Chapter XVI: Letter 68: To Mr. Dallas

"Newstead Abbey, Sept. 17. 1811.

"I can easily excuse your not writing, as you have, I hope,
something better to do, and you must pardon my frequent invasions
on your attention, because I have at this moment nothing to
interpose between you and my epistles.

"I cannot settle to any thing, and my days pass, with the exception
of bodily exercise to some extent, with uniform indolence, and idle
insipidity. I have been expecting, and still expect, my agent, when
I shall have enough to occupy my reflections in business of no very
pleasant aspect. Before my journey to Rochdale, you shall have due
notice where to address me--I believe at the post-office of that
township. From Murray I received a second proof of the same pages,
which I requested him to show you, that any thing which may have
escaped my observation may be detected before the printer lays the
corner-stone of an _errata_ column.

"I am now not quite alone, having an old acquaintance and
school-fellow 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. 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[27], and so tell him,--_that_ is the proper
receptacle for publishers. You have thoughts 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. But
of this anon. I am, yours," &c.

[Footnote 27: In a note on his "Hints from Horace," he thus humorously applies this incident:--

"A literary friend of mine walking out one lovely evening last summer on the eleventh bridge of the Paddington Canal, was alarmed by the cry of 'One in jeopardy!' He rushed along, collected a body of Irish haymakers (supping on buttermilk in an adjoining paddock), procured three rakes, one eel spear, and a landing-net, and at last (_horresco referens_) pulled out--his own publisher. The unfortunate man was gone for ever, and so was a large quarto wherewith he had taken the leap, which proved, on enquiry, to have been Mr. S----'s last work. Its 'alacrity of sinking' was so great, that it has never since been heard of, though some maintain that it is at this moment concealed at Alderman Birch's pastry-premises, Cornhill. Be this as it may, the coroner's inquest brought in a verdict of 'Felo de Bibliopolâ' against a 'quarto unknown,' and circumstantial evidence being since strong against the 'Curse of Kehama' (of which the above words are an exact description), it will be tried by its peers next session in Grub Street. Arthur, Alfred, Davideis, Richard Coeur de Lion, Exodus, Exodiad, Epigoniad, Calvary, Fall of Cambria, Siege of Acre, Don Roderick, and Tom Thumb the Great, are the names of the twelve jurors. The judges are Pye, * * *, and the bellman of St. Sepulchre's."]

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