"September 27. 1813.
"Thomas Moore,
"(Thou wilt never be called '_true_ Thomas,' like he of
Ercildoune,) why don't you write to me?--as you won't, I must. I
was near you at Aston the other day, and hope I soon shall be
again. If so, you must and shall meet me, and go to Matlock and
elsewhere, and take what, in _flash_ dialect, is poetically termed
'a lark,' with Rogers and me for accomplices. Yesterday, at Holland
House, I was introduced to Southey--the best looking bard I have
seen for some time. To have that poet's head and shoulders, I would
almost have written his Sapphics. He is certainly a prepossessing
person to look on, and a man of talent, and all that, and--_there_
is his eulogy.
"* * read me part of a letter from you. By the foot of Pharaoh, I
believe there was abuse, for he stopped short, so he did, after a
fine saying about our correspondence, and _looked_--I wish I could
revenge myself by attacking you, or by telling you that I have
_had_ to defend you--an agreeable way which one's friends have of
recommending themselves by saying--'Ay, ay, _I_ gave it Mr.
Such-a-one for what he said about your being a plagiary, and a
rake, and so on.' But do you know that you are one of the very few
whom I never have the satisfaction of hearing abused, but the
reverse;--and do you suppose I will forgive _that_?
"I have been in the country, and ran away from the Doncaster races.
It is odd,--I was a visiter in the same house which came to my sire
as a residence with Lady Carmarthen, (with whom he adulterated
before his majority--by the by, remember, _she_ was not my
mamma,)--and they thrust me into an old room, with a nauseous
picture over the chimney, which I should suppose my papa regarded
with due respect, and which, inheriting the family taste, I looked
upon with great satisfaction. I stayed a week with the family, and
behaved very well--though the lady of the house is young, and
religious, and pretty, and the master is my particular friend. I
felt no wish for any thing but a poodle dog, which they kindly gave
me. Now, for a man of my courses not even to have _coveted_, is a
sign of great amendment. Pray pardon all this nonsense, and don't
'snub me when I'm in spirits.'
"Ever, yours, BN.
"Here's an impromptu for you by a 'person of quality,' written last
week, on being reproached for low spirits.
"When from the heart where Sorrow sits[84],
Her dusky shadow mounts too high,
And o'er the changing aspect flits,
And clouds the brow, or fills the eye:
Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink;
My Thoughts their dungeon know too well--
Back to my breast the wanderers shrink,
And bleed within their silent cell."
[Footnote 84: Now printed in his Works.]
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