Having been upon the ramble, I have neglected all my duties, in hopes of finding pleasures in their room; which, after all (as you know well), one never finds. My conscience reproaches me with your obliging letter; and would (I really think) carry me into Somersetshire, did not poverty and winter stare me in the face, and bid me sit still. I well remember Dr. Ross's kind invitation, and in better days still hope to accept it. Doubt not but my inclinations will be quickened by the hopes I entertain of seeing you in so many new lights; the travelled Mr. Robinson, with a thousand important airs and graces, so much virtù, so much scavoir-vivre! the husband, the father, the rich clergyman, warm, snug, and contented as a bishop. My mouth waters: but sure – the family will be in town this winter, and I shall see you there in November. Is this the fine autumn you promised me? Oh! I hear you (not curse: you must not, but) ... this untoward climate. I doubt not but you write to Mason, though he does not tell me so. There is he, repining at his four-and-twenty weeks residence at York, unable to visit his bowers, the work of his own hands, at Aston, except in the depth of winter; and longing for the fleshpots and coffee-houses of Cambridge. There is nobody contented but you and I – oh yes, and Dr. Ross; who (I shrewdly suspect) is the happiest of the three.