‘My good friend will be at least just in this instance, when he is in every other so partial to his friends; and you’ll believe that it is no small disappointment to me _quod_ inclination, though the cause will probably be very advantageous, _businessly_ speaking, that I am obliged to postpone my Suffolk trip. Observe I establish a credit by the term postpone, and I sincerely hope it will not be a long term. I have at present only another half minute to say fifty things. But not being able to think, speak, or write the fiftieth part as quick as certain persons of my acquaintance (my love to Mrs. Young), I must confine myself to one subject—which I have too much at heart to omit—the assuring you and her of my being very sincerely yours, ‘H. BOYD.’ ‘September 2, 1780. ‘My dear Friends,—You’ll excuse coarse paper, and coarse writing in every sense, I’m afraid, “in matter, form, and style,” according to Milton’s divisions, when you know that I sit down to this delectable epistle in a City coffee-house, in the midst of Bob-wigs and worsted stocking knaves, Turks, Jews, and brokers, infidels, and merchants. _Nunquam, si quid mihi credis, amavi Hos homines._ O dialect of Babel! "Who calls for coffee?"—"This policy, sir"—"Strong convoy, a very good thing"—"Pen, ink, and wafer"—"I’sh would be rejoished to _do_ for you, shur"—"Was Mr. Shylock here this morning?"—“Yesh, just gone to Jerusalem.” O blessed race! I wish you were all there, with all your adopted brethren of Jewish Christians from this holy land. ‘I have continued in much disappointment—at least, suspense—since I wrote to you last, when I hinted the sudden occurrence of some business preventing the pleasure of my proposed trip. Depending on the pleasures not only of some three or four different persons, but of great ones, too, who think themselves _personages_, you will not wonder that the said business has been like Sisyphus’s Stone, or Ixion’s Cloud, or Tantalus’s Apple, or anything else that’s infernally troublesome. But it may, and, notwithstanding their greatness, probably it will, be very consequential. In the meantime I must deny myself both Suffolk and Cambridge. The former, indeed, is the self-denial; for Cam. I had more at head than at heart. Besides, wishing to establish my Mastery of Arts by a little residence near them, I had a little reading and writing also in contemplation, near the walks locally—_perlongo intervallo_ in every other sense—of old Erasmus.