Did you ever taste frogs? Get them, if you can. They are like little
Lilliput rabbits, only a thought nicer.
Christ, how sick I am!—not of the world, but of the widow's shrub.
She's sworn under £6000, but I think she perjured herself. She howls in
E la, and I comfort her in B flat. You understand music?…
"No shrimps!" (That's in answer to Mary's question about how the soles are to be done.)
I am uncertain where this wandering letter may reach you. What you mean by Poste Restante, God knows. Do you mean I must pay the postage? So I do to Dover.
We had a merry passage with the widow at the Commons. She was howling—part howling and part giving directions to the proctor—when crash! down went my sister through a crazy chair, and made the clerks grin, and I grinned, and the widow tittered—and then I knew that she was not inconsolable. Mary was more frightened than hurt.
She'd make a good match for anybody (by she, I mean the widow).
"If he bring but a relict away,
He is happy, nor heard to complain."
SHENSTONE.
Procter has got a wen growing out at the nape of his neck, which his wife wants him to have cut off; but I think it rather an agreeable excrescence—like his poetry—redundant. Hone has hanged himself for debt. Godwin was taken up for picking pockets…. Beckey takes to bad courses. Her father was blown up in a steam machine. The coroner found it Insanity. I should not like him to sit on my letter.
Do you observe my direction? Is it Gallic?—Classical?