idea, is the most perfect I have yet met with,
take it all in all.

It is long-faced day with the King. We went far; the weather was bad;
and, after all, met with little or no game: I did not fire off my gun.

Yesterday, when we brought home all we killed, it filled the house,
completely; and, to-day, they are obliged to white-wash the walls, to
take away the blood. There were more than four hundred; boars, deer,
stags, and all.

To-morrow, we are to have another slaughter; and not a word of reason
or common sense do I meet with, the whole day, till I retire to my
volumes of the old Gentleman's Magazine, which just keeps my mind from
starving.

Except to-day, on a mountain, I have never felt the least appetite;
there, I eat the wings of a cold chicken with pleasure.

Hamilton is delighted with your civilities. He has wrote me a long
letter. I do not mean to keep pace with him in writing; so, send him a
line or two, only, in answer.

I do not recollect the name of Marino Soolania; and, if I received a
letter from him, it was in the hurry of my arrival, and is lost: so
that Smith may desire the Dutch Consul to desire him to write again,
and I will answer.

I always rejoice when I find you do not neglect your singing. I am, I
own, ambitious of producing something extraordinary in you, and it is
nearly done.

Adieu! my sweet Em. I rejoice that the time of our re-union is so
near--_Saturday night_!

W.H.

XVI.

Venasso, Friday,
27th January 1794.

MY DEAR EM.

By having grumbled a little, I got a better post to-day; and have
killed two boars and a sow, all enormous. I have missed but two shot
since I came here; and, to be sure, when the post is good, it is noble
shooting! The rocks, and mountains, as wild as the boars.

The news you sent me, of poor Lord Pembroke, gave me a little twist;
but I have, for some time, perceived, that my friends, with whom I
spent my younger days, have been dropping around me.

Lord Pembroke's neck was very short, and his father died of an
apoplexy.

My study of antiquities, has kept me in constant thought of the
perpetual fluctuation of every thing. The whole art is, really, to
live all the _days_ of our life; and not, with anxious care, disturb
the sweetest hour that life affords--which is, the present! Admire
the Creator, and all his works, to us incomprehensible: and do all
the good you can upon earth; and take the chance of eternity, without
dismay.