oesy. Pole is to marry Miss Long, and
will be a very miserable dog for all that. The present ministers
are to continue, and his Majesty _does_ continue in the same state;
so there's folly and madness for you, both in a breath.

"I never heard but of one man truly fortunate, and he was
Beaumarchais, the author of Figaro, who buried two wives and gained
three law-suits before he was thirty.

"And now, child, what art thou doing? _Reading, I trust._ I want to
see you take a degree. Remember, this is the most important period
of your life; and don't disappoint your papa and your aunt, and all
your kin--besides myself. Don't you know that all male children are
begotten for the express purpose of being graduates? and that even
I am an A.M., though how I became so, the Public Orator only can
resolve. Besides, you are to be a priest: and to confute Sir
William Drummond's late book about the Bible, (printed, but not
published,) and all other infidels whatever. Now leave Master H.'s
gig, and Master S.'s Sapphics, and become as immortal as Cambridge
can make you.

"You see, Mio Carissimo, what a pestilent correspondent I am likely
to become; but then you shall be as quiet at Newstead as you
please, and I won't disturb your studies as I do now. When do you
fix the day, that I may take you up according to contract? Hodgson
talks of making a third in our journey; but we can't stow him,
inside at least. Positively you shall go with me as was agreed, and
don't let me have any of your _politesse_ to H. on the occasion. I
shall manage to arrange for both with a little contrivance. I wish
H. was not quite so fat, and we should pack better. You will want
to know what I am doing--chewing tobacco.

"You see nothing of my allies, Scrope Davies and Matthews[35]--they
don't suit you; and how does it happen that I--who am a pipkin of
the same pottery--continue in your good graces? Good night,--I will
go on in the morning.

"Dec. 9th. In a morning, I'm always sullen, and to-day is as sombre
as myself. Rain and mist are worse than a sirocco, particularly in
a beef-eating and beer-drinking country. My bookseller, Cawthorne,
has just left me, and tells me, with a most important face, that he
is in treaty for a novel of Madame D'Arblay's, for which 1000
guineas ar