"October 2. 1813.
"You have not answered some six letters of mine. This, therefore,
is my penultimate. I will write to you once more, but, after
that--I swear by all the saints--I am silent and supercilious. I
have met Curran at Holland House--he beats every body;--his
imagination is beyond human, and his humour (it is difficult to
define what is wit) perfect. Then he has fifty faces, and twice as
many voices, when he mimics--I never met his equal. Now, were I a
woman, and eke a virgin, that is the man I should make my
Scamander. He is quite fascinating. Remember, I have met him but
once; and you, who have known him long, may probably deduct from
my panegyric. I almost fear to meet him again, lest the impression
should be lowered. He talked a great deal about you--a theme never
tiresome to me, nor any body else that I know. What a variety of
expression he conjures into that naturally not very fine
countenance of his! He absolutely changes it entirely. I have
done--for I can't describe him, and you know him. On Sunday I
return to * *, where I shall not be far from you. Perhaps I shall
hear from you in the mean time. Good night.
"Saturday morn--Your letter has cancelled all my anxieties. I did
_not suspect_ you in _earnest_. Modest again! Because I don't do a
very shabby thing, it seems, I 'don't fear your competition.' If it
were reduced to an alternative of preference, I _should_ dread you,
as much as Satan does Michael. But is there not room enough in our
respective regions? Go on--it will soon be my turn to forgive.
To-day I dine with Mackintosh and Mrs. _Stale_--as John Bull may be
pleased to denominate Corinne--whom I saw last night, at Covent
Garden, yawning over the humour of Falstaff.
"The reputation of 'gloom,' if one's friends are not included in
the _reputants_, is of great service; as it saves one from a legion
of impertinents, in the shape of common-place acquaintance. But
thou know'st I can be a right merry and conceited fellow, and
rarely 'larmoyant.' Murray shall reinstate your line forthwith.[85]
I believe the blunder in the motto was mine:--and yet I have, in
general, a memory for _you_, and am sure it was rightly printed at
first.
"I do 'blush' very often, if I may believe Ladies H. and M.;--but
luckily, at present, no one sees me. Adieu."
[Footnote 85: The motto to The Giaour, which is taken from one of the
Irish Melodies, had been quoted by him incorrectly in the first editions
of the poem. He made afterwards a similar mistake in the lines from
Burns prefixed to the Bride of Abydos.]
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