LETTER XXVIII.
To Mrs. Talbot.
Let me see! this is the beginning of November. Yes;
it was just a twelvemonth 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 eyelids.
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. Tomorrow. What can I
write about? hav'nt two ideas that hang together intelligibly.
'Twill be commonplace 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 by, 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
