"4. Benedictine Street, St. James's, July 8. 1813.
"I presume by your silence that I have blundered into something
noxious in my reply to your letter, for the which I beg leave to
send beforehand a sweeping apology, which you may apply to any, or
all, parts of that unfortunate epistle. If I err in my conjecture,
I expect the like from you, in putting our correspondence so long
in quarantine. God he knows what I have said; but he also knows (if
he is not as indifferent to mortals as the _nonchalant_ deities of
Lucretius), that you are the last person I want to offend. So, if I
have,--why the devil don't you say it at once, and expectorate your
spleen?
"Rogers is out of town with Madame de Staël, who hath published an
Essay against Suicide, which, I presume, will make somebody shoot
himself;--as a sermon by Blinkensop, in _proof_ of Christianity,
sent a hitherto most orthodox acquaintance of mine out of a chapel
of ease a perfect atheist. Have you found or founded a residence
yet? and have you begun or finished a poem? If you won't tell me
what _I_ have done, pray say what you have done, or left undone,
yourself. I am still in equipment for voyaging, and anxious to hear
from, or of, you _before_ I go, which anxiety you should remove
more readily, as you think I sha'n't cogitate about you afterwards.
I shall give the lie to that calumny by fifty foreign letters,
particularly from any place where the plague is rife,--without a
drop of vinegar or a whiff of sulphur to save you from infection.
"The Oxfords have sailed almost a fortnight, and my sister is in
town, which is a great comfort--for, never having been much
together, we are naturally more attached to each other. I presume
the illuminations have conflagrated to Derby (or wherever you are)
by this time. We are just recovering from tumult and train oil, and
transparent fripperies, and all the noise and nonsense of victory.
Drury Lane had a large _M.W._, which some thought was Marshal
Wellington; others, that it might be translated into Manager
Whitbread; while the ladies of the vicinity of the saloon conceived
the last letter to be complimentary to themselves. I leave this to
the commentators to illustrate. If you don't answer this, I sha'n't
say what _you_ deserve, but I think _I_ deserve a reply. Do you
conceive there is no Post-Bag but the Twopenny? Sunburn me, if you
are not too bad."
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