this we drop our bouts-rimes.  Mrs. Calliope has a ball every Thursday, when the victors are crowned.  T’other day the theme was ‘A Buttered Muffin,’ and her Grace of Northumberland was graciously awarded the prize.  In faith, that theme taxed our wits at the Bear,—­how to weave Miss Dolly’s charms into a verse on a buttered muffin.  I shall not tire you with mine.  Storer’s deserved to win, and we whisper that Mrs. Calliope ruled it out through spite.  ‘When Phyllis eats,’ so it began, and I vow ’twas devilish ingenious.

“We do nothing but play lasquenet and tennis, and go to the assembly, and follow Miss Dolly into Gill’s, the pastry-cook’s, where she goes every morning to take a jelly.  The ubiquitous Wells does not give us much chance.  He writes ‘vers de societe’ with the rest, is high in Mr. Marmaduke’s favour, which alone is enough to damn his progress.  I think she is ill of the sight of him.

“Albeit she does not mourn herself into a tree, I’ll take oath your
Phyllis is true to you, Richard, and would live with you gladly in a
thatched hut and you asked her.  Write me more news of yourself.

                  “Your ever affectionate
                         “Comyn

“P.S.  I have had news of you through Mr. Worthington, of your colony, who is just arrived here.  He tells me that you have gained a vast reputation for your plantation, and likewise that you are thought much of by the Whig wiseacres, and that you hold many seditious offices.  He does not call them so.  Since your modesty will not permit you to write me any of these things, I have been imagining you driving slaves with a rawhide, and seeding runaway convicts to the mines.  Mr. W. is even now paying his respects to Miss Manners, and I doubt not trumpeting your praises there, for he seems to like you.  So I have asked him to join the Bear mess.  One more unfortunate!

“P.S.  I was near forgetting the news about Charles Fox.  He sends you his love, and tells me to let you know that he has been turned out of North’s house for good and all.  He is sure you will be cursed happy over it, and says that you predicted he would go over to the Whigs.  I can scarce believe that he will.  North took a whole week to screw up His courage, h-s M-j-sty pricking him every day.  And then he wrote this: 

“’Sir, his Majesty has thought proper to order a new Commission of
the Treasury to be made out, in which I do not see your name.’  Poor
Charles!  He is now without money or place, but as usual appears to
worry least of all of us, and still reads his damned Tasso for
amusement. 

          
                              “C.”

Perchance he was to be the Saint Paul of English politics, after all.

CHAPTER XLIX

LIBERTY LOSES A FRIEND