I am now not quite alone, having an old acquaintance and school-fellow
[1] with me, so _old_, indeed, that we have nothing _new_ to say on any
subject, and yawn at each other in a sort of _quiet inquietude_. I hear
nothing from Cawthorn, or Captain Hobhouse; and _their quarto_--Lord
have mercy on mankind! We come on like Cerberus with our triple
publications. [2] As for _myself_, by _myself_, I must be satisfied with
a comparison to _Janus_.
I am not at all pleased with Murray for showing the MS.; and I am
certain Gifford must see it in the same light that I do. His praise is
nothing to the purpose: what could he say? He could not spit in the face
of one who had praised him in every possible way. I must own that I wish
to have the impression removed from his mind, that I had any concern in
such a paltry transaction. The more I think, the more it disquiets me;
so I will say no more about it. It is bad enough to be a scribbler,
without having recourse to such shifts to extort praise, or deprecate
censure. It is anticipating, it is begging, kneeling, adulating,--the
devil! the devil! the devil! and all without my wish, and contrary to my
express desire. I wish Murray had been tied to _Payne's_ neck when he
jumped into the Paddington Canal, [3] and so tell him,--_that_ is the
proper receptacle for publishers. You have thought of settling in the
country, why not try Notts.? I think there are places which would suit
you in all points, and then you are nearer the metropolis.
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