the sun—with religion, liberty, and property; also, three meals a-day?" He was not far wrong, for nothing strikes me more forcibly than the universal tendency to grumble: conversation and complaint are synonymous terms. Our weather and our government are equally bad—at least every one says that they are.
I was at the dinner yesterday, which, you know, has long been the subject of my anticipation—the one at Lady Oxford's, where I was to meet Pope, Swift, Gay; in short, all the wit in the world. We had a delightful day: the dinner—and though it is difficult to appreciate an enjoyment into which you cannot, for the very life of you, enter—still I begin to think that a good dinner is, at least, the stepping-stone to masculine felicity. The cook is one of the three Fates. Lady Oxford is a very good hostess. Without being clever enough to put people on their guard, she understands talent, which none can do without some of their own; and has a peculiar tact for putting a person's amour propre at rest by putting it in the best light. She knows how
