But these were only private and personal
business; the present is of a different nature.

"I suppose it is this, but have some suspicion that it may be laziness,
which prevents me from writing; especially as Rochefoucalt says that
'laziness often masters them all'--speaking of the _passions_. If this
were true, it could hardly be said that 'idleness is the root of all
evil,' since this is supposed to spring from the passions only: ergo,
that which masters all the passions (laziness, to wit) would in so much
be a good. Who knows?

"Midnight.

"I have been reading Grimm's Correspondence. He repeats frequently, in
speaking of a poet, or a man of genius in any department, even in music,
(Gretry, for instance,) that he must have 'une ame qui se tourmente, un
esprit violent.' How far this may be true, I know not; but if it were, I
should be a poet 'per eccellenza;' for I have always had 'une ame,'
which not only tormented itself but every body else in contact with it;
and an 'esprit violent,' which has almost left me without any 'esprit'
at all. As to defining what a poet _should_ be, it is not worth while,
for what are _they_ worth? what have they done?

"Grimm, however, is an excellent critic and literary historian. His
Correspondence form the annals of the literary part of that age of
France, with much of her politics; and, still more, of her 'way of
life.' He is as valuable, and far more entertaining than Muratori or
Tiraboschi--I had almost said, than Ginguene--but there we should pause.
However, 'tis a great man in its line.

"Monsieur St. Lambert has

"'Et lorsqu'a ses regards la lumiere est ravie,
Il n'a plus, en mourant, a perdre que la vie.'

This is, word for word, Thomson's

"'And dying, all we can resign is breath,'

without the smallest acknowledgment from the Lorrainer of a poet. M. St.
Lambert is dead as a man, and (for any thing I know to the contrary)
damned, as a poet, by this time. However, his Seasons have good things,
and, it may be, some of his own.

"February 2. 1821

"I have been considering what can be the reason why I always wake, at a
certain hour in the morning, and always in very bad spirits--I may say,
in actual despair and despondency, in all respects--even of that which
pleased me over night. In about an hour or two, this goes off, and I
compose either to sleep again, or, at least, to quiet. In England, five
years ago, I had the same kind of hypochondria, but acco