Their St.Bartholomew has begun.

Roger is away among the thick green turnip-ridges and the short white stubble all the day.

I wish to Heaven that I could shoot, too, and hunt.

It would not matter if I never killed any thing--indeed, I think--of the two--I had rather not; I had rather have a course of empty bags and blank days than snuff out any poor, little, happy lives; but the occupation that these amusements would entail would displace and hinder the minute mental torments I now daily, in my listless, luxurious idleness, endure.

I am thinking these thoughts one morning, as I turn over my unopened letters, and try, with the misplaced ingenuity and labor one is so apt to employ in such a case, to make out from the general air of their exteriors--from their superscriptions--from their post-marks, whom they are from.