Ah, dear Lady! is it you? Do I see again your handwriting? and when shall I see yourself? (as the Irish say). You may depend upon it, all lives out of London are mistakes, more or less grievous;—but mistakes.
I am alone in London, without Mrs. Smith, upon duty at St. Paul’s. London, however, is full, from one of these eternal dissolutions and re-assemblage of Parliaments, with which these latter days have abounded. I wish you were back again: nobody is so agreeable, so frank, so loyal, so good-hearted. I do not think I have made any new female friends since I saw you, but have been faithful to you. But I love excellence of all kinds, and seek and cherish it.
The Whigs will remain in; they are in no present danger. Did you read my pamphlet against the Bishops, and how did you like it?
I have not seen your friend Jeffrey for these two years. He did not come to town last year. I hear with the greatest pleasure of his fame as a judge.
I am going back to Combe Florey the end of the month, to remain till the beginning of March; and then in London for some months, where I sincerely hope to see you. To see you again will be like the resurrection of flowers in the spring: the bitterness of solitude, I shall say, is past.
