"August 2. 1807.
"London begins to disgorge its contents--town is empty--consequently I
can scribble at leisure, as occupations are less numerous. In a
fortnight I shall depart to fulfil a country engagement; but expect
two epistles from you previous to that period. Ridge does not proceed
rapidly in Notts--very possible. In town things wear a more promising
aspect, and a man whose works are praised by _reviewers_, admired by
_duchesses_, and sold by every bookseller of the metropolis, does not
dedicate much consideration to _rustic readers_. I have now a review
before me, entitled 'Literary Recreations,' where my _hardship_ is
applauded far beyond my deserts. I know nothing of the critic, but
think _him_ a very discerning gentleman, and _myself_ a devilish
_clever_ fellow. His critique pleases me particularly, because it is
of great length, and a proper quantum of censure is administered, just
to give an agreeable _relish_ to the praise. You know I hate insipid,
unqualified, common-place compliment. If you would wish to see it,
order the 13th Number of 'Literary Recreations' for the last month. I
assure you I have not the most distant idea of the writer of the
article--it is printed in a periodical publication--and though I have
written a paper (a review of Wordsworth),[75] which appears in the
same work, I am ignorant of every other person concerned in it--even
the editor, whose name I have not heard. My cousin, Lord Alexander
Gordon, who resided in the same hotel, told me his mother, her Grace
of Gordon, requested he would introduce my _Poetical_ Lordship to her
_Highness_, as she had bought my volume, admired it exceedingly, in
common with the rest of the fashionable world, and wished to claim
her relationship with the author. I was unluckily engaged on an
excursion for some days afterwards, and as the Duchess was on the eve
of departing for Scotland, I have postponed my introduction till the
winter, when I shall favour the lady, _whose taste I shall not
dispute_, with my most sublime and edifying conversation. She is now
in the Highlands, and Alexander took his departure, a few days ago,
for the same _blessed_ seat of _'dark rolling winds.'_
"Crosby, my London publisher, has disposed of his second importation,
and has sent to Ridge for a _third_--at least so he says. In every
bookseller's window I see my _own name_, and _say nothing_, but enjoy
my fame in secret. My last reviewer kindly requests me to alter my
determination of writing no more; and 'A Friend to the Cause of
Literature' begs I will _gratify_ the _public_ with some new work 'at
no very distant period.' Who would not be a bard?--that is to say, if
all critics would be so polite. However, the others will pay me off, I
doubt not, for this _gentle_ encouragement. If so, have at 'em? By the
by, I have written at my intervals of leisure, after two in the
morning, 380 lines in blank verse, of Bosworth Field. I have luckily
got Hutton's account. I shall extend the poem to eight or ten books,
and shall have finished it in a year. Whether it will be published or
not must depend on circumstances. So much for _egotism_! My _laurels_
have turned my brain, but the _cooling acids_ of forthcoming
criticisms will probably restore me to _modesty_.
"Southwell is a damned place--I have done with it--at least in all
probability: excepting yourself, I esteem no one within its precincts.
You were my only _rational_ companion; and in plain truth, I had more
respect for you than the whole _bevy_, with whose foibles I amused
myself in compliance with their prevailing propensities. You gave
yourself more trouble with me and my manuscripts than a thousand
_dolls_ would have done. Believe me, I have not forgotten your good
nature in _this circle of sin_, and one day I trust I shall be able to
evince my gratitude. Adieu,
yours, &c.
"P.S. Remember me to Dr. P."