Let me recollect:--How he mourns over the ruins of Blakesmoor (once his
home on holidays), "reduced to an antiquity"! How he stalks, ghost-like,
through the desolate rooms of the South Sea House, or treads the avenues
of the Temple, where the benchers ("supposed to have been children once")
are pacing the stony terraces! Then there is the inimitable Sarah Battle
(unconquered even by Chance), arming herself for the war of whist; and the
young Africans, "preaching from their chimney-pulpits lessons of patience
to mankind." If your appetite is keen, by all means visit Bobo, who
invented roast pig: if gay, and disposed to saunter through the pleasant
lanes of Hertfordshire, go to Mackery End, where the Gladmans and Brutons
will bid you welcome: if grave, let your eyes repose on the face of dear
old Bridget Elia, "in a season of distress the truest comforter." Should
you wish to enlarge your humanity, place a few coins (maravedis) in the
palm of one of the beggars (the "blind Tobits") of London, and try to
believe his tales, histories or fables, as though they were the veritable
stories (told by night) on the banks of the famous Tigris. Do not despise
the poorest of the poor--even the writer of valentines: "All valentines
are not foolish," as you may read in Elia's words; and "All fools' day"
may cheer you, as the fool in "Lear" may make you wise and tolerant.
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