To-morrow we go to Plaçentia, which is much larger than this very pretty town.
Here there is an old castle and walls inhabited by cranes, which interest me very much, perching on the house-tops and church steeples, and cowering over the town.
That fellow there, I at first thought was standing upon the stalk of a weather-cock, but I found by a spy-glass that they were his own long legs, with his great feet happy upon the stone ball.
The air seems fresher here than in Portugal. Sweet F. E. wrote me such a dear note in Mamsey’s letter. I wonder how she could contrive to make it so pleasant and yet so proper. For me, I could do no such thing. Were I to write to her warm, kind, affectionate words, my heart would dictate fluently enough, but I am sure they would not pass the school of decorum.
The mistress would say, “You must scratch out there ‘dearest F.’ Lop away this ‘love’ and that ‘love’”; and so word by word I should see my poor letter robbed of all its graces, looking like a tobacconist’s with “Humble servant to command” at the bottom.
What if I should not fill this sheet! It is very big, and I have to give my letter to General Sherbrooke in a quarter of an hour, and you see I write very close.
My poor chum has just lost a horse, which, though I put on outward signs of condolence, I am not sorry for. As to being bridled, he never could think of such a thing. He would always go when he liked it, and where also. He would look very stupid, to entice the unwary behind him; and then, with both feet and all his might, lunge out, as much as to say, “D—— thee, I have thee now.” In the same manner he would most innocently pretend to come and rub his head upon you in a dawdling, sleepy sort of way, and then get your leg or arm in his jaws and try as hard as he could to crack it. For these and many other pretty accomplishments
His master loved him dearly,
And mourns him now sincerely,
While I say, “Poor thing” merely,