“I have not the Spanish Gil Blas; such a book exists, but, if I remember rightly, with the suspicious phrase restored to the Spaniards, which may imply a retranslation of what they say is translated. Yet it is very likely that the story is originally Spanish, and, indeed, if the Spaniards claim it, I am ready to believe them, they being true men, and Le Sage’s being a Frenchman strong reason for suspecting him to be a thief; however, if he has stolen, there can be no doubt that he has tinkered old metal into a better shape, and I should think your time ill employed in Englishing what everybody reads in French.
“And now let me tell you what to do for me, and how to do it.*
“Take half-a-quartain, or a whole one doubled; write as a title the name of the poet in question; then under that, the time or place of his birth, when discoverable, and the time of his death. After that, a brief notice of his life and works to the average length of a Westminster theme, as much shorter as his demerits deserve, as much longer as apt anecdotes, or the humour of pointed and rememberable criticism, may tempt your pen. . . . .
* See p. 260. |
| 270 | LIFE AND CORRESPONDENCE | Ætat. 29. |
“Henderson—this you will do con amore.
“Garrick—Tom D’Urfey—Tom Browne.
“Cary, the author of Chrononhotonthologus—see if his namby-pamby be of suitable brevity; the Biographia and a Biog. Dictionary will be sufficient guides. Lady M. W. Montague, Stephen Duck,—kill off these, and put them by till I see you; and kill them off, the faster the better, that you may fall upon more; for so much labour as you do, so much am I saved, which is very good for both of us, says Dr. Southey.
“Great news at Keswick; a firing heard off the Isle of Man at four o’clock in the morning yesterday! The French are a-coming, a-coming, a-coming—and what care we? We who have eighteen volunteers and an apothecary at their head! Did I ever tell you of De Paddy, one of the ‘United,’ who was sent to serve on board Tom’s ship last war? The first day of his service, he had to carry the plum-pudding for the dinner of his mess, and the Patrician had never seen a plum-pudding before; he came holding it up in triumph, and exclaimed, in perfect ecstasy, ‘Och! your sowls! look here! if dis be war, may it never be paice!’ . . . .
“No time for more; farewell!
