"What strange tidings from that Anakim of anarchy--Buonaparte! Ever
since I defended my bust of him at Harrow against the rascally
time-servers, when the war broke out in 1803, he has been a 'Héros de
Roman' of mine--on the Continent; I don't want him here. But I don't
like those same flights--leaving of armies, &c. &c. I am sure when I
fought for his bust at school, I did not think he would run away from
himself. But I should not wonder if he banged them yet. To be beat by
men would be something; but by three stupid, legitimate-old-dynasty
boobies of regular-bred sovereigns--O-hone-a-rie!--O-hone-a-rie! It must
be, as Cobbett says, his marriage with the thick-lipped and thick-headed
_Autrichienne_ brood. He had better have kept to her who was kept by
Barras. I never knew any good come of your young wife, and legal
espousals, to any but your 'sober-blooded boy' who 'eats fish' and
drinketh 'no sack.' Had he not the whole opera? all Paris? all France?
But a mistress is just as perplexing--that is, _one_--two or more are
manageable by division.

"I have begun, or had begun, a song, and flung it into the fire. It was
in remembrance of Mary Duff, 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[90]. I wish there had been more
inconvenience 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. Your bard has made you very
_nonchalant_ and blest; but as he has excused _us_ from damnation, I