“I presume by your silence that I have blundered into something noxious in my reply to your letter, for the which I beg leave to send, beforehand, a sweeping apology, which you may apply to any, or all, parts of that unfortunate epistle. If I err in my conjecture, I expect the like from you, in putting our correspondence so long in quarantine. God he knows what I have said; but he also knows (if he is not as indifferent to mortals as the nonchalant deities of Lucretius), that you are the last person I want to offend. So, if I have,—why the devil don’t you say it at once, and expectorate your spleen?
“Rogers is out of town with Madame de Staël, who hath published an Essay against Suicide, which, I presume, will make somebody shoot himself;—as a sermon by Blinkensop, in proof of Christianity, sent a hitherto most orthodox acquaintance of mine out of a chapel of ease a perfect atheist. Have you found or founded a residence yet? and have you begun or finished a Poem? If you won’t tell me what I have done, pray say what you have done, or left undone, yourself. I am still in equipment for voyaging, and anxious to hear from, or of, you before I go, which anxiety you should remove more readily, as you think I sha’n’t cogitate about you afterwards. I shall give the lie to that calumny by fifty foreign letters, particularly from any place where the plague is rife,—without a drop of vinegar or a whiff of sulphur to save you from infection. Pray write: I am sorry to say that * * * *.
“The Oxfords have sailed
almost a fortnight, and my sister is in town, which is a great comfort—for, never having
been much together, we are naturally more attached to each other. I presume the
illuminations have conflagrated to Derby (or wherever you are) by this time. We are just
recovering from tumult and train oil, and transparent fripperies, and all the noise and
nonsense of victory. Drury-lane had a large M. W. which some
thought was Marshal Wellington; others, that
| A. D. 1813. | LIFE OF LORD BYRON. | 411 |
