"July 25. 1813.
"I am not well versed enough in the ways of single woman to make
much matrimonial progress.
"I have been dining like the dragon of Wantley for this last week.
My head aches with the vintage of various cellars, and my brains
are muddled as their dregs. I met your friends the D * * s:--she
sung one of your best songs so well, that, but for the appearance
of affectation, I could have cried; he reminds me of Hunt, but
handsomer, and more musical in soul, perhaps. I wish to God he may
conquer his horrible anomalous complaint. The upper part of her
face is beautiful, and she seems much attached to her husband. He
is right, nevertheless, in leaving this nauseous town. The first
winter would infallibly destroy her complexion,--and the second,
very probably, every thing else.
"I must tell you a story. M * * (of indifferent memory) was dining
out the other day, and complaining of the P----e's coldness to his
old wassailers. D * * (a learned Jew) bored him with questions--why
this? and why that? 'Why did the P----e act thus?'--'Why, sir, on
account of Lord * *, who ought to be ashamed of himself.'--'And why
ought Lord * * to be ashamed of himself?'--'Because the P----e,
sir, * * * * * * * *.'--'And why, sir, did the P----e cut
_you_?'--' Because, G----d d----mme, sir, I stuck to my
principles.'--'And _why_ did you stick to your principles?'
"Is not this last question the best that was ever put, when you
consider to whom? It nearly killed M * *. Perhaps you may think it
stupid, but, as Goldsmith said about the peas, it was a very good
joke when I heard it--as I did from an ear-witness--and is only
spoilt in my narration.
"The season has closed with a dandy ball;--but I have dinners with
the Harrowbys, Rogers, and Frere and Mackintosh, where I shall
drink your health in a silent bumper, and regret your absence till
'too much canaries' wash away my memory, or render it superfluous
by a vision of you at the opposite side of the table. Canning has
disbanded his party by a speech from his * * * *--the true throne
of a Tory. Conceive his turning them off in a formal harangue, and
bidding them think for themselves. 'I have led my ragamuffins where
they are well peppered. There are but three of the 150 left alive,
and they are for the _Towns-end_ (_query_, might not Falstaff mean
the Bow Street officer? I dare say Malone's posthumous edition will
have it so) for life.'
"Since I wrote last, I have been into the country. I journeyed by
night--no incident, or accident, but an alarm on the part of my
valet on the outside, who, in crossing Epping Forest, actually, I
believe, flung down his purse before a mile-stone, with a glow-worm
in the second figure of number XIX--mistaking it for a footpad and
dark lantern. I can only attribute his fears to a pair of new
pistols wherewith I had armed him; and he thought it necessary to
display his vigilance by calling out to me whenever we passed any
thing--no matter whether moving or stationary. Conceive ten miles,
with a tremor every furlong. I have scribbled you a fearfully long
letter. This sheet must be blank, and is merely a wrapper, to
preclude the tabellarians of the post from peeping. You once
complained of my _not_ writing;--I will 'heap coals of fire upon
your head' by _not_ complaining of your _not_ reading. Ever, my
dear Moore, your'n (isn't that the Staffordshire termination?)
"BYRON."
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