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THE 
 
 -FINAL MEMORIALS • 
 
 OF . 
 
 CHAELES LAMB. 
 
 BY 
 
 THOMAS NOOX TALFOURD, 
 
 ONE OF HIS RXECUT0R3 
 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 DERBY & .lACKSOX, 110 NASSAU STREET. 
 
 1 859. 
 
\y 
 
 4 
 
TO 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWOPJII, ESQ., D.C.L, 
 
 POET LAUREATE, 
 
 THESE FINAL MEMORIALS 
 
 OP ONE WHO CnERISUED HIS FKIESDSUIP AS A COMFORT AMIDST GRIEFS 
 
 AND A GLOUy AMIDST DEPRESSIONS, ARE 
 
 WITH AFFECTION AND RESPKCT 
 
 INSCRIBED 
 
 BT ONE WHOSE PRIDE IS TO HAVE BEEN IN OI.D TIME HIS EARNEST ADMIRER, 
 
 AND ONE OF WDOSB FONDEST WISHES IS 
 
 THAT HE MAY BE LONG SPARED TO ENJOY FAME, RARELY ACCORDED 
 
 TO THE LIVING. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Nearly twelve years have elapsed since the Letters of Charles 
 Lamb, accompanied by such slight sketch of his Life aa might 
 link them together, and explain the circumstances to which they 
 refer, were given to the world. In the Preface to that work, 
 reference was made to letters yet remaining unpublished, and to 
 a period when a more complete estimate might be formed of the 
 singular and delightful character of the writer than was there 
 presented. That period has arrived. Several of his friends, who 
 mi<Tht possibly have felt a moment's pain at the publication of 
 some of those effusions of kindness, in which they are sportively 
 mentioned, have been removed by death; and the dismissal 
 of the last, and to him the dearest of all, his sister, while it has 
 brought to her the repose she sighed for ever sinco dhe lost him, 
 has released his biographer from a difficulty which has hitherto 
 prevented a due appreciation of some of his noblest qualities. 
 Her most lamentable, but most innocent agency in the event 
 which consigned her for life to his protection, forbade the intro- 
 duction of any letter, or allusion to any incident, which might 
 ever in the long and dismal twilight of consciousness which she 
 endured, shock her by the recurrence of long past and terrible 
 sorrows ; and the same consideration for her induced the sup- 
 pression of every passage which referred to the malady with 
 which she was through life at intervals afflicted. Although her 
 1* (v) 
 
VI PKEFACE. 
 
 death had removed the objection to a reference to her intermit- 
 tent suffering, it still left a momentous question, whether even 
 then, when no relative remained to he affected by the disclosure, 
 it would be right to unveil the dreadful calamity which marked 
 one of its earliest visitations, and which, though known to most 
 of those who were intimate with the surviving sufferers, had 
 never been publicly associated with their history. When, how- 
 ever, I reflected that the truth, while in no wise affecting the 
 gentle excellence of one of them, casts new and solemn lights 
 on the character of the other ; that while his frailties have 
 received an ample share of that indulgence which he extended 
 to all human weaknesses, their chief exciting cause has been 
 hidden; that his moral strength and the extent of his self- 
 sacrifice have been hitherto unknown to the v.'orld ; I felt that to 
 develope all which is essential to the just appreciation of his 
 rare excellence, was due both to him and to the public. While 
 I still hesitated as to the extent of disclosure needful for this 
 purpose, my lingering doubts were removed by the appearance 
 of a full statement of the melancholy event, with all tbe details 
 capable of being collected from the new.spapers of the time, in 
 the " British Quarterly Eeview," and the diffusion of the pas- 
 sage, extracted thence, through several other journals. After 
 this publication, no doubt could remain as to the propriety of 
 publishing the letters of Lamb on this event, eminently exaltinw 
 the characters of himself and his sister, and enabling the reader 
 to judge of the sacrifice which followed it. 
 
 I have also availed myself of the opportunity of introducing 
 some letters, the objection to publishing which has been obvia- 
 ted by the same great healer, time; and of adding otheis which 
 I deemed too trivial for the public eye, when the wlmlu wealih 
 of his letters lay before me, collected by Mr. Muxou fium the 
 
PREFACE. vii 
 
 distinguished correspondents of Lamb, who kindly responded to 
 his request for permission to make the public sharera in their 
 choice epistolary treasures. The appreciation which the letters 
 already published, both in this country and in America— per- 
 baps even more remarkable in America than in England — have 
 attained, and the interest which the lightest fragments of Lamb's 
 correspondence, which have accidentally appeared in other quar- 
 ters, have excited, convince me that some letters which I with- 
 held, as doubting their worthiness of the public eye, will not 
 now be unwelcome. There is, indeed, scarcely a note — a 
 „o;jei_(^as he used to call his very little letters) Lamb ever 
 wrote, which has not some tinge of that quaint sweetness, some 
 hint of that peculiar union of kindness and whim, which distin- 
 guish him from all other poets and humorists. I do not think 
 the reader will complain that— with some very slight esceptious, 
 which personal considerations still render necessary — I have 
 made him a partaker of all the epistolary treasures which the 
 generosity of Lamb's correspondents placed at Mr. Moxon's 
 disposal. 
 
 When I first considered the materials of this work, I purposed 
 to combine them with a now edition of the former volumes ; but 
 the consideration that such a conrse would be unjust to the pos- 
 sessors of those volumes, induced me to present them to the 
 public in a separate form. In accomplishing that object, I have 
 felt the difficulty of connecting the letters so as to render their 
 attendant circumstances intelligible, without falling into repeti- 
 tion of passages in the previous biograpliy. JMy attempt ha3 
 been to make these volumes subsidiary to the former, and yet 
 complete in themselves; but I fear its imperfections will require 
 much indulgence from the reader. The italics and capitals 
 used in printing the letters are always those of the vritcr; and 
 
vin 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 the little passages sometimes prefixed to letters, have been 
 printed as in the originals. 
 
 In venturing to introduce some notices of Lamb's deceased 
 companions. I have been impelled partly by a desire to explain 
 any allusion in the letters which might be misunderstood by 
 those who are not familiar with the fine vagaries of Lamb', 
 affection, and partly by the hope of giving some faint notion of 
 the entire circle with which Lamb is associated in the recollec- 
 tion of a few survivors. 
 T T , T. N. T, 
 
 London, July, i84g. 
 
FINAL MEMORIALS. 
 
 Chapter I. 
 
 Page 
 
 LETTERS OF LAMB TO COLERIDGE, IN THE SPRING AND SUMMER OP 1796 . . 13 
 
 Chapter II. 
 
 LETTERS OF LAMB TO COLERIDGE, CHIEFLY RELATING TO THE DEATH OF 
 
 MRS. LAMB, AND MISS LAMB'S SUBSEQUENT CONDITION . . .45 
 
 Chapter III, 
 
 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE AND MANNING IN LAMB'S FIRST YEARS OF LIFE WITS 
 
 HIS SISTER— 1797 TO 1800 70 
 
 Chapter IV. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS LETTERS TO MANNING, COLERIDGE, AND 'WORDSWORTH — 
 
 1800 TO 1805 90 
 
 Chapter V. 
 
 LETTERS TO HAZLITT, ETC., — 1805 TO 1810 117 
 
 Chapter VI. 
 
 LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH, ETC., CHIEFLY RESPECTING WORDSWORTH'S 
 
 POEMS— 1815 TO 1818 138 
 
 (is) 
 
FINAL MEMORIALS OF CHARLES LAMB. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 tETTERS OF LAMB TO COLEKIDOE, IN THE SPRING AND SUMMER OF 1796 
 
 In the year 1795, Charles Lamb resided with his father, 
 mother, and sister, in lodgings at No. 7, Little Queen-street, 
 Holborn. The father Avas rapidly sinking into dotage; 
 the mother suffered under an infirmity which deprived her 
 of the use of her limbs ; and the sister not only undertook 
 the office of daily and nightly attendance on her mother, 
 but sought to add by needle-work to their slender resources 
 Their income then consisted of an annuity which Mr. Lamb 
 4ie elder derived from the old Bencher, Mr. Salt, whom he 
 had faithfully served for many years ; Charles's salary, 
 which, being that of a clerk of three years' standing m 
 the India House, could have been but scanty ; and a small 
 payment made for board by an old maiden aunt, who re- 
 sided with them. In this year Lamb, being just twenty 
 years of age, began to write verses-partly incited by he 
 example of his old friend, Coleridge, whom he regarded 
 with as much reverence as affection, and partly inspired 
 by an attachment to a young lady residing in the neigh- 
 borhood of Islington, who is commemorated m his early 
 verses as " the fair-haired maid." How his love prospered 
 
14'' 'c t','' i ,''l '',rite^ <IkIEM<0'illALS OF LAMli. 
 
 we cannot ascertain ; but y> c know how nobly that love, 
 and all hope of earthly blessings attcndent on such an af- 
 fection, were resigned on the catastrophe which darkened 
 the following year. In the meantime, his youth was lonely 
 —rendered the more so by the recollection of the society 
 of Coleridge, who had just left London— of Coleridcrc in 
 the first bloom of life and genius, unshaded by the mysti- 
 cism which it afterwards glorified— full of boundless ambi- 
 tion, love, and hope ! There was a tendency to insanity 
 in his family, which had been more than once developed 
 m his sister ; and it was no matter of surprise that in the 
 dreariness of his solitude it fell upon him ; and that, at the 
 close of the year, he was subjected for a few weeks to the 
 1 restraint of the insane. The wonder is that, amidst all 
 the difficulties, the sorrows, and the excitements of his 
 \ succeeding forty years, it never recurred. Perhaps the 
 true cause of this remarkable exemption— an exemption 
 the more remarkable when his afiiictions are considered in 
 association with one single frailty— will be found in the 
 sudden claim made on his moral and intellectual nature 
 by a terrible exigency, and by his generous answer to that 
 chum ; so that a life of self-sacrifice was rewarded by the 
 preservation of unclouded reason. 
 
 The following letter to Coleridge, then residing at Bris- 
 tol, which is undated, but which is proved by circumstances 
 to have been written in the spring of 1796, and which is 
 probably the earliest of Lamb's letters which have been 
 preserved, contains liis oato account of ihis seizure. Al- 
 lusion to the same event will be perceived in two letters 
 of the same year, after which no reference to it appears iu 
 his correspondence, nor can any be remembered in hia 
 conversations with his dearest friends. 
 
LETTEES TO COLEKIDGE. 1^ 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 "1795. 
 
 <. T^ear C , make yourself perfectly easy abont May. 
 
 I paia hu bill «hen I sent your clothes. I ^'as flusl. ot 
 money, and am so still to all the purposes of a single lue 
 r„ .he yourself no further concern abont it. The money 
 would be superfluous to me if I had it. 
 
 a When Southey becomes as modest as h,s predecessor 
 Milton, and publishes his Epics in duodecimo, I will read 
 •em • a Ruinea a book is somewhat exorbitant, nor have 1 
 L Opportunity of borrowing the work. The extracts from 
 ,t in the Monthly Kevieivs, and the short passages myour 
 Watchman, seem to me much superior to anything in his 
 partnership account with Lovoll Your poems I shall p o- 
 Lre forthwith. There were noble lines in what you in- 
 serted in one of your numbers, from ' Religious Musings ; 
 but I thought them elaborate. I am somewhat glad you 
 have given up that paper ; it must have been dry, unpi^fit- 
 able and of dissonant mood to your disposition. I wish 
 y!:'success in all your undertakings, and am glad to ear 
 you are employed about the ' Evidences of Eelig.on Ih o 
 sneed of multiplying such ^ooks a hundredfold h.s 
 philosophical age, to prevent converts to atheism, fo they 
 seem too tough disputants to meddle with afterward 
 
 "Le Grice is gone to make puns in Cornwall. He has 
 got a tut rship ?o a young boy living with his mother, a 
 l°dow-lady. He will, of course, initiate him quickly m 
 wha^solver things are lovely, honorable, and of good 
 retott Coleridge - I know not what suffering scenes you 
 ave 2one throu<.h at Bristol. My life has been somewhat 
 d ™rsTfied of lat°e. The six weeks that finished la.t year 
 a ^i b gan ^^.s, your very humble servant spent very agree- 
 ! abiy in a madiouse, at Hoxton. I am got somewhat ra- 
 tional now, and don't bite any one. But mad I wos ! And 
 
16 LETTEIIS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 many a vagary my imagination played with mo, enough 
 to make a volume, if all were told. My sonnets I have ex- 
 tended to the number of nine since I saw you, and will 
 some day communicate to you. I am beginning a poem 
 in blank verse, which, if I finish, I publish. White is on 
 the eve of publishing (he took the hint from Vortigern) 
 ' Original letters of Falstaff, Shallow,' &c., a copy you 
 shall have when it comes out. They are without excep- 
 tion the best imitations I ever saw. Coleridge ! it may 
 convince you of my regards for you when I tell you my 
 head ran on you in my madness, as much almost as on 
 another person, who I am inclined to think was the 
 more immediate cause of my temporary frenzy. 
 
 " The sonnet I send you has small merit as poetry ; but 
 you will be curious to read it when I tell you it was writ- 
 ten in my prison-house in one of my lucid intervals. 
 
 TO MY SISTER. 
 "If from my lips some angry accents fell, 
 
 Peevish complaint, or harsh reproof unkind, 
 
 'Twas but the error of a sickly mind 
 And troubled thoughts, clouding the purer well, 
 
 And waters clear, of Reason ; and for me 
 
 Let this my verse the poor atonement be — 
 
 My verse, which thou to praise wert o'er inclined 
 
 Too highly, and with partial 03-6 to see 
 No blemish. Thou to me didst ever show 
 
 Kindest affection; and wouldst oft-times lend 
 
 An ear to the desponding love-sick lay, 
 
 "Weeping my sorrows with me, who repay 
 But ill the mighty debt of love I owe, 
 
 Mary, to thee, my sister and ray friend. 
 
 "With these lines, and with that sister's kindest remem- 
 brances to C , I conclude. 
 
 " Yours sincerely, Lamb." 
 
 "Your ' Conciones ad Populum' are the most eloquent 
 politics that ever came in my way. 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 17 
 
 " Write when convenient — not as a task, for here is no- 
 thing in this letter to answer. 
 
 " We cannot send our rememhrances to Mrs. C, not 
 having seen her, but believe me our best good washes at- 
 tend you both. 
 
 " My civic and poetic compliments to Southey if at Bris- 
 tol ; — why, he is a very Leviathan of Bards — the small 
 minnow, I !" 
 
