I should be equally content with Mount Caucasus, or Mount
Anything; and those who like it, may have Mount Blanc or Chimborazo,
without my envy of their elevation.
I think I may _now_ speak thus; for I have just published a poem, and am
quite ignorant whether it is _likely_ to be _liked_ or not. I have
hitherto heard little in its commendation, and no one can _downright_
abuse it to one's face, except in print. It can't be good, or I should
not have stumbled over the threshold, and blundered in my very title.
But I began it with my heart full of----, and my head of
oriental_ities_ (I can't call them _isms_), and wrote on rapidly.
This journal is a relief. When I am tired--as I generally am--out comes
this, and down goes every thing. But I can't read it over; and God knows
what contradictions it may contain. If I am sincere with myself (but I
fear one lies more to one's self than to any one else), every page
should confute, refute, and utterly abjure its predecessor.
Another scribble from Martin Baldwin the petitioner; I have neither head
nor nerves to present it. That confounded supper at Lewis's has spoiled
my digestion and my philanthropy. I have no more charity than a cruet of
vinegar. Would I were an ostrich, and dieted on fire-irons,--or any
thing that my gizzard could get the better of.
To-day saw Ward. His uncle [2] is dying, and W. don't much affect our
Dutch determinations. I dine with him on Thursday, provided _l'oncle_ is
not dined upon, or peremptorily bespoke by the posthumous epicures
before that day.
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