Chapter 79

"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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