7 October (1827): Below, the English writer and essayist Charles Lamb writes an affectionate thank you letter to friend H. Dodwell for the gift of a pig, before playfully complaining about the lack of “gentlemen” in civil service since Dodwell’s departure. I am afraid now you and — are gone, there’s scarce an officer in the Civil Service quite comes up to my notion of a gentleman. D— certainly does not, nor his friend B—. C— bobs. K— curtsies. W— bows like the son of a citizen; F— like a village apothecary; C— like the Squire’s younger Brother; R— like a crocodile on his hind legs; H— never bows at all—at least to me. S— splutters and stutters. W— halters and smatters. R— is a coal-heaver. Wolf wants my clothing. C— simmers, but never boils over. D— is a Butterfirkin, salt butter. C—, a pepper-box, cayenne. For A—, E—, and O—, I can answer that they have not the slightest pretensions to anything but rusticity. Marry, the remaining vowels had something of civility about them. Can you make top or tail of this nonsense, or tell where it begins? I will page it. How an error in the outset infects to the end of life, or of a sheet of paper! Keep reading here: theamericanreader/7-october-1827-charles-lamb-to-h-dodwell/
Posted on: Tue, 07 Oct 2014 14:41:31 +0000
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