Unfortinnet delusion!--that thort has proved my rooin. It was the
_bean_ of my life, and the destroyer of my _pease_. From that moment I
could think of nothink else; I neglekted my wittles and my master, and
wanderd about like a knight-errand-boy who had forgotten his message. Sleap
deserted my lowly pillar, and, like a wachful shepherd, I lay all night
awake amongst my _flocks_. I had got hold of a single idear--it was the
axle of my mind, and, like a wheelbarrow, my head was always turning upon
it. At last I resolved to rite, and I cast my i's about for a subject--they
fell on the Palass! Ear, as my friend Litton Bulwer ses, ear was a field
for genus to sore into;--ear was an area for fillophosy to dive into;--ear
was a truly magnificient and comprehensive desine for a great _nash_-ional
picture! I had got a splendid title, too--not for myself--I've a sole above
such trumperry--but for my book. Boox is like humane beings--a good title
goes a grate way with the crowd:--the one I ad chose for my _shed-oove_,
was "Pencillings in the Palass; or, a Small Voice from the Royal Larder,"
with commick illustriations by Fiz or Krokvill.
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