drink your health in a silent bumper, and regret your absence till
'too much canaries' wash away my memory, or render it superfluous
by a vision of you at the opposite side of the table. Canning has
disbanded his party by a speech from his * * * *--the true throne
of a Tory. Conceive his turning them off in a formal harangue, and
bidding them think for themselves. 'I have led my ragamuffins where
they are well peppered. There are but three of the 150 left alive,
and they are for the _Towns-end_ (_query_, might not Falstaff mean
the Bow Street officer? I dare say Malone's posthumous edition will
have it so) for life.'

"Since I wrote last, I have been into the country. I journeyed by
night--no incident, or accident, but an alarm on the part of my
valet on the outside, who, in crossing Epping Forest, actually, I
believe, flung down his purse before a mile-stone, with a glow-worm
in the second figure of number XIX--mistaking it for a footpad and
dark lantern. I can only attribute his fears to a pair of new
pistols wherewith I had armed him; and he thought it necessary to
display his vigilance by calling out to me whenever we passed any
thing--no matter whether moving or stationary. Conceive ten miles,
with a tremor every furlong. I have scribbled you a fearfully long
letter. This sheet must be blank, and is merely a wrapper, to
preclude the tabellarians of the post from peeping. You once
complained of my _not_ writing;--I will 'heap coals of fire upon
your head' by _not_ complaining of your _not_ reading. Ever, my
dear Moore, your'n (isn't that the Staffordshire termination?)

"BYRON."

* * * * *