_To Mrs. Talbot_
Baltimore, November 6.
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. To-morrow. What can I write about? Haven't
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, thou'lt 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