I am expectant of agents to
accompany me to Rochdale, a journey not to be anticipated with pleasure;
though I feel very restless where I am, and shall probably ship off for
Greece again; what nonsense it is to talk of Soul, when a cloud makes it
_melancholy_ and wine makes it _mad_.
Collet of Staines, your "most kind host," has lost that girl you saw of
his. She grew to five feet eleven, and might have been God knows how
high if it had pleased Him to renew the race of Anak; but she fell by a
ptisick, a fresh proof of the folly of begetting children. You knew
Matthews. Was he not an intellectual giant? I knew few better or more
intimately, and none who deserved more admiration in point of ability.
Scrope Davies has been here on his way to Harrowgate; I am his guest in
October at King's, where we will "drink deep ere we depart." "Won't you,
won't you, won't you, won't you come, Mr. Mug?" [3] We did not
amalgamate properly at Harrow; it was somehow rainy, and then a wife
makes such a damp; but in a seat of celibacy I will have revenge. Don't
you hate helping first, and losing the wings of chicken? And then,
conversation is always flabby. Oh! in the East women are in their proper
sphere, and one has--no conversation at all. My house here is a
delightful matrimonial mansion. When I wed, my spouse and I will be so
happy!--one in each wing.
I presume you are in motion from your Herefordshire station, [4] and
Drury must be gone back to Gerund Grinding.
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