"TO LADY SOMERSET, SOMERSET CASTLE, ENGLAND.

[Written three weeks after the preceding.]

"You know, my dear mother, that your Pembroke is famous for his
ingenious mode of showing the full value of every favor he confers!
Can I then relinquish the temptation of telling you what I have left
to make you happy with this epistle?

"About five minutes ago, I was sitting on the lawn at the feet of the
countess, reading to her and the Princess Poniatowski the charming
poem of 'The Pleasures of Memory.' As both these ladies understand
English, they were admiring it, and paying many compliments to the
graces of my delivery, when the palatine presented himself, and told
me, if I had any commands for St. Petersburg, I must prepare them,
for a messenger was to set off on the next morning, by daybreak.' I
instantly sprang up, threw my book into the hand of Thaddeus, and
here I am in my own room scribbling to you!

"Even at the moment in which I dip my pen in the ink, my hurrying
imagination paints on my heart the situation of my beloved home when
this letter reaches you. I think I see you and my good aunt, seated
on the blue sofa in your dressing-room, with your needle work on the
little table before you; I see Mary in her usual nook--the recess by
the old harpsichord--and my dear father bringing in this happy letter
from your son! I must confess this romantic kind of fancy-sketching
makes me feel rather oddly: very unlike what I felt a few months ago,
when I was a mere coxcomb--indifferent, unreflecting, unappreciating,
and fit for nothing better than to hold pins at my lady's toilet.
Well, it is now made evident to me that we never know the blessings