G. Dyer is in the height
of an uxorious paradise. His honeymoon will not wane till he wax cold.
Never was a more happy pair, since Acme and Septimius, and longer.
Farewell, with many thanks, dear S. Our loves to all round your Wrekin.
Your old friend,
C. LAMB.
[1] Probably "The Pawnbroker's Daughter," which happily was not destined
to be performed.--AINGER.
XCI.
TO BERNARD BARTON.
_March_ 20, 1826.
Dear B. B.,--You may know my letters by the paper and the folding. For
the former, I live on scraps obtained in charity from an old friend,
whose stationery is a permanent perquisite; for folding, I shall do it
neatly when I learn to tie my neckcloths. I surprise most of my friends
by writing to them on ruled paper, as if I had not got past pothooks and
hangers. Sealing-wax I have none on my establishment; wafers of the
coarsest bran supply its place. When my epistles come to be weighed with
Pliny's, however superior to the Roman in delicate irony, judicious
reflections, etc., his gilt post will bribe over the judges to him. All
the time I was at the E. I. H. I never mended a pen; I now cut 'em to
the stumps, marring rather than mending the primitive goose-quill. I
cannot bear to pay for articles I used to get for nothing. When Adam
laid out his first penny upon nonpareils at some stall in Mesopotamos, I
think it went hard with him, reflecting upon his old goodly orchard,
where he had so many for nothing.
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