“Now for the first time since Diddy left home, can he sit down in quietness to write to his pretty. . . . As to the result of the campaign, disastrous as it is in the extent of the defeat, it is impossible to consider the whole as unfavorable to me. In the first place, my friends will have no occasion for their compassion for my being but of parliament. This is everything to begin with. Then I have begun a connection with the town of Liverpool to be used or not at my discretion on future occasions. . . . Canning, in the present state of things, must be shortly in office, and then he vacates, and I never will believe that as a Minister of State he will submit to the club canvassing. . . . You never saw a fellow in your life look so miserable as he has done throughout. . . . I have been perfectly amazed during this campaign at the marvellous talent of Brougham in his addresses to the people. He poured in a volley of declamation against the immortal memory of Pitt the day before yesterday, describing his immortality as proclaimed by the desolation of his own country and the subjugation of mankind, that, by God, shook the very square and all the houses in it from the applause it met with. Yesterday he renewed the subject by a comparison of Fox with Pitt, that was done with equal skill and success. Still, I cannot like him. He has always some game or underplot out of sight—some mysterious correspondence—some extraordinary connection with persons quite opposite to himself.’
