We quite repent of having intimated so much: in future, it is our
intention to develop more, and to describe, and to delineate, and to
define, and, in short, to bore. You know the model of this kind of
writing, Richardson, whom we shall revive. In future, we shall, as a
novelist, take Clarendon's Rebellion for our guide, and write our hero's
notes, or heroine's letters, like a state paper, or a broken treaty.
The Duke, and the young Duke--oh! to be a Duke, and to be young, it is
too much--was seldom seen by the gay crowd who feasted in his hall. His
mornings now were lonely, and if, at night, his eye still sparkled, and
his step still sprang, why, between us, wine gave him beauty, and wine
gave him grace.
It was the dreary end of dull November, and the last company were
breaking off. The Bird of Paradise, according to her desire, had gone
to Brighton, where his Grace had presented her with a tenement, neat,
light, and finished; and though situated amid the wilds of Kemp Town,
not more than one hyaena on a night ventured to come down from the
adjacent heights. He had half promised to join her, because he thought
he might as well be there as here, and consequently he had not invited
a fresh supply of visitors from town, or rather from the country.
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