I have begun, or had begun, a song, and flung it into the fire. It was
in remembrance of Mary Duff, [6] my first of flames, before most people
begin to burn. I wonder what the devil is the matter with me! I can do
nothing, and--fortunately there is nothing to do. It has lately been in
my power to make two persons (and their connections) comfortable, _pro
tempore_, and one happy, _ex tempore_,--I rejoice in the last
particularly, as it is an excellent man. [7] I wish there had been more
convenience and less gratification to my self-love in it, for then there
had been more merit. We are all selfish--and I believe, ye gods of
Epicurus! I believe in Rochefoucault about _men_, and in Lucretius (not
Busby's translation) about yourselves. [8] Your bard has made you very
_nonchalant_ and blest; but as he has excused _us_ from damnation, I
don't envy you your blessedness much--a little, to be sure. I remember,
last year,----[Lady Oxford] said to me, at----[Eywood], "Have we not
passed our last month like the gods of Lucretius?" And so we had. She is
an adept in the text of the original (which I like too); and when that
booby Bus. sent his translating prospectus, she subscribed. But, the
devil prompting him to add a specimen, she transmitted him a subsequent
answer, saying, that "after perusing it, her conscience would not permit
her to allow her name to remain on the list of subscribblers." Last
night, at Lord H.'s--Mackintosh, the Ossulstones, Puysegur, [9] etc.
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