Here might come two brief notes to Dibdin, of no importance.] LETTER 365 CHARLES LAMB TO SARAH HUTCHINSON [Dated at end: March 1, 1825.] Dear Miss Hutchinson Your news has made us all very sad. I had my hopes to the last. I seem as if I were disturbing you at such an awful time even by a reply. But I must acknowledge your kindness in presuming upon the interest we shall all feel on the subject. No one will more feel it than Robinson, to whom I have written. No one more than he and we acknowleged the nobleness and worth of what we have lost. Words are perfectly idle. We can only pray for resignation to the Survivors. Our dearest expressions of condolence to Mrs. M------ at this time in particular. God bless you both. I have nothing of ourselves to tell you, and if I had, I could not be so unreverent as to trouble you with it. We are all well, that is all. Farewell, the departed--and the left. Your's and his, while memory survives, cordially C. LAMB. 1 Mar. 1825. [The letter refers to the death of Thomas Monkhouse. Here should come an undated note from Lamb to Procter, in which Lamb refers to the same loss: "We shall be most glad to see you, though more glad to have seen double _you_."] LETTER 366 CHARLES LAMB TO BERNARD BARTON [P.M. March 23, 1825.] Wednesday. Dear B.B.--I have had no impulse to write, or attend to any single object but myself, for weeks past. My single self. I by myself I. I am sick of hope deferred. The grand wheel is in agitation that is to turn up my Fortune, but round it rolls and will turn up nothing. I have a glimpse of Freedom, of becoming a Gentleman at large, but I am put off from day to day. I have offered my resignation, and it is neither accepted nor rejected. Eight weeks am I kept in this fearful suspence. Guess what an absorbing stake I feel it. I am not conscious of the existence of friends present or absent. The E.I. Directors alone can be that thing to me--or not.-- I have just learn'd that nothing will be decided this week. Why the next? Why any week? It has fretted me into an itch of the fingers, I rub 'em against Paper and write to you, rather than not allay this Scorbuta.