Je. 9, 1813.
Dear Sir,--I regret much that I have no profane garment to array you
with for the masquerade. As my motions will be uncertain, you need not
write nor send the proofs till my return.
Yours truly,
BN.
P.S.--My wardrobe is out of town--or I could have dressed you as an
Albanian--or a Turk--or an officer--or a Waggoner.
* * * * *
300.--To John Murray.
June 12, 1813.
Dear Sir,--Having occasion to send a servant to London, I will thank you
to inform me whether I left with the other things 3 miniatures in your
care (--if not--I know where to find them), and also to "report
progress" in unpacking the books? The bearer returns this evening.
How does Hobhouse's work go on, or rather off--for that is the essential
part? In yesterday's paper, immediately under an advertisement on
"Strictures in the Urethra," I see--most appropriately consequent--a
poem with "_strictures_ on Ld B., Mr. Southey and others,"[1] though I
am afraid neither "Mr. S.'s" poetical distemper, nor "mine," nor
"others," is of the suppressive or stranguary kind. You may read me the
prescription of this kill or cure physician. The medicine is compounded
at White and Cochrane's, Fleet Street. As I have nothing else to do, I
may enjoy it like Sir Fretful, or the Archbishop of Grenada, or any
other personage in like predicament.
Recollect that my lacquey returns in the Evening, and that I set out for
Portsmouth [2] to-morrow.
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