LETTER XXVIII.
To Mrs. Talbot.
Baltimore, November 6.
Let me see! this is the beginning of November.
Yes; it was just a twelve-month ago,
that I was sitting at this silent hour, at a
country fire just like this. My elbow, then as
now, was leaning on a table, supplied with
books and writing tools.
What shall I do, thought I, then, to pass
away the time till ten. Can't think of going to
bed till that hour, and if I sit here, idly basking
in the beams of this cheerful blaze, I shall fall
into a listless, uneasy doze, that without refreshing
me, as sleep would do, will unfit me
for sleep.
Shall I read? nothing here that is new.
Enough that is of value, if I could but make
myself inquisitive; treasures which, in a curious
mood, I would eagerly rifle, but now the tedious
page only adds new weight to my eye-lids.
Shall I write? what? to whom? there are Sam
and Tom, and brother Dick, and sister Sue—
they all have epistolary claims upon me still
unsatisfied. Twenty letters that I ought to
answer. Come, let me briskly set about the
task—
Not now: some other time. To-morrow. What
can I write about? havn't two ideas that hang
together intelligibly. 'Twill be common-place
trite stuff. Besides, writing always plants a
thorn in my breast.
Let me try my hand at a reverie: a meditation—on
that hearth-brush. Hair—what sort
of hair? of a hog—and the wooden handle — of
poplar or cedar or white oak. At one time a
troop of swine munching mast in a grove of
oaks, transformed by those magicians, carpenters
and butchers, into hearth-brushes. A whimsical
metamorphosis upon my faith.
Pish! what stupid musing! I see I must betake
myself to bed at last, and throw away upon
oblivion one more hour than is common.
So it once was, but how is it now? no wavering
and deliberating what I shall do to—lash
the drowsy moments into speed. In my haste
to set the table and its gear in order for scribble,
I overturn the inkhorn, spill the ink and stain
the floor.
The damage is easily repaired, and I sit
down, with unspeakable alacrity, to a business
that tires my muscles, sets a gnawer at work upon
my lungs, fatigues my brain and leaves me
listless and spiritless.
How you have made yourself so absolute a
mistress of the goose-quill, I can't imagine;
how you can maintain the writing posture, and
pursue the writing movement for ten hours together,
without benumbed brain, or aching fingers,
is beyond my comprehension.
But you see what zeal will do for me. It has
enabled me to keep drowsiness, fatigue and languor
at bay, during a long night. Converse
with thee, heavenly maid, is an antidote even to
sleep, the most general and inveterate of all
maladies.
By and bye, I shall have as voluble a pen as
thy own. And yet to that, my crazy constitution
says—nay. 'Twill never be to me other than
an irksome, ache-producing implement. It need
give pleasure to others, not a little, to compensate
for the pain it gives myself.
But this, thoul't say, is beside the purpose.
It is, and I will lay aside the quill a moment to
consider. I left off my last letter, with a head
full of affecting images, which I have waited
impatiently for the present opportunity of putting
upon paper. Adieu then, for a moment,
says thy
