I do not feel sociable enough
for dinner to-day;--and I will not go to Sheridan's on Wednesday. Not
that I do not admire and prefer his unequalled conversation; but--that
"_but_" must only be intelligible to thoughts I cannot write. Sheridan
was in good talk at Rogers's the other night, but I only stayed till
_nine_. All the world are to be at the Stael's to-night, and I am not
sorry to escape any part of it. I only go out to get me a fresh appetite
for being alone. Went out--did not go to the Stael's but to Ld.
Holland's. Party numerous--conversation general. Stayed late--made a
blunder--got over it--came home and went to bed, not having eaten.
Rather empty, but _fresco_, which is the great point with me.
* * * * *
Monday, December 13, 1813.
Called at three places--read, and got ready to leave town to-morrow.
Murray has had a letter from his brother bibliopole of Edinburgh, who
says, "he is lucky in having such a _poet_"--something as if one was a
packhorse, or "ass, or any thing that is his;" or, like Mrs. Packwood,
[1] who replied to some inquiry after the Odes on Razors,--"Laws, sir,
we keeps a poet." The same illustrious Edinburgh bookseller once sent an
order for books, poesy, and cookery, with this agreeable
postscript--"The _Harold and Cookery_ [2] are much wanted." Such is
fame, and, after all, quite as good as any other "life in others'
breath." 'Tis much the same to divide purchasers with Hannah Glasse or
Hannah More.
Pages:
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511