Marry, when
somebody persuaded Cervantes that he meant only fun, and put him upon
writing that unfortunate Second Part, with the confederacies of that
unworthy duke and most contemptible duchess, Cervantes sacrificed his
instinct to his understanding.
We got your little book but last night, being at Enfield, to which place
we came about a month since, and are having quiet holidays. Mary walks
her twelve miles a day some days, and I my twenty on others. 'T is all
holiday with me now, you know; the change works admirably.
For literary news, in my poor way, I have a one-act farce [1] going to be
acted at Haymarket; but when? is the question, 'Tis an extravaganza, and
like enough to follow "Mr. H." "The London Magazine" has shifted its
publishers once more, and I shall shift myself out of it. It is fallen.
My ambition is not at present higher than to write nonsense for the
playhouses, to eke out a something contracted income. _Tempus erat_.
There was a time, my dear Cornwallis, when the muse, etc. But I am now
in Mac Flecknoe's predicament,--
"Promised a play, and dwindled to a farce." Coleridge is better (was, at
least, a few weeks since) than he has been for years. His accomplishing
his book at last has been a source of vigor to him. We are on a half
visit to his friend Allsop, at a Mrs. Leishman's, Enfield, but expect to
be at Colebrooke Cottage in a week or so, where, or anywhere, I shall be
always most happy to receive tidings from you.
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