“I am in no danger of being too much occupied by my ‘favorite clay,’ for it is not arriv’d—how provoking and vexatious! particularly as I am dying to attempt a Bust of my sweet little George, and his Holidays will be over, I fear, before I am able to finish it. Apropos to George, the dear little Soul has escapd being dangerously hurt, if not kill’d (my blood runs cold at the thought), by almost a miracle. Mr. Siddons and Maria have not been so fortunate, they are both cripples at present with each a wounded Leg, but I hope they are in a fair way to get better. The accident (so these things are called, but not by _me_; I know you’ll deride my _Superstition_, but this kind of Superstition has not unfrequently afforded me great aid and consolation, and I hate to discard an old friend because she happens to be a little out of Fashion, so Laugh on, I dont care) happen’d from their being forcd to jump out of a little Market Cart which Mr. Siddons had orderd to indulge the children in a drive. Thank God I did not see it and that they have escapd so well!!! This is the Sweetest Situation in England, I believe. I wish you would come and see it. If I had a Bed to offer you I should be more pressing, but I could get you one at the Inn in the Village, if you should be disposd to go to those fine doings at Oxford, where all the world will be, except such Stupid Souls as myself. Mr. Combe is at Lord Harcourt’s; I understand he is writing a History of the Thames, and his Lordships House is the present Seat of his observations. I have not the pleasure to know him, but am to Dine with him at Lord H⸺’s to-morrow. [This is the Combe of Wolverhampton memory, whom Mrs. Kemble had refused as instructor for her daughter. The stately “I have not the pleasure to know him” is so like Mrs. Siddons.] Give my kind love to Betsey when you See her, and I earnestly entreat you (if it be not too much vanity to Suppose you wᵈ _wish_ to preserve them a moment beyond reading them) that you will burn all my Letters; tell me Seriously you will do so! for there is nothing I dread like having all one’s nonsense appear in print by some untoward accident—not accident neither, but wicked or _interested design_, pray do me the favʳ to ask at our House why my precious Clay has not been Sent, and tell me Something about it when you write again. Adieu.” CHAPTER XI. SHERIDAN.