ed a "Letter to an _Old Gentleman_ whose Education had been
neglected"--and when it was done Taylor and Hessey would not print it,
and it discouraged me from doing any thing else, so I took up Scott,
where I had scribbled some petulant remarks, and for a make shift
father'd them on Ritson. It is obvious I could not make your Poem a part
of them, and as I did not know whether I should ever be able to do to my
mind what you suggested, I thought it not fair to keep back the verses
for the chance. Mr. Mitford's sonnet I like very well; but as I also
have my reasons against interfering at all with the Editorial
arrangement of the London, I transmitted it (not in my own hand-writing)
to them, who I doubt not will be glad to insert it. What eventual
benefit it can be to you (otherwise than that a kind man's wish is a
benefit) I cannot conjecture. Your Society are eminently men of
Business, and will probably regard you as an idle fellow, possibly
disown you, that is to say, if you had put your own name to a sonnet of
that sort, but they cannot excommunicate Mr. Mitford, therefore I
thoroughly approve of printing the said verses. When I see any Quaker
names to the Concert of Antient Music, or as Directors of the British
Institution, or bequeathing medals to Oxford for the best classical
themes, etc.--then I shall begin to hope they will emancipate you. But
what as a Society can they do for you? you would not accept a Commission
in the Army, nor they be likely to procure it; Posts in Church or State
have they none in their giving; and then if they disown you--think--you
must live "a man forbid."

I wishd for you yesterday. I dined in Parnassus, with Wordsworth,
Coleridge, Rogers, and Tom Moore--half the Poetry of England
constellated and clustered in Gloster Place! It was a delightful Even!
Coleridge was in his finest vein of talk, had all the talk, and let 'em
talk as evilly as they do of the envy of Poets, I am sure not one there
but was content to be nothing but a listener. The Muses were dumb, while
Apollo lectured on his and their fine Art. It is a lie that Poets are
envious, I have known the best of them, and can speak to it, that they
give each other their merits, and are the kindest critics as well as
best authors. I am scribbling a muddy epistle with an aking head, for we
did not quaff Hippocrene last night. Many, it was Hippocras rather. Pray
accept this as a letter in the mean time, and do me the favor to mention
my re