337—to James Wedderburn Webster

September 30th, 1813.

My dear Webster,—Thanks for your letter. I had answered it by anticipation last night, and this is but a postscript to my reply. My yesterday's contained some advice, which I now see you don't want, and hope you never will.

So! Petersham 1 has not joined you. I pity the poor women. No one can properly repair such a deficiency; but rather than such a chasm should be left utterly unfathomable, I, even I, the most awkward of attendants and deplorable of danglers, would have been of your forlorn hope, on this expedition. Nothing but business, and the notion of my being utterly superfluous in so numerous a party, would have induced me to resign so soon my quiet apartments never interrupted but by the sound, or the more harmonious barking of Nettle, and clashing of billiard balls.

On Sunday I shall leave town and mean to join you immediately. I have not yet had my sister's answer to Lady Frances's very kind invitation, but expect it tomorrow. Pray assure Lady Frances that I never can forget the obligation conferred upon me in this respect, and I trust that even Lady Catherine 2 will, in this instance, not question my "stability."

I yesterday wrote you rather a long tirade about La Comptesse, but you seem in no immediate peril; I will therefore burn it. Yet I don't know why I should, as you may relapse: it shall e'en go.

I have been passing my time with Rogers and Sir James Mackintosh; and once at Holland House I met Southey; he is a person of very epic appearance, and has a fine head—as far as the outside goes, and wants nothing but taste to make the inside equally attractive.

Ever, my dear W., yours,

Biron.

P.S.—I read your letter thus: "the Countess is miserable" instead of which it is " inexorable" a very different thing. The best way is to let her alone; she must be a diablesse by what you told me. You have probably not bid high enough.

Now you are not, perhaps, of my opinion; but I would not give the tithe of a Birmingham farthing for a woman who could or would be purchased, nor indeed for any woman quoad mere woman; that is to say, unless I loved her for something more than her sex. If she loves, a little pique is not amiss, nor even if she don't; the next thing to a woman's love in a man's favour is her hatred,—a seeming paradox but true. Get them once out of indifference and circumstance, and their passions will do wonders for a dasher which I suppose you are, though I seldom had the impudence or patience to follow them up.

Footnote 1:

  Lord Petersham was one of the chief dandies of the day. Gronow in 1814 (Reminiscences, vol. i. p. 285) found him "making a particular sort of blacking, which he said would eventually supersede every other."

His snuff-mixture was famous among tobacconists, and he gave his name to a fashionable great-coat. In his collection of snuff-boxes, one of the finest in England, he was supposed to have a box for every day in the year. Gronow (ibid.) "heard him, on the occasion of a delightful old light-blue Sèvres box he was using being admired, say, in his lisping way, 'Yes, it is a nice summer box, but would not do for winter wear.'"

Lord Petersham, who never went out of doors before 6 p.m., was celebrated for his brown carriages, brown horses, brown harness, and brown liveries.

Footnote 2:

 Lady Catherine Annesley, sister of Lady F. W. Webster, afterwards Lady John Somerset.