“My dear Sir,—Most willingly would I join your philosophic party at the Polygon, but Death on Sunday last sent one of his damned young brats to attack me in bed at Lord Nelson’s at Merton. Inspired with a little of his Lordship’s courage, I fired away at him flannel, brandy, hot bricks, and red-hot coals, which, by the blessing of God (on whom you most devoutly believe), overcame him, and I am now at Camden Town, singing Te Deum for the victory. Though I have not gained the laurels of Aboukir, I have (as Marshal Boufflers said of his troops) ‘performed wonders.’
“To descend from lofty metaphor to humble prose, I have been plagued with my asthma for nearly a week past, and have flown to Camden Town to recover. Here I am at Delaney Place, No. 7, with a fiddle and a good fire, the one a balm for the mind, and the other for the body.—I am, truly yours,
“P.S.—The instant I can with safety crawl forth, I will peep in upon you. Report says you are married again. Fortunate man! Forty years have I been trying to get my tail into the trap and have not succeeded. What a monkey!”
