DEAR B.
B.—the Busy Bee, as Hood after
Dr. Watts apostrophises thee, and
well dost thou deserve it for thy labors in the Muses’ gardens, wandering
over parterres of Think-on-me’s and Forget-me-nots, to a total
impossibility of forgetting thee,—thy letter was acceptable, thy scruples may
be dismissed, thou art Rectus in Curiâ, not a word more to
be said, Verbum Sapienti and so forth, the matter is decided
with a white stone, Classically, mark me, and the apparitions vanishd which
haunted me, only the Cramp, Caliban’s
distemper, clawing me in the calvish part of my nature, makes me ever and anon
roar Bullishly, squeak cowardishly, and limp cripple-ishly. Do I write quakerly
and simply, ’tis my most Master
Mathew-like intention to do it. See Ben Jonson.—I think you told me your acquaintce with the Drama was confin’d to Shakspeare and Miss Bailly:
some read only Milton and Croly. The gap is as from an ananas to a
Turnip. I have fighting in my head the plots characters situations and
sentiments of 400 old Plays (bran new to me) which I have been digesting at the
Museum, and my appetite sharpens to twice as many more, which I mean to course
over this winter. I can scarce avoid Dialogue fashion in this letter. I
soliloquise my meditations, and habitually speak dramatic blank verse without
meaning it. Do you see Mitford? he will
tell you something of my labors. Tell him I am sorry to have mist seeing him,
to have talk’d over those Old Treasures. I am
still more sorry for his missing Pots. But I shall be sure of the earliest
intelligence of the Lost Tribes. His Sacred Specimens are a thankful addition to
my shelves. Marry, I could wish he had been more careful of corrigenda. I have
discover’d certain which have slipt his Errata. I put ’em in the
next page, as perhaps thou canst transmit them to him. For what purpose, but to
grieve him (which yet I should be sorry to do), but then it shews my learning,
and the excuse is complimentary, as it implies their correction in a future
Edition. His own things in the book are magnificent, and as an old
Christ’s Hospitaller I was particularly refreshd with his eulogy on our
Edward. Many of the choice excerpta were
new to me. Old Christmas is a coming, to the confusion of Puritans,
Muggletonians, Anabaptists, Quakers, and that Unwassailing Crew. He cometh not
with his wonted gait, he is shrunk 9 inches in the girth, but is yet a Lusty
fellow. Hood’s book is mighty clever, and went off
600 copies the 1st day. Sion’s Songs do not disperse so
| 720 | LETTERS OF C. AND M. LAMB | Jan. |
