October 2, 1813.
You have not answered some six letters of mine. This, therefore, is my
penultimate. I will write to you once more, but, after that--I swear by
all the saints--I am silent and supercilious. I have met Curran [1] at
Holland House--he beats every body;--his imagination is beyond human,
and his humour (it is difficult to define what is wit) perfect. Then he
has fifty faces, and twice as many voices, when he mimics--I never met
his equal. Now, were I a woman, and eke a virgin, that is the man I
should make my Scamander [2].
He is quite fascinating. Remember, I have met him but once; and you, who
have known him long, may probably deduct from my panegyric. I almost
fear to meet him again, lest the impression should be lowered. He talked
a great deal about you--a theme never tiresome to me, nor any body else
that I know. What a variety of expression he conjures into that
naturally not very fine countenance of his! He absolutely changes it
entirely. I have done--for I can't describe him, and you know him. On
Sunday I return to Aston, where I shall not be far from you. Perhaps I
shall hear from you in the mean time. Good night.
Saturday morn.--Your letter has cancelled all my anxieties. I did _not
suspect_ you in _earnest_. Modest again! Because I don't do a very
shabby thing, it seems, I "don't fear your competition." If it were
reduced to an alternative of preference, I _should_ dread you, as much
as Satan does Michael.
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