. I
have had the loneliest time, near ten weeks, broken by a short
apparition of Emma for her holidays, whose departure only deepened the
returning solitude, and by ten days I have passed in town. But town,
with all my 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 passed houses and places, empty
caskets now. I have ceased to care almost about anybody. The bodies I
cared for are in graves, or dispersed. My old clubs, that lived so long
and flourished so steadily, are crumbled away. When I took leave of our
adopted young friend at Charing Cross,'t was heavy unfeeling rain, and I
had nowhere to go. Home have I none, and not a sympathizing house to
turn to in the great 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 pleasur