Richard
Hopkins, considered in many points of view, is a very extraordinary
character. Adieu. I hope to see you to supper in London soon, where we
will taste Richard's brawn, and drink his health in a cheerful but
moderate cup. We have not many such men in any rank of life as Mr. R.
Hopkins. Crisp the barber, of St. Mary's, was just such another. I
wonder _he_ never sent me any little token,--some chestnuts, or a puff,
or two pound of hair just to remember him by; gifts are like nails.
_Praesens ut absens_, that is, your _present_ makes amends for
your absence.
Yours,
C. LAMB.
XLV.
TO MISS WORDSWORTH.
_June_ 14, 1805.
My Dear Miss Wordsworth,--I have every reason to suppose that this
illness, like all Mary's former ones, will be but temporary. But I
cannot always feel so. Meantime she is dead to me, and I miss a prop.
All my strength Is gone, and I am like a fool, bereft of her
co-operation. I dare not think, iest I should think wrong; so used am I
to look up to her in the least and the biggest perplexity. To say all
that I know of her, would be more than I think anybody could believe or
ever understand; and when I hope to have her well again with me, it
would be sinning against her feelings to go about to praise her; for I
can conceal nothing that I do from her. She is older and wiser and
better than I, and all my wretched imperfections I cover to myself by
resolutely thinking on her goodness.
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