19_th_ _July_ ’93.
. . . We are in the thick of war—see _Illustrated London News_—we have
only two outside boys left to us. Nothing is doing, and _per contra_
little paying. . . My life here is dear; but I can live within my income
for a time at least—so long as my prices keep up—and it seems a clear
duty to waste none of it on gadding about. . . . My life of my family
fills up intervals, and should be an excellent book when it is done, but
big, damnably big.
My dear old man, I perceive by a thousand signs that we grow old, and are
soon to pass away! I hope with dignity; if not, with courage at least.
I am myself very ready; or would be—will be—when I have made a little
money for my folks. The blows that have fallen upon you are truly
terrifying; I wish you strength to bear them. It is strange, I must seem
to you to blaze in a Birmingham prosperity and happiness; and to myself I
seem a failure. The truth is, I have never got over the last influenza
yet, and am miserably out of heart and out of kilter. Lungs pretty
right, stomach nowhere, spirits a good deal overshadowed; but we’ll come
through it yet, and cock our bonnets. (I confess with sorrow that I am
not yet quite sure about the _intellects_; but I hope it is only one of
my usual periods of non-work. They are more unbearable now, because I
cannot rest. _No rest but the grave for Sir Walter_! O the words ring
in a man’s head.)