ines, the barefaced sort of
emulation, the immodest candidateship. Brought into so little space,--in
those old "Londons," a signature was lost in the wood of matter, the
paper coarse (till latterly, which spoiled them),--in short, I detest to
appear in an Annual. What a fertile genius (and a quiet good soul
withal) is Hood! He has fifty things in hand,--farces to supply the
Adelphi for the season; a comedy for one of the great theatres, just
ready; a whole entertainment by himself for Mathews and Yates to figure
in; a meditated Comic Annual for next year, to be nearly done by
himself. You'd like him very much.

Wordsworth, I see, has a good many pieces announced in one of 'em, not
our "Gem." W. Scott has distributed himself like a bribe haunch among
'em. Of all the poets, Cary [3] has had the good sense to keep quite
clear of 'em, with clergy-gentlemanly right notions. Don't think I set
up for being proud on this point; I like a bit of flattery, tickling my
vanity, as well as any one. But these pompous masquerades without masks
(naked names or faces) I hate. So there's a bit of my mind. Besides,
they infallibly cheat you,--I mean the booksellers. If I get but a copy,
I only expect it from Hood's being my friend. Coleridge has lately been
here. He too is deep among the prophets, the year-servers,--the mob of
gentleman annuals. But they'll cheat him, I know. And now, dear B. B.,
the sun shining out merrily, and the dirty clouds we had yesterday
having washed their own faces clean with their own rain, tempts me to
wander up Winchmore Hill, or into some of the delightful vicinages of
Enfield, which I hope to show you at some time when you can get a few
days up to the great town. Believe me, it would give both of us great
pleasure to show you our pleasant farms and villages.

We both join in kindest loves to you and yours.

C. LAMB _redivivus_.

[1] An _edition de luxe_, illustrated by John Martin, and with an
Introduction by Southey. See Macaulay's review of it.

[2] Hood's.

[3] The translator of Dante.

XCIX.

TO PROCTER.

_January_ 22, 1829.

Don't trouble yourself about the verses. Take 'em coolly as they come.
Any day between this and midsummer will do. Ten lines the extreme. There
is no mystery in my incognita. She has often seen you, though you may
not have observed a silent brown girl, who for the last twelve years has
rambled about our house in her Christmas holidays. She is Italian by
name and