 In the spring of this year, Coleridge proposed the associa- 
 tion of those first efforts of the young clerk in the India 
 House, which he had prompted and praised, with his own, 
 in a new edition of his Poems, to which Mr. Charles Lloyd 
 also proposed to contribute. The following letter comprises 
 Sonnets transmitted to Coleridge for this purpose, accom- 
 panied by remarks so characteristic as to induce the hope 
 that the reader will forgive the introduction of these small 
 gems of verse which were published in due course, for the 
 sake of the original setting. 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 " 1796. 
 
 " I am in such violent pain with the head-ache, that I 
 am fit for nothing but transcribing, scarce for that. 
 "When I get your poems, and the ' Joan of Arc,' I will ex- 
 ercise my presumption in giving you my opinion of 'em. 
 The mail does not come in before to-morrow (Wednesday) 
 morning. The following Sonnet was composed during a 
 walk down into Hertfordshire early in last summer : — 
 
 "The Lord of Light shakes off his drowsyhed.* 
 
 Fresh from his couch up springs the lusty sun, 
 And girds liiiuself his mighty race to run ; 
 Meantimej by tru:int love of rambling led, 
 
 * " Drowsyhed" I have met with, I tbiuk, in Spenser. 'Tis an old thing, but it ihynies 
 with led, and rhyming covers a multitude of licenses. — 0. Lamb's Manuscripts. 
 
 2* 
 
18 LETTERS TO COLEEIDGE. 
 
 I turn iiij- Lack en thy dotettcil walls. 
 
 Proud city, and tlij' sons I leave behind, 
 
 A selfisli, sordid, money gcttin?-kind, 
 Who shut, their ears when holy Freetloni calls. 
 I pass not thee so lightly, huinlde spire, 
 
 That mindest rao of many a pleasure gone. 
 
 Of merriest days of Love and Islington, 
 Kindling anew the flames of past desire; 
 
 And I shall muse on thee, slow journeying on. 
 To the green plains of pleasant Hertfordshire. 
 
 " The last line is a copy of Bo\\les's, ' To the green hairi' 
 let in the peaceful plain.' Your ears are not so very fasti- 
 dious ; many people would not like words so prosaic and 
 familiar in a Sonnet as Islino;ton and Hertfordshire. The 
 next was written within a day or two of the last, on revis- 
 iting a spot where the scene was laid of my first Sonnet 
 ' that mocked my step with many a lonely glade.' 
 
 "When last I roved these winding wood-walks green. 
 Green winding walks, and shadj' pathwaj-s sweet j 
 
 Oft-times would Anna seek the silent scene, 
 Shrouding her beauties in the louo retreat. 
 
 No more I hear her footsteps in the shade ; 
 Her image only in these pleasant ways 
 Meets me self-wandering, where in happier days 
 
 I held free converse with my fair-haired maid. 
 I passed the little cottage which she loved, 
 
 The cottage which did once my all contain ; 
 
 It spake of days that ne'er must come again ; 
 
 Spake to my heart, and much my heart was moved. 
 
 Now ' Fair befal thee, gentle maid,' said Ij 
 
 And from the cottage turned me with a sigh. 
 
 " The next retains a few lines from a Sonnet of mine 
 which you once remarked had no ' body of thought' in it 
 I agree with you, but have preserved a part of it, and it 
 runs thus. I ilatter myself you will like it : 
 
 "A timid grace sits trembling in her eye, 
 
 As loth to meet the rudeness of men's sight; 
 Yet shedding a delicious lunar light, 
 That steeps in kind oblivious ecstaey 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 19 
 
 The care-crazed mind, like some still melody : 
 
 Speaking most plain tlie thoughts which do possess 
 Ilor gentle sprite, peace and meek quietness, 
 And innocent loves,* and maiden purity: 
 
 A look who'coT might heal the cruel smart 
 Of changed friends ; or Fortune's wrongs unkind ; 
 
 Might to sweet deeds of mercy move the heart 
 Of him, who hates his brethren of mankind: 
 Turned are those beams from me, who fondly yet 
 Past joj's, vain loves, and buried hopes regret. 
 
 " The next and last I value most of all. 'Twas com- 
 posed close upon the licels of tlie last, in that very wood I 
 had in mind Avlien I wrote — ' Mcthinks how dainty sweet.' 
 
 " We were two pretty babes, the j'oungest she, 
 
 The youngest, and the loveliest far, I ween. 
 
 And Innocence her name. The time has been 
 We two did love each other's company; 
 
 Time wa;', we two had wept to have been apart; 
 
 But when, with show of seeming good beguil'd, 
 
 I left the garb and manners of a child, 
 And m}' first love fur man's society. 
 
 Defiling with the world my virgin heart — 
 My loved companion dropt a tear, and iled, 
 And hid in deepest shades her awful head. 
 
 Beloved who can tell me where thou art — 
 In what delicious Eden to be found — 
 That I may seek thee the wide world around ? 
 
 " Since writing it, I have found in a poem by Hamilton 
 of Bangor, these two lines to ' Happiness.' 
 
 Nun, sober and devout, where art thou fled. 
 To hide in shades thy meek contented head? 
 
 Lines eminently beautiful ; but I do not remeudjcr havmg 
 read them previously, foe the credit of my tenth and elev- 
 enth lines. Parnell has two lines (which probably sug- 
 gested the above) to ' Contentment.' 
 
 '■"- Cowley uses this phrase with a somewhat different meaning. I raciint 
 loves of relatives, friends, &c., — C. Lamb's Manuscripts. 
 
'"^^ LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 Whither, ah ! whither art thou flod 
 To hide thy meek contented* head ? 
 
 " Coys-lefs exquisite ' Elegj on the death of his friend 
 ilarvej, suggested the phrase of 'we two.' 
 
 Was there a tree that did not know 
 The love betwixt us two ? 
 
 - So much for acknowledged plagiarisms, the confession 
 ot which I know not whether it has more of vanity or 
 modesty m it As to mj blank verse, I am so dismally 
 slow and sterile of ideas (I speak from mj heart) that I 
 much question if it will ever come to any issue. I have 
 hithei;to only hammered out a few independent, uncon- 
 nected snatches, not in a capacity to be sent. I am very 
 ill, and will rest till I have read your poems, for which I 
 am very thankful. I have one more favor to beo- of you 
 that you never mention Mr. May's affair in any sort, much 
 less think of repaying. Are we not flocci-nauci-what-d'ye- 
 call-'em-ists ? We have just learned that my poor brother 
 has had a sad accident, a large stone blown down by yester- 
 day's high wind has bruised his leg in a most shocking 
 manner ; he is under the care of Cruikshanks. Coleridge ' 
 there are 10,000 objections against my paying you a visit at 
 iiristol ; It cannot be else ; but in this world 'tis better not 
 to think too much of pleasant possibles, that we may not 
 be out of humor with present insipids. Should anything 
 brmg you to London, you will recollect No. 7, Little 
 Queen Street, Holborn. 
 
 "I shall be too ill to call on Wordsworth myself but 
 will take care to transmit him his poem, when I have read 
 Jt. I saw Le Grice the day before his departure, and 
 mentioned incidentally his 'teaching the young idea ho^v 
 
 * An odd epithet for Conrentn-.nt in a poet s. poetical as Parnell _C 
 Lamb s Manuscripts. 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 21 
 
 to shoot.' Knowing him and the probability there is of 
 people having a propensity to pun in his company, you 
 Avill not wonder that we both stumbled on the same pun at 
 once, he eagerly anticipating me, — ' he would teach him 
 to shoot !' Poor Le Grice ! if wit alone could entitle a 
 man to respect, &c., he has written a very witty little pam- 
 phlet lately, satirical upon college declamations. When I 
 send White's book, I will add that. I am sorry there 
 should be any difference between you and Southey. ' Be- 
 tween you two there should be peace,' tho' I must say I 
 have borne him no good will since he spirited you away 
 from among us. "What is become of Moschus ? You 
 sported some of his sublimities, I see, in your Watchman. 
 Very decent things. So much for to-night from your 
 afBicted, headachey, sore-throatey, humble servant, 
 
 " C. Lamb." 
 
 " Tuesday night. — Of your Watchman, the Review of 
 Burke was the best prose. I augured great things from 
 the first number. There is some exquisite poetry inter- 
 spersed. I have re-read the extract from the ' Religious 
 Musings,' and retract whatever invidious there was in my 
 censure of it as elaborate. There are times when one is 
 not in a disposition thoroughly to relish good writing. I 
 have re-read it in a more favorable moment, and hesitate 
 not to pronounce it sublime. If there be anything in it 
 approaching to tumidity (which I meant not to infer ; by 
 elaborate I meant simply labored), it is the gigantic hyper- 
 bole by which you describe the evils of existing society ; 
 'snakes, lions, hyenas, and behemoths,' is carrying your 
 resentment beyond bounds. The pictures of ' The Simoom,' 
 of 'Frenzy and Ruin,' of ' The Whore of Babylon,' and 
 ' The Cry of Foul Spirits disherited of Earth,' and ' the 
 strange beatitude' which the good man shall recognise in 
 
on 
 
 ^^ LETTERS TO COLEKIDiiK. 
 
 heaven, as well as the particularising of die children of 
 wretchedness (I have unconsciously included every part 
 of it), form a variety of uniform excellence. I hunger and 
 thirst to read the poem complete. That is a capital line 
 in your sixth number. 
 
 'This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattcring month.' 
 
 They are exactly such epithets as Burns would have stum- 
 bled on, whose poem on the ploughed-up daisy you seem to 
 have had in mind. Your complaint that of your readers 
 some thought there was too much, some too little original 
 matter in your numbers, reminds me of poor dead Parsons 
 in the ' Critic' ' Too little incident ! Give me leave to 
 tell you, sir, there is too much incident.' I had like to 
 have forgot thanking you for that exquisite little morsel, 
 the first Sclavonian Song. The expression in the second,— 
 *' more happy to be unhappy in hell ;' is it not very quaint ? 
 Accept my thanks, in common with those of all who love 
 good poetry, for ' The Braes of Yarrow.' I congratulate 
 you on the enemies you must have made by your splendid 
 invective against the barterers in human flesh and sinews. 
 Coleridge ! you will rejoice to hear that Cowpcr is re- 
 covered from his lunacy, and is employed on his transla- ' 
 tion of the Italian, &c., poems of Milton for an edition 
 where Fuseli presides as designer, Coleridge I to an idler 
 like myself, to write and receive letters are both very plea, 
 sant, but I wish not to break in upon your valuabfc time 
 by expecting to hear very frequently from you. Rcsci-ve 
 that obligation for your moments of lassitude, when you 
 have nothing else to do ; for your loco-restive and all your 
 idle propensities, of course, iiave given way to \\\(i duties 
 of providing for a family. The mail is come in, but no 
 parcel ; yet this is Tuesday. Farewell, then, till to-mor- 
 row, for a niche and a nook I must leave for criticisms. 
 
LETTEUS TO COLEIIIDGE. 23 
 
 By the way I hope you do not send your only copy of 
 Joan of Arc ; I will in that case return it immediately. 
 
 " Your parcel is come ; you have been lavish of your 
 presents. 
 
 " Wordsworth's poem I have hurried through, not witli- 
 oat delight. Poor Lovell ! my heart almost accuses me 
 for the light manner I spoke of him above, not dreaming 
 of liis death. My heart bleeds for your accumulated 
 troubles ; God send you through 'em with patience. 1 
 conjure you dream not that I will ever think of being re- 
 paid ; the vei^y word is galling to the ears. I have read 
 all your ' Religious Musings' with uninterrupted feelings 
 of profound admiration. You may safely rest your fame 
 on it. The best remainhig things are Avhat I have before 
 read, and they lose nothing by my recollection of your 
 manner of reciting 'em, for I too bear in mind ' the voice, 
 the look,' of absent friends, and can occasionally mimic 
 their manner for the amusement of those Avho have seen 
 'em. Y'^our impassioned manner of recitation I can recall 
 at any time to mine own heart and to the ears of the by- 
 standers. I rather wish you had left the monody on 
 Chatterton concluding as it did abruptly. It had more of 
 unity. The conclusion of your ' Religious Musings,' I 
 fear will entitle you to the reproof of your beloved woman, 
 who wisely will not suffer your fancy to run riot, but bids 
 you walk humbly with your God. The xerj last wordr, ' I 
 exercise my young noviciate thought in ministeries of 
 heart-stirring song,' though not new to mo, cannot be 
 enough admired. To speak politely, they are a well- 
 turned compliment to Poetry. I hasten to read ' Joan of 
 Arc, &c.' I have read your lines at the beginning of second 
 book : they are v/orthy of Milton ; but in my mind yield to 
 your 'Religious Musings.' I shall read the whole care- 
 
24 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 fully, and in some future letter take the liberty to par- 
 ticularise my opinions of it. Of what is new to me among 
 your poems next to the ' Musings,' that beginning ' INIy 
 Pensi :'e Sara' gave me most pleasure : the lines in it I 
 just alluded to are most exquisite ; they made my sister 
 and self smile, as conveying a pleasing picture of Mrs. C. 
 cliecking your wild wanderings, which we were so fond of 
 hearing you indulge when among us. It has endeared us 
 more than anything to your good lady, and your own self- 
 reproof that follows delighted us. 'Tis a charming poem 
 throughout (you have well remarked that charming, ad- 
 mirable, exquisite are the words expressive of feelings 
 more than conveying of ideas, else I might plead very well 
 want of room in my paper as excuse for generalising). I 
 Avant room to tell you how we are charmed Avith your 
 verses in the manner of Spenser, &c. &c. &c. &c. &c. 1 
 am glad you resume the ' Watchman.' Change the name ; 
 leave out all articles of news, and whatever things are pe- 
 culiar to newspapers, and confine yourself to ethics, verse, 
 criticism — or rather do not confine yourself. Let your plan 
 be as diffuse as the ' Spectator,' and I'll answer for it tlie 
 work prospers. If I am vain enough to think I can be a 
 contributor, rely on my inclinations. Coleridge ! in read- 
 ing your ' Religious Musings,' I felt a transient superi- 
 ority over you. I have seen Priestley. I love to see his 
 name repeated in your writings. I love and honor him 
 almost profaneh'. You Avould be charmed Avith Ins Ser- 
 vions, if you never read 'em. You have doubiie^s read 
 his books illustrative of the doctrine of Necessity. Pre- 
 fixed to a late Avork of his in ansAver to Paine, there is a 
 preface giving an account of the man, and his services to 
 men, Avritten by Lindsey, his dearest friend, well worth 
 your reading. 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 25 
 
 " Tuesday eve. — Forgive my prolixity, which is yet too 
 brief for all I could wish to say. God give you comfort, 
 and all that are of your household ! Our loves and best 
 good wishes to Mrs. C. C. Lamb." 
 
