LORD  BYRON  and  his  TIMES
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Letters and Journals of Lord Byron
Lord Byron to William Harness, 6 December 1811

Life of Byron: to 1806
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Life of Byron: 1816 (I)
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Life of Byron: 1824
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“8, St. James’s-street, December 6th, 1811.

“I write again, but don’t suppose I mean to lay such a tax on your pen and patience as to expect regular replies. When you are inclined, write; when silent, I shall have the consolation of knowing that you are much better employed. Yesterday, Bland and I called on Mr. Miller, who, being then out, will call on Bland* to-day or to-morrow. I shall certainly endeavour to bring them together.—You are censorious, child; when you are a little older, you will learn to dislike every body, but abuse nobody.

“With regard to the person of whom you speak, your own good sense must direct you. I never pretend to advise, being an implicit believer in the old proverb. This present frost is detestable. It is the first I have felt these three years, though I longed for one in the oriental summer, when no such thing is to be had, unless I had gone to the top of Hymettus for it.

“I thank you most truly for the concluding part of your letter. I have been of late not much accustomed to kindness from any quarter, and I am not the less pleased to meet with it again from one, where I had known it earliest. I have not changed in all my ramblings,—Harrow and, of course, yourself never left me, and the
‘Dulcea reminiscitur Argos’

* The Rev. Robert Bland, one of the authors of “Collections from the Greek Anthology.” Lord Byron was, at this time, endeavouring to secure for Mr. Bland the task of translating Lucien Buonaparte’s Poem.

316 NOTICES OF THE A. D. 1811.
attended me to the very spot to which that sentence alludes in the mind of the fallen Argive.—Our intimacy began before we began to date at all, and it rests with you to continue it till the hour which must number it and me with the things that were.

“Do read mathematics.—I should think X plus Y at least as amusing as the Curse of Kehama, and much more intelligible. Master S.’s poems are, in fact, what parallel lines might be—viz., prolonged ad infinitum without meeting any thing half so absurd as themselves.

“What news, what news? Queen Orraca,
What news of scribblers five?
All damn’d, though yet alive.

C——e is lecturing. ‘Many an old fool,’ said Hannibal to some such lecturer, ‘but such as this, never.’

“Ever yours, &c.”