William Hone to Dr. [Charles] West, 19 August, 1840

1.1.1.

Since I answered yours of the 11th by return of post, which I did jokingly, & somewhat jokingly, for I labored under indigestion, which in me is a provocative of self relief from gloom, my prompt and precise communication might, methought, have startled into a canter the steeds of the Committee wagon, & probably you are running with breathless impatience to stay their full gallop. For I have not since heard of their or your notions. Do you remember my emphatic query "when?," following "shall I see you?"

Remembering that this day commences the eighth, & last, week of our stay here, I purpose tomorrow, to penetrate with my wife further "into the bosom of the land," namely, to Ripley my father's birth-place, there to see the farm-house in which he was born, & learn something of my grandmothers relations there, whether they are well to do in the world, & what nots, & why nots, and then to return hither, & pack up & come home to Ball Court. I had delayed this expedition till the last thing, expecting & still hoping to see you today with printed papers. My wife is like an old lioness & I like an old Donkey — foundered.

Mrs. Burn, who came here on Monday, will keep house at Richmond with Ellen, until we return from Ripley.

Is it true that Mr Binney is gone with his family, for health, into the west? Is Mr. Alderman Pirie our Treasurer? Is & are &, fifty or more queries, amounting to the Witches "One times one" you will answer orally or how?

I began this in a glorious sunrise at 4 A. M. — and now all is overcast with dreary rain — a deluge of rain. That poor black donkey we saw pushed up the lane, and doubled up against the bank, is outside in it all — while the rain patters I have odd thoughts on that affair — my organ of comparison is active — imagine, if you can, what I think on that & other analogies. One short hour has decided against my Ripley excursion.

I have had mine — or have it.

Write to me pray, my dear friend — To no other can I write

And so the poor thing was driven back to flutter & die in the storm — Serve it right, eh?

Snatches of old tunes, & obsolete poems, heard in my childhood, recur at such seasons, & tell me that my heart still feels — I am a gray headed fool, to feel still, as I did when a child. The singing birds I then heard are dead, but their carols survive in recollection.

Write, write, write — a line or two — the heart of the news relating to (or concerning) myself, or yourself. I am a selfist, & have had a fire these two days.