(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.
saw Ward. His uncle
is dying, and W. don't much affect our Dutch determinations. I dine with him on Thursday, provided
l'oncle