"Bread and milk with some odoriferous mint, and the liveret minced. "Come and tell me when he cries, that I may catch his little eyes. "And do it nice and crips." (That's the Cook's word.) You'll excuse me, I have been only speaking to Becky about the dinner to-morrow. After it, a glass of seldomdrunk wine to my friend Dodwell, and, if he will give a stranger leave, to Mrs. Dodwell: then to the memory of the last, and of the last but one, learned Dodwell, of whom, but not whom, I have read so much. The next to the "Outward and Homeward bound ships"—and, if the bottle lasts, to the Chairman, Deputy-Chairman, the Court of Directors, the Secretary, the Treasurer, and Accomptant-General, of the East India Company, with a blunt bumper at parting to P. All I can do, I cannot make P- look like a G- -n, yet he is portly, majestic, hath his nods, his condescensions, his variety of behaviour to suit your Director, your Upper Clerk, your Ryles, and your Winfields, he tempers mirth with gravity, gives no affront, and expects to receive none, is honourable, mannered, of good bearing, looks like a man who, accustomed to respect others, silently extorts respect from them, has it as a sort of in course; without claiming it, finds it. What do I miss in him, then, of the essentials of gentlemanhood? He is right sterling-but then, somehow, he always has that d- -d large Goldsmith's Hall mark staring upon him. Possibly he is too fat for a gentleman then I think of Charles Fox in the Dropsy; and the burly old Duke of Norfolk, a nobleman, every stun of him! I am afraid now you and are gone, there's scarce an officer in the Civil Service quite comes up to my notion of a gentleman. B C D certainly does not, nor his friend bobs. K — curtsies. W- bows like the son of a citizen; F- like a village apothecary; Clike the Squire's younger Brother; R- like a crocodile on his hind legs; H- never bows at all-at least to spulters and stutters. W S R me. smatters. D halters and is a coal-heaver. Wolf wants my clothing. C- simmers, but never boils over. is a Butterfirkin, salt butter. C a pepper-box, cayenne. For A, E- and O- I can answer that they have not the slightest pretensions to anything but rusticity. Marry, the remaining vowels had something of civility about them. Can you make top or tail of this nonsense, or tell where it begins? I will page it. How an error in the outset infects to the end of life, or of a sheet of paper! C. LAMB. H. Dodwell, Esq. Cordially adieu. LETTER CCCXII.] To WILLIAM HONE. [October 1827.] Dear Hone-I was most sensibly gratified by receiving the T. B. on Friday evening at Enfield!! Thank you. In haste, Don't spare the Extracts. Christmas. How is your daughter? Mr. Hone, 22, Belvidere Place, Southwark. C. L. They'll eke out till LETTER CCCXIII.] To LEIGH HUNT. [November] 1827. Dear H.-I am here almost in the eleventh week of the longest illness my sister ever had, and no symptoms of amendment. Some had begun, but relapsed with a change of nurse. If she ever gets well, you will like my house, and I shall be happy to show you Enfield country. As to my head, it is perfectly at your or any one's service; either Myers' or Hazlitt's, which last (done fifteen or twenty years since) White, of the Accountant's Office, India House, has; he lives in Kentish Town-I forget where; but is to be found in Leadenhall daily. Take your choice. I should be proud to hang up as an alehouse-sign even; or, rather, I care not about my head or anything, but how we are to get well again, for I am tired out. God bless you and yours from the worst calamity. C. L. Kindest remembrances to Mrs. Hunt. H.'s is in a queer dress. M.'s would be preferable ad populum. To BERNARD BARTON. LETTER CCCXIV.] Chase Side, Enfield, My dear B. B.—You will understand my silence when I tell you that my sister, on the very eve of entering into a new house we have taken at Enfield, was surprised with an attack of one of her sad long illnesses, which deprive me of her society, though not of her domestication, for eight or nine weeks together. I see her, but it does her no good. But for this, we have the snuggest, most comfortable house, with everything most compact and desirable. Colebrook is a wilderness. The books, prints, etc., are come here, and the New River came down with us. The familiar prints, the bust, the Milton, seem scarce to have changed their rooms. One of her last observations was How frightfully like this room is to our room in Islington!"-our up-stairs room, she meant. How I 66 hope you will come some better day, and judge of it! We have tried quiet here for four months, and I will answer for the comfort of it enduring. On emptying my bookshelves I found an Ulysses, which I will send to A. K. when I go to town, for her acceptance—unless the book be out of print. One likes to have one copy of everything one does. I neglected to keep one of "Poetry for Children," the joint production of Mary and me, and it is not to be had for love or money. It had in the title-page "by the Author of Mrs. Lester's School." Know you any one that has it, and would exchange it? Strolling to Waltham Cross the other day, I hit off these lines. It is one of the crosses which Edward I. caused to be built for his wife at every town where her corpse rested between Northamptonshire and London : A stately cross each sad spot doth attest, From Herdby fetch'd-her spouse so honour'd her To sleep with royal dust at Westminster. And, if less pompous obsequies were thine, Duke Brunswick's daughter, princely Caroline, Grudge not, great ghost, nor count thy funeral losses: My dear B.-My head aches with this little excursion. Pray accept two sides for three for once, and believe me yours sadly, C. L. LETTER CCCXV.] December 4, 1827. My dear B. B.-I have scarce spirits to write, yet am harassed with not writing. Nine weeks are completed, and Mary does not get any better. It is perfectly exhausting. Enfield, and everything, is very gloomy. But for long experience I should fear her ever getting well. I feel most thankful for the spinsterly attentions of your sister. Thank the kind "knitter in the sun!" What nonsense seems verse, when one is seriously out of hope and spirits! I mean, that at this time I have some nonsense to write, under pain of incivility. Would to the fifth heaven no coxcombess had invented Albums ! I have not had a Bijoux, nor the slightest notice from Pickering about omitting four out of five of my things. The best thing is never to hear of such a thing as a bookseller again, or to think there are publishers. Second-hand stationers and old book-stalls for me. Authorship should be an idea of the past. Old kings, old bishops, are venerable; all present is hollow. I cannot make a letter. I have no straw, not a pennyworth of chaff, only this may stop your kind importunity to know about us. Here is a comfortable house, but no tenants. One does not make a household. Do not think I am quite in despair; but, in addition to hope protracted, I have a stupifying cold and obstructing headache, and the sun is dead. I will not fail to apprise you of the revival of a beam. Meantime accept this, rather than think I have forgotten you all. Best remembrances. Yours and theirs truly, C. LAMB. To THOMAS ALLSOP. LETTER CCCXVI.] December 20, 1827. My dear Allsop-I have writ to say to you that I hope to have a comfortable X-mas-day with Mary, and I cannot bring myself to go from home at present. Your kind offer, and the kind consent of the young Lady to come, we feel as we should do; pray accept all of you our kindest thanks: at present I think a Visitor (good and excellent as we remember her to be) might a little |