of me, and the rest do not understand me. His
epistle is as follows:[321]

"DEAR COUSIN,

"I thought when I left the town to have raised your fame here, and
helped you to support it by intelligence from hence; but alas! they had
never heard of the _Tatler_ until I brought down a set. I lent them from
house to house; but they asked me what they meant. I began to enlighten
them, by telling who and who were supposed to be intended by the
characters drawn. I said for instance, Chloe[322] and Clarissa are two
eminent toasts. A gentleman (who keeps his greyhound and gun, and one
would think might know better) told me, he supposed they were papishes,
for their names were not English: 'Then,' said he, 'why do you call live
people "toasts"?' I answered, that was a new name found out by the wits,
to make a lady have the same effect as burridge[323] in the glass when a
man is drinking. 'But,' says I, 'sir, I perceive this is to you all
bamboozling; why you look as if you were Don Diego'd[324] to the tune of
a thousand pounds.' All this good language was lost upon him: he only
stared, though he is as good a scholar as any layman in the town, except
the barber. Thus, cousin, you must be content with London for the centre
of your wealth and fame; we have no relish for you. Wit must describe
its proper circumference, and not go beyond it, lest (like little boys,
when they straggle out of their own parish), it may wander to places
where it is not known, and be lost. Since it is so, you must excuse me
that I am forced at a visit to sit silent, and only lay up what
excellent things pass at such conversations.

"This evening I was with a couple of young ladies; one of them has the
character of the prettiest company, yet really I thought her but silly;
the other, who talked a great deal less, I observed to have
understanding. The lady who is reckoned such a companion among her
acquaintance, has only, with a very brisk air, a knack of saying the
commonest things: the other, with a sly serious one, says home things
enough. The first (Mistress Giddy) is very quick; but the second (Mrs.
Slim) fell into Giddy's own style, and was as good company as she. Giddy
happens to drop her glove; Slim reaches it to her: 'Madam,' says Giddy,
'I hope you'll have a better office.' Upon which Slim immediately
repartees, and sits in her lap, and cries, 'Are you not sorry for my
heaviness?' This sly wench pleased me to see how she hit her height of
understan