A profane historian will depart from Bentinck Street, London, and drink tea, sup and lye at Newbury in Berkshire.
January 1st, 1781.
The same historian will gently proceed from Newbury to Bath till he reaches the aerial cell of the Fairy of the Green, or more probably the white mountain. It is apprehended that the said Fairy will not be able to dine that day before four o'clock in the afternoon.
414.
To his Stepmother.
Bentinck Street, February 24th, 1781.
Dear Madam,
*As you have probably received my last letter of thirteen hundred pages,[474] I shall be very concise; Read, judge, pronounce: and believe that I sincerely agree with my friend Julian,[475] in esteeming the praise of those only who will freely censure my defects. Next Thursday I shall be delivered to the World, for whose inconstant and malicious levity I am coolly but firmly prepared. Excuse me to Sarah. I see more clearly than ever the absolute necessity of confining my presents to my own family; that, and that only, is a determined line, and Lord S. is the first to approve his exclusion. He has a strong assurance of success, and some hopes of a speedy decision. How suddenly your friend General Pierson[476] disappeared! You thought him happy. What is happiness?*