“Who,” cried he, flinging it aside, “can read travels by a fellow who
never speaks a word of truth.”
Then I gave him a volume of “Clarissa.”
“Pho,” cried he, “a novel writ by a bookseller!--there is but one novel
now one can bear to read,--and that's written by a young lady.”
I hastened to stop him with Dalrymple's Memoirs, and then proceeded to
give him various others, upon all which he made severe, splenetic, yet
comical comments;--and we continued thus employed till he was summoned
to accompany Mr. Thrale to town.
The next morning, Wednesday, I had some very serious talk with Mr.
Seward,--and such as gave me no inclination for railery, though it was
concerning his ennui on the contrary, I resolved, at that moment, never
to rally him upon that subject again, for his account of himself filled
me with compassion.
He told me that he had never been well for three hours in a day in his
life, and that when he was thought only tired he was really so ill
that he believed scarce another man would stay in company. I was quite
shocked at this account, and told him, honestly, that I had done him so
little justice as to attribute all his languors to affectation.