“Yesterday I went with Moore to Sydenham to visit Campbell.[38] He was not visible, so we jogged homeward, merrily enough.  To-morrow I dine with Rogers, and am to hear Coleridge, who is a kind of rage at present.  Last night I saw Kemble in Coriolanus;—­he _was glorious_, and exerted himself wonderfully.  By good luck I got an excellent place in the best part of the house, which was more than overflowing.  Clare and Delawarre, who were there on the same speculation, were less fortunate.  I saw them by accident,—­we were not together.  I wished for you, to gratify your love of Shakspeare and of fine acting to its fullest extent.  Last week I saw an exhibition of a different kind in a Mr. Coates, at the Haymarket, who performed Lothario in a _damned_ and damnable manner.

“I told you the fate of B. and H. in my last.  So much for these sentimentalists, who console themselves in their stews for the loss—­the never to be recovered loss—­the despair of the refined attachment of a couple of drabs!  You censure _my_ life, Harness,—­when I compare myself with these men, my elders and my betters, I really begin to conceive myself a monument of prudence—­a walking statue—­without feeling or failing; and yet the world in general hath given me a proud pre-eminence over them in profligacy.  Yet I like the men, and, God knows, ought not to condemn their aberrations.  But I own I feel provoked when