Chapter 29

"June 14. 1814.

"I _could_ be very sentimental now, but I won't. The truth is, that I have been all my life trying to harden my heart, and have not yet quite succeeded--though there are great hopes--and you do not know how it sunk with your departure. What adds to my regret is having seen so little of you during your stay in this crowded desert, where one ought to be able to bear thirst like a camel,--the springs are so few, and most of them so muddy.

"The newspapers will tell you all that is to be told of emperors, &c.[34] They have dined, and supped, and shown their flat faces in all thoroughfares, and several saloons. Their uniforms are very becoming, but rather short in the skirts; and their conversation is a catechism, for which and the answers I refer you to those who have heard it.

"I think of leaving town for Newstead soon. If so, I shall not be remote from your recess, and (unless Mrs. M. detains you at home over the caudle-cup and a new cradle,) we will meet. You shall come to me, or I to you, as you like it;--but _meet_ we will. An invitation from Aston has reached me, but I do not think I shall go. I have also heard of * * *--I should like to see her again, for I have not met her for years; and though 'the light that ne'er can shine again' is set, I do not know that 'one dear smile like those of old' might not make me for a moment forget the 'dulness' of 'life's stream.'

"I am going to R * *'s to-night--to one of those suppers which '_ought_ to be dinners.' I have hardly seen her, and never _him_, since you set out. I told you, you were the last link of that chain. As for * *, we have not syllabled one another's names since. The post will not permit me to continue my scrawl. More anon.

"Ever, dear Moore, &c.

"P.S. Keep the Journal[35]; I care not what becomes of it; and if it has amused you I am glad that I kept it. 'Lara' is finished, and I am copying him for my third vol., now collecting;--but _no separate_ publication."

[Footnote 34: In a few days after this, he sent me a long rhyming epistle full of jokes and pleasantries upon every thing and every one around him, of which the following are the only parts producible:--

'What say _I_?'--not a syllable further in prose; I'm your man 'of all measures,' dear Tom,--so, here goes! Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time, On those buoyant supporters the bladders of rhyme. If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the flood, We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud, Where the divers of bathos lie drown'd in a heap, And S * * 's last paean has pillow'd his sleep;-- That 'felo de se' who, half drunk with his malmsey, Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea, Singing 'Glory to God' in a spick-and-span stanza, The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) never man saw.

"The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusses, The fêtes, and the gapings to get at these Russes,-- Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to Hetman,-- And what dignity decks the flat face of the great man. I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party,-- For a prince, his demeanour was rather too hearty. You know, _we_ are used to quite different graces, * * * * * The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and brisker, But then he is sadly deficient in whisker; And wore but a starless blue coat, and in kersey- mere breeches whisk'd round in a waltz with the J * *, Who, lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted With majesty's presence as those she invited." ]

[Footnote 35: The Journal from which I have given extracts in the preceding pages.]

* * * * *

TO MR. MURRAY.

"June 14. 1814.

"I return your packet of this morning. Have you heard that Bertrand has returned to Paris with the account of Napoleon's having lost his senses? It is a _report_; but, if true, I must, like Mr. Fitzgerald and Jeremiah (of lamentable memory), lay claim to prophecy; that is to say, of saying, that he _ought_ to go out of his senses, in the penultimate stanza of a certain Ode,--the which, having been pronounced _nonsense_ by several profound critics, has a still further pretension, by its unintelligibility, to inspiration. Ever," &c.

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