ises thee,
and well dost thou deserve it for thy labors in the Muses' gardens,
wandering over parterres of Think-on-me's and Forget-me-nots, to a total
impossibility of forgetting thee,--thy letter was acceptable, thy
scruples may be dismissed, thou art Rectus in Curia, not a word more to
be said, Verbum Sapienti and so forth, the matter is decided with a
white stone, Classically, mark me, and the apparitions vanishd which
haunted me, only the Cramp, Caliban's distemper, clawing me in the
calvish part of my nature, makes me ever and anon roar Bullishly, squeak
cowardishly, and limp cripple-ishly. Do I write quakerly and simply,
'tis my most Master Mathew-like intention to do it. See Ben Jonson.--I
think you told me your acquaint'ce with the Drama was confin'd to
Shakspeare and Miss Bailly: some read only Milton and Croly. The gap is
as from an ananas to a Turnip. I have fighting in my head the plots
characters situations and sentiments of 400 old Plays (bran new to me)
which I have been digesting at the Museum, and my appetite sharpens to
twice as many more, which I mean to course over this winter. I can
scarce avoid Dialogue fashion in this letter. I soliloquise my
meditations, and habitually speak dramatic blank verse without meaning
it. Do you see Mitford? he will tell you something of my labors. Tell
him I am sorry to have mist seeing him, to have talk'd over those OLD
TREASURES. I am still more sorry for his missing Pots. But I shall be
sure of the earliest intelligence of the Lost Tribes. His Sacred
Specimens are a thankful addition to my shelves. Marry, I could wish he
had been more careful of corrigenda. I have discover'd certain which
have slipt his Errata. I put 'em in the next page, as perhaps thou canst
transmit them to him. For what purpose, but to grieve him (which yet I
should be sorry to do), but then it shews my learning, and the excuse is
complimentary, as it implies their correction in a future Edition. His
own things in the book are magnificent, and as an old Christ's
Hospitaller I was particularly refreshd with his eulogy on our Edward.
Many of the choice excerpta were new to me. Old Christmas is a coming,
to the confusion of Puritans, Muggletonians, Anabaptists, Quakers, and
that Unwassailing Crew. He cometh not with his wonted gait, he is shrunk
9 inches in the girth, but is yet a Lusty fellow. Hood's book is mighty
clever, and went off 600 copies the 1st day. Sion's Songs do not
disperse so quickl