I will try again, being a giant refreshed by the house being empty. The
presence of people is the great obstacle to letter-writing. I deny that
letters should contain news (I mean mine; those of other people should).
But mine should contain appropriate sentiments and humorous nonsense, or
nonsense without the humour. When the house is empty, the mind is seized
with a desire—no, that is too strong—a willingness to pour forth
unmitigated rot, which constitutes (in me) the true spirit of
correspondence. When I have no remarks to offer (and nobody to offer
them to), my pen flies, and you see the remarkable consequence of a page
literally covered with words and genuinely devoid of sense. I can always
do that, if quite alone, and I like doing it; but I have yet to learn
that it is beloved by correspondents. The deuce of it is, that there is
no end possible but the end of the paper; and as there is very little
left of that—if I cannot stop writing—suppose you give up reading. It
would all come to the same thing; and I think we should all be happier . . .