“Youth, Nature, and relenting Jove,
    To keep my lamp in strongly strove;
    But Romanelli was so stout,
    He beat all three—­and blew it out.

But Nature and Jove, being piqued at my doubts, did, in fact, at last, beat Romanelli, and here I am, well but weakly, at your service.

“Since I left Constantinople, I have made a tour of the Morea, and visited Veley Pacha, who paid me great honours, and gave me a pretty stallion.  H. is doubtless in England before even the date of this letter:—­he bears a despatch from me to your bardship.  He writes to me from Malta, and requests my journal, if I keep one.  I have none, or he should have it; but I have replied in a consolatory and exhortatory epistle, praying him to abate three and sixpence in the price of his next boke seeing that half-a-guinea is a price not to be given for any thing save an opera ticket.

“As for England, it is long since I have heard from it.  Every one at all connected with my concerns is asleep, and you are my only correspondent, agents excepted.  I have really no friends in the world; though all my old school companions are gone forth into that world, and walk about there in monstrous disguises, in the garb of guardsmen, lawyers, parsons, fine gentlemen, and such other masquerade dresses.  So, I here shake hands and cut with all these busy people, none of whom write to me.  Indeed I ask it not;—­and here I am, a poor traveller and heathenish philosopher, who hath perambulated the greatest part of the Levant, and seen a great quantity of very improvable land and sea, and, after all, am no better than when I set out—­Lord help me!

“I have been out fifteen months this very day, and I believe my concerns will draw me to England soon; but of this I will apprise you regularly from Malta.  On all points Hobhouse will inform you, if you are curious as to our adventures.  I have seen some old English papers up to the 15th of May.  I see the ‘Lady of the Lake’ advertised.  Of course it is in his old ballad style, and pretty.  After all, Scott is the best of them.  The end of all scribblement is to amuse, and he certainly succeeds there.  I long to read his new romance.

“And how does ‘Sir Edgar?’ and your friend Bland?  I suppose you are involved in some literary squabble.  The only way is to despise all brothers of the quill.  I suppose you won’t allow me to be an author, but I contemn you all, you dogs!—­I do.

“You don’t know D——­s, do you?  He had a farce ready for the stage before I left England, and asked me for a prologue, which I promised, but sailed in such a hurry, I never penned a couplet.  I am afraid to ask after his drama, for fear it should be damned—­Lord forgive me for using such a word! but the pit, Sir, you know the pit—­they will do those things in spite of merit.  I remember this farce from a curious circumstance.  When Drury Lane was burnt to the ground, by which accident Sheridan and his son lost