Finally, write what your own conscience, which to you is the
unerring judge, deems best, and be careless about the whimsies of such a
half-baked notionist as I am. We are here in a most pleasant country,
full of walks, and idle to our heart's desire. Taylor has dropped the
"London." It was indeed a dead weight. It had got in the Slough of
Despond. I shuffle off my part of the pack, and stand, like Christian,
with light and merry shoulders. It had got silly, indecorous, pert, and
everything that is bad. Both our kind _remembrances_ to Mrs. K. and
yourself, and strangers'-greeting to Lucy,--is it Lucy, or Ruth?--that
gathers wise sayings in a Book.
C. LAMB.
XC.
TO SOUTHEY.
_August_ 19, 1825.
Dear Southey,--You'll know whom this letter comes from by opening
slap-dash upon the text, as in the good old times. I never could come
into the custom of envelopes,--'tis a modern foppery; the Plinian
correspondence gives no hint of such. In singleness of sheet and
meaning, then, I thank you for your little book. I am ashamed to add a
codicil of thanks for your "Book of the Church." I scarce feel competent
to give an opinion of the latter; I have not reading enough of that kind
to venture at it. I can only say the fact, that I have read it with
attention and interest. Being, as you know, not quite a Churchman, I
felt a jealousy at the Church taking to herself the whole deserts of
Christianity, Catholic and Protestant, from Druid extirpation downwards.
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