declared that he loved nothing better than candid criticism.  Was I a candid greyhound now for all this? or did I do right?  I believe I did.  The effect was luscious to my conscience.  For all the rest of the evening Amos was no more heard of, till George revived the subject by inquiring whether some account should not be drawn up by the friends of the deceased to be inserted in “Phillips’s Monthly Obituary;” adding, that Amos was estimable both for his head and heart, and would have made a fine poet if he had lived.  To the expediency of this measure Cottle fully assented, but could not help adding that he always thought that the qualities of his brother’s heart exceeded those of his head.  I believe his brother, when living, had formed precisely the same idea of him; and I apprehend the world will assent to both judgments.  I rather guess that the brothers were poetical rivals.  I judged so when I saw them together.  Poor Cottle, I must leave him, after his short dream, to muse again upon his poor brother, for whom I am sure in secret he will yet shed many a tear.  Now send me in return some Greta news.

C. L.

XXIX.

TO MANNING.

October 16, 1800.

Dear Manning,—­Had you written one week before you did, I certainly should have obeyed your injunction; you should have seen me before my letter.  I will explain to you my situation.  There are six of us in one department.  Two of us (within these four days) are confined with severe fevers:  and two more, who belong to the Tower Militia, expect to have marching orders on Friday.  Now, six are absolutely necessary.  I have already asked and obtained two young hands to supply the loss of the feverites; and with the other prospect before me, you may believe I cannot decently ask leave of absence for myself.  All I can promise (and I do promise with the sincerity of Saint Peter, and the contrition of sinner Peter if I fail) [is] that I will come the very first spare week, and go nowhere till I have been at Cambridge.  No matter if you are in a state of pupilage when I come; for I can employ myself in Cambridge very pleasantly in the mornings.  Are there not libraries, halls, colleges, books, pictures, statues?  I wish you had made London in your way.  There is an exhibition quite uncommon in Europe, which could not have escaped your genius,—­a live rattlesnake, ten feet in length, and the thickness of a big leg.  I went to see it last night by candlelight.  We were ushered into a room very little bigger than ours at Pentonville.  A man and woman and four boys live in this room, joint tenants with nine snakes, most of them such as no remedy has been discovered for their bite.  We walked into the middle, which is formed by a half-moon of wired boxes, all mansions of snakes,—­whip-snakes, thunder-snakes, pig-nose-snakes, American vipers, and this monster.  He lies curled up in folds; and immediately a stranger