e upper lip_. Go
about like an European. Read no book of voyages (they are nothing but
lies); only now and then a romance, to keep the fancy _under_. Above
all, don't go to any sights of _wild beasts. That has been your ruin_.
Accustom yourself to write familiar letters on common subjects to your
friends in England, such as are of a moderate understanding. And think
about common things more. I supped last night with Rickman, and met a
merry _natural_ captain, who pleases himself vastly with once having
made a pun at Otaheite in the O. language. 'Tis the same man who said
Shakspeare he liked, because he was so _much of the gentleman_. Rickman
is a man "absolute in all numbers." I think I may one day bring you
acquainted, if you do not go to Tartary first; for you'll never come
back. Have a care, my dear friend, of Anthropophagi! their stomachs are
always craving. 'Tis terrible to be weighed out at fivepence a pound. To
sit at table (the reverse of fishes in Holland), not as a guest, but
as a meat!

God bless you! do come to England. Air and exercise may do great things.
Talk with some minister. Why not your father?

God dispose all for the best! I have discharged my duty.

Your sincere friend,

C. LAMB.

[1] Manning had evidently written to Lamb as to his cherished
project of exploring remoter China and Thibet.

XLII.

TO MANNING.

_February_, 1803.

Not a sentence, not a syllable, of Trismegistus shall be lost through my
neglect. I am his word-banker, his storekeeper of puns and syllogisms.
You cannot conceive (and if Trismegistus cannot, no man can) the strange
joy which I felt at the receipt of a letter from Paris. It seemed to
give me a learned importance which placed me above all who had not
Parisian correspondents. Believe that I shall carefully husband every
scrap, which will save you the trouble of memory when you come back. You
cannot write things so trifling, let them only be about Paris, which I
shall not treasure. In particular, I must have parallels of actors and
actresses. I must be told if any building in Paris is at all comparable
to St. Paul's, which, contrary to the usual mode of that part of our
nature called admiration, I have looked up to with unfading wonder every
morning at ten o'clock, ever since it has lain in my way to business. At
noon I casually glance upon it, being hungry; and hunger has not much
taste for the fine arts. Is any night-walk comparable to a walk from St.
Paul