Van Diemen’s Land.  Yet do I hold a correspondence with a very dear friend in the first-named of these two Terrae Incognitae.  I have no astronomy.  I do not know where to look for the Bear, or Charles’s Wain; the place of any star; or the name of any of them at sight.  I guess at Venus only by her brightness—­and if the sun on some portentous morn were to make his first appearance in the West, I verily believe, that, while all the world were gasping in apprehension about me, I alone should stand unterrified, from sheer incuriosity and want of observation.  Of history and chronology I possess some vague points, such as one cannot help picking up in the course of miscellaneous study; but I never deliberately sat down to a chronicle, even of my own country.  I have most dim apprehensions of the four great monarchies; and sometimes the Assyrian, sometimes the Persian, floats as first in my fancy.  I make the widest conjectures concerning Egypt, and her shepherd kings.  My friend M., with great painstaking, got me to think I understood the first proposition in Euclid, but gave me over in despair at the second.  I am entirely unacquainted with the modern languages; and, like a better man than myself, have “small Latin and less Greek.”  I am a stranger to the shapes and texture of the commonest trees, herbs, flowers—­not from the circumstance of my being town-born—­for I should have brought the same inobservant spirit into the world with me, had I first seen it in “on Devon’s leafy shores,”—­and am no less at a loss among purely town-objects, tools, engines, mechanic processes.—­Not that I affect ignorance—­but my head has not many mansions, nor spacious; and I have been obliged to fill it with such cabinet curiosities as it can hold without aching.  I sometimes wonder, how I have passed my probation with so little discredit in the world, as I have done, upon so meagre a stock.  But the fact is, a man may do very well with a very little knowledge, and scarce be found out, in mixed company; every body is so much more ready to produce his own, than to call for a display of your acquisitions.  But in a tete-a-tete there is no shuffling.  The truth will out.  There is nothing which I dread so much, as the being left alone for a quarter of an hour with a sensible, well-informed man, that does not know me.  I lately got into a dilemma of this sort.—­

In one of my daily jaunts between Bishopsgate and Shacklewell, the coach stopped to take up a staid-looking gentleman, about the wrong side of thirty, who was giving his parting directions (while the steps were adjusting), in a tone of mild authority, to a tall youth, who seemed to be neither his clerk, his son, nor his servant, but something partaking of all three.  The youth was dismissed, and we drove on.  As we were the sole passengers, he naturally enough addressed his conversation to me; and we discussed the merits of the fare, the civility and punctuality of the driver; the circumstance of an opposition coach having been