C. LAMB.

[1] Godwin’s “Life of Chaucer,”—­a work, says Canon Ainger, consisting of “four fifths ingenious guessing to one fifth of material having any historic basis.”

XLIV.

TO MANNING.

February 24, 1805.

Dear Manning,—­I have been very unwell since I saw you.  A sad depression of spirits, a most unaccountable nervousness; from which I have been partially relieved by an odd accident.  You knew Dick Hopkins, the swearing scullion of Caius?  This fellow, by industry and agility, has thrust himself into the important situations (no sinecures, believe me) of cook to Trinity Hall and Caius College; and the generous creature has contrived, with the greatest delicacy imaginable, to send me a present of Cambridge brawn.  What makes it the more extraordinary is, that the man never saw me in his life that I know of.  I suppose he has heard of me.  I did not immediately recognize the donor; but one of Richard’s cards, which had accidentally fallen into the straw, detected him in a moment, Dick, you know, was always remarkable for flourishing.  His card imports that “orders [to wit, for brawn] from any part of England, Scotland, or Ireland, will be duly executed,” etc.  At first I thought of declining the present; but Richard knew my blind side when he pitched upon brawn.  ’Tis of all my hobbies the supreme in the eating way.  He might have sent sops from the pan, skimmings, crumpets, chips, hog’s lard, the tender brown judiciously scalped from a fillet of veal (dexterously replaced by a salamander), the tops of asparagus, fugitive livers, runaway gizzards of fowls, the eyes of martyred pigs, tender effusions of laxative woodcocks, the red spawn of lobsters, leverets’ ears, and such pretty filchings common to cooks; but these had been ordinary presents, the everyday courtesies of dishwashers to their sweethearts.  Brawn was a noble thought.  It is not every common gullet-fancier that can properly esteem it.  It is like a picture of one of the choice old Italian masters.  Its gusto is of that hidden sort.  As Wordsworth sings of a modest poet, “you must love him, ere to you he will seem worthy of your love,” so brawn, you must taste it, ere to you it will seem to have any taste at all.  But ’tis nuts to the adept,—­those that will send out their tongues and feelers to find it out.  It will be wooed, and not unsought be won.  Now, ham-essence, lobsters, turtle, such popular minions, absolutely court you, lay themselves out to strike you at first smack, like one of David’s pictures (they call him Darveed), compared with the plain russet-coated wealth of a Titian or a Correggio, as I illustrated above.  Such are the obvious glaring heathen virtues of a corporation dinner, compared with the reserved collegiate worth of brawn.  Do me the favour to leave off the business which you may be at present upon, and go immediately