Dear Lady, and gentleman,
I confess myself somewhat taken aback by the tone and inference of some of your recent remarks.
Is this really the place to speculate in such an ill-informed manner on the libidinous larking of the libertine of Lindores? Indeed, if I might beg to pose a question to one of such grand opinion, yet perhaps such impoverished information, how, dear Lady, are you possessed of the knowledge that said licentious lobate resided in that place? Could this be intelligence granted only to one of such aristocratic (albeit of a thoroughly junior nature) pedigree – not vouchsafed to such humble journeyman of the Trade as myself?
And are you trying to suggest, my Ladyship, that I should be shamed by my less than noble vocation? That I should not feel pride, nay delight, in the legacy that I have left behind me? A delight shared by so many, who hearts have sung, for example, to the lyricism of my description of the beauty of the Ochills, drowned in sun, pouring down its golden light upon those famous hills, bringing out in bold relief each crag and pinnacle, before turning to admire the sparkling river Devon, immortalised by The Poet whose name you also so foully abuse?
And from thence to Cambus – where I captivated my readers with picturesque descriptions of the huge compressed dreg-sediment shed, the commodious Grist Lofts, the German Yeast manufactory, the powerful, almost visceral pumps, huge water-wheel, and the six prodigiously massive boilers.
This is poetry such as The Poet would have understood it – verse for the common man of trade - I confess not for the anti-democratical minds of the lower aristocracy such as yourself.
With that Madam,
Alfred Barnard (RIP)