Chapter 17

TO MISS ----.

"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."