ues and feelers to find it
out. It will be wooed, and not unsought be won. Now, ham-essence,
lobsters, turtle, such popular minions, absolutely _court you_, lay
themselves out to strike you at first smack, like one of David's
pictures (they call him _Darveed_), compared with the plain
russet-coated wealth of a Titian or a Correggio, as I illustrated above.
Such are the obvious glaring heathen virtues of a corporation dinner,
compared with the reserved collegiate worth of brawn. Do me the favour
to leave off the business which you may be at present upon, and go
immediately to the kitchens of Trinity and Caius, and make my most
respectful compliments to Mr. Richard Hopkins, and assure him that his
brawn is most excellent, and that I am moreover obliged to him for his
innuendo about salt water and bran, which I shall not fail to improve. I
leave it to you whether you shall choose to pay him the civility of
asking him to dinner while you stay in Cambridge, or in whatever other
way you may best like to show your gratitude to _my friend_. Richard
Hopkins, considered in many points of view, is a very extraordinary
character. Adieu. I hope to see you to supper in London soon, where we
will taste Richard's brawn, and drink his health in a cheerful but
moderate cup. We have not many such men in any rank of life as Mr. R.
Hopkins. Crisp the barber, of St. Mary's, was just such another. I
wonder _he_ never sent me any little token,--some chestnuts, or a puff,
or two pound of hair just to remember him by; gifts are like nails.
_Praesens ut absens_, that is, your _present_ makes amends for
your absence.

Yours,

C. LAMB.

XLV.

TO MISS WORDSWORTH.

_June_ 14, 1805.

My Dear Miss Wordsworth,--I have every reason to suppose that this
illness, like all Mary's former ones, will be but temporary. But I
cannot always feel so. Meantime she is dead to me, and I miss a prop.
All my strength Is gone, and I am like a fool, bereft of her
co-operation. I dare not think, iest I should think wrong; so used am I
to look up to her in the least and the biggest perplexity. To say all
that I know of her, would be more than I think anybody could believe or
ever understand; and when I hope to have her well again with me, it
would be sinning against her feelings to go about to praise her; for I
can conceal nothing that I do from her. She is older and wiser and
better than I, and all my wretched imperfections I cover to myself by
resolutely