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
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_.

"N