DEAR P.—I am so poorly! I have been to a funeral, where I made a pun, to the consternation of the rest of the mourners. And we had wine. I can’t describe to you the howl which the widow set up at proper intervals. Dash could, for it was not unlike what he makes.
The letter I sent you was one directed to the care of E. White, India House, for Mrs. Hazlitt. Which Mrs. Hazlitt I don’t yet know, but A. has taken it to France on speculation. Really it is embarrassing. There is Mrs. present H., Mrs. late H., and Mrs. John H., and to which of the three Mrs. Wiggins’s it appertains, I don’t know. I wanted to open it, but it’s transportation.
I am sorry you are plagued about your book. I would strongly recommend you to take for one story Massinger’s “Old Law.” It is exquisite. I can think of no other.
Dash is frightful this morning. He whines and stands up on his hind legs. He misses Beckey, who is gone to town. I took him to Barnet the other day, and he couldn’t eat his victuals after it. Pray God his intellectuals be not slipping.
Mary is gone out for some soles. I suppose ’tis no use to ask you to come and partake of ’em; else there’s a steam-vessel.
I am doing a tragi-comedy in two acts, and have got on tolerably; but it will be refused, or worse. I never had luck with anything my name was put to.
| 736 | LETTERS OF C. AND M. LAMB | July |
Oh, I am so poorly! I waked it at my cousin’s the bookbinder’s, who is now with God; or, if he is not, it’s no fault of mine.
We hope the Frank wines do not disagree with Mrs. Patmore. By the way, I like her.
Did you ever taste frogs? Get them, if you can. They are like little Lilliput rabbits, only a thought nicer.
Christ, how sick I am!—not of the world, but of the widow’s shrub. She’s sworn under £6000, but I think she perjured herself. She howls in E la, and I comfort her in B flat. You understand music? . . .
“No shrimps!” (That’s in answer to Mary’s question about how the soles are to be done.)
I am uncertain where this wandering letter may reach you. What you mean by Poste Restante, God knows. Do you mean I must pay the postage? So I do to Dover.
We had a merry passage with the widow at the Commons. She was howling—part howling and part giving directions to the proctor—when crash! down went my sister through a crazy chair, and made the clerks grin, and I grinned, and the widow tittered—and then I knew that she was not inconsolable. Mary was more frightened than hurt.
She’d make a good match for anybody (by she, I mean the widow).
“If he bring but a relict away, He is happy, nor heard to complain.” |
Procter has got a wen growing out at the nape of his neck, which his wife wants him to have cut off; but I think it rather an agreeable excrescence—like his poetry—redundant. Hone has hanged himself for debt. Godwin was taken up for picking pockets. . . . Beckey takes to bad courses. Her father was blown up in a steam machine. The coroner found it Insanity. I should not like him to sit on my letter.
Do you observe my direction? Is it Gallic?—Classical?
Do try and get some frogs. You must ask for “grenouilles” (green-eels). They don’t understand “frogs,” though it’s a common phrase with us.
If you go through Bulloign (Boulogne) enquire if old Godfrey is living, and how he got home from the Crusades. He must be a very old man now.
If there is anything new in politics or literature in France, keep it till I see you again, for I’m in no hurry. Chatty-Briant is well I hope.
I think I have no more news; only give both our loves
(“all
| 1827 | TEXTUAL CRITICISMS | 737 |
