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The Expedition of Humphry Clinker

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16 TOBIAS SMOLLETT<br />

feelings <strong>of</strong> my heart—even then you did not check my presumption<br />

—you pitied my sufferings, and gave me leave to hope—you put<br />

a favourable—perhaps too favourable a construction, on my<br />

appearance—certain it is, I am no player in love—I speak the<br />

language <strong>of</strong> my own heart; and have no prompter but nature.—Yet<br />

there is something in this heart, which I have not yet disclosed—<br />

I flattered myself—But, I will not—I must not proceed—Dear<br />

Miss Liddy! for Heaven’s sake, contrive, if possible, some means<br />

<strong>of</strong> letting me speak to you before you leave Gloucester; otherwise,<br />

I know not what will—But I begin to rave again—I will endeavour<br />

to bear this trial with fortitude—while I am capable <strong>of</strong> reflecting<br />

upon your tenderness and truth, I surely have no cause to despair—<br />

yet I am strangely affected. <strong>The</strong> sun seems to deny me light—a<br />

cloud hangs over me, and there is a dreadful weight upon my<br />

spirits! While you stay in this place, I shall continually hover about<br />

your lodgings, as the parted soul is said to linger about the grave<br />

where its mortal consort lies.—I know, if it is in your power, you<br />

will task your humanity—your compassion—shall I add, your<br />

affection?—in order to assuage the almost intolerable disquiet that<br />

torments the heart <strong>of</strong> your afflicted,<br />

Gloucester, March 31. WILSON<br />

To Sir WATKIN PHILLIPS, <strong>of</strong> Jesus college, Oxon.<br />

Hot-well, April 18<br />

DEAR PHILLIPS,<br />

I GIVE Mansel credit for his invention, in propagating the report<br />

that I had a quarrel with a mountebank’s merry Andrew at Gloucester:<br />

but I have too much respect for every appendage <strong>of</strong> wit, to<br />

quarrel even with the lowest buffoonery; and therefore I hope<br />

Mansel and I shall always be good friends. I cannot, however, approve<br />

<strong>of</strong> his drowning my poor dog Ponto, on purpose to convert<br />

Ovid’s pleonasm into a punning epitaph.—deerant quoque Littora<br />

Ponto; for, that he threw him into the Isis, when it was so high and<br />

impetuous, with no other view than to kill the fleas, is an excuse<br />

that will not hold water—But I leave poor Ponto to his fate, and<br />

hope Providence will take care to accommodate Mansel with a drier<br />

death.

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