and ingenuity of remark, united that gay good-humour which keeps alive the attention under the pressure of fatigue, and softens the aspect of every difficulty and danger.”  In some lines, too, of the “Hints from Horace,” addressed evidently to Mr. Hobhouse, Lord Byron not only renders the same justice to his own social cheerfulness, but gives a somewhat more distinct idea of the frame of mind out of which it rose;—­

    “Moschus! with whom I hope once more to sit,
    And smile at folly, if we can’t at wit;
    Yes, friend, for thee I’ll quit my Cynic cell,
    And bear Swift’s motto, “Vive la bagatelle!”
    Which charm’d our days in each AEgean clime,
    And oft at home with revelry and rhyme.”
]

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LETTER 54.  TO MR. DALLAS.

     "Volage Frigate, at sea, June 28. 1811.

     “After two years’ absence, (to a day, on the 2d of July, before
     which we shall not arrive at Portsmouth,) I am retracing my way to
     England.

“I am coming back with little prospect of pleasure at home, and with a body a little shaken by one or two smart fevers, but a spirit I hope yet unbroken.  My affairs, it seems, are considerably involved, and much business must be done with lawyers, colliers, farmers, and creditors.  Now this, to a man who hates bustle as he hates a bishop, is a serious concern.  But enough of my home department.

“My Satire, it seems, is in a fourth edition, a success rather above the middling run, but not much for a production which, from its topics, must be temporary, and of course be successful at first, or not at all.  At this period, when I can think and act more coolly, I regret that I have written it, though I shall probably find it forgotten by all except those whom it has offended.

“Yours and Pratt’s protege, Blackett, the cobbler, is dead, in spite of his rhymes, and is probably one of the instances where death has saved a man from damnation.  You were the ruin of that poor fellow amongst you:  had it not been for his patrons, he might now have been in very good plight, shoe-(not verse-) making:  but you have made him immortal with a vengeance.  I write this, supposing poetry, patronage, and strong waters, to have been the death of him.  If you are in town in or about the beginning of July, you will find me at Dorant’s, in Albemarle Street, glad to see you.  I have an imitation of Horace’s Art of Poetry ready for Cawthorn, but don’t let that deter you, for I sha’n’t inflict it upon you.  You know I never read my rhymes to visitors.  I shall quit town in a few days for Notts., and thence to Rochdale.

     “Yours, &c.”

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