Friday night, December 4th.
Till sunset I was in doubt whether I should not be obliged to leave
Albany for want of quarters. Have at length found tolerable. No price
yet fixed. Probably not less than trois piasters the week. A day
completely lost, and I, of course, in ill humour with every thing but
thee.
Saturday, December 5th.
A sick headache this whole day. I earned it by eating last night a
hearty supper of Dutch sausages, and going to bed immediately after. I
am surprised it did not operate in the way of my disorder, which was
formerly the certain consequence of every error in diet; but no
symptom of that, though I was very restless.
I took the true Indian cure for the headache. Made a light breakfast
of tea, stretched myself on a blanket before the fire, fasted till
evening, and then tea again. I thought, through the whole day, that if
you could sit by me, and stroke my head with your little hand, it
would be well; and that, when we are formally united, far from deeming
a return of this disorder un malheur, I should esteem it a fortunate
apology for a day of luxurious indulgence, which I should not
otherwise allow myself or you.
Most unexpectedly, Lewis called upon me this evening, civilly offered
me his house, and asked me to dine. I was wrong, I think, to accept
his invitation, but this did not strike me till I had engaged. Must
dine there to-morrow.
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