them the trouble of disputing
on the subject. But, there is _fame_ for you at six and twenty!
Alexander had conquered India at the same age; but I doubt if he was
disputed about, or his conquests compared with those of Indian Bacchus,
at Java.

"It was a great fame to be named with Moore; greater to be compared with
him; greatest--_pleasure_, at least--to be _with_ him; and, surely, an
odd coincidence, that we should be dining together while they were
quarrelling about us beyond the equinoctial line.

"Well, the same evening, I met Lawrence the painter, and heard one of
Lord Grey's daughters (a fine, tall, spirit-looking girl, with much of
the _patrician, thorough-bred look_ of her father, which I dote upon)
play on the harp, so modestly and ingenuously, that she _looked music_.
Well, I would rather have had my talk with Lawrence (who talked
delightfully) and heard the girl, than have had all the fame of Moore
and me put together.

"The only pleasure of fame is that it paves the way to pleasure; and the
more intellectual our pleasure, the better for the pleasure and for us
too. It was, however, agreeable to have heard our fame before dinner,
and a girl's harp after.

"January 16. 1821.

"Read--rode--fired pistols--returned--dined--wrote--visited--heard
music--talked nonsense--and went home.

"Wrote part of a Tragedy--advanced in Act 1st with 'all deliberate
speed.' Bought a blanket. The weather is still muggy as a London
May--mist, mizzle, the air replete with Scotticisms, which, though fine
in the descriptions of Ossian, are somewhat tiresome in real, prosaic
perspective. Politics still mysterious.

"January 17. 1821.

"Rode i' the forest--fired pistols--dined. Arrived a packet of books
from England and Lombardy--English, Italian, French, and Latin. Read
till eight--went out.

"January 18. 1821.

"To-day, the post arriving late, did not ride. Read letters--only two
gazettes instead of twelve now due. Made Lega write to that negligent
Galignani, and added a postscript. Dined.

"At eight proposed to go out. Lega came in with a letter about a bill
_unpaid_ at Venice, which I thought paid months ago. I flew into a
paroxysm of rage, which almost made me faint. I have not been well ever
since. I deserve it for being such a fool--but it _was_ provoking--a set
of scoundrels! It is, however, but five and twenty pounds.

"January 19. 1821.

"Rode. Winter's wind somewhat more unkind than ingratitude its