DEAR Sir—I am vexed to be two letters in your debt,
but I have been quite out of the vein lately. A philosophical treatise is
wanting, of the causes of the backwardness with which persons after a certain
time of life set about writing a letter. I always feel as if I had nothing to
say, and the performance generally justifies the presentiment. Taylor and Hessey did foolishly in not admitting the sonnet. Surely it
might have followed the B. B. I agree with you in thinking
Bowring’s paper better than the former.
I will inquire about my Letter
to the Old Gentleman, but I expect it to go
in, after those to the Young Gentn
are completed. I do not exactly see why the Goose and little Goslings should
emblematize a Quaker poet that has no children. But
after all—perhaps it is a Pelican. The Mene Mene Tekel
Upharsin around it I cannot decypher. The songster of the night
pouring out her effusions amid a Silent Meeting of Madge Owlets, would be at
least intelligible. A full pause here comes upon me, as if I had not a word
more left. I will shake my brain. Once—twice—nothing comes up. George Fox recommends waiting on these
occasions. I wait. Nothing comes. G. Fox—that sets me off
again. I have finished the Journal, and 400 more pages of the Doctrinals, which I picked up for 7s. 6d. If
I get on at this rate, the Society will be in danger of having two Quaker
poets—to patronise. I am at Dalston now, but if, when I go back to Cov. Gar., I
find thy friend has not call’d for the Journal, thee must put me in a way
of sending it; and if it should happen that the Lender of it, having that
volume, has not the other, I shall be most happy in his accept-
| 1823 | “LONDON MAGAZINE” TOPPLING | 613 |
I cannot but think the London drags heavily. I miss Janus. And O how it misses Hazlitt! Procter too is affronted (as Janus has been) with their abominable curtailment of his things—some meddling Editor or other—or phantom of one—for neither he nor Janus know their busy friend. But they always find the best part cut out; and they have done well to cut also. I am not so fortunate as to be served in this manner, for I would give a clean sum of money in sincerity to leave them handsomely. But the dogs—T. and H. I mean—will not affront me, and what can I do? must I go on to drivelling? Poor Relations is tolerable—but where shall I get another subject—or who shall deliver me from the body of this death? I assure you it teases me more than it used to please me. Ch. Lloyd has published a sort of Quaker poem, he tells me, and that he has order’d me a copy, but I have not got it. Have you seen it? I must leave a little wafer space, which brings me to an apology for a conclusion. I am afraid of looking back, for I feel all this while I have been writing nothing, but it may show I am alive. Believe me, cordially yours
