ting, of abstract Clownery, and that
precious concrete of a Clown: and the rich succession of images, and
words almost such, in the first half of the Mag. Ignotum. Your picture
of the Camel, that would not or could not thread your nice needle-eye of
Subtilisms, was confirm'd by Elton, who perfectly appreciated his abrupt
departure. Elton borrowed the "Aids" from Hessey (by the way what is
your Enigma about Cupid? I am Cytherea's son, if I understand a tittle
of it), and returnd it next day saying that 20 years ago, when he was
pure, he _thought_ as you do now, but that he now thinks as you did 20
years ago. But E. seems a very honest fellow. Hood has just come in; his
sick eyes sparkled into health when he read your approbation. They had
meditated a copy for you, but postponed it till a neater 2d Edition,
which is at hand.

Have you heard _the Creature_ at the Opera House--Signor Non-vir sed
VELUTI Vir?

Like Orpheus, he is said to draw storks &c, _after_ him. A picked raisin
for a sweet banquet of sounds; but I affect not these exotics. Nos DURUM
genus, as mellifluous Ovid hath it.

Fanny Holcroft is just come in, with her paternal severity of aspect.
She has frozen a bright thought which should have follow'd. She makes us
marble, with too little conceiving. Twas respecting the Signor, whom I
honour on this side idolatry. Well, more of this anon.

We are setting out to walk to Enfield after our Beans and Bacon, which
are just smoking.

Kindest remembrances to the G.'s ever.

From Islinton,

2d day, 3d month of my Hegira or Flight from Leadenhall.

C.L. Olim Clericus.

["To Allsop's." Allsop says in his _Letters... of Coleridge_ that he and
the Lambs were housemates for a long time.

"Vide Lond. Mag. for July"--where the _Elia_ essay "The Convalescent"
was printed.

"The Odes"--_Odes and Addresses to Great People, 1825._ Coleridge after
reading the book had written to Lamb as follows (the letter is printed
by Hood):--

MY DEAR CHARLES,--This afternoon, a little, thin, mean-looking sort of a
foolscap, sub-octavo of poems, printed on very dingy outsides, lay on
the table, which the cover informed me was circulating in our book-club,
so very Grub-Streetish in all its appearance, internal as well as
external, that I cannot explain by what accident of impulse (assuredly
there was no _motive_ in play) I came to look into it. Least of all, the
title, Odes and Addresses to Great Men, which connected itself in