"Newstead Abbey, August 25. 1811.
"Being fortunately enabled to frank, I do not spare scribbling,
having sent you packets within the last ten days. I am passing
solitary, and do not expect my agent to accompany me to Rochdale
before the second week in September; a delay which perplexes me, as
I wish the business over, and should at present welcome employment.
I sent you exordiums, annotations, &c. for the forthcoming quarto,
if quarto it is to be: and I also have written to Mr. Murray my
objection to sending the MS. to Juvenal, but allowing him to show
it to any others of the calling. Hobhouse is amongst the types
already: so, between his prose and my verse, the world will be
decently drawn upon for its paper-money and patience. Besides all
this, my 'Imitation of Horace' is gasping for the press at
Cawthorn's, but I am hesitating as to the _how_ and the _when_, the
single or the double, the present or the future. You must excuse
all this, for I have nothing to say in this lone mansion but of
myself, and yet I would willingly talk or think of aught else.
"What are you about to do? Do you think of perching in Cumberland,
as you opined when I was in the metropolis? If you mean to retire,
why not occupy Miss * * *'s 'Cottage of Friendship,' late the seat
of Cobbler Joe, for whose death you and others are answerable? His
'Orphan Daughter' (pathetic Pratt!) will, certes, turn out a
shoemaking Sappho. Have you no remorse? I think that elegant
address to Miss Dallas should be inscribed on the cenotaph which
Miss * * * means to stitch to his memory.
"The newspapers seem much disappointed at his Majesty's not dying,
or doing something better. I presume it is almost over. If
parliament meets in October, I shall be in town to attend. I am
also invited to Cambridge for the beginning of that month, but am
first to jaunt to Rochdale. Now Matthews is gone, and Hobhouse in
Ireland, I have hardly one left there to bid me welcome, except my
inviter. At three-and-twenty I am left alone, and what more can we
be at seventy? It is true I am young enough to begin again, but
with whom can I retrace the laughing part of life? It is odd how
few of my friends have died a quiet death,--I mean, in their beds.
But a quiet life is of more consequence. Yet one loves squabbling
and jostling better than yawning. This _last word_ admonishes me to
relieve you from yours very truly," &c.
* * * * *