A longer interval, I think, and surely by far a sadder, than ever
occurred between us before, since we first met in the Scotch
moors, some five and thirty years ago. You have written me
various Notes, too, and Letters, all good and cheering to me,--
almost the only truly human speech I have heard from anybody
living;--and still my stony silence could not be broken; not
till now, though often looking forward to it, could I resolve on
such a thing. You will think me far gone, and much bankrupt in
hope and heart;--and indeed I am; as good as without hope and
without fear; a gloomily serious, silent, and sad old man;
gazing into the final chasm of things, in mute dialogue with
"Death, Judgment, and Eternity" (dialogue _mute_ on _both_
sides!), not caring to discourse with poor articulate-speaking
fellow creatures on their sorts of topics. It is right of me;
and yet also it is not right. I often feel that I had better be
dead than thus indifferent, contemptuous, disgusted with the
world and its roaring nonsense, which I have no thought farther
of lifting a finger to help, and only try to keep out of the way
of, and shut my door against.
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