have

parted with it! What matters it what I do? or what becomes of me?—but let me remember Job's saying, and console myself with being "a living man."

I wish I could settle to reading again,—my life is monotonous, and yet desultory. I take up books, and fling them down again. I began a comedy, and burnt it because the scene ran into

reality

;—a novel, for the same reason. In rhyme, I can keep more away from facts; but the thought always runs through, through ... yes, yes, through. I have had a letter from Lady Melbourne—the best friend I ever had in my life, and the cleverest of women.

Not a word from ——[Lady F. W. Webster], Have they set out from ——? or has my last precious epistle fallen into the lion's jaws?

[If]

so—and this silence looks suspicious—I must clap on my "musty morion" and "hold out my iron."

[3]

I am out of practice—but I won't begin again at Manton's now. Besides, I would not return his shot. I was once a famous wafer-splitter; but then the bullies of society made it necessary. Ever since I began to feel that I had a bad cause to support, I have left off the exercise.