bad as 700 in that dear coach-and-four we last met in. But is mad to eat some mangosteens; he has collected all the descriptions of the fruit he can meet with, and runs on for ever about it. ‘It shows how little of self there is in me,’ he says, ‘for the angels are always allowed a little taste of mangosteen on Sundays, so I am sure of eating some at last, but many of you may never see it. I speak entirely for your sakes.’
We are staying here with a Mr. Stothard, a great wine merchant, in such a delicious house; such large high rooms, and so clean, and quite out of sight of the sea and the ‘Jupiter;’ and the man himself is really quite delightful. He makes us quite at home, and we have our palanquins at all hours, and ponies for going up the steep hills, and he finds us the best sketching places. I hope everybody will buy his wine.
George desires me to tell you, with his love, that he has bought a hogshead of Madeira for you, and is taking it with us to the East Indies, for the good of its health; so you will have it on the return of the ‘Jupiter,’ as good as wine can be, he hopes.
