E. V. (Edward Verrall) Lucas.

The gentlest art, a choice of letters online

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Online LibraryE. V. (Edward Verrall) LucasThe gentlest art, a choice of letters → online text (page 16 of 29)
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but he, and half of these Scotch and Lake troubadours,,
are spoilt by living in little circles and petty societies.
London and the world is the only place to take the
conceit out of a man — in the milling phrase. Scott, he
says, is gone to the Orkneys in a gale of wind ; — during
which wind, he affirms, the said Scott, he is sure, is

215



A Glimpse of " Mr. Cypress "

not at his ease, — to say the least of " it." Lord, Lord,
if these home-keeping mushets had crossed your Atlantic
or my Mediterranean, and tasted a little open boating
in a white squall — or a gale in " the Gut " — or the " Bay
of Biscay," with no gale at all — how it would enliven and
introduce them- to a few of the sensations — to say nothing
of an illicit amour or two upon shore, in the way of essay
upon the Passions, beginning with simple adultery, and
compounding it as they went along.

I have forwarded your letter to Murray, — by the way,
you had addressed it to Miller. Pray write to me,
and say what art thou doing ? " not pushed ! " —
Oons ! how is this .'' — these " flaws and starts " must be
" authorised by your grandam " and are unbecoming
of any other author. I was sorry to hear of your dis-
vcrepancy with the * * s, or rather your abjuration of
agreement. I don't want to be impertinent, or buffoon
on a serious subject, and am therefore at a loss what to
say.

I hope nothing will induce you to abate from the
proper price of your poem, as long as there is a prospect
of getting it. For my own part, I have seriously and
not whiningly (for that is not my way — at least, it used
not to be), neither hopes, nor prospects, and scarcely
even wishes. I am, in some respects, happy, but not in
a manner that can or ought to last, — but enough of that.
The worst of it is, I feel quite enervated and indifferent.
I really do not know, if Jupiter were to offer me my
choice of the contents of his benevolent cask, what I
would pick out of it. If I was born, as the nurses say,
with a " silver spoon in my mouth," it has stuck in my
throat, and spoiled my palate, so that nothing put into
it is swallowed with much relish, — unless it be cayenne.

However, I have grievances enough to occupy me that
2 i6



A Prophet's Boast

way too ; but for fear of adding to yours by this pestilent
long diatribe, I postpone the reading of them, sine die.
Ever, dear M., yours, etc.

P.S. — Don't forget my Godson. You could not have
fixed on a fitter porter for his sins than me, being used
to carry double without inconvenience. . . .



William Blake utters a manifesto o o



Online LibraryE. V. (Edward Verrall) LucasThe gentlest art, a choice of letters → online text (page 16 of 29)