[6] There was a dash of ink in my blood. My father wrote two novels, and my brother was decidedly of a literary turn, to the great disquietude for a time of an anxious parent. She suspected him, on the strength of several amatory poems of a very desponding cast, of being the victim of a hopeless attachment; so he was caught, closeted, and catechised, and after a deal of delicate and tender sounding, he confessed, not with the anticipated sighs and tears, but a very unexpected burst of laughter, that he had been guilty of translating some fragments of Petrarch. [7] A cottage of Ungentility, for it had neither double coach-house nor wings. Like its tenant, it stood alone. He said, glancing at the Paternoster one, that he did not like “the Row.” There was a bit of a garden, in which, being, as he professed, “more fond of Men Sects than of Insects,” he made probably his first and last observation in Entomology. He had been watching a spider on a gooseberry bush, entrapping a fly. “Good God,” he said, “I never saw such a thing! Directly he was caught, in her fatal spinning, she darted down upon him, and in a minute turned him out, completely lapped in a shroud! It reminded me of the Fatal Sisters in Gray.” [8] A sort of rheumatic celerity, of which Sir W. Scott’s favourite dramatiser seemed to have a very accurate notion. Those who remember “poor Terry’s” deliberate delivery, will be able to account, for the shout of laughter which once rang throughout the Adelphi green-room, at his emphatic manner of giving, from a manuscript-play, the stage direction of “Enter----, with--a--lack--ri--ty!” [9] As regards his Unitarianism, it strikes me as more probable that he was what the unco guid people call “Nothing at all.” which means that he was every thing but a Bigot. As he was in spirit an Old Author, so was he in faith an Ancient Christian, too ancient to belong to any of the modern sub-hubbub-divisions of--Ists,--Arians, and--Inians. [10] Talking of Poetry, Lamb told me one day that he had just met with the most vigorous line he had ever read. “Where?” “Out of the Camden’s Head, all in one line-- “To _One Hundred Pots of Porter_ £2 1 8” [11] Somebody happened to say that the Peasant ought to figure in the Percy Anecdotes, as an example of uncultivated genius. “And where will they stick me?” asked Clare, “will they stick me in the instinct?” [12] I once cut out from a country newspaper what seemed to me a very good old English poem. It proved to be a _naturalization_, by Cary, of a French Song to April, by Remy Belleau. [13] The father expressing an uncertainty to what profession he should devote a younger Cary, Lamb said, “Make him an Apothe-Cary.”