istle, and fills up.

There is a corkscrew! One of the best I ever drew. [1] By the way, what
incomparable whiskey that was of Monkhouse's! But if I am to write a
letter, let me begin, and not stand flourishing like a fencer at a fair.

_April_ 25, 1823.

Dear Miss H.,--It gives me great pleasure [the letter now begins] to
hear that you got down so smoothly, and that Mrs. Monkhouse's spirits
are so good and enterprising. [2] It shows, whatever her posture may be,
that her mind at least is not supine. I hope the excursion will enable
the former to keep pace with its outstripping neighbor. Pray present our
kindest wishes to her and all (that sentence should properly have come
into the postscript; but we airy, mercurial spirits, there is no keeping
us in). "Time" (as was said of one of us) "toils after us in vain." I am
afraid our co-visit with Coleridge was a dream. I shall not get away
before the end or middle of June, and then you will be frog-hopping at
Boulogne. And besides, I think the Gilmans would scarce trust him with
us; I have a malicious knack at cutting of apron-strings. The saints'
days you speak of have long since fled to heaven with Astraea, and the
cold piety of the age lacks fervor to recall them; only Peter left his
key,--the iron one of the two that "shuts amain,"--and that is the
reason I am locked up. Meanwhile, of afternoons we pick up primroses at
Dalston, and Mary corrects me when I call 'em cowslips. God bless you
all, and pray remember me euphoniously to Mr. Gruvellegan. That Lee
Priory must be a dainty bower. Is it built of flints? and does it stand
at Kingsgate?

[1] Lamb was fond of this flourish, and it is frequently found in his
letters.

[2] Miss Hutchinson's invalid relative.

LXXVII.

TO BERNARD BARTON.

_September_ 2, 1823.

Dear B.B.,--What will you not say to my not writing? You cannot say I do
not write now. Hessey has not used your kind sonnet, nor have I seen it.
Pray send me a copy. Neither have I heard any more of your friend's MS.,
which I will reclaim whenever you please. When you come Londonward, you
will find me no longer in Covent Garden: I have a cottage in Colebrook
Row, Islington,--a cottage, for it is detached; a white house, with six
good rooms, The New River (rather elderly by this time) runs (if a
moderate walking pace can be so termed) close to the foot of the house;
and behind is a spacious garden with vines (I assure you), pears,
strawberries, pars