e 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 Westwood's senses, from the
time he began to miss the rooks. T. Westwood has passed a retired life
in this hamlet of thirty or forty years, living upon the minimum which
is