TO address an abdicated monarch is a nice point of
breeding. To give him his lost titles is to mock him; to withhold ’em is
to wound him. But his Minister who falls with him may be
| 1831 | EXIT “ENGLISHMAN’S MAGAZINE” | 881 |
To drop metaphors, I am sure you have done wisely. The very spirit of your epistle speaks that you have a weight off your mind. I have one on mine. The cash in hand, which, as * * * * * * less truly says, burns in my pocket. I feel queer at returning it (who does not?). You feel awkward at re-taking it (who ought not?) Is there no middle way of adjusting this fine embarrassment? I think I have hit upon a medium to skin the sore place over, if not quite to heal it. You hinted that there might be something under £10 by and by accruing to me Devil’s Money. You are sanguine—say £7: 10s.—that I entirely renounce and abjure all future interest in, I insist upon it, and “by Him I will not name” I won’t touch a penny of it. That will split your Loss one half—and leave me conscientious possessor of what I hold. Less than your assent to this, no proposal will I accept of.
The Rev. Mr. ——, whose name you have left illegible (is it Seagull?) never sent me any book on Christ’s Hospit. by which I could dream that I was indebted to him for a dedication. Did G. D. send his penny tract to me to convert me to Unitarianism? Dear blundering soul! why I am as old a one-Goddite as himself. Or did he think his cheap publication would bring over the Methodists over the way here? However I’ll give it to the pew-opener (in whom I have a little interest,) to hand over to the Clerk, whose wife she sometimes drinks tea with, for him to lay before the Deacon, who exchanges the civility of the hat with him, for him to transmit to the Minister, who shakes hand with him out of Chapel, and he, in all odds, will —————— with it.
I wish very much to see you. I leave it to you to come how
you will. We shall be very glad (we need not repeat) to see your sister, or
sisters, with you—but for you individually I will just hint that a dropping in
to Tea unlook’d for about 5, stopping bread-n-cheese and gin-and-water,
is worth a thousand Sundays. I am naturally
| 882 | LETTERS OF C. AND M. LAMB | Dec. |
P.S.—The 2d vol. of Elia is delightful(-ly bound, I mean) and quite cheap. Why, man, ’tis a Unique—
If I write much more I shall expand into an article, which I cannot afford to let you have so cheap.
By the by, to shew the perverseness of human will—while I thought I must furnish one of those accursed things monthly, it seemed a Labour above Hercules’s “Twelve” in a year, which were evidently Monthly Contributions. Now I am emancipated, I feel as if I had a thousand Essays swelling within me. False feelings both.
I have lost Mr. Aitken’s Town address—do you know it? Is he there?
Your ex-Lampoonist, or Lamb-punnist—from Enfield, Oct. 24, or “last day but one for receiving articles that can be inserted.”
