lly believed that I was
calling the beasts by their right names. Such are the effects of my
unfortunate disease.

Abroad I feel it even worse than at home. Society is unhinged, and
every one is afraid to offer an opinion. If I dine out, I find that no
one will speak first--he knows not whether he accosts a friend or foe,
or whether he may not be pledging his bitter enemy. Every man looks at
his neighbour's countenance to discover if he is Whig or Tory: they
appear to be examining one another like the dogs who meet in the street,
and it is impossible to conjecture whether the mutual scenting will be
followed up by a growl or a wag of the tail; however, one remark will
soon discover the political sentiments of the whole party. Should they
all agree, they are so busy in abuse that they rail at their adversaries
with their mouths full--should they disagree, they dispute so vehemently
that they forget that they were invited to dinner, and the dishes are
removed untasted, and the duties of the Amphytryon become a sinecure.
Go to an evening party or a ball and it is even worse, for young ladies
talk politics, prefer discussion to flirtation, and will rather win a
partner over to their political opinions than by their personal charms.
If you, as a Tory, happen to stand up in a cotillion with a pretty Whig,
she taps you with her fan that she may tap your politics; if you agree,
it is "_En avant deux_," if not, a "_chassez croisee_." Every thing
goes wrong--she may _set_ to you indeed, but hers is the set of
defiance, and she shakes her _wig_ against your _Tory_. To _turn your
partner_ is impossible, and the only part of the figure which is
executed _con amore_ is _dos a dos_. The dance is over, and the lady's
looks at once tell you that you may save your "oaths," while she "takes
her seat."

I have tried change of scene--posted to watering places; but the deep,
deep sea will not drown politics. Even the ocean in its roaring and
commotion reminded me of a political union.

I have buried myself in the country, but it has been all in vain. I
cannot look at the cattle peacefully grazing without thinking of
O'Connell's tail, Stanley's tail, and a short-docked pony reminded me of
the boasted little tail of Colonel Peel. The farm-yard, with its noisy
occupants, what was it but the reality so well imitated by the members
of the Lower House, who would drown argument in discord? I thought I
was in the lobby at the close of