And now hear me. In this dreadful solitude, all one sees is the new painted house of Old Cavendish (what a place for a Cavendish!) at the corner a mews, where a man lets glass-coaches (I heard Mr. Raikes make a joke at my master's about a singer in a glass-coach, he called him _Veluti in Speculum_; Mr. Raikes dines with us on off days, and always makes this joke everywhere), and a gothic window out of a modern house in Russell-square. Well, sir, in this infernal place I am obliged to be up every morning before nine (the butler has been in the family twenty years, wears cotton stockings, and never washes his feet); they allow no eggs, only cold meat for breakfast; there is no regular housekeeper; my mistress's own maid is a dowdy, with fingers like radishes unwashed, with squat nails, not nice; the two housemaids absolute gorgons, and the coachman, who is admitted to the privilege of _our_ servants' hall, a dreadful person, smelling of the stable worse even than Mrs. Hopkins' batch. _Oh, Giovi Omnipotente!_ as the Dutch say, what am I to do? A particularly ill-done dinner is put down about one; sometimes coarse shoulders of mutton (a joint for which my cousin John left the service of a noble lord in the Cabinet some years since), or cold meat, or hashes, or perhaps that workhouse turbot, a brill, or some skate, with very secondary butter for sauce. However, this I could bear; but the carriage, built by some man nobody ever heard of, is called to the door, the steps are so hard and stiff there is hardly any pulling them down; my mistress having thick legs and no daughters, makes things worse, and after having rammed and jammed an infernal brass fist with a stick in it, which my master considers elegant, by way of handle to his coach, till I get it fast, up I mount and away we go, and anybody may see my calves in cotton (no silk in the morning) shaking like elongated moulds of blancmange all the way we rattle along,--all the fault of the builder, no Leader, no Goddal, Baxter and Macklew, no Houlditch, but some goth in Whitechapel. This I could bear; but will you believe it, sir? my master drinks port wine at and after dinner, and enforces my attendance in the room--what can I do?--no claret, no flirtations, no look-out, sniffing the drift air of St. Giles's, and seeing nothing but hackney-coaches. I cannot give up the place, although I don't get more than a half-pay lieutenant in the navy after all; but I am an oppressed man, I feel myself injured, and am, I confess, discontented: if you would take me in hand, and recommend me to some person of taste and judgment, I would go for half the money; but till I am sure of another berth, I should be foolish to risk the bird in hand. Will you say one word in your correspondence, or put in my letter altogether? It may excite inquiry and compassion, and if anybody wishes to communicate with me, any of the Highgate or Kentish Town stages will bring the letter; for, upon my word, I hardly know