 The parcel mentioned in the last letter, brought the "Joan 
 of Arc," and a request from Coleridge, that Lamb would 
 freely criticise his poems with a view to their selection and 
 correction for the contemplated volume. The reply is con- 
 tained in the following letter, which, written on several 
 days, begins at the extreme top of the first page, without 
 any ceremony of introduction, and is comprised in three 
 sides and a bit of foolscap. 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 •r 
 
 " With ' Joan of Arc' I have been delighted, amazed ; 
 
 I had not presumed to expect anything of such excellence 
 from Southey. Why the poem is alone sufficient to re- 
 deem the character of the age we live in from the impu- 
 tation of degenerating in Poetry, were there no such 
 
 beings extant as Burns, and Bowles, Cowper, and ; 
 
 fill up the blank how you please ; I say nothing. The sub- 
 ject is well chosen. It opens well. To become more par- 
 ticular, I will notice in their order a few passages that 
 chiefly struck me on perusal. Page 26, ' Fierce and ter- 
 rible Benevolence !' is a phrase full of grandeur and origi- 
 nality. The whole context made me fee\ possessed, even like 
 Joan herself. Page 28, ' It is most horrible with the keen 
 sword to gore the finely-fibred human frame,' and what 
 follows, pleased me mightily. In the 2d Book, the first 
 forty lines in particular are majestic and high-sounding 
 Indeed the whole vision of the Palace of Ambition and 
 what follows are supremely excellent. Your simile of 
 3 
 
IS 
 
 26 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 the Laplander, <Bj Niemi's lake, or Balda Zhiok, or the 
 mossy stone of Solfar-Kapper,'* will bear comparison 
 with any in iMilton for fullness of circumstance and lofty- 
 pacedness of versification. Southey's similes, though 
 man^^f 'em are capital, are all inferior. In one of his 
 '^oolvs/'t^e simile of the oak in the storm occurs, I think 
 four times. To return ; the light in Avhich you vie^y the 
 heathen deities is accurate and beautiful. Southey's "per- 
 sonifications in this book are so many fine and faultless 
 pictures. I was much pleased with your manner of ac- 
 counting for the reason why monarchs take delight in 
 war. At the 447th line you have placed Prophets and En- 
 thusiasts cheek by jowl, on too intimate a footing for the 
 dignity of the former. Necessarian-like-speaking, it is 
 correct. Page 98, ' Dead is the Douglas! cold tliy war- 
 rior frame, illustrious Buchan,' &c., are of kindred excel- 
 lence with Gray's ' Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,' &c. How 
 famously the Maid baffles the Doctors, Seraphic and Irre- 
 fragable, 'with all their trumpery !' Page 126, the pro- 
 cession, the appearances of the Maid, of the Bastard Son 
 of Orleans and of Tremouille, are full of fire and fancy, 
 and exquisite melody of versification. The personifications 
 from line 303 to 309, in the heat of the battle, had better 
 been omitted; they are not very striking, and only en- 
 cumber. The converse which Joan and Conrade hold on 
 the banks of the Loire is altogether beautiful. Page 313, 
 the conjecture that in dreams ' all things are that seem,' 
 is one of those conceits which the Poet delights to admit 
 into his creed — a creed, by the way, more marvellous and 
 mystic than ever Athanasius dreamed of. Pa^e 315, I 
 need only mention those lines ending with ' She saw a 
 
 * Lnpland Djountains. The verses referred to are publishetl in Mr. Cola 
 ridgj's Poem entitled " The Destiny of Nations : a Vision. " 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 27 
 
 serpent gnawing at her heart !' Thcj are good imitative 
 lines, 'he toiled and toiled, of toil to reap no end, hut end- 
 less toil and never-ending woe.' Pnge 347, Crueltj is 
 such as Hogarth might have painted her. Page 361, all 
 the passage about Love (where he seems to confound con- 
 jugal love with creating and preserving love) is very con- 
 fused, and sickens me with a load of useless personifica- 
 tions ; else that ninth Book is the finest in the volume — 
 an exquisite combination of the ludicrous and the terrible : 
 I have never read either, even in translation, but such I 
 conceive to be the manner of Dante or Ariosto. The 
 tenth Book is the most languid. On the whole, consider- 
 ing the celerity wherewith the poem was finished, I was 
 astonished at the unfrequency of weak lines. I had ex- 
 pected to find it verbose. Joan, I think, does too little in 
 battle ; Dunois perhaps the same ; Conrade too much. The 
 anecdotes interspersed among the battles refresh the 
 mind very agreeably, and I am deliglited with the very 
 many passages of simple pathos abounding throughout the 
 poem, passages which the author of ' Crazy Kate' might 
 have written. Has not Master Southcy spoke very slight- 
 ingly, in his preface, and disparagingly of Cowper's Homer ? 
 What makes him reluctant to give Cowper his fame ? 
 And does not Southey use too often the expletives ' did,' 
 and 'does?' They have a good effect at times, but are 
 too inconsiderable, or rather become blemishes, when they 
 mark a style. On the whole, I expect Southey one day 
 to rival Milton : I already deem him equal to Cowper, and 
 superior to all living poets besides. What says Coleridge ? 
 The ' Monody on Henderson' is immenselij good, the rest 
 of that little volume is readable, and above mediocrity. I 
 proceed to a more pleasant task ; pleasant because the 
 poems are yours ; pleasant because you impose the lasK on 
 
28 
 
 LETTEES TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 A 
 
 me ; and pleasant let me add, because it will confer a, 
 wliimsical importance on me, to sit in judgment upon your 
 rhymes. First, though, let me thank you again and 
 
 gain, in my oAvn and my sister's name, for your invita- 
 tions ; nothing could give us more pleasure than to come, 
 but (were there no other reasons) w^hile my brother's leg 
 is so bad it is out of the question. Poor fellow ! he is A'ery 
 feverish and light-headed, but Cruikshanks has pronounced 
 the symptoms favorable, and gives us every hope that 
 there will be no need of amputation : God send not ! Wo 
 are necessarily confined with him all the afternoon and 
 evening till very late, so that I am stealing a few mi- 
 nutes to write to you. 
 
 , " Thank you for your frequent letters ; you are the only 
 correspondent, and, I might add, the only friend I have in 
 the world. I go nowhere, and have no acquaintance. Slow 
 of speech, and reserved of manners, no one seeks or cares 
 for my society ; and I am left alone. Allen calls only oc- 
 casionally, as though it were a duty rather, and seldom 
 stays ten minutes. Then judge how thankful I am for 
 your letters ! Do not, however, burthen yourself with the 
 correspondence. I trouble you again so soon, only in obe- 
 dience to your injunctions. Complaints apart, proceed we 
 to our task. I am called away to tea; thence must wait 
 upon my brother ; so must delay till to-morrow. Farewell. 
 Wednesday. 
 
 " Thursday. — I will first notice what is new to me. Thir- 
 teenth page ; ' The thrilling tones that concentrate the soul' 
 is a nervous line, and the six first lines of page 14 are very 
 pretty ; the twenty-first efiusion a perfect thing. That in 
 the manner of Spensei- is very sweet, particularly at the 
 close 1 the thirty-fifth eff"usion is most exquisite; that line 
 in particular, 'And, tranquil, muse upon tranquillity.' It 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 •, tl e very reflex pleasure that distinguishes the tranquil- 
 ^s the very ituu^. ^ ^i, + ^f ^ chpnherd a modern 
 
 hty of a thinking being from that of a shephe 
 one I would be understood to mean, a Dam.^ta. one that 
 
 '^ TP f,n r.f' A stream there IS A\nieiii Oils 
 
 '; 2 W.'lt s«eet line, and so a.e t.e th.eo next 
 jasmm om^e _ f^.^^l^eel—' tempest-honored is 
 
 The concluding simile is tai-tetcneu v 
 
 ^l1::S^fr;etical family. I.a.n,ncK™.,,.isea 
 anc^r ed to sL tbe signature of Bava to tl>a e egan 
 ^position, the fifth epistle. I da,-e not ---;•;«; 
 r ■ „ Miisint-s-' I like not to sekct any pait, wneie an 
 iCdlent I can only admi.e, and thank you for .t m 
 the name of a Cnristian, as ^ell as a lover of good poetry , 
 u y in ask. is not that thought and ^^-J" ^^ 
 Youn., 'stands in the snn.'-or ,s , only s.«;h as loung, 
 i„ one°ot his hdtcr moments, might have writ .- 
 
 ' Believe thou, my soul, 
 Life is a vision shadowy of truth ; 
 And vice, and anguish, and the wormy grave, 
 Shapes of a dream !' 
 
 I thank you for these lines in the name of a necessarian 
 and t Ihat follows in next paragraph, m the name o a 
 Tm If f ,„ev After all, you cannot, nor ever ivill, ^vnte 
 InU,.:^ '.vhth I shau\e so delighted as .hat I have 
 hea d yourself repeat. You came to town, and I saw you 
 atatime when your heart was yet Weeding, w.th recent 
 
30 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 wounds. Like yourself, I was sore galled with disappointed 
 hope ; you had 
 
 ' many an holy lay 
 
 That, mourning, soothed the mourner on his way; 
 
 "I had ears of sympathy to drink them in, and tlicy 
 yet vibrate pleasant on the sense. When I read in your 
 little volume, your nineteenth effusion, or the twenty-eighth 
 or twenty -ninth, or what you call the ' Sigh,' I think I 
 hear «/ow again. I image to myself the little smoky room 
 at the Salutation and Cat, where we have set together 
 through the winter nights, beguiling the cares of life with 
 Poesy. When you left London, I felt a dismal void in 
 my heart. I found myself cut off, at one and the same 
 time, from two most dear to me. ' How blest with ye the 
 path could I have trod ot quiet life!' In your conversa- 
 tion you had blended so many pleasant fancies that they 
 cheated me of my grief. But in your absence the tide of 
 mchmcholy rushed in again and did its worst mischief by 
 overwhelming my reason. I have recovered, but feel a 
 stupor that makes me indifferent to the hopes and fears of 
 this life. I sometimes wish to introduce a religious turn 
 of mind, but habits are strong things, and my religious 
 fervors are confined, alas ! to some fleeting moments of 
 occasional solitary devotion. A correspondence, opening with 
 you, has roused me a little from my lethargy and made me 
 conscious of existence. Indulge me in it ; I will not be very 
 troublesome ! At some future time I will amuse you with 
 an account, as full as my memory will permit, of the strange 
 turn my frenzy took. I look back upon it at times with a 
 gloomy kind of envy ; for, while it lasted, I had many, 
 many hours of pure happiness. Dream not, Coleridge, 
 of having tasted all the grandeur and wildness of fanc^ 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 31 
 
 till you have gone mad ! All now seems to me vapid, com- 
 paratlvely so. Excuse this solfish digression. Your ' Mou. 
 ody' is so superlatively excellent, that I can only Avish it 
 perfect, which I can't help feeling it is not quite. Indulge 
 me in a few conjectures ; what I am going to propose would 
 make it more compressed, and, I think, more energetic, 
 though I am sensible at the expense of many beautiful lines. 
 Let Tt begin ' Is this the land of song-ennobled line ?' and 
 proceed to ' Otwav's famished form ;' then, 'Thee, Chat- 
 terton,' to 'blaze of Seraphim;' then, 'clad in Nature's 
 rich array,' to 'orient day ;' then, 'but soon. the scathing 
 lightning,' to ' blighted land ;' then, ' sublime of thought,' to 
 ' his bosom glows ;' then 
 
 'But soon upon h!s poor unsheltered head 
 Did Penury her sicklj- mildew shed ; 
 And soon are fled the charms of early grace, 
 And joy's wild gleams that lightened o'er bis face.' 
 
 Then ' youth of tumnltuous soul' to ' sigh,' as before. 
 The rest may all stand down to ' gaze upon the waves be- 
 low.' What follows now may come next as detached ver- 
 ses, suggested by the Monody, rather than a part of it. 
 They ai^, indeed, in themselves, very sweet : 
 
 And we, at sober eve, would round thee throng. 
 Hanging enraptured on thy stately song !' 
 
 in particular, perhaps. If I am obscure, you may under 
 stand me by counting lines: I have proposed omitting 
 twenty-four lines : I feel that thus compressed it would 
 gain enegrv, but think it most likely you will not agree with 
 me ; forVho shall go about to bring opinions to the bed 
 of Procrustes, and introduce among the sons of men a mo- 
 notony of identical feelings ? lonly propose with diffidence. 
 
32 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 Reject you, if you please, with as little remorse as you 
 would the color of a coat or the pattern of a buckle, where 
 our fancies differed. 
 
 " ' The Pixies' is a perfect thing, and so are the ' Lines 
 on the Spring,' page 28. The 'Epitaph on an Infant,' 
 like a Jack-o'-lanthorn, has danced about (or like Dr. For- 
 ster's scholars) out of the Morning Chronicle into the 
 Watchman, and thence back into your collection. It is very 
 pretty, and you seem to think so, but, may be, o'erlooked 
 its chief merit, that of filling up a whole page. I had once 
 deemed sonnets of unrivalled use that way, but your Epi- 
 taphs, I find, are the more diffuse. ' Edmund' still holds 
 its place among your best verses. ' Ah ! fair delights' to 
 'roses round,' in your Poem called 'Absence,' recal (none 
 more forcibly) to my mind the tones in which you recited 
 it. I will not notice, in this tedious (to you) manner, ver- 
 ses Avhich have been so long delightful to me, and which 
 you already know my opinion of. Of this kind are Bowles, 
 Priestly, and that most exquisite and most Bowles-like of 
 all, the nineteenth effusion. It would have better ended 
 with ' agony of care :' the two last lines are obvious and 
 unnecessary, and you need not now make fourteen lines of 
 it ; now it is rechristened from a Sonnet to an Effusion. 
 Schiller might have written the twentieth effusion : 'tis 
 worthy of him in any sense. I was glad to meet with those 
 lines you sent me, when my sister was so ill ; I had lost the 
 copy, and I felt not a little proud at seeing my name in 
 your verse. The complaint of Ninathoma (first stanza in 
 particular) is the best, or only good imitation, of Ossian 
 I ever saw — your ' Restless Gale' excepted. ' To an In- 
 fant' is most sweet ; is not 'foodful,' though very harsh. 
 Would not ' dulcet' fruit be less harsh, or some other 
 friendly bi-syllable ? In ' Edmund,' ' Frenzy ! fierce-eyed 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 33 
 
 cliikr is not so well as 'frantic,' though that is an epithet 
 adding nothing to the meaning. Slander couching was 
 better than ' squatting.' In the 'Man of Ross,' it was a 
 better line thus : 
 
 ' If 'ncath this roof thy ■wine-cbeered moments pass,' 
 
 than as it stands now. Time nor nothing can reconcile 
 me to the concluding five lines of ' Kosciusko :' call it any- 
 thing you will but sublime. In my twelfth effusion I had 
 rather have seen what I wrote myself, though they bear no 
 comparison with your exquisite lines — 
 
 ' On rose-leaf'd-beds amid your faery bowers/ <tc. 
 
