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I feel myself decidedly weaker in point of health, and am now confirmed I have had a paralytic touch. I speak and read with embarrassment, and even my handwriting seems to stammer. This general failure "With mortal crisis doth portend, My days to appropinque an end."
Five or six sheets was the result. We now appropinque an end. My story has unhappily a divided interest; there are three distinct strands of the rope, and they are not well twisted together. "Ah, Sirs, a foul fawt," as Captain Tommy says. March 28. The days have little to distinguish each other, very little.
But he lies, and is an ass, and not worth a man's thinking about. Joseph Hume, indeed! I say Joseph Hum, and could add a Swiftian rhyme, but forbear. Busy in unpacking and repacking. I wrote five pages of Woodstock, which work begins "To appropinque an end." March 22.
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