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you will not share my fortunes, I will not share your earnings.

The story you mention at Flamboroughi, of Boardingham, who was murdered by his wife and her lover, is most shocking. Tlie reflections you draw from it are most just; and 'what you say of our situation most true. The woman must have been beyond a wild beast savage. Yet their feelings, when she and Aikney were at the gallows together (supposing any thing like love 'remained) must have been exquisite. I protest, I would willingly embrace with M. the cruellest death which torture could invent (provided she were on a bed of roses), than lead the happiest life without her.

What vifions have I conjured up!my pen drops from my hand.

Your catch upon a bumper I like much. It beats, both in words and music, “a bumper 'Squire Jones.”. By the way what an old word it is! Let me make a linguist of you to-day.

The

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The learned Johnson deriveth bumper f" a cup filled till the liquor swells over the

brims") from bump, which cometh, he faith, from bum, perhaps, as being prominent; the which bum cometh, we are told, from bomme, (Dutch) and signifieth “the part on which we sit.” The word bumper is by some writer derived from bonpere, the usual familiar phrase for priests, who were supposed not to dislike bumpers.-This I may fay-if" a cup filled till the

liquor swells over the brims” comes from " the part on which we fit," it must be granted, as a French poet fays of Alfana's coming from equus.

Qu'en venant de la, jusqu' icy,
Il a bien changé sur la route.

And now I have ended in good spirits, as well as you. I remember the time when Hamlet might have said to me, as he does to Horatio,

“ Thou “ Thou hast no revenue but thy good

spirits 16 To feed and cloath thee.”

Now, I have got a little revenue, which M. will not share with me, and God knows who has got my good spirits-Well, I must not think.

L Ε Τ Τ Ε R

XXX.

To the Same.

Ireland, 18 June, 78. My Laura is not angry with me, I hope, for the tlıree or four tender' letters I have written to her since the beginning of this month. And yet, your's of yesterday seems to say you are. If I bear my situation like a man, will you not allow me to feel it like a man?

Misfortune, like a creditor fevere,
But rises in demand for her delay.
She makes a scourge of past prosperity,
To sting me more, and double my distress.

But

This country's facetious Dean faid, his friend Arbuthnot could do every thing but walk. My friend can do every thing but lose at cards.

Feeling, and all the commanding powers of the mind, were never perhaps before so mixed up together. A tale of sorrow will make his little eyes wink, ,wink, wink, like a green girls. Before the company came last night, I shewed him “ Auld Robin Gray”; and, though he had seen it before, he could not get over “My mother could na speak,” without winking. For the credit of your side of the water, he is an EngJishman. His agreeable wife, by her beauty and accomplishments, does credit to this country.

She is remarkable also for her feeling, though in a different way. You shall relate an anecdote of distress, or read a story of ill usage, and, while his eyes are winking for the object of the ill usage or the distrefs, her's shall be striking fire with rage against the author of it. " Good God! The exclaims, “ if that

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villain was but in my power !—". And I sometimes think she is going to ring for her hat and cloak, that she may sally forth, and pull his house about his ears.-Bound up together (as they are, and as I hope they will long continue) they forin a complete fyftem of humanity.

It would have gratified me much to have been with you when Garrick took his farewel of the stage. Do you remember the last paper in the Idler upon its being the laft ? The reflection that it was the last time Garrick would ever play, was, in itself, painful. How, my Laura, my M. my life, shall I bear it, if I ever should be doomed to take my laft leave, my last look of you!

--In what I wrote this morning I mentioned the Idler. A curious letter was shewn me the other day by a clergyman, which he assures me is authentic, and was written by the late Lord Gower to a friend of Dean Swift. As I know how you admire the

eminent

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