What shall I say to dear Mary for being so long before I reply to her kind letter? What but
that I have a bruised head, and am always full of work and trouble, and always
desiring to write such very long answers to kind letters, that seem as if I should
never write any. I once heard Hobhouse say a
good thing—much better than any he ever said in Parliament—to wit, that
the only real thing in life was to be always doing wrong, and always be forgiven
for it. Is not that pretty and Christian? For my part I cannot always be doing
wrong; I have no such luck; on the contrary, I am obliged to waste a great deal of
time in doing much which is absolutely right,—nay, I am generally occupied
with it all day, so strange and unpardonable is my existence. And yet this putting
off of letters is a very bad thing; I grant my friends have much to forgive in it,
so I hope they will forgive me accordingly, and think I am not so very bad and
virtuous after all. As to being “venerable,” however, I defy anybody to
accuse me of that, and they will find some difficulty in persuading me that you are
so. Venerable! why it’s an Archdeacon that’s venerable, or Bede, the oldest historian—“Venerable
Bede”—or the oldest Duke or Viscount living, whoever he is, the
“venerable Duke” of the newspapers. What time may do with me I cannot
say, but it shall at any rate be with no consent of mine that I become even aged,
much less venerable, and therefore I have resolved not to fear being so, lest fear
make me what I fear. Alas! I fear I am not wholly without misgivings while I say
it, for white hairs are fast and fearfully mingling with my black, and I fear that
my juvenility is all brag. I have told Clarke that I have none remaining, and I fear that is more like the
truth than these ostentations, that is to say, in point of matter of fact, for as
to matter of fancy I love and desire just the same things as I did of old, read the
same books, long for the same fields, love the same friends (whatever some of these
may think), and will come and hear dear little Clara sing (great Clara now) whenever you give me notice that you
have an evening for me; for here I sit, work, work, work,
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