“I had your kind letter with the beautiful verses.
May the muse meet you often on the verge of the sea or among your own woods of
Rokeby! May you have spirits to profit by her visits (and that implies all good
wishes for the continuance of Mrs
M.’s convalescence), and may I often, by the fruits of
your inspiration, have my share of pleasure! My muse is a Tyranness, and not a
Christian queen, and compels me to attend to longs and shorts, and I know not
what, when, God wot, I had rather be planting evergreens by my new old
fountain. You must know that, like the complaint of a fine young boy who was
complimented by a stranger on his being a smart fellow, ‘I am sair
halded down by the bubbly jock.’ In other
words, the turkey cock, at the head of a family of some forty or fifty
infidels, lays waste all my shrubs. In vain I remonstrate with Charlotte upon these occasions; she is in league
with the hen-wife, the natural protectress of these pirates; and I have only
the inhuman consolation that I may one day, like a cannibal, eat up my enemies.
This is but dull fun, but what else have I to tell you about? It would be worse
if, like Justice
Shallow’s Davy, I
should consult you upon sowing
| “REFRESHING OF THE MACHINE.” | 315 |
