Clothed we came into Enfield, and naked we must go out of it. I
would live in London shirtless, bookless. Henry Crabb is at Rome,
advices to that effect have reach'd Bury. But by solemn legacy he
bequeath'd at parting (whether he should live or die) a Turkey of
Suffolk to be sent every succeeding Xmas to us and divers other friends.
What a genuine old Bachelor's action! I fear he will find the air of
Italy too classic. His station is in the Hartz forest, his soul is
_Bego'ethed_. Miss Kelly we never see; Talfourd not this half-year; the
latter flourishes, but the exact number of his children, God forgive me,
I have utterly forgotten, we single people are often out in our count
there. Shall I say two? One darling I know they have lost within a
twelvemonth, but scarce known to me by sight, and that was a second
child lost. We see scarce anybody. We have just now Emma with us for her
holydays; you remember her playing at brag with Mr. Quillinan at poor
Monkhouse's! She is grown an agreeable young woman; she sees what I
write, so you may understand me with limitations. She was our inmate for
a twelvemonth, grew natural to us, and then they told us it was best for
her to go out as a Governess, and so she went out, and we were only two
of us, and our pleasant house-mate is changed to an occasional visitor.
If they want my sister to go out (as they call it) there will be only
one of us. Heaven keep us all from this acceding to Unity!

Can I cram loves enough to you all in this little O? Excuse
particularizing.

C.L.

LETTER 499

MARY LAMB TO DOROTHY WORDSWORTH

(_Same letter_)

My dear Miss Wordsworth, Charles has left me space to fill up with my
own poor scribble; which I must do as well as I can, being quite out of
practise, and after he has been reading his queer letter out to us I can
hardly put down in a plain style all I had to tell you, how pleasant
your handwriting was to me. He has lumped you all together in one rude
remembrance at the end, but I beg to send my love individually and by
name to Mr. and Mrs. Wordsworth, to Miss Hutchinson, whom we often talk
of, and think of as being with you always, to the dutiful good daughter
and patient amanuensis Dora, and even to Johanna, whom we have not seen,
if she will accept it. Charles has told you of my long illness and our
present settlement, which I assure you is very quiet and comfortable to
me, and to him too, if he would own it. I am very sorry we shall not