I could not figure to myself that romantic woes or wonderful events would ever be my lot but I was not confined to my own identity, and I could people the hours with creations far more interesting to me at that age, than my own sensations.Īfter this my life became busier, and reality stood in place of fiction. Life appeared to me too common-place an affair as regarded myself. I did not make myself the heroine of my tales. It was beneath the trees of the grounds belonging to our house, or on the bleak sides of the woodless mountains near, that my true compositions, the airy flights of my imagination, were born and fostered. I wrote then-but in a most common-place style. They were the eyry of freedom, and the pleasant region where unheeded I could commune with the creatures of my fancy. Blank and dreary on retrospection I call them they were not so to me then. I made occasional visits to the more picturesque parts but my habitual residence was on the blank and dreary northern shores of the Tay, near Dundee.
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