eresford Hall.

Yours, & old Mr. Walton's, & honest Mr. Cotton's Piscatorum Amicus, C.L.

India House 19 Oct. 21

LETTER 282

CHARLES LAMB TO WILLIAM AYRTON

[Oct. 27, 1821.]

I Come, Grimalkin! Dalston, near Hackney, 27th Oct'r. One thousand 8
hundred and twenty one years and a wee-bit since you and I were
redeemed. I doubt if _you_ are done properly yet.

[A further letter to Ayrton, dated from Dalston, October 30, is printed
by Mr. Macdonald, in which Lamb speaks of his sister's illness and the
death of his brother John, who died on October 26, aged fifty-eight. It
is reasonable to suppose that Lamb, when the above note was written, was
unaware of his brother's death (see note to Letter 284 on page 610). On
October 26, however, he had written to the editor of the _London
Magazine_ saying that he was most uncomfortably situated at home and
expecting some trouble which might prevent further writing for some
time--which may have been an allusion to his brother's illness or to
signs of Mary Lamb's approaching malady.

Here should come a note to William Hone, evidently in reply to a comment
on Lamb's essay on "Saying Grace."

Here should come a letter from Lamb to Rickman, dated November 20, 1821,
referring to Admiral Burney's death. "I have been used to death lately.
Poor Jim White's departure last year first broke the spell. I had been
so fortunate as to have lost no friends in that way for many long years,
and began to think people did not die." He says that Mary Lamb has
recovered from a long illness and is pretty well resigned to John Lamb's
death.]

LETTER 283

CHARLES LAMB TO S.T. COLERIDGE

March 9th, 1822.

Dear C.,--It gives me great satisfaction to hear that the pig turned out
so well--they are interesting creatures at a certain age--what a pity
such buds should blow out into the maturity of rank bacon! You had all
some of the crackling --and brain sauce--did you remember to rub it with
butter, and gently dredge it a little, just before the crisis? Did the
eyes come away kindly with no Oedipean avulsion? Was the crackling the
colour of the ripe pomegranate? Had you no complement of boiled neck of
mutton before it, to blunt the edge of delicate desire? Did you flesh
maiden teeth in it? Not that I sent the pig, or can form the remotest
guess what part Owen could play in the business. I never knew him give
anything away in my life. He would not begin with strangers. I suspect
the pig, a