er words--a sort of unnatural
parallel lines, that are perpetually threatening to meet, which you know
is quite contrary to Euclid [_here Lamb has ruled lines grossly
unparallel_]. Her very blots are not bold like this [_here a bold
blot_], but poor smears [_here a poor smear_] half left in and half
scratched out with another smear left in their place. I like a clean
letter. A bold free hand, and a fearless flourish. Then she has always
to go thro' them (a second operation) to dot her i s, and cross her t s.
I don't think she can make a cork screw, if she tried--which has such a
fine effect at the end or middle of an epistle--and fills up--

[_Here Lamb has made a corkscrew two inches long_.]

There is a corkscrew, one of the best I ever drew. By the way what
incomparable whiskey that was of Monkhouse's. But if I am to write a
letter, let me begin, and not stand flourishing like a fencer at a fair.

It gives me great pleasure (the letter now begins) to hear that you got
down smoothly, and that Mrs. Monkhouse's spirits are so good and
enterprising. It shews, whatever her posture may be, that her mind at
least is not supine. I hope the excursion will enable the former to keep
pace with its out-stripping neighbor. Pray present our kindest wishes to
her, and all. (That sentence should properly have come in the Post
Script, but we airy Mercurial Spirits, there is no keeping us in).
Time--as was said of one of us--toils after us in vain. I am afraid our
co-visit with Coleridge was a dream. I shall not get away before the end
(or middle) of June, and then you will be frog-hopping at Boulogne. And
besides I think the Gilmans would scarce trust him with us, I have a
malicious knack at cutting of apron strings. The Saints' days you speak
of have long since fled to heaven, with Astraea, and the cold piety of
the age lacks fervor to recall them--only Peter left his key--the iron
one of the two, that shuts amain--and that's the reason I am lockd up.
Meanwhile of afternoons we pick up primroses at Dalston, and Mary
corrects me when I call 'em cowslips. God bless you all, and pray
remember me euphoneously to Mr. Gnwellegan. That Lee Priory must be a
dainty bower, is it built of flints, and does it stand at Kingsgate? Did
you remem

[_This is apparently the proper end of the letter. At least there is no
indication of another sheet_.]

[Addressed to "Miss Hutchinson, 17 Sion Hill, Ramsgate, Kent," where she
was staying with Mrs.