She's sworn
under L6,000; but I think she perjured herself. She howls in E _la_, and
I comfort her in B flat. You understand music?
If you haven't got Massinger, you have nothing to do but go to the first
Bibliotheque you can light upon at Boulogne, and ask for it (Gifford's
edition); and if they haven't got it, you can have "Athalie," par
Monsieur Racine, and make the best of it. But that "Old Law" is
delicious.
"No shrimps!" (that's in answer to Mary's question about how the soles
are to be done.)
I am uncertain where this wandering letter may reach you. What you mean
by Poste Restante, God knows. Do you mean I must pay the postage? So I
do,--to Dover.
We had a merry passage with the widow at the Commons. She was
howling,--part howling, and part giving directions to the proctor,--when
crash! down went my sister through a crazy chair, and made the clerks
grin, and I grinned, and the widow tittered, and then I knew that she
was not inconsolable. Mary was more frightened than hurt.
She'd make a good match for anybody (by she, I mean the widow).
"If he bring but a _relict_ away,
He is happy, nor heard to complain."
SHENSTONE.
Procter has got a wen growing out at the nape of his neck, which his
wife wants him to have cut off; but I think it rather an agreeable
excrescence,--like his poetry, redundant. Hone has hanged himself for
debt.
Pages:
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314