ut what must I do, then, with my volume in green morocco?

Very true, I did not think of that.

We have all read the DIARY OF AN INVALID, the best of all
diaries since old Evelyn's.--

Well, then,--Here beginneth the DIARY OF A BLUE DEVIL.

What inconsistent beings are we!--How strange that in such a moment as
this, I can jest in mockery of myself! but I will write on. Some keep
a diary, because it is the fashion--a reason why _I_ should not; some
because it is _blue_, but I am not _blue_, only a _blue devil_; some
for their amusement,--_amusement_!! alas! alas! and some that they may
remember,--and I that I may forget, O! would it were possible.

When, to-day, for the first time in my life, I saw the shores of
England fade away in the distance--did the conviction that I should
never behold them more, bring with it one additional pang of regret,
or one consoling thought? neither the one nor the other. I leave
behind me the scenes, the objects, so long associated with pain; but
from pain itself I cannot fly: it has become a part of myself. I know
not yet whether I ought to rejoice and be thankful for this
opportunity of travelling, while my mind is thus torn and upset; or
rather regret that I must visit scenes of interest, of splendour, of
novelty--scenes over which, years ago, I used to ponder with many a
sigh, and many a vain longing, now that I am lost to all the pleasure
they could once have excited: for what is all the world to me
now?--But I will not weakly yield: though time and I have not been
long acquainted, do I not know what miracles he, "the all-powerful
healer," can perform? Who knows but this dark cloud may pass away?
Continual motion, continual activity, continual novelty, the absolute
necessity for self-command, may do something for me. I cannot quite
forget; but if I can cease to remember for a few minutes, or even, it
may be, for a few hours? O how idle to talk of "_indulging_ grief:"
talk of indulging the rack, the rheumatism! who ever indulged grief
that truly felt it? to _endure_ is hard enough.

It is o'er! with its pains and its pleasures,
The dream of affection is o'er!
The feelings I lavish'd so fondly
Will never return to me more.

With a faith, O! too blindly believing--
A truth, no unkindness could move;
My prodigal heart hath expended
At once, an existence of love.

And now, like the spendthrift forsaken,
By those whom his bounty