by so
novel an appearance, inclined her to pat his head repeatedly with her
fore foot; with her claws, however, sheathed, and not in anger, but in
the way of philosophical inquiry and examination. To prevent her
falling a victim to so laudable an exercise of her talents, I
interposed in a moment with the hoe, and performed an act of
decapitation, which though not immediately mortal proved so in the end.
Had he slid into the passages, where it is dark, or had he, when in the
yard, met with no interruption from the cat, and secreted himself in
any of the outhouses, it is hardly possible but that some of the family
must have been bitten; he might have been trodden upon without being
perceived, and have slipped away before the sufferer could have well
distinguished what foe had wounded him. Three years ago we discovered
one in the same place, which the barber slew with a trowel.

"Our proposed removal to Mr. Small's was, as you suppose, a jest, or
rather a joco-serious matter. We never looked upon it as entirely
feasible, yet we saw in it something so like practicability, that we
did not esteem it altogether unworthy of our attention. It was one of
those projects which people of lively imaginations play with, and
admire for a few days, and then break in pieces. Lady Austen returned
on Thursday from London, where she spent the last fortnight, and
whither she was called by an unexpected opportunity to dispose of the
remainder of her lease. She has now, therefore, no longer any
connexion with the great city, she has none on earth whom she calls
friends but us, and no house but at Olney. Her abode is to be at the
vicarage, where she has hired as much room as she wants, which she will
embellish with her own furniture, and which she will occupy, as soon as
the minister's wife has produced another child, which is expected to
make its entry in October.

"Mr. Bull, a dissenting minister of Newport, a learned, ingenious,
good-natured, pious friend of ours, who sometimes visits us, and whom
we visited last week, has put into my hands three volumes of French
poetry, composed by Madame Guyon;--a quietist, say you, and a fanatic,
I will have nothing to do with her. It is very well, you are welcome
to have nothing to do with her, but in the meantime her verse is the
only French verse I ever read that I found agreeable; there is a
neatness in it equal to that which we applaud with so much reason in
the compositions of Prior. I