 " I love my sonnets because they are the reflected im- 
 ages of my own feelings at different times. To instance, 
 in the thirteenth — 
 
 'How reason reeled,' &c., 
 
 are good lines, but must spoil the whole with me, who 
 know it is only a fiction of yours, and that the ' rude dash- 
 ings' did in fact not 'rock mo to repose.' I grant the 
 same objection applies not to the former sonnet ; but still 
 I love my own feelings ; they are dear to memory, though 
 they now and then wake a sigh or a tear. ' Thinking on 
 divers things foredone,'I charge you, Coleridge, spare my 
 ewe-lambs ; and though a gentleman may borrow six lines 
 in an epic poem (I should have no objection to borrow five 
 hundred, and without acknowledging), still in a sonnet, a 
 personal poem, I do not ' ask my friend the aiding verse ;' 
 I would not wrong your feelings, by proposing any im- 
 provements (did I think myself capable of suggesting 
 'em) in such personal poems as ' Thou bleedest, my poor 
 heart,' — 'od so, — I am caught — I have already done it ; 
 
^4 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 but that simile I propose abridging, would not change the 
 feeling or introduce any alien ones. Do you understand 
 me ? In the twenty-eighth, however, and in the ' Sigh, 
 and that composed at Clevedon, things that come from 
 the heart direct, not by the medium of the fancy, I would 
 not suggest an alteration. When my blank verse is 
 finished, or any long fancy poem, 'propino tibi alteran- 
 dum, cut-up-andum, abridgandum,' just what you Avill with 
 it; but spare my ewe-lambs! That^to'Mrs. Siddons,' 
 now, you were welcome to improve, if it had been worth 
 it; but I say unto you again, Coleridge, spare my ewe- 
 lambs ! I must confess were they mine, I should omit, in 
 editione secundS., effusions two and three, because satiric, 
 and below the dignity of the poet of ' Religious Musings,' 
 fifth, seventh, half of the eighth, that ' Written in early 
 youth,' as far as ' thousand eyes,' — though I part not un- 
 reluctantly with that lively line — 
 
 * Chaste joyance dancing in her bright blue eyes,' 
 
 and one or two just thereabouts. But I would substitute 
 for it that sweet poem called ' Recollection,' in the fifth 
 number of the Watchman, better I think, than the re- 
 mainder of this poem, though not differing materially : as 
 the poem now stands it looks altogether confused ; and do 
 not omit those lines upon the 'Early Blossom,' in your 
 sixth number of the Watchman ; and I would omit the tenth 
 effusion, or what would do better, alter and improve the last 
 four lines. In fact, I suppose, if they were mine, I should 
 not omit 'em ; but your verse is, for the most part, so ex- 
 quisite, that I like not to see aught of meaner matter mixed 
 with it. Forgive my petulance, and often, I fear, ill- 
 founded criticisms, and forgive me that I have, by thia 
 time, made your eyes and head ache with my long letter ; 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 35 
 
 bat I cannot forego hastily the pleasure and pride of thus 
 conversing with you. You did not tell me whether I was 
 to include the ' Condones ad Populum' in my remarks on 
 your poems. They are not unfrequcntly sublime, and I 
 think you could not do better than to turn 'em into verse — 
 
 if you have nothing else to do. A , I am sorry to 
 
 say, is a confirmed Atheist ; S , a cold-hearted, ■vvell- 
 
 bred, conceited disciple of Godwin, does him no good. 
 
 " How I sympathise with you on the dull duty of a re- 
 viewer, and heartily damn with you Ned E and the 
 
 Prosodist. I shall, however, wait impatiently for the ar- 
 ticles in the Critical Review, next month, because they are 
 yours. Young Evans (W. Evans, a branch of a family 
 you were once so intimate with) is come into our office, 
 and sends his love to you ! Coleridge ! I devoutly wish 
 that Fortune, who has made sport with you so long, may 
 play one freak more, throw you into London, or some 
 spot near it, and there snug-ify you for life. 'Tis a selfish, 
 but natural wish for me, cast as I am 'on life's Avide plain, 
 friendless.' Are you acquainted with Bowles ? I see by 
 his last Elegy, (written at Bath,) you are near neighbors. 
 Thursday. 
 
 " I do not know that I entirely agree with you in your 
 stricture upon my sonnet ' To Innocence.' To men whose 
 hearts are not quite deadened by their commerce with the 
 world, innocence (no longer familiar) becomes an awful 
 idea. So I felt when I wrote it. Your other censures 
 (qualified and sweetened, though, Avith praises somewhat 
 extravagant) I perfectly coincide with ; yet I choose to re- 
 tain the world ' lunar' — indulge a ' lunatic' in his loyalty 
 to his mistress the moon ! I have just been reading a 
 most pathetic copy of verses on Sophia Pringle, Avho was 
 hanged and burnt for coining. One of the strokes of pa- 
 
36 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 .thos (which are very many, all somewhat obscure), is ' She 
 lifted up her guilty forger to heaven.' A note explains, 
 by ' forger' her right hand, Avith which she forged or 
 coined the base metal. For pathos read bathos. You 
 have put me out of conceit with my blank verse by your 
 ' Religious Musings.' I think it will come to nothing. I do 
 not like 'em enough to send 'em. I have just been reading a 
 book, which I may be too partial to, as it was the delight of 
 my childhood ; but I will recommend it to you ; — it is Izaak 
 Walton's ' Complete Angler.' All the scientific part you may 
 omit in reading. The dialogue is very simple, full of pas- 
 toral beauties, and will charm you. Many pretty old 
 verses are interspersed. This letter, which would be_a 
 week's work reading only, I do not wish you to answer 
 it in less than a month, I shall be richly content with a 
 letter from you some day early in July ; though, if you 
 get any how settled before then, pray let me know it im- 
 mediately ; 'twould give me much satisfaction. Concern- 
 ing the Unitarian chapel, the salary is the only scruple 
 that the most rigid moralist would admit as valid. Con- 
 cerning the tutorage, is not the salary low, and absence 
 from your family unavoidable ? London is the only fos- 
 tering soil for genius. Nothing more occurs just now ; so 
 I will leave jon, in mercy, one small white spot empty be- 
 low, to repose your eyes upon, fatigued as they must be, 
 with the wilderness of words they have by this time pain- 
 fully travelled through. God love you, Coleridge, and 
 prosper you through life ; though mine will be loss if your 
 lot is to be cast at Bristol, or at Nottingham, or any- 
 where but London. Our loves to Mrs. C. . C. L." 
 
 "Friday/, lOf/t June, 1796." 
 
 Coleridge, settled in his melancholy cottage, invited 
 Lamb to visit him. The hope — the expectation — the dis- 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 37 
 
 appuintment, are depicted in tlic following letter, written 
 in the summer of tlie eventful year 1796. 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 " July 1st, 1796. 
 
 " The first moment I can come I will ; but my hopes of 
 coming yet a while, yet hang on a ticklish thread. The 
 coach I come by is immaterial, as I shall so easily, by 
 your direction, find je out. My mother is grown so en- 
 tirfely helpless (not having any use of her limbs) that Mary 
 is necessarily confined from ever sleeping out, she being her 
 bed-fellow. She thanks you though, and will accompany 
 me in spirit. Most exquisite are the lines from Withers. 
 Your own lines, introductory to your poem on ' Self,' run 
 smoothly and pleasurably, and I exhort you to continue 
 'em. What shall I say to your ' Dactyls ?' They are 
 what you would call good per se, but a parody on some 
 of 'em is just now suggesting itself, and you shall have it 
 rough and unlicked ; I mark with figures the lines paro- 
 died : — 
 
 i. — Sbrely your Dactyls do drag along limp-footed. 
 
 5. — Sad is the measure that hangs a clog round 'em so. 
 
 6. — Meagre and languid, proclaiming its wretchedness. 
 
 1. — Weary, unsatisfied, not a little sick of 'em. 
 11. — Cold is my tired heart, I have no charity. 
 
 2. — Painfully travelling thus over the rugged road. 
 
 7. — begone, measure, half Latin, half English, then, 
 12. — Dismal your Dactyls are, God help ye, rhyming ones ! 
 
 " I possibly may not couie this fortnight ; therefore, all 
 thou hast to do is not to look for me any particular day, 
 only to write word immediately, if at any time you quit 
 Bristol, lest I come and Taffy be not at homo. I Jiope I 
 
 can come in a day or two ; but young S , of my office, 
 
 is suddenly taken ill in this very nick of time, and I must 
 4 
 
38 LETTERS TO COLrRlDGE. 
 
 officiate for him till he can come to work again : had the 
 knave gone sick, and died, and been buried at any other 
 time, philosophy might have afforded one comfort, but just 
 now I have no patience with him. Quarles I am as great 
 a stranger to as I was to Withers. I wish you would try 
 and do something to bring our elder bards into more 
 general fame. I writhe with indignation when, in books of 
 criticism, where common-place quotation is heaped upon 
 quotation, I find no mention of such men as Massinger, or 
 Beaumont and Fletcher, men with whom succeeding dra- 
 matic writers (Otway alone excepted)* can bear no. manner 
 of comparison. Stupid Knox hath noticed none of 'em 
 among his extracts. 
 
 " Thursday. — Mrs. C can scarce guess how she has 
 
 gratified me by her very kind letter and sweet little poem. 
 I feel that I should thank her in rhyme, but she must take 
 my acknowledgment, at present, in plain honest prose. 
 The uncertainty in which I yet stand, whether I can come 
 or no, damps my spirits, reduces me a degree below pro- 
 saical, and keeps me in a suspense that fluctuates between 
 hope and fear. Hope is a charming, lively, blue-eyed 
 wench, and I am always glad of her company, but could 
 dispense with the visitor she brings with her — her younger 
 sister. Fear, a white-livered, lily-cheeked, bashful, palpita- 
 
 * An exception he certainly would not have made a few j-ears afterwards; 
 for he Used to mention two prett}' lines in the " Orphan," 
 
 " Sweet as the shepherd's pipe upon the mountains, 
 With all his fleecy flock at feed beside him.,'' 
 
 as a redeeming passage amidst mere stage trickeries. The great merit ■which 
 lies in the construction of "Venice Preserved," was not in his line of ap. 
 preciation ; and he thought Thomson's reference to Otway 's ladies— 
 
 " Poor JMonimia moans, 
 
 And Eelvidera pours her soul ia love,'' 
 
 worth both heroines. 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 39 
 
 ting, awkward hussy, that hangs, like a green girl, at her 
 sister's apron-strings, and will go with her whithersoever 
 she goes. For the life and soul of me, I could not improve 
 those lines in your poem on the Prince and Princess, so I 
 changed them to what you bid me, and left 'em at Perry's.* 
 I think 'em altogether good, and do not see why you were 
 solicitous about any alteration. I have not yet seen, but 
 will make it my business to see, to-day's Chronicle, for 
 your verses on Ilorne Tooke. Dyer stanza'd him in one 
 of the papers tother day, but, I think, unsuccessfully. 
 Tooke's friends meeting was, I suppose, a dinner of condo- 
 lence. f I am not sorry to find you (for all Sara) immersed 
 in clouds of smoke and metaphysics. You know I had a 
 sneaking kindness for this last noble science, and you taught 
 me some smattering of it. I look to become no mean pro- 
 ficient under your tuition. Coleridge, what do you mean 
 by saying you wrote to me about Plutarch and Porphyry ? 
 I received no such letter, nor remember a syllable of the 
 matter, yet am not apt to forget any part of your epistles, 
 least of all, an injunction like that. I will cast about for 
 'em, tho' I am a sad hand to know what books are worth, 
 and both these worthy gentlemen are alike out of my line. 
 To-morrow I shall be less suspensive, and in better cue to 
 write, so good bye at present. 
 
 " Friday Evening. — That execrable aristocrat and knave 
 
 R- has given me an absolute refusal of leave. The 
 
 poor man cannot guess at my disappointment. Is it not 
 hard, 'this dread dependence on the low-bred mind?' 
 Continue to write to me tho', and I must be content. Our 
 loves and best good wishes attend upon you both. 
 
 "Lamb.'- 
 
 * Smug " occasional" verses of Coleridge's written to order for the Morning 
 Chronicle. 
 
 t This was lust after the Westminster Election, in which Mr. Tooke wai 
 defeated. 
 
40 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 " S did return but there are two or three more \\l 
 
 and absent, which was the plea for refusing me. I shall 
 never have heart to ask for holidays again. The man next 
 
 him in office, C , furnished him with the objections. 
 
 " C. Lamb." 
 
 The little copy of verses in which Lamb commemorated 
 and softened his disappointment, bearing date (a most un- 
 usual circumstance with Lamb), 5th July, 1796, was in- 
 closed in a letter of the following day, which refers to a 
 scheme Coleridge had formed of settling in London on an 
 invitation to share the Editorship of the Morning Chro- 
 nicle. The poem includes a lamentation over a fantastical 
 loss — that of a draught of the Avon " which Shakspeare 
 drank ;" somewhat strangely confounding the Avon of 
 Stratford with that of Bristol. It may be doubted whether 
 Shakspeare knew the taste of the waves of one Avon more 
 than of the other, or whether Lamb would not have found 
 more kindred with the world's poet in a glass of sack, than 
 in the water of either stream. Coleridge must have en- 
 joyed the misplaced sentiment of his friend, for he was 
 singularly destitute of sympathy with local associations, 
 which he regarded as interfering Avith the pure and simple 
 impression of great deeds or thoughts ; denied a special in- 
 terest to the Pass of Thermopylae : and instead of subscrib- 
 ing to purchase " Shakspeare's House," would scarcely 
 have admitted the i^eculiar sanctity of the spot whi^h en 
 shrines his ashes. 
 
