were left alone!—desolate as Babylon, or the ruins of Palmyra. I have run about with a saucepan of gruel in one hand, and a basin of broth in the other. I have not yet lost the keys, and have only broken one candlestick. I hope my patients are recovering, and then I shall leave the kitchen for the attic, when you shall have the first-fruits of my return. We move sometime next week—I believe, to 28, Upper Berkeley-street, West."
The next day she wrote—"We move in a week. I have some thoughts (two words, the last, though joined) of writing a farewell ode to Hans'-place."
Her unusual exertions in comforting the sick, and waiting on the servantless, ended in lassitude—or, to use her own words, downright stupidity; for before the week was over, arrived a note excusing the non-fulfilment of some literary engagement, for the fruits of which we were anxiously waiting. As it is a novelty and brief, we copy it—
"This has been a very Viola week—
"What is its history?
A blank, my lord."
I literally have been too stupid to write, but I have refused to dine out to-day, on purpose to do something for you to-night; at least I shall try, and, if I succeed, send it early to-morrow. As there are no books, I have made several extracts from the magazines. Yours very truly, stupid
"L. E. L."
"I have some thoughts of advertising for myself—at least for my better part, my ideas."
Before we accompany L. E. L. to her new residence, let us indulge the hope of entertaining the reader with another specimen or two of her correspondence, which belong to an earlier date, but did
