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 he fixes on the topmost branch of yon lofty acacia. What shall I do? I'm not the least in the humour for writing.

There is the luncheon bell! Luncheon is a meal, if meal it may be called, which I do not patronise. 'Tis very well for school-boys and young ladies; acceptable to the first, because they are always ready to devour—and to the second, because a glass of sherry and a slice of reindeer's tongue, and a little marmalade, and a little Neufchâtel, enable them to toss their pretty little heads at dinner, and "not touch any thing;" be proportionately pitied, and look proportionately interesting. Luncheon is the modern mystery of the Bona Dea. I say nothing, but I once acted Clodius, in this respect. I never wondered afterwards at a woman's want of appetite.

But in the dear delicious country, and in a house where no visitor is staying, and where I am tempted to commit suicide hourly, I think