Mary is gone out for some soles.  I suppose ’tis no use to ask you to come and partake of ’em; else there’s a steam-vessel.

I am doing a tragi-comedy in two acts, and have got on tolerably; but it will be refused, or worse.  I never had luck with anything my name was put to.

Oh, I am so poorly!  I waked it at my cousin’s the bookbinder’s, who is now with God; or, if he is not, it’s no fault of mine.

We hope the Frank wines do not disagree with Mrs. Patmore.  By the way, I like her.

Did you ever taste frogs?  Get them, if you can.  They are like little Lilliput rabbits, only a thought nicer.

Christ, how sick I am!—­not of the world, but of the widow’s shrub.  She’s sworn under L6000, but I think she perjured herself.  She howls in E la, and I comfort her in B flat.  You understand music?...

“No shrimps!” (That’s in answer to Mary’s question about how the soles are to be done.)

I am uncertain where this wandering letter may reach you.  What you mean by Poste Restante, God knows.  Do you mean I must pay the postage?  So I do to Dover.

We had a merry passage with the widow at the Commons.  She was howling—­part howling and part giving directions to the proctor—­when crash! down went my sister through a crazy chair, and made the clerks grin, and I grinned, and the widow tittered—­and then I knew that she was not inconsolable.  Mary was more frightened than hurt.

She’d make a good match for anybody (by she, I mean the widow).

        “If he bring but a relict away,
        He is happy, nor heard to complain.”

SHENSTONE.

Procter has got a wen growing out at the nape of his neck, which his wife wants him to have cut off; but I think it rather an agreeable excrescence—­like his poetry—­redundant.  Hone has hanged himself for debt.  Godwin was taken up for picking pockets....  Beckey takes to bad courses.  Her father was blown up in a steam machine.  The coroner found it Insanity.  I should not like him to sit on my letter.

Do you observe my direction?  Is it Gallic?—­Classical?

Do try and get some frogs.  You must ask for “grenouilles” (green-eels). 
They don’t understand “frogs,” though it’s a common phrase with us.

If you go through Bulloign (Boulogne) enquire if old Godfrey is living, and how he got home from the Crusades.  He must be a very old man now.

If there is anything new in politics or literature in France, keep it till I see you again, for I’m in no hurry.  Chatty-Briant is well I hope.

I think I have no more news; only give both our loves ("all three,” says Dash) to Mrs. Patmore, and bid her get quite well, as I am at present, bating qualms, and the grief incident to losing a valuable relation.

C.L.

Londres, July 19, 1827.