at, in another mood, he might
not multiply them, deeply as he was tinctured with the essence of them.
Quixote is the father of gentle ridicule, and at the same time the very
depository and treasury of chivalry and highest notions. Marry, when
somebody persuaded Cervantes that he meant only fun, and put him upon
writing that unfortunate Second Part, with the confederacies of that
unworthy duke and most contemptible duchess, Cervantes sacrificed his
instinct to his understanding.

We got your little book but last night, being at Enfield, to which place
we came about a month since, and are having quiet holidays. Mary walks
her twelve miles a day some days, and I my twenty on others. 'T is all
holiday with me now, you know; the change works admirably.

For literary news, in my poor way, I have a one-act farce [1] going to be
acted at Haymarket; but when? is the question, 'Tis an extravaganza, and
like enough to follow "Mr. H." "The London Magazine" has shifted its
publishers once more, and I shall shift myself out of it. It is fallen.
My ambition is not at present higher than to write nonsense for the
playhouses, to eke out a something contracted income. _Tempus erat_.
There was a time, my dear Cornwallis, when the muse, etc. But I am now
in Mac Flecknoe's predicament,--

"Promised a play, and dwindled to a farce." Coleridge is better (was, at
least, a few weeks since) than he has been for years. His accomplishing
his book at last has been a source of vigor to him. We are on a half
visit to his friend Allsop, at a Mrs. Leishman's, Enfield, but expect to
be at Colebrooke Cottage in a week or so, where, or anywhere, I shall be
always most happy to receive tidings from you. G. Dyer is in the height
of an uxorious paradise. His honeymoon will not wane till he wax cold.
Never was a more happy pair, since Acme and Septimius, and longer.
Farewell, with many thanks, dear S. Our loves to all round your Wrekin.

Your old friend,

C. LAMB.

[1] Probably "The Pawnbroker's Daughter," which happily was not destined
to be performed.--AINGER.

XCI.

TO BERNARD BARTON.

_March_ 20, 1826.

Dear B. B.,--You may know my letters by the paper and the folding. For
the former, I live on scraps obtained in charity from an old friend,
whose stationery is a permanent perquisite; for folding, I shall do it
neatly when I learn to tie my neckcloths. I surprise most of my friends
by writing to them on ruled paper, as if I had not got p