humour;—­but, after all, Southwell was a detestable residence.  Thank St. Dominica, I have done with it:  I have been twice within eight miles of it, but could not prevail on myself to suffocate in its heavy atmosphere.  This place is wretched enough—­a villanous chaos of din and drunkenness, nothing but hazard and burgundy, hunting, mathematics, and Newmarket, riot and racing.  Yet it is a paradise compared with the eternal dulness of Southwell.  Oh! the misery of doing nothing but make love, enemies, and verses.

“Next January, (but this is entre nous only, and pray let it be so, or my maternal persecutor will be throwing her tomahawk at any of my curious projects,) I am going to sea for four or five months, with my cousin Capt.  Bettesworth, who commands the Tartar, the finest frigate in the navy.  I have seen most scenes, and wish to look at a naval life.  We are going probably to the Mediterranean, or to the West Indies, or—­to the d——­l; and if there is a possibility of taking me to the latter, Bettesworth will do it; for he has received four and twenty wounds in different places, and at this moment possesses a letter from the late Lord Nelson, stating Bettesworth as the only officer in the navy who had more wounds than himself.

“I have got a new friend, the finest in the world, a tame bear.  When I brought him here, they asked me what I meant to do with him, and my reply was, ‘he should sit for a fellowship.’  Sherard will explain the meaning of the sentence, if it is ambiguous.  This answer delighted them not.  We have several parties here, and this evening a large assortment of jockeys, gamblers, boxers, authors, parsons, and poets, sup with me,—­a precious mixture, but they go on well together; and for me, I am a spice of every thing except a jockey; by the by, I was dismounted again the other day.

Thank your brother in my name for his treatise.  I have written 214 pages of a novel,—­one poem of 380 lines,[78] to be published (without my name) in a few weeks, with notes,—­560 lines of Bosworth Field, and 250 lines of another poem in rhyme, besides half a dozen smaller pieces.  The poem to be published is a Satire. Apropos, I have been praised to the skies in the Critical Review,[79] and abused greatly in another publication.[80] So much the better, they tell me, for the sale of the book:  it keeps up controversy, and prevents it being forgotten.  Besides, the first men of all ages have had their share, nor do the humblest escape;—­so I bear it like a philosopher.  It is odd two opposite critiques came out on the same day, and out of five pages of abuse, my censor only quotes two lines from different poems, in support of his opinion.  Now, the proper way to cut up, is to quote long passages, and make them appear absurd, because simple allegation is no proof.  On the other hand, there are seven pages of praise, and more than my modesty will allow, said on the subject.  Adieu.