Matthews was indeed an extraordinary man; it has not entered into the
heart of a stranger to conceive such a man: there was the stamp of
immortality in all he said or did;--and now what is he? When we see such
men pass away and be no more--men, who seem created to display what the
Creator 'could make' his creatures, gathered into corruption, before the
maturity of minds that might have been the pride of posterity, what are
we to conclude? For my own part, I am bewildered. To me he was much, to
Hobhouse every thing. My poor Hobhouse doted on Matthews. For me, I did
not love quite so much as I honoured him; I was indeed so sensible of
his infinite superiority, that though I did not envy, I stood in awe of
it. He, Hobhouse, Davies, and myself, formed a coterie of our own at
Cambridge and elsewhere. Davies is a wit and man of the world, and feels
as much as such a character can do; but not as Hobhouse has been
affected. Davies, who is not a scribbler, has always beaten us all in
the war of words, and by his colloquial powers at once delighted and
kept us in order. Hobhouse and myself always had the worst of it with
the other two; and even Matthews yielded to the dashing vivacity of
Scrope Davies. But I am talking to you of men, or boys, as if you cared
about such beings.
I expect mine agent down on the 14th to proceed to Lancashire, where I
hear from all quarters that I have a very valuable property in coals,
etc. I then intend to accept an invitation to Cambridge in October, and
shall, perhaps, run up to town.
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