“What say you to Buonaparte?  Remember, I back him against the field, barring Catalepsy and the Elements.  Nay, I almost wish him success against all countries but this,—­were it only to choke the Morning Post, and his undutiful father-in-law, with that rebellious bastard of Scandinavian adoption, Bernadotte.  Rogers wants me to go with him on a crusade to the Lakes, and to besiege you on our way.  This last is a great temptation, but I fear it will not be in my power, unless you would go on with one of us somewhere—­no matter where.  It is too late for Matlock, but we might hit upon some scheme, high life or low,—­the last would be much the best for amusement.  I am so sick of the other, that I quite sigh for a cider-cellar, or a cruise in a smuggler’s sloop.

“You cannot wish more than I do that the Fates were a little more accommodating to our parallel lines, which prolong ad infinitum without coming a jot nearer.  I almost wish I were married, too—­which is saying much.  All my friends, seniors and juniors, are in for it, and ask me to be godfather,—­the only species of parentage which, I believe, will ever come to my share in a lawful way; and, in an unlawful one, by the blessing of Lucina, we can never be certain,—­though the parish may.  I suppose I shall hear from you to-morrow.  If not, this goes as it is; but I leave room for a P.S., in case any thing requires an answer.  Ever, &c.

“No letter—­n’importe.  R. thinks the Quarterly will be at me this time:  if so, it shall be a war of extermination—­no quarter.  From the youngest devil down to the oldest woman of that review, all shall perish by one fatal lampoon.  The ties of nature shall be torn asunder, for I will not even spare my bookseller; nay, if one were to include readers also, all the better.”

* * * * *

LETTER 137.  TO MR. MOORE.

     “September 8. 1813.

“I am sorry to see Tod. again so soon, for fear your scrupulous conscience should have prevented you from fully availing yourself of his spoils.  By this coach I send you a copy of that awful pamphlet ‘The Giaour,’ which has never procured me half so high a compliment as your modest alarm.  You will (if inclined in an evening) perceive that I have added much in quantity,—­a circumstance which may truly diminish your modesty upon the subject.

“You stand certainly in great need of a ‘lift’ with Mackintosh.  My dear Moore, you strangely under-rate yourself.  I should conceive it an affectation in any other; but I think I know you well enough to believe that you don’t know your own value.  However, ’tis a fault that generally mends; and, in your case, it really ought.  I have heard him speak of you as highly as your wife could wish; and enough to give all your friends the jaundice.