[Footnote 104:  He learned to think more reverently of “the Petrarch” afterwards.]

“January 16. 1814.

“To-morrow I leave town for a few days.  I saw Lewis to-day, who is just returned from Oatlands, where he has been squabbling with Mad. de Stael about himself, Clarissa Harlowe, Mackintosh, and me.  My homage has never been paid in that quarter, or we would have agreed still worse.  I don’t talk—­I can’t flatter, and won’t listen, except to a pretty or a foolish woman.  She bored Lewis with praises of himself till he sickened—­found out that Clarissa was perfection, and Mackintosh the first man in England.  There I agree, at least one of the first—­but Lewis did not.  As to Clarissa, I leave to those who can read it to judge and dispute.  I could not do the one, and am, consequently, not qualified for the other.  She told Lewis wisely, he being my friend, that I was affected, in the first place; and that, in the next place, I committed the heinous offence of sitting at dinner with my eyes shut, or half shut.  I wonder if I really have this trick.  I must cure myself of it, if true.  One insensibly acquires awkward habits, which should be broken in time.  If this is one, I wish I had been told of it before.  It would not so much signify if one was always to be checkmated by a plain woman, but one may as well see some of one’s neighbours, as well as the plate upon the table.

“I should like, of all things, to have heard the Amabaean eclogue between her and Lewis—­both obstinate, clever, odd, garrulous, and shrill.  In fact, one could have heard nothing else.  But they fell out, alas!—­and now they will never quarrel again.  Could not one reconcile them for the ‘nonce?’ Poor Corinne—­she will find that some of her fine sayings won’t suit our fine ladies and gentlemen.

“I am getting rather into admiration of * *, the youngest sister of * *.  A wife would be my salvation.  I am sure the wives of my acquaintances have hitherto done me little good. * * is beautiful, but very young, and, I think, a fool.  But I have not seen enough to judge; besides, I hate an esprit in petticoats.  That she won’t love me is very probable, nor shall I love her.  But, on my system, and the modern system in general, that don’t signify.  The business (if it came to business) would probably be arranged between papa and me.  She would have her own way; I am good-humoured to women, and docile; and, if I did not fall in love with her, which I should try to prevent, we should be a very comfortable couple.  As to conduct, that she must look to.  But if I love, I shall be jealous;—­and for that reason I will not be in love.  Though, after all, I doubt my temper, and fear I should not be so patient as becomes the bienseance of a married man in my station.  Divorce ruins the poor femme, and damages are a paltry compensation.  I do fear my temper would lead me into some of our oriental tricks of vengeance, or, at any rate, into a summary appeal to the court of twelve paces.  So ’I’ll none on ‘t,’ but e’en remain single and solitary;—­though I should like to have somebody now and then to yawn with one.