of his offences? That he
desires to be called at four in the morning, and does not get up till
eight. That he pours libations on his bare head out of the
water-glasses at great dinners. That being in the midst of
sportsmen--rural aristocrats--lords of soil--and all talking learnedly
of pointers' noses and spaniels' ears; he has exclaimed aloud in a
mocking paraphrase--'If I were to hold up a horse by the tail.' The
wit is certainly doubtful!--That being asked to dinner on Tuesday, he
will go on Wednesday instead.--That he throws himself at full length
with a gesture approaching to a 'summerset' on satin sofas. That he
giggles. That he only _thinks_ he can talk. That his ignorance on all
subjects is astounding. That he never read the old ballads, nor saw
Percy's collection. That he asked _who_ wrote 'Drink to me only with
thine eyes.' That after making himself ridiculous in attempting to
speak at a public meeting, he said to a compassionate friend 'I got
very well out of _that_.' That, in writing his work on Napoleon, he
employed a man to study the subject for him. That he cares for
nobody's poetry or fame except his own, and considers Tennyson chiefly
illustrious as being his contemporary. That, as to politics, he
doesn't care '_which_ side.' That he is always talking of 'my shares,'
'my income,' as if he were a Kilmansegg. Lastly (and understand, this
is _my_ 'lastly' and not Miss Mitford's, who is far from being out of
breath so soon) that he has a mania for heiresses--that he has gone
out at half past five and 'proposed' to Miss M or N with fifty
thousand pounds, and being rejected (as the lady thought fit to report
herself) came back to tea and the same evening 'fell in love' with
Miss O or P ... with forty thousand--went away for a few months, and
upon his next visit, did as much to a Miss Q or W, on the promise of
four blood horses--has a prospect now of a Miss R or S--with hounds,
perhaps.

Too, too bad--isn't it? I would repeat none of it except to you--and
as to the worst part, the last, why some may be coincidence, and some,
exaggeration, for I have not the least doubt that every now and then a
fine poetical compliment was turned into a serious thing by the
listener, and then the poor poet had critics as well as listeners all
round him. Also, he rather 'wears his heart on his sleeve,' there is
no denying--and in other respects he is not much better, perhaps, than
other men. But for the base traffic of the af