reeds Blue Devils--so that
there is a French proverb, 'In October, de Englishman shoot de pheasant:
in November he shoot himself.' This I suppose is the case with me: so
away with November, as soon as may be. 'Canst thou my Clora' is being
put in proper musical trim: and I will write it out for you when all is
right. I am sorry you are getting so musical: and if I take your advice
about so big a thing as Christianity, take you mine about music. I am
sure that this pleasure of music grows so on people, that many of the
hours that you would have devoted to Jeremy Taylor, etc. will be melted
down into tunes, and the idle train of thought that music puts us into. I
fancy I have discovered the true philosophy of this: but I think you must
have heard me enlarge. Therefore 'satis.'

I have gabbled on so long that there is scarce room for my quotation. But
it shall come though in a shapeless manner, for the sake of room. Have
you got in your Christian Poet, a poem by Sir H. Wotton--'How happy is he
born or taught, that serveth not another's will'? It is very beautiful,
and fit for a Paradise of any kind. Here are some lines from old Lily,
which your ear will put in the proper metre. It gives a fine description
of a fellow walking in Spring, and looking here and there, and pricking
up his ears, as different birds sing. 'What bird so sings, but doth so
wail? Oh! 'tis the ravished nightingale: "Jug, jug, jug, jug, terue,"
she cries, and still her woes at midnight rise. Brave prick-song! who
is't now we hear? It is the lark so shrill and clear: against heaven's
gate he claps his wings, the morn not waking till he sings. Hark, too,
with what a pretty note poor Robin Redbreast tunes his throat: Hark how
the jolly cuckoos sing "Cuckoo" to welcome in the Spring: "Cuckoo" to
welcome in the Spring.' This is very English, and pleasant, I think: and
so I hope you will. I could have sent you many a more sentimental thing,
but nothing better. I admit nothing into my Paradise, but such as
breathe content, and virtue: I count 'Back and syde' to breathe both of
these, with a little good drink over.

_Wednesday_ [28 _Nov._ 1832].

P.S. I sealed up my letter yesterday, forgetting to finish. I write
thus soon 'becase I gets a frank.' You shall benefit by another bit of
poetry. I do not admit it into my Paradise, being too gloomy: but it
will please both of us. It is the prototype of the Pensieroso.

Hence all you v