ITwasachillyNovemberafternoon。Ihadjustconsummatedanunusuallyheartydinner，ofwhichthedyspeptic_truffe_formednottheleastimportantitem，andwassittingaloneinthedining-room，withmyfeetuponthefender，andatmyelbowasmalltablewhichI
hadrolleduptothefire，anduponwhichweresomeapologiesfordessert，withsomemiscellaneousbottlesofwine，spiritand_liqueur_。InthemorningIhadbeenreadingGlover’s“Leonidas。”
Wilkie’s“Epigoniad。”Lamartine’s“Pilgrimage。”Barlow’s“Columbiad。”
Tuckermann’s“Sicily。”andGriswold’s“Curiosities“；Iamwillingtoconfess，therefore，thatInowfeltalittlestupid。ImadeefforttoarousemyselfbyaidoffrequentLafitte，and，allfailing，Ibetookmyselftoastraynewspaperindespair。Havingcarefullyperusedthecolumnof“housestolet。”andthecolumnof“dogslost。”
andthenthetwocolumnsof“wivesandapprenticesrunaway。”I