I thank you most cordially for your inquiry after my wives.  I am in the utmost perplexity Of mind about them; torn between hopes and fears.  I believe them set out from Florence on their return since yesterday se’nnight, and consequently feel all the joy and impatience of expecting them in five or six weeks:  but then, besides fears of roads, bad inns, accidents, heats and colds, and the sea to cross in November at last, all my satisfaction is dashed by the uncertainty whether they Come through Germany or France.  I have advised, begged, implored, that it may not be through those Iroquois, Lestryons, Anthropophagi, the Franks; and then, hearing passports were abolished, and the roads more secure, I half Consented, as they wished it, and the road is much shorter; and then I repented, and have contradicted myself again.  And now I know not which route they wilt take:  nor shall enjoy any comfort from the thoughts of their return, till they are returned safe.

’Tis well I am doubly guaranteed, or who knows, as I am as old almost as both her husbands together, but Mrs. B—­ might have cast a longing eye towards me?  How I laughed at hearing of her throwing a second muckender to a Methusalem! a red-faced veteran, with a portly hillock of flesh.  I conclude all her grandfathers are dead; or, as there is no prohibition in the table of consanguinity against male ancestors, she would certainly have stepped back towards the Deluge, and ransacked her pedigrees on both sides for some kinsman of the patriarchs.  I could titter a plusieurs reprises; but I am too old to be improper, and you are too modest to be impropered to:  and so I will drop the subject at the herald’s office.

I am happy at and honour Miss Burney’s resolution in casting away golden, or rather gilt chains:  others, out of vanity, would have worn them till they had eaten into the bone.  On that charming young woman’s chapter I agree with you perfectly; not a jot on Deborah * * * * whom you admire:  i have neither read her verses, nor will.  As I have not your aspen conscience, I cannot forgive the heart of a woman that is party per pale blood and tenderness, that curses our clergy and feels for negroes.  Can I forget the 14th of July, when they all contributed their fagot to the fires that her presbytyrants (as Lord Melcombe called them) tried to light in every Smithfield in the island; and which, as Price and Priestley applauded in France, it would be folly to suppose they did not only wish, but meant to kindle here ?  Were they ignorant of the atrocious barbarities, injustice, and violation of oaths committed in France?  Did Priestley not know that the clergy there had no option but between starving and perjury?  And what does he think of the poor man executed at Birmingham, who declared at his death, he had been provoked by the infamous handbill?  I know not who wrote it.  No, my good friend:  Deborah may cant rhymes of compassion, but she is a hypocrite; and you shall not