MY dear B. B.—I have scarce spirits to write, yet am harass’d with not writing. Nine weeks are completed, and Mary does not get any better. It is perfectly exhausting. Enfield and every thing is very gloomy. But for long experience, I should fear her ever getting well.
I feel most thankful for the spinsterly attentions of your sister. Thank the kind “knitter in the sun.”
What nonsense seems verse, when one is seriously out of hope and spirits! I mean that at this time I have some nonsense to write, pain of incivility. Would to the fifth heaven no coxcombess had invented Albums.
I have not had a Bijoux, nor the slightest notice from Pickering about omitting 4 out of 5 of my things. The best thing is never to hear of such a thing as a bookseller again, or to think there are publishers: second hand Stationers and Old Book Stalls for me. Authorship should be an idea of the Past.
Old Kings, old Bishops, are venerable. All present is hollow. I cannot make a Letter. I have no straw, not a pennyworth of chaff, only this may stop your kind importunity to know about us.
Here is a comfortable house, but no tenants. One does not make a household.
| 1827 | MARY LAMB STILL ILL | 763 |
Do not think I am quite in despair, but in addition to hope protracted, I have a stupifying cold and obstructing headache, and the sun is dead.
I will not fail to apprise you of the revival of a Beam.
Meantime accept this, rather than think I have forgotten you all.
Best rememb
