“Crosby, my London publisher, has disposed of his second importation, and has sent to Ridge for a third—­at least so he says.  In every bookseller’s window I see my own name, and say nothing, but enjoy my fame in secret.  My last reviewer kindly requests me to alter my determination of writing no more; and ’A Friend to the Cause of Literature’ begs I will gratify the public with some new work ’at no very distant period.’  Who would not be a bard?—­that is to say, if all critics would be so polite.  However, the others will pay me off, I doubt not, for this gentle encouragement.  If so, have at ’em?  By the by, I have written at my intervals of leisure, after two in the morning, 380 lines in blank verse, of Bosworth Field.  I have luckily got Hutton’s account.  I shall extend the poem to eight or ten books, and shall have finished it in a year.  Whether it will be published or not must depend on circumstances.  So much for egotism!  My laurels have turned my brain, but the cooling acids of forthcoming criticisms will probably restore me to modesty.

“Southwell is a damned place—­I have done with it—­at least in all probability:  excepting yourself, I esteem no one within its precincts.  You were my only rational companion; and in plain truth, I had more respect for you than the whole bevy, with whose foibles I amused myself in compliance with their prevailing propensities.  You gave yourself more trouble with me and my manuscripts than a thousand dolls would have done.  Believe me, I have not forgotten your good nature in this circle of sin, and one day I trust I shall be able to evince my gratitude.  Adieu,

yours, &c.

“P.S.  Remember me to Dr. P.”

LETTER 17.

TO MISS ——.

“London, August 11, 1807.

“On Sunday next I set off for the Highlands.[76] A friend of mine accompanies me in my carriage to Edinburgh.  There we shall leave it, and proceed in a tandem (a species of open carriage) through the western passes to Inverary, where we shall purchase shelties, to enable us to view places inaccessible to vehicular conveyances.  On the coast we shall hire a vessel, and visit the most remarkable of the Hebrides; and, if we have time and favourable weather, mean to sail as far as Iceland, only 300 miles from the northern extremity of Caledonia, to peep at Hecla.  This last intention you will keep a secret, as my nice mamma would imagine I was on a Voyage of Discovery, and raise the accustomed maternal warwhoop.