I write, but I am not in the humour to write, and you must expect longer, if not more entertaining, letters soon--that is, in a week or so--when I am a little recovered from my journey. Pray tell us all the news with regard to our own offspring, whom we left at nurse in England; as well as those of our friends. Mention Cobbett and politics too--and Hunt--to whom Mary is now writing--and particularly your own plans and yourself. You shall hear more of me and my plans soon. My health is improved already--and my spirits something--and I have many literary schemes, and one in particular--which I thirst to be settled that I may begin. I have ordered Ollier to send you some sheets &c. for revision. Adieu. --Always faithfully yours, P. B. S. TO THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. _Milan, April 20, 1818._ My dear Peacock, I had no conception that the distance between us, measured by time in respect of letters, was so great. I have but just received yours dated the 2d--and when you will receive mine written from this city somewhat later than the same date, I cannot know. I am sorry to hear that you have been obliged to remain at Marlow; a certain degree of society being almost a necessity of life, particularly as we are not to see you this summer in Italy. But this, I suppose, must be as it is. I often revisit Marlow in thought. The curse of this life is, that whatever is once known, can never be unknown. You inhabit a spot, which before you inhabit it, is as indifferent to you as any other spot upon earth, and when, persuaded by some necessity, you think to leave it, you leave it not; it clings to you--and with memories of things, which, in your experience of them, gave no such promise, revenges your desertion. Time flows on, places are changed; friends who were with us, are no longer with us; yet what has been seems yet to be, but barren and stripped of life. See, I have sent you a study for Nightmare Abbey.