The sleepy Claptonian train are gone to bed, somewhat wearied with their excursion to Enfield, whither they have this day carried their favorite little Frenchman, so _great_ a favorite; the parting was quite tragical. I walked hither from town, as usual, to-night; no hour of the twenty-four is so precious to me as that devoted to this solitary walk. O my friend! I am far from possessing the patient frame of mind which I so continually invoke! Why is Lichfield an hundred and twenty miles from me? There is no _moderation_ in the distance! Fifty or sixty miles had been a great deal too much, but _then_ there would have been less opposition from _authority_ to my frequent visits. I conjure you, supply the want of these blessings by frequent _letters_. I must not, will not ask them of Honora, since the use of the pen is forbid to her declining health; I will content myself, as usual, with a postscript from her in your epistle. My sisters are charmed with the packet which arrived yesterday, and which they will answer soon. As yet I have said nothing of our journey. We met an entertaining Irish gentleman at Dunchurch, and, being fellow-sufferers in cold and hunger, joined interests, ordered four horses, and stuffed three in a chaise. It is not to _you_--I need not apologize for talking in rapture of an higgler whom we met on our road. His cart had passed us, and was at a considerable distance, when, looking back, he perceived that our chaise had stopped, and that the driver seemed mending something. He ran up to him, and with a face full of honest anxiety, pity, good-nature, and every sweet affection under heaven, asked him if we wanted anything; that he had plenty of nails, ropes, etc., in his cart. That wretch of a postillion made no other reply than "We want nothing, master." From the same impulse the good Irishman, Mr. Till, and myself, thrust our heads instantly out of the chaise, and tried to recompense to the honest creature by forcing upon him a little pecuniary tribute. My benevolence will be the warmer, while I live, for the treasured remembrance of this higgler's countenance. 'I know you interest yourself in my destiny. I have now completely subdued my aversion to the profession of a merchant, and hope in time to acquire an inclination for it; yet God forbid I should ever love what I am to make the object of my attention!--that vile trash, which I care not for, but only as it may be the future means of procuring the blessing of my soul. Thus all my mercantile calculations go to the tune of _dear Honora_. When an impertinent consciousness whispers in my ear that I am not of the right stuff for a merchant, I draw my Honora's picture from my bosom, and the sight of that dear talisman so inspirits my industry that no toil appears oppressive.