appear anonymous. No more of it
for God's sake.

The Spirit of the Age is by Hazlitt. The characters of Coleridge, &c. he
had done better in former publications, the praise and the abuse much
stronger, &c. but the new ones are capitally done. Horne Tooke is a
matchless portrait. My advice is, to borrow it rather than read [? buy]
it. I have it. He has laid on too many colours on my likeness, but I
have had so much injustice done me in my own name, that I make a rule of
accepting as much over-measure to Elia as Gentlemen think proper to
bestow. Lay it on and spare not.

Your Gentleman Brother sets my mouth a watering after Liberty. O that I
were kicked out of Leadenhall with every mark of indignity, and a
competence in my fob. The birds of the air would not be so free as I
should. How I would prance and curvet it, and pick up cowslips, and
ramble about purposeless as an ideot! The Author-mometer is a good
fancy. I have caused great speculation in the dramatic (not _thy_) world
by a Lying Life of Liston, all pure invention. The Town has swallowed
it, and it is copied into News Papers, Play Bills, etc., as authentic.
You do not know the Droll, and possibly missed reading the article (in
our 1st No., New Series). A life more improbable for him to have lived
would not be easily invented. But your rebuke, coupled with "Dream on J.
Bunyan," checks me. I'd rather do more in my favorite way, but feel dry.
I must laugh sometimes. I am poor Hypochondriacus, and _not_ Liston.

Our 2'nd N'o is all trash. What are T. and H. about? It is whip
syllabub, "thin sown with aught of profit or delight." Thin sown! not a
germ of fruit or corn. Why did poor Scott die! There was comfort in
writing with such associates as were his little band of Scribblers, some
gone away, some affronted away, and I am left as the solitary widow
looking for water cresses.

The only clever hand they have is Darley, who has written on the
Dramatists, under name of John Lacy. But his function seems suspended.

I have been harassed more than usually at office, which has stopt my
correspondence lately. I write with a confused aching head, and you must
accept this apology for a Letter.

I will do something soon if I can as a peace offering to the Queen of
the East Angles. Something she shan't scold about.

For the Present, farewell.

Thine C.L.

10 Feb. 1825.

I am fifty years old this day. Drink my heal