one another.  I should not stare at all more than I do, if yonder alderman at the lower end of the table was to stick his fork into his neighbour’s jolly cheek, and cut a brave slice of brown and fat.  Why, I’ll swear I see no difference between a country gentleman and a sirloin; whenever the first laughs, or the latter is cut, there runs out the same stream of gravy!  Indeed, the sirloin does not ask quite so many questions.  I have an aunt here, a family piece of goods, an old remnant of inquisitive hospitality and economy, who, to all intents and purposes is as beefy as her neighbours.  She wore me so down yesterday with interrogatories, that I dreamt all night she was at my ear with who’s and why’s, and when’s and where’s, till at last in my very sleep I cried out, For God in heaven’s sake, Madam, ask me no more questions!

Oh! my dear Sir, don’t you find that nine parts in ten of the world are of no use but to make you wish yourself with that tenth part?  I am so far from growing used to mankind by living amongst them, that my natural ferocity and wildness does but every day grow worse.  They tire me, they fatigue me; I don’t know what to do with them; I don’t know what to say to them; I fling open the windows and fancy I want air; and when I get by myself, I undress myself, and seem to have had people in my pockets, in my plaits, -and on my shoulders!  I indeed find this fatigue worse in the country than in town, because one can avoid it there, and has more resources; but it is there too.  I fear ’tis growing old; but I literally seem to have murdered a man whose name was Ennui, for his ghost is ever before me.  They say there is no English word for ennui;(847) I think you may translate it most literally by what is called “entertaining people,” and “doing the honours:”  that is, you sit an hour with somebody you don’t know, and don’t care for, talk about the wind and the weather, and ask a thousand foolish questions, which all begin with, “I think you live a good deal in the country,” or, “I think you don’t love this thing or that.”  Oh! ’tis dreadful!

I’ll tell you what is delightful-the Dominichin!(848) My dear Sir, if ever there was a Dominichin, if ever there was an original picture, this is one.  I am quite happy; for my father is as much transported with it as I am.  It is hung in the gallery, where are all his most capital pictures, and he himself thinks it beats all but the two Guido’S.  That of the Doctors and The Octagon-I don’t know if you ever saw them?  What a chain of thought this leads me into! but why should I not indulge it?  I will flatter myself with your, some time or other, passing a few days with me.  Why must I never expect to see any thing but Beefs in a gallery which would not yield even to the Colonna!  If I do not most unlimitedly wish to see you and Mr. Whithed in it this very moment, it is only because I would not take you from our dear Mann.  Adieu! you charming people all.  Is not Madam Bosville a Beef?  Yours, most sincerely.