Here is my cousin's answer, Dearest Emma—"Io lo capisco." Her brother assured me, there is not the semblance of an insurrection; and, that our dear, dear Queen, is misled by a set of scoundrels.
Send me word where you will be. Adieu!
VI.
Yesterday, we dined on Mount Vesuvius; to-day, we were to have dined on its victim, Pompeii: but, "by the grace of God, which passeth all understanding," since Bartolomeo himself, that weather-soothsayer, did not foresee this British weather, we are prevented.
In the mean time, all this week and the next, is replete with projects to Ischia, Procita, &c. &c. so God only knows when I can worship, again, my Diana of Ephesus.
Write me word, explicitly, how you are, what you are, and where you are; and be sure that, wheresoever I am, still I am your's, my dearest Emma.
VII.
Wednesday.
MY DEAREST EMMA,
The very unexpected intelligence, which Prince Augustus has most delicately communicated to me, of poor Lord Hervey's decease, has quite bouleversée my already shattered frame.