as
suddenly left us darkling; and, in short, I shall go on from dull to
worse, because I cannot resist the booksellers' importunity,--the old
plea, you know, of authors; but I believe on my part sincere. Hartley I
do not so often see, but I never see him in unwelcome hour. I thoroughly
love and honor him. I send you a frozen epistle; but it is winter and
dead time of the year with me. May Heaven keep something like spring and
summer up with you, strengthen your eyes, and make mine a little lighter
to encounter with them, as I hope they shall yet and again, before all
are closed!

Yours, with every kind remembrance,

C. L.

[1] Martin Burney was the grimy-fisted whist-player to whom Lamb once
observed, "Martin, if dirt was trumps, what hands you would hold!"

[2] The enchanter in "The Faerie Queene."

LXIX.

TO JOHN CLARE. [1]

_August_ 31, 1822.

Dear Clare,--I thank you heartily for your present. I am an inveterate
old Londoner, but while I am among your choice collections I seem to be
native to them and free of the country. The quality of your observation
has astonished me. What have most pleased me have been "Recollections
after a Ramble," and those "Grongar Hill" kind of pieces in
eight-syllable lines, my favourite measure, such as "Cooper Hill" and
"Solitude." In some of your story-telling Ballads the provincial phrases
sometimes startle me. I think you are too profuse with them. In poetry
_slang_ of every kind is to be avoided. There is a rustic Cockneyism, as
little pleasing as ours of London. Transplant Arcadia to Helpstone. The
true rustic style I think is to be found in Shenstone. Would his
"School-mistress," the prettiest of poems, have been better if he had
used quite the Goody's own language? Now and then a home rusticism is
fresh and startling; but when nothing is gained in expression, it is out
of tenor. It may make folks smile and stare; but the ungenial coalition
of barbarous with refined phrases will prevent you in the end from being
so generally tasted as you desire to be. Excuse my freedom, and take the
same liberty with my _puns_.

I send you two little volumes of my spare hours. They are of all sorts;
there is a Methodist hymn for Sundays, and a farce for Saturday night.
Pray give them a place on your shelf. Pray accept a little volume, of
which I have a duplicate, that I may return in equal number to your
welcome presents. I think I am indebted to you for a sonnet in the
"Londo