I can_not_ stand a total absence of ventilation, and I should have liked
(in an amiable and persuasive manner) to have punched ----'s head, and
opened the register stoves. I saw the supper tables, sir, in an empty
state, and was charmed with them. Likewise I recovered myself from a
swoon, occasioned by long contact with an unventilated man of a strong
flavour from Copenhagen, by drinking an unknown species of celestial
lemonade in that enchanted apartment.
I am grieved to say that on Saturday I stand engaged to dine, at three
weeks' notice, with one ----, a man who has read every book that ever
was written, and is a perfect gulf of information. Before exploding a
mine of knowledge he has a habit of closing one eye and wrinkling up his
nose, so that he seems perpetually to be taking aim at you and knocking
you over with a terrific charge. Then he looks again, and takes another
aim. So you are always on your back, with your legs in the air.
How can a man be conversed with, or walked with, in the county of
Middlesex, when he is reviewing the Kentish Militia on the shores of
Dover, or sailing, every day for three weeks, between Dover and Calais?
Ever affectionately.
P.S.--"Humphry Clinker" is certainly Smollett's best. I am rather
divided between "Peregrine Pickle" and "Roderick Random," both
extraordinarily good in their way, which is a way without tenderness;
but you will have to read them both, and I send the first volume of
"Peregrine" as the richer of the two.
[Sidenote: Mr. Peter Cunningham.]