 TO SARA AND HER SAMUEL. 
 
 " 'Was it so bard a thing ? — I did but ask 
 A fleeting holidaj'. One little week, 
 Or haply two, had bounded my request. 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 41 
 
 What, if the jaded steer, who all day long 
 
 Had borne the heat and labor of the plough, 
 
 When evening came, and her sweet cooling hour, 
 
 Should seek to trespass on a neighbor copse, 
 
 Where greener herbage waved, or clearer streams 
 
 Invited him to slake his burning thirst? 
 
 That man were crabbed, who should say him nay; 
 
 That man were churlish, who should drive him thonce ! 
 
 A blessing light upon your heads, ye good, 
 
 Ye hospitable pair! I may not come, 
 
 To catch on Clifden's heights the summer gale; 
 
 I may not come, a pilgriin, to the banks 
 
 Of Avon, lucid stream, to taste the wave 
 
 Which Shakspearo drank, our British Helicon : 
 
 Or with mine eye intent on Redcliffe towers, 
 
 To muse in tears on that mysterious youth. 
 
 Cruelly slighted, who to London walls, 
 
 In evil hour, shaped his disastrous course. 
 
 Complaint begone, begone, unkind reproof; 
 Take up, my song, take up a merrier strain, 
 For yet again, and lo ! from Avon's vales 
 Another 'minstrel' cometh ! Youth endear'd, 
 God and good angels guide thee on thy way, 
 And gentler fortunes wait the friends I love. 
 
 " C. L." 
 
 The letter accompanying tliese verses begins clieerfull;^ 
 thus : 
 
 " What can I do till you send word what priced and 
 placed house you should like ? Islington, possibly, you 
 ^yould not like ; to me 'tis classical ground. Knightsbridge 
 is a desirable situation for the air of the parks ; St. George's 
 Fields is convenient for its contiguity to the Bench. Choose ! 
 But are you really coming to town ? The hope of it has 
 entirely disarmed my petty disappointment of its nettles, 
 yet I rejoice so much on my own account, that I fear I do 
 not feel enough pure satisfaction on yours. Why surely, 
 the joint editorship of the Chronicle must be very comfort* 
 4* 
 
42 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 able and secure living for a man. But should ^lot you 
 read French, or do you ? and can you -write ^vith sufficient 
 moderation, as 'tis called, when one suppresses the one 
 half of what one feels or could say on a subject, to chime 
 in the better with popular lukewarmness ? White's ' Let- 
 ters' are near publication ; could you review 'em or get 
 'em reviewed ? Are you not connected with the Critical 
 Review ? His frontispiece is a good conceit — Sir John 
 learning to dance to please Madam Page, in dress of doub- 
 let, &c., from the upper half, and modern pantaloons with 
 shoes, &c., of the eighteenth century, from the lower half; 
 and the whole work is full of goodly quips and rare fan- 
 cies, ^all deftly masqued like hoar antiquity' — much supe- 
 rior to Dr. Kendrick's ' Falstaff's Wedding,' which you 
 have seen. A sometimes laughs at superstition, and re- 
 ligion, and the like. A living fell vacant lately in the gift 
 of the Hospital : White informed him that he stood a fair 
 chance for it. He scrupled and scrupled about it, and at 
 last, to use his own words, ' tampered' Avith Godwin to 
 know whether the thing was honest or not. Godwin said 
 
 nay to it, and A rejected the living ! Could the 
 
 blindest poor papist have bowed more servilely to his priest 
 or casuist ? W^hy sleep the Watchman's answers to that 
 Godwin ? I beg you will not delay to alter, if you mean 
 to keep those last lines I sent you. Do that and read 
 these for your pains : — 
 
 TO THE POET COWPER. 
 
 "Cowper, I thank my God that thou art heal'd ! 
 Thine was the sorest malady of all ; 
 . And I am sad to think that it should light 
 
 Upon the worthy head ! But thou art heal'd, 
 And thou art yet, we trust, the destined man, 
 Born to reanimate the lyre, chords 
 Have slumber'd, and have idle lain so long; 
 To tht immortal sounding of whose strings 
 Did Milton frame the stately-paced verse; 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDaE. 43 
 
 Among whose wires with light finger playing, 
 Our elder bard, Spenser, a gentle name. 
 The lady Muses' dearest darling child, 
 Elicited the deftest tunes yet heard 
 Id hall or bovver, taking the delicate ear 
 Of Sidney and his peerless Maiden Queen. 
 
 Thou, theni take up the mighty epic strain, 
 
 Cowper, of England's Bards, the wisest and the best. 
 
 1796. 
 
 " I have read your climax of praises in tliose three Re 
 viewers. These mighty spouters out of panegyric waters 
 have, two of 'em, scattered their spray even upon me, and 
 the waters are cooling and refreshing. Prosaically, the 
 Monthly reviewers have made indeed a large article of it, 
 and done you justice. The Critical have, in their wisdom, 
 selected not the very best specimens, and notice not ex- 
 cept as one name on the muster-roll, the ' Religious Mus- 
 ings.' I suspect Master Dyer to have been the Avriter of 
 that article, as the substance of it was the very remarks 
 and the very language he used to me one day. I fear 
 you will not accord entirely Avith my sentiments of Cow- 
 per, as expressed above (perhaps scarcely just) : but the 
 poor gentleman has just recovered from his lunacies, and 
 that begets pity, and pity love, and love admiration ; and 
 then it goes hard with people but they lie ! Have you 
 read the Ballad called 'Leonora,' in the second number 
 of the Monthly Magazine ! If you have ! ! ! ! There is 
 another fine song, from the same author (Bdger), in the 
 third number, of scarce inferior merit; and (vastly below 
 these) there are some happy specimens of English hex 
 ameters, in an imitation of Ossian, in the fifth nuu)1)cr. 
 For your Dactyls — I am sorry you are so sore about 'em — ■ 
 a very Sir Fretful! In good troth, the Dactyls are good 
 Dactyls, but their measure is naught. Be not yourself 
 
44 LETTERS TO COLERIDaE. 
 
 * half anger, half agony,' if I pronounce your darling lines 
 not to be the best you ever wrote in all your life — you 
 have written much. 
 
 " Have a care, good Master Poet, of the Statute de Con- 
 tumelia. What do you mean by calling Madame jMara, — 
 harlot and naughty things ?* The goodness of the verse 
 would not save you in a court of justice. But are you 
 really coming to town ? Coleridge, a gentleman called in 
 London lately from Bristol, and inquired whether there 
 were any of the family of a Mr. Chambers living ; this 
 Mr. Chambers, he said, had been the making of a friend's 
 fortune, who wished to make some return for it. He 
 went away without seeing her. Now, a Mrs. Reynolds, 
 a very intimate friend of ours, whom you have seen 
 at our house, is the only daughter, and all that sur- 
 vives, of Mr. Chambers ; and a very little supply would be 
 of service to her, for she married very unfortunately, and 
 has parted with her husband. Pray find out this Mr. 
 Pember (for that was the gentleman's friend's name) ; he 
 is an attorney, and lives at Bristol. Find him out, and ac- 
 quaint him with the circumstances of the case, and offer 
 to be the medium of supply to Mrs. Reynolds, if he chooses 
 to make her a present. She is in very distressed circum- 
 stances, Mr. Pember, attorney, Bristol. Mr. Chambers 
 lived in the Temple ; Mrs. Reynolds, his daughter, was 
 my schoolmistress, and is in the room at this present writ- 
 ing. This last circumstance induced me to write po soon 
 tigain. I have not further to add. Our loves to Sara. 
 Thursday. C. Lamb." 
 
 * "I detest 
 
 These scented rooms, where, to a gaudy throng. 
 Heaves the proud harlot her distended breast 
 In intricacies of Liborious song." 
 
 Lines composed in a Concert Room, by S. T. O, 
 
CHAPTEK II. 
 
 LETTEUS OP LAME TO COLERIDGE, CHIEFLY RELATtXG TO THE DEATH .OF MRS. 
 LAMB, AND MISS LAMB's SDBSEQUEIiT CONDITION. 
 
 The autumn of 1796 found Lamb engaged all the morn 
 mg in task-work at the India House, and all the evening 
 in attempting to amuse his father by playing cribbage ; 
 sometimes snatching a few minutes for his only pleasure, 
 writing to Coleridge ; while Miss Lamb was down to a 
 state of extreme nervous misery, by attention to needle- 
 work by day, and to her mother by night, until the in- 
 sanity, which had been manifested more than once, broke 
 out into frenzy, which, on Thursday, 22d of September, 
 proved fatal to her mother. The following account of 
 the proceedings on the inquest, copied from the " Times" 
 of Monday, 26th September, 1796, supplies the details of 
 this terrible calamity, doubtless with accuracy, except that 
 it would seem, from Lamb's ensuing letter to Coleridge, 
 that he, and not the landlord, took the knife from the un- 
 conscious hand. 
 
 "On Friday afternoon, the coroner and a jury sat on 
 the body of a lady in the neighborhood of Holborn, who 
 died in consequence of a wound from her daughter the pre- 
 ceding day. It appeared, by the evidence adduced, that, 
 while the family were preparing for dinner, the young 
 lady seized a case-knife lying on the table, and in a men- 
 acing manner pursued a little ^nA, her apprentice, round 
 
 (45) 
 
46 LETTERS TO COLEEIDaE. 
 
 the room. On the calls of her infirm mother to forbear, 
 she renounced her first object, and witli loud shrieks, ap- 
 proached her parent. The child, by her cries, quick Ij 
 brought up the landlord of the house, but too late. The 
 dreadful scene presented to him the mother lifeless, pierced 
 to the heart, on a chair, her daughter yet wildly standing 
 over her with the fatal knife, and the old man, her father, 
 weeping by her side, himself bleeding at the forehead 
 from the effects of a severe blow he received from one of 
 the forks she had been madly hurling about the room. 
 
 " For a few days prior to this, the family had observed 
 some symptoms of insanity in her, which had so much in- 
 creased on the Wednesday evening, that her brother, 
 early the next morning, went to Dr. Pitcairn, but that 
 gentleman was not at home. 
 
 " It seems the young lady had been once before de- 
 ranged. 
 
 " The jury, of course, brought in their verdict — Xw- 
 
 The following is Lamb's account of the event to Cole* 
 ridge : — 
 
 "September 27th, 1796. 
 
 " My dearest Friend. — White, or some of my friends, or 
 the public p-ipers, by this time may have informed yon 
 of the terrible calamities that have fallen on our family,. 
 
 * A statement nearly similar to this will be found in several other journals 
 of the day, and in the Annual Register for the year. The "True Briton" 
 adds : — " It appears she had been before, in the earlier part of her life, de- 
 ranged, from the harassing fatigues of too much business. As her carriage 
 towards her mother had always been affectionate in the extreme, it is believed 
 her increased attachment to her, as her infirmities called for it by day and 
 by night, caused her loss of reason at this time. It has been statf d in some 
 of the morning pnpcrs that she has an insane brother in confinement, 
 but this is without foundation." None of the accounts give the tames of tho 
 sufferers ; but in the inde.^ to the Annual Register, the anonymous account 
 js referred to with Mrs. Lamb's name. 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 47 
 
 I will only give you the outlines : — My poor dear, dearest 
 sister, in a fit of insanity, has been the death of her OAvn 
 raiither. I was at hand only time enough to snatcli the 
 knife out of her grasp. She is at present in a madhouse, 
 fi'om whence I fear she must be moved to an hospital. 
 God has preserved to me my senses — I eat and drink, 
 and sleep, and have my judgment, I believe, very sound. 
 My poor father was slightly wounded, and I am left to 
 take care of him and my aunt. Mr. Norris, of the Blue- 
 coat School, has been very kind to us, and we have no 
 other friend ; but, thank God, I am very calm and com- 
 posed, and able to do the best that remains to do. Write 
 as religious a letter as possible, but no mention of what is 
 .o;one and done with. With me ' the former thino;s are 
 passed away,' and I have something more to do than to 
 feel. 
 
 " God Almighty have us well in his keeping. 
 
 " C. Lamb." 
 
 " ^lention nothing of poetry. I have destroyed every 
 vestige of past vanities of that kind. Do as you please, 
 but if you publish, publish mine (I give free leave) without 
 name or initial, and never send me a book, I charge you. 
 
 " Your own judgment will convince you not to take any 
 notice of this yet to your dear wife. You look after your 
 family — I have my reason and strength left to take care 
 of mine. I charge you, don't think of coming to see me. 
 Write. I will not see you if you come. God Almighty 
 love you and all of us. C. Lamb." 
 
