‘My dear Rogers,—When, when are we again to meet? I was in hopes that those Irish friends of mine who, as you may remember, gave me lodging under their roof these last two summers in Albemarle Street would again have been at their post this summer and again made me their guest. But the state of Ireland compels them to stand to their post; and this is to me a sad disappointment, for I had set my heart, my dear old friend, on having a few more breakfasts with you (to say nothing of dinners) before “time and the hour has quite run out our day.”
‘I am sinking here into a mere vegetable.’