DEAR Miss
H——, Mary has such an
invincible reluctance to any epistolary exertion, that I am sparing her a
mortification by taking the pen from her. The plain truth is, she writes such a
pimping, mean, detestable hand, that she is ashamed of the formation of her
letters. There is an essential poverty and abjectness in the frame of them.
They look like begging letters. And then she is sure to omit a most substantial
word in the second draught (for she never ventures an epistle without a foul
copy first) which is obliged to be interlined, which spoils the neatest
epistle, you know [the word “epistle” is
underlined]. Her figures, 1, 2, 3, 4, &c., where she has occasion
to express numerals, as in the date (25 Apr 1823), are not figures, but
Figurantes. And the combined posse go staggering up and down shameless as
drunkards in the day time. It is no better when she rules her paper, her lines
are “not less erring” than her words—a sort of unnatural parallel
lines, that are perpetually threatening to meet, which you know is quite
contrary to Euclid [here
Lamb has ruled lines grossly unparallel]. Her
very blots are not bold like this [here a bold blot],
but poor smears [here a poor smear] half left in and
half scratched out with another smear left in their place. I like a clean
letter, A bold free hand, and a
| 1823 | A CUTTER OF APRON STRINGS | 609 |
There is a corkscrew, one of the best I ever drew. By the way what incomparable whiskey that was of Monkhouse’s. But if I am to write a letter, let me begin, and not stand flourishing like a fencer at a fair.
It gives me great pleasure (the letter now begins) to hear that you got down smoothly, and that Mrs. Monkhouse’s spirits are so good and enterprising. It shews, whatever her posture may be, that her mind at least is not supine. I hope the excursion will enable the former to keep pace with its out-stripping neighbor. Pray present our kindest wishes to her, and all. (That sentence should properly have come in the Post Script, but we airy Mercurial Spirits, there is no keeping us in). Time—as was said of one of us—toils after us in vain. I am afraid our co-visit with Coleridge was a dream. I shall not get away before the end (or middle) of June, and then you will be frog-hopping at Boulogne. And besides I think the Gilmans would scarce trust him with us, I have a malicious knack at cutting of apron strings. The Saints’ days you speak of have long since fled to heaven, with Astræa, and the cold piety of the age lacks fervor to recall them—only Peter left his key—the iron one of the two, that shuts amain—and that’s the reason I am lockd up. Meanwhile of afternoons we pick up primroses at Dalston, and Mary corrects me when I call ’em cowslips. God bless you all, and pray remember me euphoneously to Mr. Gnwellegan. That Lee Priory must be a dainty bower, is it built of flints, and does it stand at Kingsgate? Did you remem
[This is apparently the proper end of the letter. At least there is no indication of another sheet.]
