The Best Letters of Charles Lamb eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 323 pages of information about The Best Letters of Charles Lamb.

I send you, in this parcel, my play, which I beg you to present in my name, with my respect and love, to Wordsworth and his sister.  You blame us for giving your direction to Miss Wesley; the woman has been ten times after us about it, and we gave it her at last, under the idea that no further harm would ensue, but she would once write to you, and you would bite your lips and forget to answer it, and so it would end.  You read us a dismal homily upon “Realities.”  We know quite as well as you do what are shadows and what are realities.  You, for instance, when you are over your fourth or fifth jorum, chirping about old school occurrences, are the best of realities.  Shadows are cold, thin things, that have no warmth or grasp in them.  Miss Wesley and her friend, and a tribe of authoresses, that come after you here daily, and, in defect of you, hive and cluster upon us, are the shadows.  You encouraged that mopsey, Miss Wesley, to dance after you, in the hope of having her nonsense put into a nonsensical Anthology.  We have pretty well shaken her off, by that simple expedient of referring her to you; but there are more burrs in the wind.  I came home t’other day from business, hungry as a hunter, to dinner, with nothing, I am sure, of the author but hunger about me, and whom found I closeted with Mary but a friend of this Miss Wesley, one Miss Benje, or Bengey, [1]—­I don’t know how she spells her name, I just came is time enough, I believe, luckily, to prevent them from exchanging vows of eternal friendship.  It seems she is one of your authoresses, that you first foster, and then upbraid us with.  But I forgive you.  “The rogue has given me potions to make me love him.”  Well; go she would not, nor step a step over our threshold, till we had promised to come and drink tea with her next night, I had never seen her before, and could not tell who the devil it was that was so familiar.  We went, however, not to be impolite.  Her lodgings are up two pairs of stairs in East Street, Tea and coffee and macaroons—­a kind of cake—­I much love.  We sat down.  Presently Miss Benje broke the silence by declaring herself quite of a different opinion from D’lsraeli, who supposes the differences of human intellect to be the mere effect of organization.  She begged to know my opinion.  I attempted to carry it off with a pun upon organ; but that went off very flat.  She immediately conceived a very low opinion of my metaphysics; and turning round to Mary, put some question to her in French,—­possibly having heard that neither Mary nor I understood French.  The explanation that took place occasioned some embarrassment and much wondering.  She then fell into an insulting conversation about the comparative genius and merits of all modern languages, and concluded with asserting that the Saxon was esteemed the purest dialect in Germany.  From thence she passed into the subject of poetry, where I, who had hitherto sat mute and a hearer only, humbly hoped I might now put in a word

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The Best Letters of Charles Lamb from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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