“Southey was about to write to me when his brothers death, by which six children come under his care, interrupted him.  I wish I possessed one or two of Miss Garrow’s beautiful poems, that I might ask his opinion and advice about them.  His opinion I know would be the same as mine; but his advice is what I want.  Surely it cannot be requisite and advantageous to withhold them from the world so long as you imagine.  In one single year both enough of materials and of variety for a volume might be collected and prepared.  Would Miss Garrow let me offer one to the Book of Beauty?  I shall be with Lady Blessington the last day of the present month.  One of the best poems of our days” [on death], “appeared in the last Book of Beauty.  But in general its poetry is very indifferent.  With best regards to the ladies,

“I am ever, my dear sir,

“Yours most sincerely,

“W.S.L.”

* * * * *

The following, dated merely “Gore House, Sunday morning,” was written, or at least posted, on the 14th May, 1838.

* * * * *

“MY DEAR SIR,—­It is impossible you should not often have thought me negligent and ungrateful.  Over and over again have I redd [sic], the incomparably fine poetry you sent me; and intended that Lady Blessington should partake in the high enjoyment it afforded me.  I had promised her to be at Gore House toward the end of April, but I had not the courage to face all my friends.  However, here I came on Friday evening; and before I went to bed I redd to her ladyship what I promised her.  She was enchanted.  I then requested her to toss aside some stuff of mine, and to make way for it in the next Book of Beauty.  The gods, as Homer says, granted half my prayer, and it happened to be (what was not always the case formerly) the better half.  She will insert both.  It is only by some such means as that that the best poetry in our days comes with mincing step into popularity.  Mine being booted and spurred, both ladies and gentlemen get out of the way of it, and look down at it with a touch of horror.

“Now for news, and about your neighbours.  Captain Ackland is going to marry a niece of Massy Dawson.  Mischievous things are said about poor Lady M——­, all false, you may be sure.  Admiral Aylmer after all his services under Nelson, &c., &c., is unable to procure a commission in the marines for his nephew, Frederick Paynter.  Lord A. will not ask.  I am a suitor to all the old women I know, and shall fail too, for it is not the thing they want me to ask of them.

“I see two new Deputy Lord-Lieutenants have been appointed for the County of Monmouth.  My estate there is larger than the Lord Lieutenant’s; yet even this mark of respect has not been paid me.  It might be, safely.  I shall consider myself sold to the devil, and for more than my value, when I accept any distinction, or anything else from any man living.  The Whigs are growing unpopular, I hear.  I hope never to meet any of them.  Last night, however, I talked a little with Grantley Berkeley, and told him a bit of my mind.  You see, I have not much more room in my paper, else I should be obliged to tell you that the bells are ringing, and that I have only just time to put on my gloves for church.