DEAR Moxon,
The snows are ancle deep slush and mire, that ’tis hard to get to the
post office, and cruel to send the maid out. ’Tis a slough of despair, or
I should sooner have thankd you for your offer of the Life, which we shall
very much like to have, and will return duly. I do not know when I shall be in
town, but in a week or two at farthest, when I will come as far as you if I
can. We are moped to death with confinement within doors. I send you a
curiosity of G. Dyer’s
tender-conscience. Between 30 and 40 years since, G.
published the Poet’s
Fate, in which were two very harmless lines about Mr. Rogers, but Mr. R.
not quite approving of them, they were left out in a subsequent edition 1801.
But G. has been worryting about them ever since; if I have
heard him once, I have heard him a hundred times express a remorse proportiond
to a consciousness of having been guilty of an atrocious libel. As the devil
would have it, a fool they call Barker, in his Parriana has quoted the identical two
lines as they stood in some obscure edition anterior to 1801, and the withers
of poor G. are again wrung. His letter is a gem—with his
poor blind eyes it has been laboured out at six sittings. The history of the
couplet is in page 3 of this irregular production, in which every variety of
shape and size that Letters can be twisted into, is to be found. Do shew his part of it to Mr. R. some day.
If he has bowels, they must melt at the contrition so queerly character’d
of a contrite sinner. G. was born I verily think without
original sin, but chuses to have a conscience, as every Christian Gentleman
should have. His dear old face is insusceptible of the twist they call a sneer,
yet he is apprehensive of being suspected of that ugly appearance. When he
makes a compliment, he thinks he has given an affront. A name is personality.
But shew (no hurry) this unique recantation to Mr. R.
’Tis like a dirty pocket handkerchief muck’d with tears of some
indigent Magdalen. There is the impress of sincerity in every pot-hook and
hanger. And then the gilt frame to such a pauper picture! It should go into the
Museum. I am heartily sorry my Devil does not answer. We must try it a little longer, and after
all I think I must insist on taking a portion of the loss upon myself. It is
too much you should lose by two adventures. You do not say how your general
business goes on, and I should very much like to talk over it with you here.
Come when the weather will possibly let you. I want to see the Wordsworths, but I do not much like
| 1831 | LOW SPIRITS AGAIN | 867 |
We have heard from Emma but once, and that a month ago, and are very anxious for another letter.
You say we have forgot your powers of being serviceable to us. That we never shall. I do not know what I should do without you when I want a little commission. Now then. There are left at Miss Buffam’s, the Tales of the Castle, and certain vols. Retrospective Review. The first should be conveyd to Novello’s, and the Reviews should be taken to Talfourd’s office, ground floor, East side, Elm Court, Middle Temple, to whom I should have written, but my spirits are wretched. It is quite an effort to write this. So, with the Life, I have cut you out 3 Pieces of service. What can I do for you here, but hope to see you very soon, and think of you with most kindness. I fear tomorrow, between rains and snows, it would be impossible to expect you, but do not let a practicable Sunday pass. We are always at home!
Mary joins in remembrances to your sister, whom we hope to see in any fine-ish weather, when she’ll venture.
Remember us to Allsop, and all the dead people—to whom, and to London, we seem dead.
