Day: May 17, 2017

Saturday.

May 17, 1845.

I shall be ready on Tuesday I hope, but I hate and protest against your horrible ‘entomology.’ Beginning to explain, would thrust me lower and lower down the circles of some sort of an ‘Inferno’; only with my dying breath I would maintain that I never could, consciously or unconsciously, mean to distrust you; or, the least in the world, to Simpsonize you. What I said,  . . . it was you that put it into my head to say it — for certainly, in my usual disinclination to receive visitors, such a feeling does not enter. There, now! There, I am a whole ‘giro’ lower! Now, you will say perhaps that I distrust you, and nobody else! So it is best to be silent, and bear all the ‘cutting things’ with resignation! that is certain. Continue reading “#27”

Friday Night.

May 17, 1845.

My friend is not ‘mistrustful’ of me, no, because she don’t fear I shall make mainprize of the stray cloaks and umbrellas down-stairs, or turn an article for Colburn’s on her sayings and doings up-stairs,  – – but spite of that, she does mistrust  . . . so mistrust my common sense,  – – nay, uncommon and dramatic-poet’s sense, if I am put on asserting it!  – – all which pieces of mistrust I could detect, and catch struggling, and pin to death in a moment, and put a label in, with name, genus and species, just like a horrible entomologist; only I won’t, because the first visit of the Northwind will carry the whole tribe into the Red Sea  – – and those horns and tails and scalewings are best forgotten altogether. Continue reading “#26”