No.  In short, after thinking of ten thousand more Mr. Mores, we concluded it could never be a one of ’em.  By this time Mr. More arrives; but such a Mr. More! a young gentleman out of the wilds of Ireland, who has never been in England, but has got all the ordinary language of that kingdom; has been two years at Paris, where he dined at an ordinary with the refugee Irish, and learnt fortification-,, which he does not understand at all, and which yet is the only thing he knows.  In short, he is a young swain of very uncouth phrase, inarticulate speech, and no ideas.  This hopeful child is riding post into Lorrain, or any where else, he is not certain; for if there is a war he shall go home again:  for we must give the Spaniards another drubbing, you know; and if the Dutch do but join us, we shall blow up all the ports in Europe; for our ships are our bastions, and our ravelines, and our hornworks; and there’s a devilish wide ditch for ’em to pass, which they can’t fill up with things-Here Mr. Conway helped him to fascines.  By this time I imagine you have laughed at him as much, and were as tired of him as we were; but he’s gone.  This is the day that Gray and I intended for the first of a southern circuit; but as Mr. Selwyn and George Montagu design us a visit here, we have put off our journey for some weeks.  When we get a little farther, I hope our memories will brighten:  at present they are but dull, dull as Your humble servant ever.

P. S. I thank you ten thousand times for your last letter:  when I have as much wit and as much poetry in me, I’ll send you as good an one.  Good night, child!

(167) The three following paragraphs are a literal translation of French expressions to the same imports.

136 Letter 13 To Richard West, Esq. >From a Hamlet among the Mountains of Savoy, Sept. 28, 1739, N. S.

Precipices, mountains, torrents, wolves, rumblings, Salvator Rosa-the pomp of our park and the meekness of our palace!  Here we are, the lonely lords of glorious, desolate prospects.  I have kept a sort of resolution which I made, of not writing to you as long as I staid in France:  I am now a quarter of an hour out of it, and write to you.  Mind, ’tis three months since we heard from you.  I begin this letter -among the clouds; where I shall finish, my neighbour Heaven probably knows:  ’tis an odd wish in a mortal letter, to hope not to finish it on this side the atmosphere.  You will have a billet tumble to you from the stars hen you least think of it; and that I should write it too!  Lord, how potent that sounds!  But I am to undergo many transmigrations before I come to “yours ever.”  Yesterday I was a shepherd of Dauphin`e; to-day an Alpine savage; to-morrow a Carthusian monk; and Friday a Swiss Calvinist.  I have one quality which I find remains with me in all worlds and in all aethers; I brought it with me from your world, and am admired for it in this-’tis my esteem for you:  this is a common thought among you, and you will laugh at it, but it is new here:  as new to remember one’s friends in the world one has left, as for you to remember those you have lost.