Five provinces
have declared for young Stadt, and there will be inundation,
conflagration, constupration, consternation, and every sort of nation
and nations, fighting away, up to their knees, in the damnable quags of
this will-o'-the-wisp abode of Boors. It is said Bernadotte is amongst
them, too; and, as Orange will be there soon, they will have (Crown)
Prince Stork and King Log in their Loggery at the same time. Two to one
on the new dynasty!
Mr. Murray has offered me one thousand guineas for _The Giaour_ and _The
Bride of Abydos_. I won't--it is too much, though I am strongly tempted,
merely for the _say_ of it. No bad price for a fortnight's (a week each)
what?--the gods know--it was intended to be called poetry.
I have dined regularly to-day, for the first time since Sunday
last--this being Sabbath, too. All the rest, tea and dry biscuits--six
_per diem_. I wish to God I had not dined now!--It kills me with
heaviness, stupor, and horrible dreams; and yet it was but a pint of
Bucellas, and fish.[10] Meat I never touch,--nor much vegetable diet. I
wish I were in the country, to take exercise,--instead of being obliged
to _cool_ by abstinence, in lieu of it. I should not so much mind a
little accession of flesh,--my bones can well bear it. But the worst is,
the devil always came with it,--till I starved him out,--and I will
_not_ be the slave of _any_ appetite. If I do err, it shall be my heart,
at least, that heralds the way. Oh, my head--how it aches?--the horrors
of digestion! I wonder how Buonaparte's dinner agrees with him?
Mem.
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