Chapter XXXVIII: Letter 192: To Mr. Moore

"Hastings, August 3. 1814.

"By the time this reaches your dwelling, I shall (God wot) be in
town again probably. I have been here renewing my acquaintance with
my old friend Ocean; and I find his bosom as pleasant a pillow for
an hour in the morning as his daughters of Paphos could be in the
twilight. I have been swimming and eating turbot, and smuggling
neat brandies and silk handkerchiefs,--and listening to my friend
Hodgson's raptures about a pretty wife-elect of his,--and walking
on cliffs, and tumbling down hills, and making the most of the
'dolce far-niente' for the last fortnight. I met a son of Lord
Erskine's, who says he has been married a year, and is the
'happiest of men;' and I have met the aforesaid H., who is also the
'happiest of men;' so, it is worth while being here, if only to
witness the superlative felicity of these foxes, who have cut off
their tails, and would persuade the rest to part with their brushes
to keep them in countenance.

"It rejoiceth me that you like 'Lara.' Jeffrey is out with his 45th
Number, which I suppose you have got. He is only too kind to me, in
my share of it, and I begin to fancy myself a golden pheasant, upon
the strength of the plumage wherewith he hath bedecked me. But
then, 'surgit amari,' &c.--the gentlemen of the Champion, and
Perry, have got hold (I know not how) of the condolatory address to
Lady J. on the picture-abduction by our R * * *, and have published
them--with my name, too, smack--without even asking leave, or
enquiring whether or no! D----n their impudence, and d----n every
thing. It has put me out of patience, and so, I shall say no more
about it.

"You shall have Lara and Jacque (both with some additions) when
out; but I am still demurring and delaying, and in a fuss, and so
is R. in his way.

"Newstead is to be mine again. Claughton forfeits twenty-five
thousand pounds; but that don't prevent me from being very prettily
ruined. I mean to bury myself there--and let my beard grow--and
hate you all.

"Oh! I have had the most amusing letter from Hogg, the Ettrick
minstrel and shepherd. He wants me to recommend him to Murray; and,
speaking of his present bookseller, whose 'bills' are never
'lifted,' he adds, _totidem verbis_, 'God d----n him and them
both.' I laughed, and so would you too, at the way in which this
execration is introduced. The said Hogg is a strange being, but of
great, though uncouth, powers. I think very highly of him, as a
poet; but he, and half of these Scotch and Lake troubadours, are
spoilt by living in little circles and petty societies. London and
the world is the only place to take the conceit out of a man--in
the milling phrase. Scott, he says, is gone to the Orkneys in a
gale of wind;--during which wind, he affirms, the said Scott, 'he
is sure, is not at his ease,--to say the best of it.' Lord, Lord,
if these homekeeping minstrels had crossed your Atlantic or my
Mediterranean, and tasted a little open boating in a white
squall--or a gale in 'the Gut'--or the 'Bay of Biscay,' with no
gale at all--how it would enliven and introduce them to a few of
the sensations!--to say nothing of an illicit amour or two upon
shore, in the way of essay upon the Passions, beginning with simple
adultery, and compounding it as they went along.

"I have forwarded your letter to Murray,--by the way, you had
addressed it to Miller. Pray write to me, and say what art thou
doing? 'Not finished!'--Oons! how is this?--these 'flaws and
starts' must be 'authorised by your grandam,' and are unbecoming of
any other author. I was sorry to hear of your discrepancy with the
* *s, or rather your abjuration of agreement. I don't want to be
impertinent, or buffoon on a serious subject, and am therefore at a
loss what to say.

"I hope nothing will induce you to abate from the proper price of
your poem, as long as there is a prospect of getting it. For my own
part, I have _seriously_ and _not whiningly_, (for that is not my
way--at least, it used not to be,) neither hopes, nor prospects,
and scarcely even wishes. I am, in some respects, happy, but not in
a manner that can or ought to last,--but enough of that. The worst
of it is, I feel quite enervated and indifferent. I really do not
know, if Jupiter were to offer me my choice of the contents of his
benevolent cask, what I would pick out of it. If I was born, as the
nurses say, with a 'silver spoon in my mouth,' it has stuck in my
throat, and spoiled my palate, so that nothing put into it is
swallowed with much relish,--unless it be cayenne. However, I have
grievances enough to occupy me that way too;--but for fear of
adding to yours by this pestilent long diatribe, I postpone the
reading of them, _sine die_.

"Ever, dear M., yours, &c.

"P.S. Don't forget my godson. You could not have fixed on a fitter
porter for his sins than me, being used to carry double without
inconvenience."

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