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the stable foundation of Leadenhall. Sit down, good B. B., in the banking-office. . What! is there not from six to eleven p.m. six days in the week, and is there not all Sunday? Fie, what a superfluity of man's time, if you could think so!-enough for relaxation, mirth, converse, poetry, good thoughts, quiet thoughts. On the corroding, torturing, tormenting thoughts, that disturb the brain of the unlucky wight who must draw upon it for daily sustenance! Henceforth I retract all my fond complaints of mercantile employment; look upon them as lovers' quarrels. I was but half in earnest. Welcome dead timber of a desk, that makes me live. A little grumbling is a wholesome medicine for the spleen; but in my inner heart do I approve and embrace this our close but unharassing way of life. I am quite serious. If you can send me Fox, I will not keep it six weeks, and will return it, with warm thanks to yourself and friend, without blot or dog's ear. You will much oblige me by this kindness. Yours truly,
TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
Colebrook Cottage, April 6, 1825. Dear Wordsworth--I have been several times meditating a letter to you concerning the good thing which has befallen me, but the thought of poor Monkhouse came across me. He was one that I had exulted in the prospect of congratu
lating me. He and you were to have been the first participators, for indeed it has been ten weeks since the first motion of it. Here am I then, after thirty-three years' slavery, sitting in my own room at eleven o'clock this finest of all April mornings, a freed man, with £441 a year for the remainder of my life, live I as long as John Dennis, who outlived his annuity and starved at ninety; £441, i. e. £450, with a de- ' duction of £9 for a provision secured to my sister, she being survivor, the pension guaranteed by Act Georgii Tertii, etc.
I came home FOR EVER on Tuesday in last week. The incomprehensibleness of my condition overwhelmed me. It was like passing from life into eternity. Every year to be as long as thret, i. e, to have three times as much real time (time that is iny own) in it! I wandered about thinking I was happy, but feeling I was not. But that tumultuousness is passing off, and I begin to understand the aature of the gift. Holydays, even the annual month, were always uneasy joys; their conscious fugitiveness; the craving after making the most of them. Now, when all is holyday, there are no holydays. I can sit at home, in rain or shine, without a restless impulse for walkings. I am daily steadying, and shall soon tind it as natural to me to be rny own master, as it has been irksome to have had a master, Mary wakes every morning with an obscure feeling that some good has happened to yo
Leigh Hunt and Montgomery, after their ren leasements, describe the shock of their emancipation much as I feel mine. But it hurt their frames. I eat, drink, and sleep as sound as ever. I lay no anxious schemes for going hither and thither, but take things as they occur. Yesterday I excursioned twenty miles; to-day I write a few letters. Pleasuring was for fugitive play-days; mine are fugitive only in the sense that life is fugitive. Freedom and life co-existent!
At the foot of such a call upon you for gratulation, I am ashamed to advert to that melancholy event. Monkhouse was a charactes I learned to love slowly, but it grew upon me, yearly, monthly, daily. What a chasm has it made in our pleasant parties! His noble friendly face was always coming before me, till this hnrrying event in my life came, and for the time has absorbed all interest; in fact it has shaken me a little. My old desk companions, with whom I have had such merry hours, seem to reproach me for removing my lot from among them. They were pleasant creatures; but to the anxieties of business, and & weight of possible worse ever impending, I was not equal. Tuthill and Gillman gave me my certificates. I laughed at the friendly lie. implied in them; but my sister shook her head, and said it was all true. Indeed, this last Winter I was jaded out: Winters were always morse than other parts of the year, because the
spirits are worse, and I had no daylight. In Summer I had day-light evenings. The relief *was hinted to me from a superior Power, when I, poor slave, had not a hope but that I must wait another seven years with Jacob: and lo! the Rachel which I coveted is brought to me!
Have you read the noble dedication of Irving's "Missionary Orations” to S. T. C.? Who shall call this man a quack hereafter? What the Kirk will think of it neither I nor Irving care. When somebody suggested to him that it would not be likely to do him good, videlicet, among his own people, “That is a reason for doing it," was his noble answer. That Irving thinks he has profited mainly by S. T. C., I have no doubt. The very style of the Dedication shows it.
Communicate my news to Southey, and beg his pardon for my being so long acknowledging his kind present of the “Church,” which circumstances, having no reference to himself, prevented at the time. Assure him of my deep respect and friendliest feelings.
Divide the same, or rather each take the whole to you—I mean you and all yours. To Miss Hutchinson I must write separate. · Farewell I and end at last, long selfish letter,
TO BERNARD BARTON si : Enfield Chase Side, Saturday, .
- 25th of July, A. D. 1829, 11 A. M. .There !-a fuller, plumper, juicier date never dropt 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 specialties ; least of all, since the date of my superannuation.. 1
“What have I with time to do?
Slaves of desks, 'twas meant for you." Dear B. B. Your handwriting has conveyed much pleasure to me in report of Lucy's" restoration. Would I could send you as good news of my poor Lucy. 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 past 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 disa persed. My old clubs, that lived so long and flourished so 'steadily, are crumbled away.