 After the inquest, INIiss Lamb was placed in an Asylum, 
 where she Avas, in a sliort time, restored to roason. Tho 
 followincr is Lamb's next letter : — 
 
iB 
 
 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 "October 3d, 17%. 
 " My dearest Friend. — Your letter was an inestimable 
 treasure to me. It will be a comfort to you, I know, to 
 know that our prospects are somewhat brighter. My poor 
 dear, dearest sister, the unhappy and unconscious instru- 
 ment of the Almighty's judgments on our house, is restored 
 to her senses ; to a dreadful sense and recollection of what 
 has past, awful to her mind and impressive (as it must be 
 to the end of life), but tempered with religious resignation 
 and the reasonings of a sound judgment, which, in this 
 early stage, knows how to distinguish between a deed com- 
 mitted in a transient fit of frenzy, and the terrible guilt 
 of a mother's murder. I have seen her. I found her, this 
 morning, calm and serene ; far, very, very far from an in- 
 decent forgetful serenity ; she has a most affectionate and 
 tender concern for what has happened. Indeed, from the 
 beginning, frightful and hopeless as her disorder seemed, I 
 had confidence enough in her strength of mind and reli- 
 gious principle, to look forward to a time when even she 
 might recover tranquillity. God be praised, Coleridge, won- 
 derful as it is to tell, I have never once been otherwise 
 than collected and calm ; even on the dreadful day, and in the 
 midst of the terrible scene, I preserved a tranquillity which 
 bystanders may have construed into indifference — a tran- 
 quillity not of despair. Is it folly or sin in me to say that 
 it was a religious principle that most supported me ? I 
 allow much to other favorable circumstances. I felt that 
 I had something else to do than to regret. On that first 
 evening, my aunt was lying insensible, to all appearance 
 liice one dying, — my father, with his poor forehead plais- 
 tered over, from a wound he had received from a-daughter 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 49 
 
 dearly loved by him, and who loved him no less dearly — 
 my mother a dead and murdered corpse in the next room 
 — yet was I wonderfully supported. I closed not my eyes 
 in sleep that night, but lay without terrors and without 
 despair. I have lost no sleep since. I had been long 
 used not to rest in things of sense — had endeavored after 
 a comprehension of mind, unsatisfied with the ' ignorant 
 present time,' and tlds^ kept me up. I had the whole weight 
 of the family thrown on me ; for my brother, little disposed 
 (I speak not without tenderness for him) at anytime to 
 take care of old age and infirmities, had nov/, with his bad 
 leg, an exemption from such duties, and I was now left alone. 
 One little incident may serve to make you understand my 
 way of managing my mind. Within a day or two after 
 the fatal one, we dressed for dinner a tongue which w^e 
 had had salted for some weeks in the house. As I sat 
 down, a feeling like remorse struck me ; — this tongue poor 
 Mary got for me, and can I partake of it now, when she 
 is far away ? A thought occurred and relieved me — if I 
 give in to this way of feeling, there is not a chair, a room, 
 an object in our rooms, that will not awaken the keenest 
 griefs ; I must rise above such weaknesses. I hope this 
 was not want of true feeling. I did not let this carry me, 
 though, too far. On the very second day, (I date from 
 the day of horrors,) as is usual in such cases, there were a 
 matter of twenty people, I do think, supping in our room ; 
 they prevailed on me to eat ivith them (for to eat I never 
 refused). They were all making merry in the room 1 Some 
 had come from friendship, some from busy curiosity, and 
 some from interest ; I was going to partake with them ; 
 when my recollection came that my poor dead mother was 
 lying in the next room — the very next room ; — a mother 
 who, through life, wished nothing but her children's wel- 
 5 
 
50 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 fare. Indignation, the rage of grief, something like re- 
 morse, rushed upon my mind. In an agony of emotion I 
 found my way mechanically to the adjoining room, and fell 
 on my knees by the side of her coffin, asking forgiveness 
 of heaven, and sometimes of her, for forgetting her so soon. 
 Tranquillity returned, and it was the only violent emotion 
 that mastered me, and I think it did me good. 
 
 " I mention these things because^ I hate concealment, 
 and love to give a faithful journal of what passes within 
 me. Our friends have been very good. Sam Le Grice, 
 who was then in town, was with me the three or four first 
 days, and was as a brother to me, gave up every hour'of 
 his time, to the very hurting of his health and spirits, in 
 constant attendance and humoring my poor father ; talked 
 with him, read to him, played at cribbage with him (for 
 so short is the old man's recollection, that he was play- 
 ing at cards, as though nothing had happened, while the 
 coroner's inquest was sitting over the way !) Samuel wept 
 tenderly when he went away, for his mother wrote him a 
 very severe letter on his loitering so long in town, and ho 
 ■was forced to go. Mr. Norris, of Christ's Hospital, has 
 been as a father to me — Mrs. Norris as a mother; though 
 we had few claims on them. A gentleman, brother to 
 my godmother, from whom we never had right or reason 
 io expect any such assistance, sent my father twenty 
 pounds ; and to crown all these God's blessings to our 
 family at such a time, an old lady, a cousin of my father 
 and aunt's, a gentlewoman of fortune, is to take my 
 aunt and make her comfortable for the short remainder 
 of her days. My aunt is recovered, and as well as ever, 
 and highly pleased at thoughts of going — and has gener- 
 ously given up the interest of her little money (wliich was 
 formerly paid my father for her board) wholely and goleJy 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 51 
 
 to my sister's use. Reckoning this, we have Daddy and 
 I, fox- our two selves and an old maid-servant to look after 
 him, when I am out, Avhicli will be necessary, 170Z. or 
 J 80/. rather a-year, out of which we can spare 50/. or 60/. 
 at least for Mary while she stays at Islington, where she 
 must and shall stay during her father's life, for his and 
 her comfort. I know John will make speeches about 
 it, but she shall not go into an hospital. The good lady 
 of the madhouse, and. her daughter, an elegant, sweet 
 behaved young lady, love her, and are taken with her 
 amazingly ; and I know from her own mouth she loves 
 them, and longs to be with them as much. Poor thing, 
 they say she was but the other morning saying, she knew 
 she must go to Bethlem for life ; that one of her brothers 
 would have it so, but the other would wish it not, but be 
 obliged to go with the stream ; that she had often as she 
 passed Bethlem thought it likely, ' here it may be my fate 
 to end my days,' conscious of a certain flightiness in her 
 poor head oftentimes, and mindful of more than one severe 
 illness of that nature before. A legacy of 100^., which 
 my father will have at Christmas, and this 20/. I men- 
 tioned before, with what is in the house, will much more 
 than set us clear. If my father, an old servant-maid, 
 and I, can't live, and live comfortably, on 130/. or 120. a- 
 year, we ought to burn by slow fires ; and I almost would, 
 that Mary might not go into an hospital. Let me not leave 
 one unfavorable impression on your mind respecting my 
 brother. Since this has happened, he has been very kind 
 and brotherly ; but I fear for his mind — he has taken his 
 ease in the world, and is not fit himself to struggle with 
 difficulties, nor has much accustomed himself to throw him- 
 self into their way ; and I know his language is already, 
 * Charles, you must take care of yourself, you must not 
 
62 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 abridge yourself of a single pleasure you have been used 
 to,' &c., &c., and in that style of talking. But you, a, ne- 
 cessarian, can respect a difference of mind, and love what 
 is amiable in a character not perfect. He has been very 
 good, — but I fear for his mind. Thank God, I can uncon- 
 nect myself with him, and shall manage all my father's 
 moneys in future myself, if I take charge of Daddy, which 
 poor John has not even hinted a wish, at any future time 
 even, to share with me. The lady at this madhouse as- 
 sures me that I may dismiss immediately both doctor and 
 apothecary, retaining occasionally a composing draught 
 or so for a while ; and there is a less expensive establish- 
 ment in her house, where she will only not have a room 
 and nurse to herself, for 50Z. or guineas a-year — the out- 
 side would be 601. — you know, by economy, how much 
 more even I shall be able to spare for her comforts. She 
 will, I fancy, if she stays, make one of the family, rather 
 than of the patients ; and the old and young ladies I like 
 exceedingly, and she loves dearly ; and they, as the saying 
 is, take to her very extraordinarily, if it is extraordinaiy 
 that people who see my sister should love her. Of all the 
 people I ever saw in the world, my poor sister was most 
 and thoroughly devoid of the least tincture of selfishness. 
 I will enlarge upon her qualities, poor dear, dearest soul, 
 in a future letter, for my own comfort, for I understand 
 her thoroughly ; and, if I mistake not, in the most trying 
 situation that a human being can be found in, she will be 
 found (I speak not with sufficient, humility, I fear, but hu- 
 manly and foolishly speaking), she will be found, I trust 
 uniformly great and amiable. God keep her in her present 
 mind, to whom be thanks and praise for all His dispensa- 
 tions to mankind ! C. Lamb." 
 
LETTERS TO COLEllIDQE. o3 
 
 '* Tliese mentioned good fortunes and change of pros- 
 pects had almost brought my mind over to the extreme, 
 the very opposite to despair. I was in danger of making 
 myself too happy. Your letter brought me back to a view 
 of things which I had entertained from the beginning. I 
 hope (for Mary I can answer) — but I hope that / shall 
 through life never have less recollection, nor a fainter im- 
 pression, of what has happened than I have now. 'Tis 
 not a light thing, nor meant by the Almighty to be re- 
 ceived lightly. I must be serious, circumspect, and deeply 
 religious through life ; and by such means may hoth of us 
 escape madness in future, if it so please the Almighty ! 
 
 " Send me word how it fares with Sara. I repeat it, 
 your letter was, and will be, an inestimable treasure to 
 me. You have a view of what my situation demands of 
 me, like my own view, and I trust a just one. 
 
 " Coleridge, continue to write ; but do not for ever 
 oftend me by talking of sending me cash. Sincerely, and 
 on my soul, we do not want it. God love you both. 
 
 " I will write again very soon. Do you write directly." 
 
 As Lamb recovered from the shock of his own calamity, 
 he found comfort in gently admonishing his friend on that 
 imbecility of purpose which attended the development of 
 his mighty genius. His next letter commencing with this 
 office of friendship, soon reverts to the condition cf that 
 sufferer, who was endeared to him the more because others 
 shrank from and forsook her. 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 " October 17th, 17£«. 
 
 " My dearest Friend. — I grieve from my very soul to 
 observe you in your plans of life, veering about from this 
 5* 
 
54 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 hope to the other, and settling nowhere. Is it an unto- 
 ward fatality (speaking humanly) that does this for you — 
 a stubborn, irresistible concurrence of events — or lies the 
 fault, as I fear it does, in your own mind ? You seem to 
 be taking up splendid schemes of fortune only to lay them 
 down again ; and your fortunes are an igjiis fatuus that 
 has been conducting you, in thought, from Lancaster- 
 court, Strand, to somewhere near Matlock ; then jumping 
 across to Dr. Somebody's, whose son's tutor you Avere 
 likely to be ; and, would to God, the dancing demon mai/ 
 conduct you at last, in peace and comfort, to the ' life 
 and labors of a cottager.' You see from the above awk- 
 ward playfulness of fancy, that my spirits are not quite 
 depressed. I should ill deserve God's blessings, which, 
 since the late terrible event, have come down in mercy 
 upon us, if I indulge regret or querulousness. Mary con- 
 tinues serene and cheerful. I have not by me a little let- 
 ter she wrote to me ; for, though I see her almost every 
 day, yet we delight to write to one another, for we can 
 scarce see each other but in company with some of the people 
 of the house. I have not the letter by me, but will quote from 
 memory what she wrote in it : ' I have no bad terrifying 
 dreams. At midnight, when I happen to aAvake, the nurse 
 sleeping by the side of me, with the noise of the poor mad 
 people around me, I have no fear. The spirit of my 
 mother seems to descend and smile upon me, and bid me 
 live to enjoy the life and reason which the Almighty has 
 given me. I shall see her again in heaven ; she will then 
 understand me better. My grandmother, too, will under- 
 stand me better, and will then say no more, as she used 
 to do, 'Polly, what are those poor crazy moythered brains 
 of yours thinking of always ?' Poor Mary ! my mother 
 indeed never understood her right. She loved her, as she 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 55 
 
 loved US all with a mother's love, but in opinion, in feeling, 
 and sentiment, and disposition, bore so distant a resemblance 
 to her daughter, that she never understood her right ; never 
 could believe how much she loved her ; but met her caresses, 
 her protestations of filial affection, too frequently with cold- 
 ness and repulse. Still she was a good mother. God forbid I 
 should think of her but most respectfully, most aff"cction- 
 ately. Yet she would always love my brother above Mary, 
 who was not worthy of one-tenth of that aff'ection which 
 Mary had a right to claim. But it is my sister's gratify- 
 ing recollection, that every act of duty and of love she 
 could pay, every kindness, (and I speak true, when I say 
 to the hurting of her health, and most probably in great 
 part to the derangement of her senses) through along course 
 of infirmities and sickness, she could show her, she ever 
 did. I will, some day, as I promised, enlarge to you upon 
 my sister's excellences ; 'twill seem like exaggeration, but 
 I will do it. At present, short letters suit my state of 
 mind best. So take my kindest wishes for your comfort 
 and establishment in life, and for Sara's welfare and com- 
 forts with you. God love you. God love us all. 
 
 " C. Lamb." 
 
 Miss Lamb's gradual restoration to comfort, and her 
 brother's earnest watchfulness over it, are illustrated in 
 the followino; frao-ment of a letter : — 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 " October 28th, 1796. 
 
 " I have satisfaction in being able to bid you rejoice 
 with me in my sister's continued reason, and composed- 
 ness of mind. Let us both be thankful for it. I con- 
 tinue to visit her very frequently, and the people of the 
 
66 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 house are vastly indulgent to her ; she is likely to be as 
 comfort;ibly situated in all respects as those who pay twice 
 or thrice the sum. They love her, and she loA^es them, 
 and makes herself very useful to them. Benevolence sets 
 out on her journey with a good heart, and puts a good face 
 on it, but is apt to limp and grow feeble, unless she calls 
 in the aid of self-interest, by way of crutch. In Mary's 
 case, as far as respects those she is with, 'tis well that 
 these principles are so likely to co-operate. I am rather 
 at a loss sometimes for books for her, — our reading is 
 somewhat confined, and we have nearly exhausted our 
 London library. She has her hands too full of work to 
 read much, but a little she must read, for reading was her 
 daily bread." 
 
 Two months, though passed by Lamb in anxiety and 
 labor, but cheered by Miss Lamb's continued possession 
 of reason, so far restored the tone of his mind, that his 
 interest in the volume which had been contemplated to in- 
 troduce his first verses to the world, in association with 
 those of his friend, was enkindled anew. While cherish- 
 ing the hope of reunion with his sister, and painfully 
 wresting his leisure hours from poetry and Coleridge to 
 amuse the dotage of his father, he watched over his own 
 returning sense of enjoyment wuth a sort of holy jealousy, 
 apprehensive lest he should forget too soon the terrible 
 visitation of Heaven. At this time he thus writes : — 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 "December 2cl, 1796. 
 
 *' I have delayed writing thus long, not having by me 
 my copy of your poems, which I had lent. I am not sat- 
 isfied Avith all your intended omissions. Why omit 40, 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 57 
 
 63, 84 ? above all, let me protest strongly against your re- 
 jecting the ' Complaint of Ninathoma,' 86. The words, 
 I acknowledge, are Ossian's, but you have added to them 
 the ' music of Caril.' If a vicarious substitute be wanting, 
 sacrifice (and 'twill be a piece of self denial too)^ the 'Epi- 
 taph on an Infant,' of which its author seems so proud, 
 so tenacious. Or, if your heart be set on perpetuating 
 the four-line wonder, I'll tell you what do ; sell the copy- 
 right of it at once to a country statuary ; commence in 
 this manner Death's prime poet-laureate ; and let your 
 verses be adopted in every village round, instead of those 
 hitherto famous ones : — 
 
 'Afflictions sore long time I bore, 
 Physicians were in vain.'* 
 
 " I have seen your last very beautiful poem in the 
 Monthly Magazine : write thus, and you most generally have 
 written thus, and I shall never quarrel with you about 
 simplicity. With regard to my lines — 
 
 ' Laugh all that weep,' kc. 
 
