Rogers has returned to town, but not yet recovered of the 'Quarterly'.
What fellows these reviewers are! "these bugs do fear us all." [1]
They made you fight, and me (the milkiest of men) a satirist, and will
end by making Rogers madder than Ajax. I have been reading 'Memory'
again, the other day, and _Hope_ together, and retain all my preference
of the former [2].
His elegance is really wonderful--there is no such thing as a vulgar
line in his book.
What say you to Buonaparte? Remember, I back him against the field,
barring catalepsy and the Elements. Nay, I almost wish him success
against all countries but this,--were it only to choke the 'Morning
Post', and his undutiful father-in-law, with that rebellious bastard of
Scandinavian adoption, Bernadotte. Rogers wants me to go with him on a
crusade to the Lakes, and to besiege you on our way. This last is a
great temptation, but I fear it will not be in my power, unless you
would go on with one of us somewhere--no matter where. It is too late
for Matlock, but we might hit upon some scheme, high life or low,--the
last would be much the best for amusement. I am so sick of the other,
that I quite sigh for a cider-cellar [3], or a cruise in a smuggler's
sloop.
You cannot wish more than I do that the Fates were a little more
accommodating to our parallel lines, which prolong _ad infinitum_
without coming a jot nearer. I almost wish I were married, too--which is
saying much. All my friends, seniors and juniors, are in for it, and ask
me to be godfather,--the only species of parentage which, I believe,
will ever come to my share in a lawful way; and, in an unlawful one, by
the blessing of Lucina, we can never be certain,--though the parish may.
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