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 cinth, my dear, dear dog! Oh! you little wretch! you've bit my lip. Get out! I'll not speak to you for a fortnight. I'll get Spenser's Faery Queen—I'm just in the humour for reading it; but still its a horrid bore to get up and go to the library. Come! a desperate exertion! On my legs again—there's nothing like energy. Here's the book. Oh! how I shall revel in his sweet and bitter fancies!—Confusion! I've brought a volume of Tillotson's Sermons. I hate the fellow! That's the advantage of your country libraries, having all your books bound the same.

Now I don't know what I shall do. I think I'll amuse myself by jumping over that ha-ha;—I'm quite confident I can do it—and yet whenever I'm about trying, my heart sadly misgives me. It's a complete fallacy; it's devilish deep though. There—that easterly wind has baulked me again; and here I am,