“January 12. 1821.

“The weather still so humid and impracticable, that London, in its most oppressive fogs, were a summer-bower to this mist and sirocco, which has now lasted (but with one day’s interval), chequered with snow or heavy rain only, since the 30th of December, 1820.  It is so far lucky that I have a literary turn;—­but it is very tiresome not to be able to stir out, in comfort, on any horse but Pegasus, for so many days.  The roads are even worse than the weather, by the long splashing, and the heavy soil, and the growth of the waters.

“Read the Poets—­English, that is to say—­out of Campbell’s edition.  There is a good deal of taffeta in some of Tom’s prefatory phrases, but his work is good as a whole.  I like him best, though, in his own poetry.

“Murray writes that they want to act the Tragedy of Marino Faliero—­more fools they, it was written for the closet.  I have protested against this piece of usurpation, (which, it seems, is legal for managers over any printed work, against the author’s will,) and I hope they will not attempt it.  Why don’t they bring out some of the numberless aspirants for theatrical celebrity, now encumbering their shelves, instead of lugging me out of the library?  I have written a fierce protest against any such attempt, but I still would hope that it will not be necessary, and that they will see, at once, that it is not intended for the stage.  It is too regular—­the time, twenty-four hours—­the change of place not frequent—­nothing melodramatic—­no surprises, no starts, nor trap-doors, nor opportunities ’for tossing their heads and kicking their heels’—­and no love—­the grand ingredient of a modern play.

“I have found out the seal cut on Murray’s letter.  It is meant for Walter Scott—­or Sir Walter—­he is the first poet knighted since Sir Richard Blackmore.  But it does not do him justice.  Scott’s—­particularly when he recites—­is a very intelligent countenance, and this seal says nothing.

“Scott is certainly the most wonderful writer of the day.  His novels are a new literature in themselves, and his poetry as good as any—­if not better (only on an erroneous system)—­and only ceased to be so popular, because the vulgar learned were tired of hearing ’Aristides called the Just,’ and Scott the Best, and ostracised him.

“I like him, too, for his manliness of character, for the extreme pleasantness of his conversation, and his good-nature towards myself, personally.  May he prosper!—­for he deserves it.  I know no reading to which I fall with such alacrity as a work of W. Scott’s.  I shall give the seal, with his bust on it, to Madame la Contesse G. this evening, who will be curious to have the effigies of a man so celebrated.

“How strange are our thoughts, &c. &c. &c.[19]

[Footnote 19:  Here follows a long passage, already extracted, relative to his early friend, Edward Noel Long.]