Half-past Five.—Nick Irons met me with a large viper which he had just killed, after it had flown at his dog. Is there any difference between vipers and adders?
A quarter past Six.—On arriving at home, found a hot crab, which had been sent in to us, as an addition to our dinner, from the parsonage. I lick my lips while thinking of it. I prefer the cream to the gravy.
Half-past six.—Find I have got only three bottles of port and two of sherry left!
Nine o'clock.—My four gallon cask of elderberry wine, made for me—and capitally made, too—by one of the villagers, came home. We are to put a quart of brandy in it, and "take care it don't forment." I fancy I see ourselves and the children regaling ourselves with it on the winter's evenings, in town. Altogether it has cost me twelve shillings and sixpence!
Quarter past Nine.—Children go to bed; I had the candles brought in, resolved to read the new number of the ----; but fell asleep directly, and never woke till half-past twelve o'clock, when I knew not where I was; being in darkness—and alone. Really a journal of this sort is, upon consideration, so instructive and entertaining, that I wish to know whether you would like me to keep one during my next sojourn at the seaside and publish it in Maga? I would undertake not to exceed three numbers of Maga, each Part to contain only twenty pages.
Miss Strickland v. Lord Campbell.
Will his lordship favour the world with some reply to this clever and laborious lady's accusation contained in her letter to the Times? That letter is exceedingly specific and pointed in the charge of literary larceny, and committed under circumstances which every consideration of candour, gallantry, and literary character, concurs in rendering Lord Campbell's complete exculpation a matter of serious consequence to his reputation. Has he, or has he not, designedly appropriated to his own use, as the fruits of his own original research, the results of a literary fellow-labourer's meritorious and pains-taking original investigation—that fellow-labourer, too, being a lady? I sincerely hope that Lord Campbell's first literary attempt will prove not to be thus discreditably signalized. His book is yet unnoticed in Maga.
According to that good old intelligible English saying, it is this morning raining cats and dogs. There's an end, Tickler, to our intended eighteen-mile walk (thither and back) to the lighthouse, the machinery of which I was very anxious to explain to you. Bow, wow, wow, wow! indeed! I know what you mean, you little sinner! You want to be after the rabbits in yonder thickets, and you mean to intimate that you can go perfectly well by yourself, don't mind the rain, and will come safely home when you have finished your sport. Don't look so earnestly at me, and whine so piteously. By the way, do you call yourself a vermin dog? and yet every hair of your shaggy coat stood on end the other day, when I turned out for you the two pennyworth of mice—mice!—which I had bought for you from Nick Irons? What would you have done if a RAT were to meet you? Bah, you little wretch! Where's your spirit? Refined, and refined away by breeding, eh? What would you have done if you were to be allowed to go off now, and were to rout out accidentally a hedgehog, as Hermit did yesterday? You may well whine! He's five times your size, eh? But I've seen a terrier that would tackle a hedgehog, and bring him home, too—your own second cousin, Tory, poor dear dog—peace to his little ashes. Besides, to return to the rabbits—in spite of all your snuffing and smelling, and scampering, and routing about, you never turned up a rabbit yet! And even our kitten has only to rise and curve her little back, and you slink away, like an arrant coward as you are—Well!—come along, doggy! you're a good little creature, with all your faults—these black eyes of yours, with your little erect ears, look as if you had really understood all that I have been saying to you—so I really think—and yet—pour! pour! pour!—[Enter Emily.]