My dear Hodgson,—I expected to have
heard ere this the event of your interview with the mysterious Mr.
Hayne, my volunteer correspondent; however, as I had no business
to trouble you with the adjustment of my concerns with that illustrious
stranger, I have no right to complain of your silence. Hobhouse and your humble are still here.
Hobhouse hunts, &c., and I do nothing. We dined
the other day with a neighbouring esquire (not Collet of
Staines), and regretted your absence, as the banquet of
Staines was scarcely to be compared to our last
‘feast of Reason.’ You know laughing is the sign of a rational
animal, so says Dr. Smollett; I think so
too, but unluckily my spirits don’t always keep pace with my opinions. I
had not so much scope for risibility the other day as I could have wished, for
I was seated near a woman, to whom, when a boy, I was as much attached as boys
generally are, and more than a man should be. I knew this before I went, and
was determined to be valiant, and converse with sang froid, but, instead, I forgot my valour and my
nonchalance, and never opened my lips even to laugh, far less to speak, and the
lady was almost as absurd as myself, which made both the objects of more
observation than if we had conducted our-
| 106 | MEMOIR OF REV. F. HODGSON. |
I have tried for Gifford’s Epistle to Pindar, and the bookseller says the copies were cut up for waste paper: if you can procure me a copy I shall be much obliged. Adieu!
