“I have been in the country, and ran away from the Doncaster races.  It is odd,—­I was a visiter in the same house which came to my sire as a residence with Lady Carmarthen, (with whom he adulterated before his majority—­by the by, remember, she was not my mamma,)—­and they thrust me into an old room, with a nauseous picture over the chimney, which I should suppose my papa regarded with due respect, and which, inheriting the family taste, I looked upon with great satisfaction.  I stayed a week with the family, and behaved very well—­though the lady of the house is young, and religious, and pretty, and the master is my particular friend.  I felt no wish for any thing but a poodle dog, which they kindly gave me.  Now, for a man of my courses not even to have coveted, is a sign of great amendment.  Pray pardon all this nonsense, and don’t ‘snub me when I’m in spirits.’

     “Ever, yours, BN.

     “Here’s an impromptu for you by a ‘person of quality,’ written last
     week, on being reproached for low spirits.

        “When from the heart where Sorrow sits[84],
          Her dusky shadow mounts too high,
        And o’er the changing aspect flits,
          And clouds the brow, or fills the eye: 
        Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink;
          My Thoughts their dungeon know too well—­
        Back to my breast the wanderers shrink,
          And bleed within their silent cell.”

[Footnote 84:  Now printed in his Works.]

* * * * *

LETTER 140.  TO MR. MOORE.

     “October 2. 1813.

“You have not answered some six letters of mine.  This, therefore, is my penultimate.  I will write to you once more, but, after that—­I swear by all the saints—­I am silent and supercilious.  I have met Curran at Holland House—­he beats every body;—­his imagination is beyond human, and his humour (it is difficult to define what is wit) perfect.  Then he has fifty faces, and twice as many voices, when he mimics—­I never met his equal.  Now, were I a woman, and eke a virgin, that is the man I should make my Scamander.  He is quite fascinating.  Remember, I have met him but once; and you, who have known him long, may probably deduct from my panegyric.  I almost fear to meet him again, lest the impression should be lowered.  He talked a great deal about you—­a theme never tiresome to me, nor any body else that I know.  What a variety of expression he conjures into that naturally not very fine countenance of his!  He absolutely changes it entirely.  I have done—­for I can’t describe him, and you know him.  On Sunday I return to * *, where I shall not be far from you.  Perhaps I shall hear from you in the mean time.  Good night.

“Saturday morn—­Your letter has cancelled all my anxieties.  I did