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56
MEMOIR

with but one mocking allusion to her own want of sensibility.

. . . "I am not going to write an epistle of condolence. It is one half of a Job's comforter to put people in mind of their misfortunes. If I can entertain you for five minutes I do more good than all the pity in the world, and you need not read unless disposed. I have been both bodily and intellectually industrious. I have written poetry 'by the pound;' I have eaten fruit enough to stock a stall in Covent-garden. I have walked through green lanes, picturesque fields, &c. till I have worn out two pair of shoes, and began to wish I were an Arabian beauty, a load for a camel, and not expected to move without the assistance of two slaves. I have learned to tat, worked—yes, actually finished a lace-collar; and most commendably too, began a flounce from which I have no few dreams of future glory. I was at Leeds yesterday, 'a town o'er which a curse is laid.' Cockney as I am, I had no idea of such a sky. My remark was, what a tremendous storm is gathering!

'So darkly gloom'd the thunder-cloud
Upon the distant hill.

I do not know whether there is actually any sky above the town or not, but you see nothing but clouds of smoke forming the atmosphere. The interior improves. The principal street is really a noble one, and some of the shops made me most sentimentally recall the glories of Bond-street. But there is one shop, 'the most alluring one by far,' in which London stands unrivalled. The taste, the intellect displayed in her pastry-cook shops, place her country competitors at an immeasurable distance. I have entered on my journal—Leeds pas-