Sunday, Auguſt 17.
— — — — — — — — — — —
— — — — — — — — — — —
— — — — — — — — — — —
I have promiſed ——— to go with him to his country-houſe, where he is now permitted to dine—I, and the little darling, to be ſure[47-A]—whom I cannot help kiſſing with more fondneſs, ſince you left us. I think I ſhall enjoy the fine proſpect, and that it will rather enliven, than ſatiate my imagination.
I have called on Mrs. ———. She has the manners of a gentlewoman, with a daſh of the eaſy French coquetry, which renders her piquante.—But Monſieur her huſband, whom nature never dreamed of caſting in either the mould of a gentleman or lover, makes but an aukward figure in the foreground of the picture.
The H——s are very ugly, without doubt—and the houſe ſmelt of commerce from top to toe—ſo that his abortive attempt to diſplay taſte, only proved it to be one of the things not to be bought with gold. I was in a room a moment alone, and my attention was attracted by the pendule—A nymph was offering up her vows before a ſmoking altar, to a fat-bottomed Cupid (ſaving your preſence), who was kicking his heels in the air.—Ah! kick on, thought I; for the demon of traffic will ever fright away the loves and graces, that ſtreak with the roſy beams of infant fancy the ſombre day of life—whilſt the imagination, not allowing us to ſee things as they are, enables us to catch a haſty draught of the running ſtream of delight, the thirſt for which ſeems to be given only to tantalize us.
But I am philoſophizing; nay, perhaps you will call me ſevere, and bid me let the ſquare-headed money-getters alone.—Peace to them! though none of the ſocial ſprites (and there are not a few of different deſcriptions, who ſport about the various inlets to my heart) gave me a twitch to reſtrain my pen.
I have been writing on, expecting poor ——— to come; for, when I began, I merely thought of buſineſs; and, as this is the idea that moſt naturally aſſociates with your image, I wonder I ſtumbled on any other.
Yet, as common life, in my opinion, is ſcarcely worth having, even with a gigot every day, and a pudding added thereunto, I will allow you to cultivate my judgment, if you will permit me to keep alive the ſentiments in your heart, which may be termed romantic, becauſe, the offſpring of the ſenſes and the imagination, they reſemble the mother more than the father[50-A], when they produce the ſuffuſion I admire.—In ſpite of icy age, I hope ſtill to ſee it, if you have not determined only to eat and drink, and be ſtupidly uſeful to the ſtupid—
