spond. I shuffle off my part of the pack, and stand like Xtian with
light and merry shoulders. It had got silly, indecorous, pert, and every
thing that is bad. Both our kind _remembrances_ to Mrs. K. and yourself,
and stranger's-greeting to Lucy--is it Lucy or Ruth?--that gathers wise
sayings in a Book. C. LAMB.

[The London Magazine passed into the hands of Henry Southern in
September, 1825. Lamb's last article for it was in the August
number--"Imperfect Dramatic Illusion," reprinted in the _Last Essays of
Elia_ as "Stage Illusion."]

LETTER 380

CHARLES LAMB TO ROBERT SOUTHEY

August 10, 1825.

Dear Southey,--You'll know who 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. I call all
good Christians the Church, Capillarians and all. But I am in too light
a humour to touch these matters. May all our churches flourish! Two
things staggered me in the poem (and one of them staggered both of us).
I cannot away with a beautiful series of verses, as I protest they are,
commencing "Jenner." 'Tis like a choice banquet opened with a pill or an
electuary-- physic stuff. T'other is, we cannot make out how Edith
should be no more than ten years old. By'r Lady, we had taken her to be
some sixteen or upwards. We suppose you have only chosen the round
number for the metre. Or poem and dedication may be both older than they
pretend to; but then some hint might have been given; for, as it stands,
it may only serve some day to puzzle the parish reckoning. But without
inquiring further (for 'tis ungracious to look into a lady's years), the
dedication is eminently pleasing and tender, and we wish Edith May
Southey joy of it. Something, too, struck us as if we had heard of the
death of John May. A John May's death was a few years si