I received your letter at Southampton, & as I would wish to treat every body according to their own rule & measure of good-breeding, have against my inclination waited till now, before I answer'd it, purely out of fear & respect, & an ingenuous diffidence of my own abilities. if you will not take this as an excuse, accept it at least as a well-turn'd period, wch is always my principal concern.

So I proceed to tell you, that my health is much improved by the sea; not that I drank of it, or bathed in it, as the common people do: no! I only walk'd by it, & look'd upon it. the climate is remarkably mild, even in Octob: & November. no snow has been seen to lie there for these 30 years past. the myrtles grow in the ground against the houses, & Guernsey-Lillies bloom in every window. the Town clean & well-built, surrounded by its old stone-walls with their towers & gateways, stands at the point of a peninsula, & opens full south to an arm of the sea, wch having form'd two beautiful bays on each hand of it stretches away in direct view till it joins the British Channel. it is skirted on either side with gently-rising grounds cloath'd with thick wood, & directly cross its mouth rise the high lands of the Isle of Wight at distance, but distinctly seen. in the bosom of the woods (conceal'd from profane eyes) lie hid the ruins of Netteleyabbey. there may be richer & greater houses of religion, but the Abbot is content with his situation. see there at the top of that hanging meadow under the shade of those old trees, that bend into a half-circle about it, he is walking slowly (good Man!) & bidding his beads for the souls of his Benefactors, interr'd in that venerable pile, that lies beneath him. beyond it (the meadow still descending) nods a thicket of oaks, that mask the building, & have excluded a view too garish, & too luxuriant for a holy eye, only on either hand they leave an opening to the blew glittering sea. did not you observe how, as that white sail shot by & was lost, he turn'd & cross'd himself, to drive the Tempter from him, that had thrown that distraction in his way. I should tell you, that the Ferryman, who row'd me, a lusty young Fellow, told me, that he would not for all the world pass a night at the Abbey, (there were such things seen near it,) tho' there was a power of money hid there. from thence I went to Salisbury, Wilton, & Stone-Henge, but of these things I say no more: they will be publish'd at the University-Press.

I have been at London this month, that tiresome dull place! where all people under thirty find so much amusement. the Opera with Manzuoli in it opens on Saturday, & I go to C: the Wednesday preceding. the Ministry are all together by the ears, so are the Opposition: the only doubt is wch will be the weakest: I am afraid, I know. the sentence of Alma-Mater, of the North-Briton, & of D'Eon are defer'd. in the mean time Du-Vergy, the Adventurer, who enraged D'Eon almost to madness, & has been in jail (for debt) eversince December last, having regain'd his liberty by the help (he says) of his countrymen declares upon oath, that he was sent from France with a half-promise of being declared Secretary to the Embassy, that he might se servir de son epée, if occasion were, against D'Eon, or at least urge him to do something, that might for ever disgrace him. he gives a detail of all his private conversations with G: & others on this head. Mons: de G: is (I hear) much troubled, declares the whole a lye, but what is he to do? must he have another Plaidoyer in our Courts against this Scoundrel? and indeed from his own narrative he appears to be no better, tho' it is interlarded with fine French sentiment about justice & virtue, & honour, & such like.

I had prepared a finer period than the other to finish with, but d – mn it! I have somehow mislaid it among my papers. you shall certainly have it next summer. how can people subscribe such a devil of a name (I warrant) you call it a christian-name, to their letters as you do? I always thought at times I had a small matter of aversion for you mechanically arising in me, & doubtless this was the reason. fie, fie, put on a white satten-mantle, & be carried to church again. however, I forgive you for your Rippon-history's sake. Adieu! I shall almost be glad to see you again.