“I saw a private letter from Lord Melbourne to-day, saying that they had got ‘a famous Lord-Lieutenant for Ireland.’...
“I am very anxious about ‘Lorrequer,’ for, unfortunately, like most—I might say all—my resources, they are always digested before being swallowed, and the possibility of any trick [on the part of M’Glashan]—a possibility of which I cannot entirely divest my mind—has harassed me much of late.”
To Mr Alexander Spencer.
“Brussels, March 29, 1839.
“... I have been, and am, but very so-so in health latterly. My old enemy, my liver—who has most vulgar prejudices against ‘good cookery’ and French wines—has expressed his discontent most palpably. If I could spare time for a trip over the water the sea would, I think, set all right.
“This place has received a great blow from the late troubles, and, entre nous, I should at once take wing for Paris if I had £500 en poche, but as I haven’t as many francs, il faut que j’y reste encore.”
To Mr Alexander Spencer.
“Boulevard de l’Observation, April 1839.
“I fear if my letters to you were to rise up in evidence against me, that my cry, like that of the horse-leech, would be found to be one ‘Give! Give!’
“But true it most certainly is my poverty, not my will, consents. The war, the weather, and the taste for Italy (confound these classical publications!) have all conspired to take our English population [away from] here latterly, and I find myself, like the Bank de Belgique, presque en état de faillite. Therefore send me the £26 you have; and if Butt has anything due—which I believe and hope he has,—send that also. I shall try if some of the London magazines will not accept contributions from me,—as my ‘Lorrequer’ repute is a little in my favour, now is the time; but for some days past I have been poorly,—my ancient enemy, the liver—who has certain vulgar antipathies to dindes aux truffes and iced champagne—has again been threatening me, and I am obliged to do very little.