We are going in a party to
hear the new Art of Poetry by this reformed schismatic [3]; and were I
one of these poetical luminaries, or of sufficient consequence to be
noticed by the man of lectures, I should not hear him without an answer.
For you know,
"an a man will be beaten with brains, he shall never keep a clean
doublet." [4]
Campbell [5] will be desperately annoyed. I never saw a man (and of him
I have seen very little) so sensitive;--what a happy temperament! I am
sorry for it; what can _he_ fear from criticism? I don't know if Bland
has seen Miller, who was to call on him yesterday.
To-day is the Sabbath,--a day I never pass pleasantly, but at Cambridge;
and, even there, the organ is a sad remembrancer. Things are stagnant
enough in town; as long as they don't retrograde, 'tis all very well.
Hobhouse writes and writes and writes, and is an author. I do nothing
but eschew tobacco. [6] I wish parliament were assembled, that I may
hear, and perhaps some day be heard;--but on this point I am not very
sanguine. I have many plans;--sometimes I think of the East again, and
dearly beloved Greece. I am well, but weakly. Yesterday Kinnaird [7]
told me I looked very ill, and sent me home happy.
You will never give up wine. See what it is to be thirty! if you were
six years younger, you might leave off anything. You drink and repent;
you repent and drink.
Is Scrope still interesting and invalid? And how does Hinde with his
cursed chemistry? To Harness I have written, and he has written, and we
have all written, and have nothing now to do but write again, till Death
splits up the pen and the scribbler.
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