Chapter XXVII: Letter 79: To Mr. Hodgson

"London, Dec. 8. 1811.

"I sent you a sad Tale of Three Friars the other day, and now take
a dose in another style. I wrote it a day or two ago, on hearing a
song of former days.

"Away, away, ye notes of woe[37], &c. &c.

"I have gotten a book by Sir W. Drummond, (printed, but not
published,) entitled Oedipus Judaicus, in which he attempts to
prove the greater part of the Old Testament an allegory,
particularly Genesis and Joshua. He professes himself a theist in
the preface, and handles the literal interpretation very roughly. I
wish you could see it. Mr. W * * has lent it me, and I confess, to
me it is worth fifty Watsons.

"You and Harness must fix on the time for your visit to Newstead; I
can command mine at your wish, unless any thing particular occurs
in the interim. Bland dines with me on Tuesday to meet Moore.
Coleridge has attacked the 'Pleasures of Hope,' and all other
pleasures whatsoever. Mr. Rogers was present, and heard himself
indirectly _rowed_ by the lecturer. We are going in a party to hear
the new Art of Poetry by this reformed schismatic; 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.' C * * 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. H * * writes and writes and writes, and is an
author. I do nothing but eschew tobacco. 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 told me I looked very ill, and sent me
home happy.

* * * * * "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.

"The Alfred has three hundred and fifty-four candidates for six
vacancies. The cook has run away and left us liable, which makes
our committee very plaintive. Master Brook, our head serving-man,
has the gout, and our new cook is none of the best. I speak from
report,--for what is cookery to a leguminous-eating ascetic? So now
you know as much of the matter as I do. Books and quiet are still
there, and they may dress their dishes in their own way for me. Let
me know your determination as to Newstead, and believe me,

"Yours ever, [Greek: Mpairôn]."

[Footnote 37: This poem is now printed in Lord Byron's Works.]

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