 I would willingly sacrifice them ; but my portion of the 
 volume is so ridiculously little, that in honest truth, I can't 
 spare them : as things are, I have very slight pretensions 
 to participate in the title-page. White's book is at length 
 
 •This epitaph, which, notwithstanding Lamb's gentle banter, occupied an 
 entire page in the book, is curious — " a miracle instead of wit" — for it is a 
 common ■2jlace of Coleridge, who, investing ordinary things with a dreamy 
 splendor, or weighing them down with accumulated thought, has rareiy if 
 ever written a stanza so smoothly vapid — so devoid of merit or offence — (un^ 
 less it bo an offence to make fade do duty as a verb active as the followino- .-. 
 
 "Ere sin could blight or sorrow /utZe, 
 Death came with friendly care ; 
 The opening bud to Heaven convcy'd, 
 And bade it blossom theie." 
 
58 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 reviewed in the Monthly ; was it your doing, or Dyer's, 
 to whom I sent him ? — or, rather, do you not write in the 
 Critical ? — for I observed, in an article of this month's, a 
 line quoted out of that sonnet on Mrs. Siddons, 
 
 'With eager wondering, and perLurb'd delight.' 
 
 And a line from that sonnet would not readily have oc- 
 curred to a stranger. That sonnet, Coleridge, brings 
 afresh to my mind the time when you wrote those on 
 Bowles, Priestley, Burk ; — 'twas two Christmases ago, and 
 in that nice little smoky room at the Salutation, which is 
 ever now continually f)resenting itself to my recollection, 
 with all its associated train of pipes, tobacco, egg-hot, 
 welsh-rabbits, metaphysics, and poetry. Are we never to 
 meet again ? How differently I am circumstanced now ! 
 I have never met with any one — never shall meet with 
 any one — who could or can compensate me for the loss 
 of your society, I have no one to talk all these matters 
 about to ; I lack friends, I lack books to supply their ab- 
 sence : but these complaints ill become me. ^ Let me com- 
 pare my present situation, prospects, and state of mind, Avith 
 what they were but two months back — but two months ! 
 my friend, I am in danger of forgetting the awful les- 
 sons then presented to me ; remind me of them ; remind me 
 of my duty ! Talk seriously with me when you do write ! I 
 thank you, from my heart I thank you, for your solicitude 
 about my sister. She is quite well, but must not, I fear, come 
 to live with us yet a good while. In the first place, because 
 at present, it would hurt her, and hurt my father, for them 
 to be together : secondly, from a regard to the world's good 
 report, for, I fear, tongues will be busy whenever that 
 event takes place. Some have hinted, one man has pressed 
 it on me, that she should be in perpetual confinement : 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 59 
 
 what she hath done to deserve, or the necessity of such an 
 hardship, I see not ; do you ? I am starving at the India 
 House, — near seven o'clock without my dinner, and so it 
 has been, and will be, almost all the week. I get home 
 at night o'erwearied, quite faint, and then to cards \\ ith 
 my father, who will not let me enjoy a meal in peace ; 
 but I must conform to ray situation, and I hope I am, for 
 the most part, not thankful. 
 
 " I am got home at last, and, after repeated games at 
 cribbage, have got my father's leave to write awhile ; with 
 difficulty got it, for when I expostulated about playing 
 any more, he very aptly replied, ' If you won't play with 
 me, you might as well not come home at all.' The argu- 
 ment was unanswerable, and I set to afresh. I told you 
 I do not approve of your omissions, neither do I quite co- 
 incide with you in your arrangements. I have not time to 
 point out a better, and I suppose some self-associations of 
 your own have determined their place as they now stand. 
 Your beginning, indeed, with the ' Joan of Arc' lines I co- 
 incide entirely with. I love a splendid outset — a mag- 
 nificent portico, — and the diapason is grand. When I 
 read the 'Religious Musings,' I think how poor, how un- 
 elevated, unoriginal, my blank verse is — ' Laugh all that 
 ■weep,' especially, where the subject demanded a grandeur 
 of conception ; and I ask what business they have among 
 yours ? but friendship covereth a multitude of defects. I 
 want some loppings made in the ' Chatterton ;' it wants 
 but a little to make it rank among the finest irregular 
 lyrics I ever read. Have you time and inclination to go 
 to work upon it — or is it too late — or do you tliink it 
 needs none ? Don't reject those verses in one of your 
 Watchmen, ' Dear native brook,' &c. ; nor I think those last 
 lines you sent me, in which ' all effortless' is without doubt 
 
60 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 to be preferred to 'inactive.' If I am writing more than 
 ordinarily dully, 'tis that I am stupefied with a tooth-ache. 
 Hang it ! do not omit 48, 52, and 53 : what you do retain, 
 though, call sonnets, for heaven's sake, and not effusions. 
 Spite of your ingenious anticipation of ridicule in your 
 preface, the five last lines of 50 are too good to be lost, 
 the rest is not much worth. My tooth becomes importu- 
 nate — I must finish. Pray, pray, write to me ; if you 
 knew with what an anxiety of joy I open such a long 
 packet as you last sent me, you would not grudge givin"- 
 a few minutes now and then to this intercourse (the only 
 intercourse I fear we two shall ever have) — this conversa- 
 tion with your friend — such I boast to be called. God 
 love you and yours ! Write me when you move, lest I di- 
 rect wrong. Has Sara no poems to publish ? Those lines, 
 129, are probably too light for the volume where the ' Re- 
 ligious Musings' are, but I remember some very beautiful 
 lines, addressed by somebody at Bristol to somebody in 
 London. God bless you once more. Thursday-night. 
 
 " C Lamb." 
 
 In another letter, about this time (December, 1796), 
 Lamb transmitted to Coleridge two Poems for the vol- 
 ume — one a copy of verses " To a Young Lady going out 
 to India," which were not inserted, and are not worthy of 
 preservation ; the other, entitled, " The Tomb of Douglas," 
 which was inserted, and Avhich he chiefly valued as a me- 
 morial of his impression of Mrs. Siddons' acting in Lady 
 Randolph. The following passage closes the sheet. 
 
 " At length I have done with verse-making ; not that I 
 relish other people's poetry less ; their's comes from 'em 
 without effort, mine is the difiScult operation of a brain 
 scanty of ideas, made more difiicult by disuse. I have 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 61 
 
 been reading ' The Task' with fresh delight. I am glad 
 you love Cowper : I could forgive a man for not enjoying 
 Milton, but I would not call that man my friend who 
 should be ojffended with the ' divine chit-chat of Cowper.' j 
 Write to me. God love you and yours. C. L." 
 
 The following, of 10th December, 1796, illustrates 
 Lamb's almost wayward admiration of his only friend, and 
 a feeling — how temporary with him I — of vexation with 
 the imperfect sympathies of his elder brother. 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 " You sent me some very sweet lines relative to Burns, 
 but it was at a time when in my highly agitated and per- 
 haps distorted state of mind, I thought it a duty to read 
 'em hastily and burn 'em. I burned all my own verses ; 
 all my book of extracts from Beaumont and Fletcher and 
 a thousand sources : I burned a little journal of my foolish 
 passion which I had a long time kept — 
 
 'Nothing ere they past away 
 The little lines ofyesterday.' 
 
 I almost burned all your letters, — I did as bad, I lent 'em 
 to a friend to keep out of my brother's sight, should he 
 come and make inquisition into our papers, for much as he 
 dwelt upon your conversation, while you were among us, 
 and delighted to be with you, it has been his fashion ever 
 since to depreciate and cry you doAvn, — you were the cause 
 of my madness — you and your damned foolish sensibility 
 and melancholy — and he lamented with a true brotherly 
 feeling that we ever met, even as tlie sober citizen, when hig 
 son went astray upon the mountains of Parnassus, is said 
 to have ' cursed wit and Poetry and Pope.' I quote wrong, 
 6 
 
C2 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 but no matter. These letters I lent to a friend to be out 
 of the way, for a season, but I have claimed them in vain, 
 and shall not cease to regret their loss. Your packets, 
 posterior to the date of my misfortunes, commencing with 
 
 \ that valuable consolatory epistle, are every day accumu- 
 
 ~v^ating — they are sacred things with me." 
 
 The following long letter, bearing date on the outside, 
 5th January, 1797, is addressed to Mr. Coleridge at 
 Stowey, near Bridgewater, whither he had removed from 
 Bristol, to enjoy the society and protection of his friend 
 Mr. Poole. The original is a cui-ious specimen of clear 
 compressed penmanship ; being contained in three sides 
 of a sheet of foolscap. 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 '■^Sunday morning. — You cannot surely mean to de- 
 grade the Joan of Arc into a pot-girl. You are not 
 going, I hope, to annex to that most splendid ornament of 
 Southey's poem all this cock-and-a-bull story of Joan, the 
 publican's daughter of Neufchatel, with the lamentable 
 episode of a waggoner, his wife, and six children. The 
 texture will be most lamentably disproportionate. The first 
 forty or fifty lines of these addenda are, no doubt, in their 
 way, admirable, too ; but many would prefer the Joan of 
 Southey. 
 
 ' On mightiest deeds to brood 
 Of shadowy vastness, such as made my heart 
 Throb fast; anon I paused, and in a state 
 Of half expectance listened to the wind ;' 
 
 ' The}' wondered at me, who had known me once 
 A cheerful, careless damsel ;' 
 
 ' The eye, 
 That of the circling throng and of the visible world 
 Unseeing, saw the shapes of holy phantasy ;' 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 63 
 
 I see nothing in your description of the Maid equal to 
 these. There is a fine originality certainly in those lines — 
 
 ' For she had lived in this bad world 
 As in a place of tombs, 
 And touched not the pollutions of the dead ;' 
 
 but your ' fierce vivacity' is a faint copy of the ' fierce 
 and terrible benevolence' of Southey ; added to this, that 
 it will look like rivalship in you, and extort a comparison 
 with Southey, — I think to your disadvantage. And the 
 lines, considered in themselves as an addition to what you 
 had before written, (strains of a far higher mood,) are but 
 such as Madame Fancy loves in some of her more familiar 
 moods, at such times as she has met Noll Goldsmith, and 
 walked and talked with him, calling him ' old acquaint- 
 ance.' Southey certainly has no pretensions to vie withn 
 you in the sublime of poetry ; but he tells a plain tale 1 1 
 better than you. I will enumerate some woful blemishes, 
 some of 'em sad deviations from that simplicity which was 
 your aim. ' Hailed who might be near' (the 'canvass-cov- 
 erture moving,' by the by, is laughable) ; ' a woman and 
 six children' (by the way, — why not nine children ? It 
 would have been just half as pathetic again) : ' statues of 
 sleep they seemed': 'frost-mangled wretch': 'green 
 putridity': ' hailed him immortal' (rather ludicrous again) : 
 'voiced a sad and simple tale' (abominable !) 'improven- 
 dered': ' such his tale': ' Ah ! suffering to the height of what 
 was suffered' (a most insufferable line)', 'amazements of 
 affright': 'the hot sore brain attributes its own hues of 
 ghastliness and torture' (what shocking confusion of ideas) ! 
 " In these delineations of common and natural feelings, 
 in the familiar walks of poetry, you seem to resemble Mon- 
 tauban dancing with Roubigne's tenants, ' much of his na- 
 tive loftiness remained in the execution.' 
 
64 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 " I "was reading your ' Religious Musings' the other day, 
 and sincerely I think it the noblest poem in the language, 
 next after the ' Paradise Lost,' and even that was not made 
 the vehicle of such grand truths. ' There is one mind,' 
 &c., down to ' Almighty's throne,' are without a rival in 
 the whole compass of my poetical reading. 
 
 'Stands in the sun, and with no partial gaze, 
 Views all creation.' 
 
 I wish I could have Avritten those lines. I rejoice that I 
 am able to relish them. The loftier walks of Pindus are 
 your proper region. There you have no compeer in modern 
 times. Leave the lowlands, unenvied, in possession of 
 such men as Cowper and Southey. Thus am I pouring 
 balsam into the wounds I may have been inflicting on my 
 poor friend's vanity. 
 
 "In your notice of Southey 's new volume you omit to 
 mention the most pleasing of all, the ' Miniature ' — 
 
 ' There were 
 Who formed high hopes and flattering ones of thee. 
 Young Robert !' 
 
 ' Spirit of Spenser ! — was the wanderer wrong ?' 
 
 " Fairfax I have been in quest of a long time. Johnson, 
 in his ' Life of Waller,' gives a most delicious specimen of 
 him, and adds, in the true manner of that delicate critic, as 
 well as amiable man, ' It may be presumed that this old 
 version will not be much read after the elegant translation 
 of my friend, Mr. Hoole.' I endeavored — I wished to 
 gain some idea of Tasso from this Mr. Hoole, the great 
 boast and ornament of the India House, but soon desisted. 
 I found him more vapid than smallest small beer ' sun-vin> 
 egared.' Your ' Dream,' down to that exquisite line- 
 
 * I can't tell half his adventures,' 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 65 
 
 is a most happy resemblance of Chaucer. The remainder 
 is so so. The best line, I think, is, ' He belong'd, I be- 
 lieve, to the "vvitch Melancholy.' By the way, when will 
 our volume come out ? Don't delay it till you have writ- 
 ten a new Joan of Arc. Send what letters you please by 
 me, and in any way you choose, single or double. The 
 India Company is better adapted to answer the cost than 
 the generality of my friend's correspondents — such poor 
 and honest dogs as John Thelwell, particularly. I can- 
 not say I know Colson, at least intimately ; I once supped 
 with him and Allen ; I think his manners very pleasing. 
 I will not tell you what I think of Lloyd, for he may by 
 chance come to see this letter, and that thought puts a re- 
 straint on me. I cannot think what subject would suit 
 your epic genius ; some philosophical subject, I conjecture, 
 in Avhich shall be blended the sublime of poetry and of 
 science. Your proposed ' Hymns' will be a fit preparatory 
 study wherewith ' to discipline your young noviciate soul.' 
 I grow dull ; I'll go walk myself out of my dulness. 
 
