I bless every star that Providence, not seeing good
to make me independent, has seen it next good to settle me upon the
stable foundation of Leadenhall. Sit down, good B.B., in the
banking-office; what! is there not from six to eleven P.M. six days in
the week, and is there not all Sunday? Fie! what a superfluity of man's
time, if you could think so,--enough for relaxation, mirth, converse,
poetry, good thoughts, quiet thoughts. Oh, the corroding, torturing,
tormenting thoughts that disturb the brain of the unlucky wight who must
draw upon it for daily sustenance! Henceforth I retract all my foul
complaints of mercantile employment; look upon them as lovers' quarrels.
I was but half in earnest. Welcome, dead timber of a desk, that makes me
live! A little grumbling is a wholesome medicine for the spleen, but in
my inner heart do I approve and embrace this our close, but unharassing,
way of life. I am quite serious. If you can send me Fox, I will not keep
it _six weeks_, and will return it, with warm thanks to yourself and
friend, without blot or dog's-ear. You will much oblige me by
this kindness.
Yours truly,
C. LAMB.
[1] The Quaker poet. Mr. Barton was a clerk in the bank of the Messrs.
Alexander, of Woodbridge, in Suffolk. Encouraged by his literary
success, he thought of throwing up his clerkship and trusting to his pen
for a livelihood,--a design from which he was happily diverted by his
friends.
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