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 dispersed. My old clubs, that lived so long
and flourished so steadily, are crumbled away. When I took leave of our
adopted young friend at Charing Cross,'t was heavy unfeeling rain, and I
had nowhere to go. Home have I none, and not a sympathizing house to
turn to in the great city. Never did the waters of heaven pour down on a
forlorner head. Yet I tried ten days at a sort of a friend's house; but
it was large and straggling,--one of the individuals of my old long knot
of friends, card-players, pleasant companions, that have tumbled to
pieces, into dust and other things; and I got home on Thursday,
convinced that I was better to get home to my hole at Enfield, and hide
like a sick cat in my corner. Less than a month, I hope, will bring home
Mary. She is at Fulham, looking better in her health than ever, but
sadly rambling, and scarce showing any pleasure in seeing me, or
curiosity when I should come again. But the old feelings will come back
again, and we shall drown old sorrows over a game of piquet again. But
it is a tedious cut out of a life of fifty-four, to lose twelve or
thirteen weeks every year or two.
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