“In the Lobster.” Referring to that part of a lobster which is called Eve.
“The Elephant.” Some mildly humorous verses “To an Elephant.”
“As Sh. says of religion”—Shakespeare, I assume, in “Hamlet,” III., 4, 47, 48:—
And
sweet Religion makes
A rhapsody of
words.
I quote in the Appendix the poem which Lamb liked best. Barton had written a poem called “Syr Heron.” This is Lord Thurlow’s sonnet, of which Lamb was very fond. He quoted it in a note to his Elia essay on the sonnets of Sidney in the London Magazine, and copied it into his album:—
TO A BIRD, THAT HAUNTED THE WATERS OF LACKEN, IN THE WINTER
O melancholy Bird, a winter’s
day,
Thou standest
by the margin of the pool,
And, taught by
God, dost thy whole being school
To Patience, which all evil
can allay.
God has appointed thee the
fish thy prey;
And giv’n
thyself a lesson to the fool
Unthrifty, to
submit to moral rule,
And his unthinking course
by thee to weigh.
There need not
schools, nor the professor’s chair,
Though these be good, true
wisdom to impart:
He, who has not
enough, for these, to spare,
Of time, or gold, may yet
amend his heart,
And teach his
soul, by brooks, and rivers fair:
Nature is always wise in every
part.
“Fludyer” was a poem to Sir Charles Fludyer on the devastation effected on his marine villa at Felixstowe by the encroachments of the sea. The answer to the enigma, Mrs. FitzGerald (Lucy Barton) told Canon Ainger, was not money but an auctioneer’s hammer.
Here should come a letter from Lamb to Louisa Holcroft, dated December 5, 1828. Louisa Holcroft was a daughter of Thomas Holcroft, Lamb’s friend, whose widow married Kenney. A good letter with some excellent nonsense about measles in it.]
LETTER 468
CHARLES LAMB TO CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE
[December, 1828.]
My dear three C.’s—The way from Southgate to Colney Hatch thro’ the unfrequentedest Blackberry paths that ever concealed their coy bunches from a truant Citizen, we have accidentally fallen upon—the giant Tree by Cheshunt we have missed, but keep your chart to go by, unless you will be our conduct—at present I am disabled from further flights than just to skirt round Clay Hill, with a peep at the fine back woods, by strained tendons, got by skipping a skipping-rope at 53—heu mihi non sum qualis. But do you know, now you come to talk of walks, a ramble of four hours or so—there and back—to the willow and lavender plantations at the south corner of Northaw Church by a well dedicated to Saint Claridge, with the clumps of finest moss rising hillock fashion, which I counted to the number of two hundred and sixty, and are called “Claridge’s covers”—the