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The Vault at PfaffsAn Archive of Art and Literature by the Bohemians of Antebellum New York
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Text for Page 130 [07-08-1851]

              8. Tuesday.  Drawing on wood all day, Fonthill Castle, as �tother wont do.
Girl singing at piano in the after noon.     A little harmonizing at night, in
which I joined.  /                 Have to day re-read the novel of the Rou�
by Samuel Beazley to whom I was articled, in Soho Square days. Mr Hart
left it, it being here republished (with Bulwer�s name as author on title page.)
A clever tale it surely is; yet never yet did tale contain a more extraordinary
man than its author.  Were he truly described, as I, and those of the Office
knew him, the portraiture would be condemned as an improbable self-contradictory
fiction.  Divorced from his wife, (it was generally said on the grounds of impotency),
she had wedded again. He had a mistress, who had children, & I believe his;
a little harmless woman, in no wise annually or other way attractive.   He visited her
once or twice a week, & sometimes she him, often have we seen her.  We�d find 
letters of hers lying about, and unscrupulously enough would read and talk over
them. One would be a petition for coal, another a detail how certain half crowns
he had left were bad ones.   His amours were of all classes, many & singular
the discoveries we�d make. Now a letter from a dashing Courtesan, indignant at
unfulfilled promises, reminding him of his age, telling him that he must have
known �twas but for money� her favours had been granted; threatening publication of
his letters & asking a notice of them in the �Era�. (He did the literary notices for that
paper.)     Another would be to him under the name of his coachman.   Another inti-
mating a doubt as to whether he was truly a �butler� as he represented himself.
He had no idea of decency, would cry �come in� to women servants, when attired but
in shirt.  He was always in a hurry & in debt. He was the most tastefully [unclear word]
man I have ever known ^|Once however he took a whim to wear a villaneous looking old 
hat. I recollect Boutcher kicking it, it could not be rendered worse|. He had 
served in the Army in Spain, had travelled, was a
good Architect, had written two fine Novels, sonnets, [unclear word] & otherwise. 
He was witty
and ready in converse.   He had a dread of rows, and always did scolding by letters.
He was a wonderful letter writer, could convey the most rankling insinuations, without
leaving room for a reply or justification.   He did little Charities and liked to oblige.               
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