I call it troubling you,--because I want only,
BOOKS; the cheapest way, the best; so you may have to hunt
for them in the evening auctions.
BOOKS; the cheapest way, the best; so you may have to hunt
for them in the evening auctions.
Robert Forst
I will not say one word about apologies or excuses for not
writing. --I am a poor, rascally gauger, condemned to gallop at least
200 miles every week to inspect dirty ponds and yeasty barrels, and
where can I find time to write to, or importance to interest anybody?
The upbraidings of my conscience, nay the upbraidings of my wife, have
persecuted me on your account these two or three months past. --I wish
to God I was a great man, that my correspondence might throw light
upon you, to let the world see what you really are: and then I would
make your fortune without putting my hand in my pocket for you, which,
like all other great men, I suppose I would avoid as much as possible.
What are you doing, and how are you doing? Have you lately seen any of
my few friends? What is become of the BOROUGH REFORM, or how
is the fate of my poor namesake, Mademoiselle Burns, decided? O man!
but for thee and thy selfish appetites, and dishonest artifices, that
beauteous form, and that once innocent and still ingenuous mind, might
have shone conspicuous and lovely in the faithful wife, and the
affectionate mother; and shall the unfortunate sacrifice to thy
pleasures have no claim on thy humanity!
I saw lately in a Review, some extracts from a new poem, called the
Village Curate; send it me. I want likewise a cheap copy of The World.
Mr. Armstrong, the young poet, who does me the honour to mention me so
kindly in his works, please give him my best thanks for the copy of
his book--I shall write him, my first leisure hour. I like his poetry
much, but I think his style in prose quite astonishing.
Your book came safe, and I am going to trouble you with further
commissions.
I call it troubling you,--because I want only,
BOOKS; the cheapest way, the best; so you may have to hunt
for them in the evening auctions. I want Smollette's works, for the
sake of his incomparable humour. I have already Roderick Random, and
Humphrey Clinker. --Peregrine Pickle, Launcelot Greaves, and Ferdinand
Count Fathom, I still want; but as I said, the veriest ordinary copies
will serve me. I am nice only in the appearance of my poets. I forget
the price of Cowper's Poems, but, I believe, I must have them. I saw
the other day, proposals for a publication, entitled "Banks's new and
complete Christian's Family Bible," printed for C. Cooke,
Paternoster-row, London. --He promises at least, to give in the work, I
think it is three hundred and odd engravings, to which he has put the
names of the first artists in London. --You will know the character of
the performance, as some numbers of it are published; and if it is
really what it pretends to be, set me down as a subscriber, and send
me the published numbers.
Let me hear from you, your first leisure minute, and trust me you
shall in future have no reason to complain of my silence. The dazzling
perplexity of novelty will dissipate and leave me to pursue my course
in the quiet path of methodical routine.
R. B.
* * * * *
CLXXXVII.
TO MR.
writing. --I am a poor, rascally gauger, condemned to gallop at least
200 miles every week to inspect dirty ponds and yeasty barrels, and
where can I find time to write to, or importance to interest anybody?
The upbraidings of my conscience, nay the upbraidings of my wife, have
persecuted me on your account these two or three months past. --I wish
to God I was a great man, that my correspondence might throw light
upon you, to let the world see what you really are: and then I would
make your fortune without putting my hand in my pocket for you, which,
like all other great men, I suppose I would avoid as much as possible.
What are you doing, and how are you doing? Have you lately seen any of
my few friends? What is become of the BOROUGH REFORM, or how
is the fate of my poor namesake, Mademoiselle Burns, decided? O man!
but for thee and thy selfish appetites, and dishonest artifices, that
beauteous form, and that once innocent and still ingenuous mind, might
have shone conspicuous and lovely in the faithful wife, and the
affectionate mother; and shall the unfortunate sacrifice to thy
pleasures have no claim on thy humanity!
I saw lately in a Review, some extracts from a new poem, called the
Village Curate; send it me. I want likewise a cheap copy of The World.
Mr. Armstrong, the young poet, who does me the honour to mention me so
kindly in his works, please give him my best thanks for the copy of
his book--I shall write him, my first leisure hour. I like his poetry
much, but I think his style in prose quite astonishing.
Your book came safe, and I am going to trouble you with further
commissions.
I call it troubling you,--because I want only,
BOOKS; the cheapest way, the best; so you may have to hunt
for them in the evening auctions. I want Smollette's works, for the
sake of his incomparable humour. I have already Roderick Random, and
Humphrey Clinker. --Peregrine Pickle, Launcelot Greaves, and Ferdinand
Count Fathom, I still want; but as I said, the veriest ordinary copies
will serve me. I am nice only in the appearance of my poets. I forget
the price of Cowper's Poems, but, I believe, I must have them. I saw
the other day, proposals for a publication, entitled "Banks's new and
complete Christian's Family Bible," printed for C. Cooke,
Paternoster-row, London. --He promises at least, to give in the work, I
think it is three hundred and odd engravings, to which he has put the
names of the first artists in London. --You will know the character of
the performance, as some numbers of it are published; and if it is
really what it pretends to be, set me down as a subscriber, and send
me the published numbers.
Let me hear from you, your first leisure minute, and trust me you
shall in future have no reason to complain of my silence. The dazzling
perplexity of novelty will dissipate and leave me to pursue my course
in the quiet path of methodical routine.
R. B.
* * * * *
CLXXXVII.
TO MR.
