If here in the city we have nothing but riot, If the Spital-field weavers can't be kept quiet, If the weather is fine, or the streets should be dirty, Or if Mr. Dick Wilson died aged of thirty? But if I was to hearken to the versifying grumbling I feel within me, I should fill my paper and not have room left to entreat that you would plead my cause to Honora more eloquently than the enclosed letter has the power of doing. Apropos of verses, you desire me to recollect my random description of the engaging appearance of the charming Mrs. ----. Here it is, at your service: Then rustling and bustling the lady comes down, With a flaming red face, and a broad yellow gown, And a hobbling out-of-breath gait, and a frown. This little French cousin of ours, Delarise, was my sister Mary's playfellow at Paris. His sprightliness engages my sisters extremely. Doubtless they talk much of him to you in their letters. How sorry I am to bid you adieu! Oh, let me not be forgot by the friends most dear to you at Lichfield! _Lichfield!_ Ah! of what magic letters is that little word composed! How graceful it looks when it is written! Let nobody talk to me of its original meaning,[88] "The field of blood!" Oh, no such thing! It is the field of joy! "The beautiful city that lifts her fair head in the valley and says, I _am_, and there is none beside me!" Who says she is vain? Julia will not say so, nor yet Honora, and least of all their devoted J. André. LETTER III. Clapton, _November 1, 1769_.