“Thusday Night.—­O Hangelina, Hangelina, my pashn for you hogments daily!  I’ve bean with her two the Hopra.  I sent her a bewtifle Camellia Jyponiky from Covn Garding, with a request she would wear it in her raving Air.  I woar another in my butnole.  Evns, what was my sattusfackshn as I leant hover her chair, and igsammined the house with my glas!

“She was as sulky and silent as pawsble, however—­would scarcely speek; although I kijoled her with a thowsnd little plesntries.  I spose it was because that wulgar raskle Silvertop wood stay in the box.  As if he didn’t know (Lady B.’s as deaf as a poast and counts for nothink) that people sometimes like a tatytaty.”

“Friday.—­I was sleeples all night.  I gave went to my feelings in the folloring lines—­there’s a hair out of Balfe’s Hopera that she’s fond of.  I edapted them to that mellady.

“She was in the droring-room alone with Lady B. She was wobbling at the pyanna as I hentered.  I flung the convasation upon mewsick; said I sung myself (I’ve ad lesns lately of Signor Twankydillo); and, on her rekwesting me to faver her with somethink, I bust out with my pom: 

“’When moonlike OER the hazure seas.

“’When moonlike ore the hazure seas
In soft effulgence swells,
When silver jews and balmy breaze
Bend down the Lily’s bells;
When calm and deap, the rosy sleap
Has lapt your soal in dreems,
R Hangeline!  R lady mine! 
Dost thou remember Jeames?

“’I mark thee in the Marble All,
Where Englands loveliest shine—­
I say the fairest of them hall
Is Lady Hangeline. 
My soul, in desolate eclipse,
With recollection teems—­
And then I hask, with weeping lips
Dost thou remember Jeames?

“’Away!  I may not tell thee hall
This soughring heart endures—­
There is a lonely sperrit-call
That Sorrow never cures;
There is a little, little Star,
That still above me beams;
It is the Star of Hope—­but ar! 
Dost thou remember Jeames?’

“When I came to the last words, ‘Dost thou remember Je-e-e-ams?’ I threw such an igspresshn of unuttrable tenderniss into the shake at the hend, that Hangelina could bare it no more.  A bust of uncumtrollable emotium seized her.  She put her ankercher to her face and left the room.  I heard her laffing and sobbing histerickly in the bedwor.

“O Hangelina—­My adord one, My Arts joy!” . . .

“Bareacres, me, the ladies of the famly, with their sweet Southdown, B’s eldest son, and George Silvertop, the shabby Capting (who seems to git leaf from his ridgmint whenhever he likes,) have beene down into Diddlesex for a few days, enjying the spawts of the feald there.