“Last week I swam in the Thames from Lambeth through the two bridges, Westminster and Blackfriars, a distance, including the different turns and tacks made on the way, of three miles!  You see I am in excellent training in case of a squall at sea.  I mean to collect all the Erse traditions, poems, &c. &c., and translate, or expand the subject to fill a volume, which may appear next spring under the denomination of ’The Highland Harp,’ or some title equally picturesque.  Of Bosworth Field, one book is finished, another just began.  It will be a work of three or four years, and most probably never conclude.  What would you say to some stanzas on Mount Hecla? they would be written at least with fire.  How is the immortal Bran? and the Phoenix of canine quadrupeds, Boatswain?  I have lately purchased a thorough-bred bull-dog, worthy to be the coadjutor of the aforesaid celestials—­his name is Smut!—­’Bear it, ye breezes, on your balmy wings.’

“Write to me before I set off, I conjure you, by the fifth rib of your grandfather.  Ridge goes on well with the books—­I thought that worthy had not done much in the country.  In town they have been very successful; Carpenter (Moore’s publisher) told me a few days ago they sold all theirs immediately, and had several enquiries made since, which, from the books being gone, they could not supply.  The Duke of York, the Marchioness of Headfort, the Duchess of Gordon, &c. &c., were among the purchasers; and Crosby says, the circulation will be still more extensive in the winter, the summer season being very bad for a sale, as most people are absent from London.  However, they have gone off extremely well altogether.  I shall pass very near you on my journey through Newark, but cannot approach.  Don’t tell this to Mrs. B., who supposes I travel a different road.  If you have a letter, order it to be left at Ridge’s shop, where I shall call, or the post-office, Newark, about six or eight in the evening.  If your brother would ride over, I should be devilish glad to see him—­he can return the same night, or sup with us and go home the next morning—­the Kingston Arms is my inn.

“Adieu, yours ever,

“BYRON.”

LETTER 18.

TO MISS ——.

“Trinity College, Cambridge, October 26. 1807.

“My dear Elizabeth,

“Fatigued with sitting up till four in the morning for the last two days at hazard,[77] I take up my pen to enquire how your highness and the rest of my female acquaintance at the seat of archiepiscopal grandeur go on.  I know I deserve a scolding for my negligence in not writing more frequently; but racing up and down the country for these last three months, how was it possible to fulfil the duties of a correspondent?  Fixed at last for six weeks, I write, as thin as ever (not having gained an ounce since my reduction), and rather in better