of your gain. Shed your blood in my behalf, and, while you are young
and robust, I will allow you just as much as will keep life and soul
together; when you are old, and worn out, you may rob, hang, rot, or
starve.'

Would not any one imagine, Oliver, that this were poetry? Alas! It is
mere, literal, matter of fact.

Yet let us not complain. Men begin to reason, and to think aloud; and
these things cannot always endure.

I intended to have made some observations on the people, the aspect of
the country, and other trifles; I scarcely now know what: but I have
wandered into a subject so vast, so interesting, so sublime, that all
petty individual remarks sink before it. Nor will I for the present
blur the majesty of the picture, by ill-placed, mean, and discordant
objects. Therefore, farewell.

F. HENLEY


P.S. Examine all I have said, and what I am going to add, relative to
myself, with severity. Mine is a state of mind in which the jealous
rigour of friendship appears to be essentially necessary. I have been
seized with I know not what apprehensions, by some hints which she has
two or three times lately repeated, concerning the brother of her dear
and worthy friend, Louisa; who, it seems, is to give us the meeting at
Paris. Is it not ominous? At least the manner in which she introduced
the subject, and spoke of him, as well as the replies of Sir Arthur,
were all of evil augury. Yet, why torment myself with imaginary