"Sept. 5. 1813.
"You need not tie yourself down to a day with Toderini, but send
him at your leisure, having anatomised him into such annotations as
you want; I do not believe that he has ever undergone that process
before, which is the best reason for not sparing him now.
"* * has returned to town, but not yet recovered of the Quarterly.
What fellows these reviewers are! 'these bugs do fear us all.' They
made you fight, and me (the milkiest of men) a satirist, and will
end by making * * madder than Ajax. I have been reading Memory
again, the other day, and Hope together, and retain all my
preference of the former. His elegance is really wonderful--there
is no such thing as a vulgar line in his book.
"What say you to Buonaparte? Remember, I back him against the
field, barring Catalepsy and the Elements. Nay, I almost wish him
success against all countries but this,--were it only to choke the
Morning Post, and his undutiful father-in-law, with that rebellious
bastard of Scandinavian adoption, Bernadotte. Rogers wants me to go
with him on a crusade to the Lakes, and to besiege you on our way.
This last is a great temptation, but I fear it will not be in my
power, unless you would go on with one of us somewhere--no matter
where. It is too late for Matlock, but we might hit upon some
scheme, high life or low,--the last would be much the best for
amusement. I am so sick of the other, that I quite sigh for a
cider-cellar, or a cruise in a smuggler's sloop.
"You cannot wish more than I do that the Fates were a little more
accommodating to our parallel lines, which prolong ad infinitum
without coming a jot nearer. I almost wish I were married,
too--which is saying much. All my friends, seniors and juniors, are
in for it, and ask me to be godfather,--the only species of
parentage which, I believe, will ever come to my share in a lawful
way; and, in an unlawful one, by the blessing of Lucina, we can
never be certain,--though the parish may. I suppose I shall hear
from you to-morrow. If not, this goes as it is; but I leave room
for a P.S., in case any thing requires an answer. Ever, &c.
"No letter--_n'importe_. R. thinks the Quarterly will be at _me_
this time: if so, it shall be a war of extermination--no _quarter_.
From the youngest devil down to the oldest woman of that review,
all shall perish by one fatal lampoon. The ties of nature shall be
torn asunder, for I will not even spare my bookseller; nay, if one
were to include readers also, all the better."
* * * * *