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 is perfect trash.  Poor Hessey, I suppose you see, has failed.  Hunt and Clarke too.  Your “Vulgar truths” will be a good name—­and I think your prose must please—­me at least—­but ’tis useless to write poetry with no purchasers.  ’Tis cold work Authorship without something to puff one into fashion.  Could you not write something on Quakerism—­for Quakers to read—­but nominally addrest to Non Quakers? explaining your dogmas—­waiting on the Spirit—­by the analogy of human calmness and patient waiting on the judgment?  I scarcely know what I mean, but to make Non Quakers reconciled to your doctrines, by shewing something like them in mere human operations—­but I hardly understand myself, so let it pass for nothing.  I pity you for over-work, but I assure you no-work is worse.  The mind preys on itself, the most unwholesome food.  I brag’d formerly that I could not have too much time.  I have 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 inchmeal just now.  But the snake is vital.  Well, I shall write merrier anon.—­’Tis 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 wood will let you—­and think that you are not quite alone, as I am.  Health to Lucia and to Anna and kind rememb’ces.

Yours forlorn.