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Memoir of Francis Hodgson
Francis Hodgson to Henry Drury, [1813]

Vol. 1 Contents
Chapter I.
Chapter II. 1794-1807.
Chapter III. 1807-1808.
Chapter IV. 1808.
Chapter V. 1808-1809.
Chapter VI. 1810.
Chapter VII. 1811.
Chapter VIII. 1811.
Chapter IX. 1811.
Chapter X. 1811-12.
Chapter XI. 1812.
Chapter XII. 1812-13.
Chapter XIII. 1813-14.
Vol. 2 Contents
Chapter XIV. 1815-16.
Chapter XV. 1816-18.
Chapter XVI. 1815-22.
Chapter XVII. 1820.
Chapter XVIII. 1824-27.
Chapter XIX. 1827-1830
Chapter XX. 1830-36.
Chapter XXI. 1837-40.
Chapter XXII. 1840-47.
Chapter XXIII. 1840-52.
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My dear Harry,—You have doubtless greatly enjoyed your Devonshire visit, notwithstanding your seclusion and most natural dislike to reviewing. I feel the latter dislike as much as you can, but, as to retirement, I confess a few friends and a cottage would be my summum bonum, could I command such blessings in the environs of London. It is not solitude, but knowing that you cannot have society, which is unpleasant. I will deliver your message about a Fen Scheme to Hart when I return to King’s. Lonsdale is there at present, in very ill-health. . . . I write this from London, where I have come to meet my sister 1 from Kensington. I have been rambling about with her all the morning to see sights. Miss Linwood’s worsted pictures, in which I think she has worsted all our painters, if you canvass her merits ever so severely. Bullock’s Museum, a farrago of birds, beasts, snakes, shells, and butterflies; and Mrs. Salmon’s original and royal waxworks, where, in addition to the old curiosities (which I have not seen these twenty years, but well remember) there is the

1 Afterwards married to her cousin the Rev. Geo. Coke, of Lemore, in Herefordshire.

Duchess of Brunswick, lying in state in a room lighted with wax tapers, with two waxen bishops at her head, a waxen Princess of Wales weeping over her, a wax waiting-woman, and a wax emblem of Peace, strewing flowers at her feet. Two wax mutes stand at the door of the chamber. Perhaps you have forgotten the room upstairs. Werter and Charlotte and the pistol were being cleaned; so was Buonaparte, and the lady who bled to death from pricking her finger while working on a Sunday; these interesting groups, therefore, were lost to us. But we saw Alexander, and the Queen of Darius and her waiting-maid, and the nurse on her knees begging the life of the prince, a fine chubby child, beside her; Alexander looks about sixty years of age, but perhaps he has grown old apace since I last saw him; and Antony and Cleopatra certainly have lost some of their youthful charms. But Mrs. Siddons’s sister still begs as piteously as in life; and Mother Shipton (saving her leg, which is out of joint, and has ceased kicking) is as attractive as ever. Henderson in Macbeth must have been very grand. I took him at first for the beefeater that used to stand at the door. But, as Mr. Puff has it, ‘I would not have you too sure he is a beefeater.’ The lady abbess and her nuns, who
slit their noses and lips to disgust the marauding Danes, and so preserve their virgin vows, are in full perfection, only I observed that neither their noses nor lips were slit; and the Lady Margaret of Holland is lying in bed as usual, just having produced her 365th child, according to the prayer of the beggar-woman whom her ladyship offended. The nun, the priest, the waiting-woman, all wax sorrowful at her side. But perhaps you will say I am cereus in vitium, and so farewell for the present, and

Believe me, my dear Harry,
Ever yours affectionately,
Francis Hodgson.