"An expression in your letter has induced me to write this to you, to entreat you not to interfere in any way in such a business,--it is now nearly over, and depend upon it _they_ are much more chagrined by my silence than they could be by the best defence in the world. I do not know any thing that would vex me more than any further reply to these things. "Ever yours, in haste, "B." * * * * * LETTER 170. TO MR. MOORE. "March 3. 1814. "My dear Friend, "I have a great mind to tell you that I _am_ 'uncomfortable,' if only to make you come to town; where no one ever more delighted in seeing you, nor is there any one to whom I would sooner turn for consolation in my most vapourish moments. The truth is, I have 'no lack of argument' to ponder upon of the most gloomy description, but this arises from _other_ causes. Some day or other, when we are _veterans_, I may tell you a tale of present and past times; and it is not from want of confidence that I do not now,--but--but--always a _but_ to the end of the chapter. "There is nothing, however, upon the _spot_ either to love or hate;--but I certainly have subjects for both at no very great distance, and am besides embarrassed between _three_ whom I know, and one (whose name, at least,) I do not know. All this would be very well if I had no heart; but, unluckily, I have found that there is such a thing still about me, though in no very good repair, and, also, that it has a habit of attaching itself to _one_ whether I will or no. 'Divide et impera,' I begin to think, will only do for politics. "If I discover the 'toad' as you call him, I shall 'tread,'--and put spikes in my shoes to do it more effectually. The effect of all these fine things I do not enquire much nor perceive. I believe * * felt them more than either of us. People are civil enough, and I have had no dearth of invitations,--none of which, however, I have accepted. I went out very little last year, and mean to go about still less. I have no passion for circles, and have long regretted that I ever gave way to what is called a town life;--which, of all the lives I ever saw (and they are nearly as many as Plutarch's), seems to me to leave the least for the past and future.