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.
"P.
Pages:
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172