Hobhouse has told me ten thousand anecdotes of Napoleon, all good and
true. My friend H. is the most entertaining of companions, and a fine
fellow to boot.
Redde a little--wrote notes and letters, and am alone, which Locke says
is bad company. "Be not solitary, be not idle." [6]--Um!--the idleness
is troublesome; but I can't see so much to regret in the solitude. The
more I see of men, the less I like them. If I could but say so of women
too, all would be well. Why can't I? I am now six-and-twenty; my
passions have had enough to cool them; my affections more than enough to
wither them,--and yet--and yet--always _yet_ and _but_--"Excellent well,
you are a fishmonger--get thee to a nunnery." [7]--"They fool me to the
top of my bent." [8]
Midnight.
Began a letter, which I threw into the fire. Redde--but to little
purpose. Did not visit Hobhouse, as I promised and ought. No matter, the
loss is mine. Smoked cigars.
Napoleon!--this week will decide his fate. All seems against him; but I
believe and hope he will win--at least, beat back the invaders. What
right have we to prescribe sovereigns to France? Oh for a Republic!
"Brutus, thou sleepest." [9] Hobhouse abounds in continental anecdotes
of this extraordinary man; all in favour of his intellect and courage,
but against his _bonhommie_. No wonder;--how should he, who knows
mankind well, do other than despise and abhor them?
The greater the equality, the more impartially evil is distributed, and
becomes lighter by the division among so many--therefore, a Republic!
[10]
More notes from Madame de Stael unanswered--and so they shall remain.
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