s
and so forth. I never could help admiring the concatenation between
Ahitophel's setting his house in order and hanging himself. The one
seems to me to follow the other as a matter of course. I don't mind the
trouble, though my head swims with it. I do not mind meeting accounts,
which unpaid remind you of your distress, or paid serve to show you you
have been throwing away money you would be glad to have back again. I do
not mind the strange contradictory mode of papers hiding themselves that
you wish to see, and others thrusting themselves into your hand to
confuse and bewilder you. There is a clergyman's letter about the
Scottish pronunciation, to which I had written an answer some weeks
since (the person is an ass, by the by). But I had laid aside my answer,
being unable to find the letter which bore his address; and, in the
course of this day, both his letter with the address, and my answer
which wanted the address, fell into my hands half-a-dozen times, but
separately always. This was the positive malice of some hobgoblin, and I
submit to it as such. But what frightens and disgusts me is those
fearful letters from those who have been long dead, to those who linger
on their wayfare through this valley of tears. These fine lines of
Spencer came into my head--

"When midnight o'er the pathless skies."[517]

Ay, and can I forget the author!--the frightful moral of his own vision.
What is this world? A dream within a dream--as we grow older each step
is an awakening. The youth awakes as he thinks from childhood--the
full-grown man despises the pursuits of youth as visionary--the old man
looks on manhood as a feverish dream. The Grave the last sleep?--no; it
is the last and final awakening.

_May_ 14.--To town per Blucher coach, well stowed and crushed, but saved
cash, coming off for less than L2; posting costs nearly five, and you
don't get on so fast by one-third. Arrived in my old lodgings here with
a stouter heart than I expected. Dined with Mr. and Mrs. Skene, and met
Lord Medwyn and lady.

_May_ 15.--Parliament House a queer sight. Looked as if people were
singing to each other the noble song of "The sky's falling--chickie
diddle." Thinks I to myself, I'll keep a calm sough.

"Betwixt both sides I unconcerned stand by;
Hurt, can I laugh, and honest, need I cry?"

I wish the old Government had kept together, but their personal dislike
to Canning seems to have rendered that impossible.

I dined