My dear Clarke,—You have been accumulating on me such a heap of pleasant obligations that I feel uneasy in writing as to a Benefactor. Your smaller contributions, the little weekly rills, are refreshments in the Desart, but your large books were feasts. I hope Mrs. Hazlitt, to whom I encharged it, has taken Hunt’s Lord B. to the Novellos. His picture of Literary Lordship is as pleasant as a disagreeable subject can be made, his own poor man’s Education at dear Christ’s is as good and hearty as the subject. Hazlitt’s speculative episodes are capital; I skip the Battles. But how did I deserve to have the Book? The Companion has too much of Madam Pasta. Theatricals have ceased to be popular attractions. His walk home after the Play is as good as the best of the old Indicators. The watchmen are emboxed in a niche of fame, save the skaiting one that must be still fugitive. I wish I could send a scrap for good will. But I have been most seriously unwell and nervous a long long time. I have scarce mustered courage to begin this short note, but conscience duns me.
I had a pleasant letter from your sister, greatly over acknowledging my poor sonnet. I think I should have replied to it, but tell her I think so. Alas for sonnetting, ’tis as the nerves are; all the summer I was dawdling among green lanes, and verses came as thick as fancies. I am sunk winterly below prose and zero.
But I trust the vital principle is only as under snow. That I shall yet laugh again.
I suppose the great change of place affects me, but I could not have lived in Town, I could not bear company.
I see Novello flourishes in the Del Capo line, and dedications are not forgotten. I read the Atlas, When I pitched on the Dedn I looked for the Broom of “Cowden knows” to be harmonized, but ’twas summat of Rossini’s.
I want to hear about Hone, does he stand above water, how is his son? I have delayed writing to him, till it seems impossible. Break the ice for me.
The wet ground here is intolerable, the sky above clear and
delusive, but under foot quagmires from night showers,
| CHARLES LAMB. | 161 |
If I get out, I shall get stout, and then something will out—I mean for the Companion—you see I rhyme insensibly.
Traditions are rife here of one Clarke a schoolmaster, and a runaway pickle named Holmes, but much obscurity hangs over it. Is it possible they can be any relations?
’Tis worth the research, when you can find a sunny day, with ground firm, &c. Master Sexton is intelligent, and for half-a-crown he’ll pick you up a Father.
In truth we shall be most glad to see any of the Novellian circle, middle of the week such as can come, or Sunday, as can’t. But Spring will burgeon out quickly, and then, we’ll talk more.
You’d like to see the improvements on the Chase, the new Cross in the market-place, the Chandler’s shop from whence the rods were fetch’d. They are raised a farthing since the spread of Education. But perhaps you don’t care to be reminded of the Holofernes’ days, and nothing remains of the old laudable profession, but the clear, firm, impossible-to-be-mistaken schoolmaster text hand with which is subscribed the ever-welcome name of Chas. Cowden C. Let me crowd in both our loves to all.—C. L. [Added on the fold-down of the letter:] Let me never be forgotten to include in my remembces my good friend and whilom correspondent Master Stephen.
How, especially, is Victoria?
I try to remember all I used to meet at Shacklewell. The little household, cake-producing, wine-bringing out Emma—the old servant, that didn’t stay, and ought to have staid, and was always very dirty and friendly, and Miss H., the countertenor with a fine voice, whose sister married Thurtell. They all live in my mind’s eye, and Mr. N.’s and Holmes’s walks with us half back after supper. Troja fuit!