 " Sunday night. — You and Sara are very good to think 
 so kindly and so favorably of poor Mary ; I would to God 
 all did so too. But I very much fear she must not think 
 of coming home in my father's lifetime. It is very hard 
 upon her ; but our circumstances are peculiar, and we must 
 submit to them. God be praised she is so well as she is. 
 She bears her situation as one who has no right to com- 
 plain. My poor old aunt, whom you have seen, the kind- 
 est, goodest creature to me when I Avas at school ; who 
 used to toddle there to bring me good things, when I, school- 
 boy like, only despised her for it, and used to be ashamed 
 to see her come and sit herself down on the old coal-hole 
 steps as you went into the old grammar-school, and open 
 her apron, and bring out her bason, with some nice thing 
 6* 
 
6Q LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 she had caused to be saved for me ; the good old creature 
 is now lying on her death-bed. I cannot bear to think on 
 her deplorable state. To the shock she received on that 
 our evil day, from which she never completely recovered, 
 I impute her illness. She says, poor thing, she is glad 
 she is come home to die with me. I was always her favo- 
 rite: 
 
 'No after friendship e'er can raise 
 The endearments of our early days j 
 Nor e'er the heart such fondness prove, 
 As when it first began to love.' 
 
 " Lloyd has kindly left me, for a keepsake, ' John Wool- 
 man.' You have read it, he says, and like it. Will you 
 excuse one short extract ? I think it could not have es- 
 caped you. — ' Small treasure to a resigned mind is suffi- 
 cient. How happy is it to be content with a little, to live 
 in humility, and feel that in us, Avhich breathes out this 
 
 language — x\bba I Father !' 1 am almost ashamed to 
 
 patch up a letter in this miscellaneous sort — but I please 
 myself in the thought, that anything from me will be ac- 
 ceptable to you. I am rather impatient, childishly so, to 
 see our names affixed to the same common volume. Send 
 me two, when it does come out; two will be enough — or 
 indeed one — but two better. I have a dim recollection 
 that, when in tovvn, you were talking of the Origin of Evil 
 as a most prolific subject for a long poem ; — why not adopt 
 it, Coleridge ? — there would be room for imagination. Or 
 the description (from a Vision or Dream, suppose) of an 
 Utopia in one of the planets (the moon for instance.) Or 
 a Five Days' Dream, which shall illustrate, in sensible im- 
 agery, Hartley's five Motives to Conduct : — 1. Sensation : 
 2. Imagination : 3. Ambition ; 4. Sympathy ; 5. Theopathy ; 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 67 
 
 — First. Banquets, music, &c., eifeminacy, — and their 
 insufEciencj, Second. ' Beds of hyacinth and roses, where 
 young Adonis oft reposes;' ' Fortunate Isles ;' ' The pagan 
 Elysium,' &c. ; poetical pictures; antiquity as pleasin^ to 
 the fancy ; — their emptiness ; madness, &c. Third. "War- 
 riors, Poets, some famous yet, more forgotten ; their fame 
 or oblivion now alike indifferent ; pride, vanity, &c. Fourth. 
 All manner of pitiable stories, in Spenser-like verse ; love ; 
 friendship, relationship, &c. Fifth. Hermits ; Christ and 
 his apostles ; martyrs ; heaven, &c. An imagination like 
 yours, from these scanty hints, m;iy expand into a thou- 
 sand great ideas, if indeed you at all comprehend my scheme, 
 which I scarce do myself. 
 
 " Monday' morn. — ' A London letter — Ninepence half- 
 penny !' Look you, master poet, I have remorse as well 
 as another man, and ray bowels can sound upon occasion. 
 But I must put you to this charge, for I cannot keep back 
 my protest, however ineffectual, against the annexing your 
 latter lines to those former — this putting of new wine into 
 old bottles. This my duty done, I will cease from writ- 
 ing till you invent some more reasonable mode of convey- 
 ance. Well may the 'ragged followers of the Nine !' set 
 up for flocci-nauci-what-do-you-call-'em-ists ! and I do not 
 wonder that in their splendid visions of Utopias in America, 
 they protest against the admission of those yclIoiv-com\)\Qx~ 
 ioned, co/?/jer-colored, white ■\\.\qxq(\. gentlemen, who never 
 prove themselves their friends ! Don't you think your 
 verses on a ' Young Ass' too trivial a companion for the 
 'Religious Musings?' — 'scoundrel monarch,' alter that ; 
 and the ' Man of Ross' is scarce admissible, as it now 
 stands, curtailed of its fairer half: reclaim its property 
 from the ' Chatterton,' which it does but cncumbei", and 
 it will be a rich little poem. I hope you expunge great 
 
68 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 part of the old notes in the new edition : that, m particu- 
 lar, most barefaced, unfounded, impudent assertion, that 
 Mr. Rogers is indebted for his story to Loch Lomond, a 
 poem by Bruce ! I have read the latter. I scarce think 
 you have. Scarce anything is common to them both. The 
 author of the ' Pleasures of Memory' was somewhat hurt, 
 Dyer says, by the accusation of unoriginality. He never 
 saw the poem. I long to read your poem on Burns — I 
 retain so indistinct a memory of it. In what shape and 
 how does it come into public ? As you leave off writing 
 poetry till you finish your Hymns, I suppose you print, 
 now, all you have got by you. You have scarce enough 
 unprinted to make a second volume with Lloyd ? Tell me 
 all about it. What is become of Cowper ? Lloyd told 
 me of some verses on his mother. If you have them by 
 you, pray send 'em me. I do so love him ! Never mind 
 their merit. May be / may like 'em, as your taste and 
 mine do not always exactly identify. Yours 
 
 " C. Lamb." 
 
 Soon after the date of this letter, death released the 
 father from his state of imbecility and the son from his 
 wearisome duties. With his life, the annuity he had de- 
 rived from the old bencher he had served so faithfully, 
 ceased ; while the aunt continued to linger still with Lamb 
 in his cheerless lodging. His sister still remained in con- 
 finement in the asylum to which she had been consigned 
 on her mother's death — perfectly sensible and calm, — and 
 he was passionately desirous of obtaining her liberty. 
 The surviving members of the family, especially his bro- 
 ther John, who enjoyed a fair income in the South Sea 
 House, opposed her discharge ; — ivnd painful doubts were 
 suggested by the authorities of the parish, where the 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 69 
 
 terrible occurrence happened, whether tliey were not 
 bound to institute proceedings, which must have placed her 
 for life at the disposition of the Crown, especially as no 
 medical assurance could be given against the probable re- 
 currence of dangerous frenzy. But Charles came to her i^ 
 deliverance ; he satisfied all the parties who had power to ' 
 oppose her release, by his solemn engagement that he 
 would take her under his care forJ.ife ; and he kept his 
 word. Whether any communication with the Home Sec- 
 retary occurred before her release, I have been unable to 
 ascertain ; it was the impression of Mr. Lloyd, from whom 
 my own knowledge of the circumstances, which the letters 
 do not ascertain, was derived, that a communication took 
 place, on which a similar pledge was given ; at all events, 
 the result was, that she left the asylum and took up her 
 abode for life with her brother Charles. For her sake, at s 
 the same time, he abandoned all thoughts of love and mar- 
 riage ; and with an income of scarcely more than a 100/. ^ 
 a-year, derived from his clerkship, aided for a little while 1 
 by the old aimt's small annuity, set out on the journey | 
 of life at twenty-tAvo years of age, cheerfully, Avith his be- 
 loved companion, endeared to him the more by her strange 
 calamity, and the constant apprehension of a recurrence 
 of the malady which has caused it ! 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE AND MANNING IN LAMB's FIRST YEARS OF LIFE WITH 
 HIS SISTER. 
 
 [1797 to 1800.] 
 
 The anxieties of Lamb's new position were assuaged 
 during the spring of 1797, bj frequent communications 
 with Coleridge respecting the anticipated volume, and by 
 some additions to his own share in its pages. He was also 
 cheered by the company of Lloyd, who, having resided 
 for a few months with Coleridge, at Stowey, came to Lon- 
 don in some perplexity as to his future course. Of this 
 visit Lamb speaks in the following letter, probably written 
 in January. It contains some verses expressive of his de- 
 light at Lloyd's visit, which although afterwards inserted 
 in the volume, are so well fitted to their frame-work of 
 prose, and so indicative of the feelings of the writer at 
 this crisis of his life, that I may be excused for presenting 
 them with the context. 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 "1797 
 
 "Dear Col. — You have learned by this time, with sur- 
 prise, no doubt, that Lloj-d is with me in town. Tlie emo- 
 tions I felt on his coming so unlooked-for, are not ill ex- 
 pressed in what follows, and what, if you do not object to 
 them as too personal, and to the world obscure, or other^ 
 
 (70) 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 71 
 
 wise wanting in worth, I should wish to make a part of our 
 little volume. I shall be sorry if that volume comes out, as 
 it necessarily must do, unless you print those very school- 
 boy-ish verses T sent you on not getting leave to come down 
 to Bristol last summer. I say I shall be sorry that I have 
 addressed you in nothing which can appear in our joint vol- 
 ume ; so frequently, so habitually, as you dwell in my 
 thoughts, 'tis some wonder those thoughts came never yet in 
 \ contact with a poetical mood. But you dwell in my heart of 
 
 tearts, and I love you in all the naked honesty of prose. God 
 less you, and all your little domestic circle — my tenderest 
 remembrances to your beloved Sara, and a smile and a 
 kiss from me to your dear dear little David Hartley. The 
 verses I refer to above, slightly amended, I have sent (for- 
 getting to ask your leave, tho' indeed I gave them only 
 your initials), to the Monthly Magazine, where they may 
 possibly appear next month, and where I hope to recog- 
 nise yc'-u- poem on Burns. 
 
 TO 
 
 CHARLES LLOYD, AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. 
 
 Alone, obscure, without a friend, 
 
 A cheerless, solitary thing. 
 Why seeks my Lloyd the stranger out ? 
 
 What offering can the stranger bring 
 
 Of social scenes, home-bred delights. 
 
 That him in aught compensate may 
 For Stowey's pleasant winter nights, 
 
 For loves and friendships far away. 
 
 In brief oblivion to forego 
 
 Friends, such as thine, so justly dear, 
 And bo awhile with me content 
 
 To stay, a kindly loiterer, here ? 
 
72 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 For this a gleam of random joy 
 
 Hath flush'd mv unaccustom'd cheek ; 
 And, ■with an o''^r-charged bursting heart, 
 
 I feel the thanks I cannot speak. 
 
 ! sweet are all the Muse's lays, 
 
 And sweet the charm of matin bird — 
 'Twas long since these estranged ears 
 
 The sweeter voice of friend had heard. 
 
 The voice hath spoke : the pleasant sounds 
 
 In memory's ear, in after time 
 Shall live, to sometimes rouse a tear, 
 
 And sometimes prompt an honest rhyme. 
 
 For when the transient charm is fled, 
 
 And when the little week is o'er. 
 To cheerless, friendless solitude 
 
 When I return, as heretofore — 
 
 Long, long, within my aching heart 
 
 The grateful sense shall cherish'd bej 
 I'll think less meanly of myself. 
 
 That Lloyd will sometimes think on me. 
 
 ■v^ " Coleridge, would to God you were in London with 
 MS, or we two at Stowey with you all. Lloyd takes up his 
 abode at the Bull and Mouth Inn ; the Cat and Salutation 
 would haye had a charm more forcible for me. nodes 
 ecenceque Deum ! Anglice — "Welch rabbits, punch, and 
 poesy. Should you be induced to publish those very school- 
 boy-ish verses, print 'em as they will occur, if at all, in the 
 Monthly Magazine ; yet I should feel ashamed that to you 
 I wrote nothing better: but they are too personal, and al- 
 most trifling and obscure withal. Some lines of mine to 
 Cowper were in last Monthly Magazine ; they have not 
 body of thought enough to plead for the retaining of 
 'em. My sister's kind love to you all. C Lamb." 
 
 It would seem, from the following fragment of a letter 
 of 7th April, 1797, that Lamb, at first, took a small lodg- 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE, 73 
 
 ing for his sister apart from his own — but soon to be for 
 life united. 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 *' By the way, Lloycl may have told you about my sister. 
 I told him. If not, I have taken her out of her confinement, 
 and taken a room for her at Hackney, and spend my San- 
 days, holidays, &c. with her. She boards herself. In 
 one little half year's illness, and in such an illness of such 
 a nature and of such consequences ! to get her out into 
 the world again, with a prospect of her never being so ill 
 again — this is to be ranked not among the common blessings 
 of Providence." 
 
 The next letter to Coleridge begins with a transcript of 
 Lamb's Poem, entitled " A Vision of Repentance," which 
 was inserted in the Addenda to the volume, and is pre- 
 served among his collected poems, and thus proceeds : 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 " April 15th, 1797. 
 
 " The above you will please to print immediately before 
 the blank verse fragments. Tell me if you like it. I 
 fear the latter half is unequal to the former, in parts of 
 which I think you will discover a delicacy of pencilling 
 not quite un-Spenser-like. The latter half aims at the 
 measure, but has failed to attain the poetri/ of Milton in 
 his ' Comus,' and Fletcher in that exquisite thing ycleped 
 the 'Faithful Shepherdess,' where they both use eight- 
 syllable lines. But this latter half was finished in great 
 haste, and as a task, not from that impulse which affects 
 the name of inspiration. 
 7 
 
74 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 '^ By the way, I have lit upon Fairfax's ' Godfrey of 
 Bullen,' for half-a-crown. Rejoice with me. 
 
 "Poor dear Lloyd ! I had a letter from him yesterday ; 
 his state of mind is truly alarming. He has, by his OAvn 
 confession, kept a letter of mine unopened three weeks, 
 afraid, he says, to open it, lest I should speak upbraid- 
 ingly to him ; and yet this very letter of mine Avas in an- 
 swer to one. Avherein he informed me that an alarmino^ ill- 
 nes3 had alone prevented him from writing. You will 
 pray with me, I know, for his recovery, for surely, Cole- 
 ridge, an exquisiteness of feeling like this must border on 
 derangement. But I love him more and more, and will 
 not give up the hope of his speedy recovery, as he tells me 
 he is under Dr. Darwin's regimen.* 
 
 " God bless us all, and shield us from insanity, which is 
 'the sorest malady of all.' 
 
 " My kind love to your wife and child. 
 
 " C Lamb. 
 
 "Pray write now." 
 
 As summer advanced. Lamb discerned a hope of com- 
 pensation for the disappointment of last year, by a visit to 
 Coleridge, and thus expressed his wishes. 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 " I discern a possibility of my paying you a visit next 
 week. May I, can I, shall I, come as soon ? Have you 
 
 * Poor Charles Lloyd ! These apprehensions were sadly realised. Delu- 
 sions of the most melancholy kind thickened over his latter days — yet left hia 
 admirable intellect free for the finest processes of severe reasoning. At a 
 time when, like Cowper, he believed himself the especial subject of Divine 
 wrath, he could bear his part in the most subtle disquisition on questions of 
 religion, morals, and poetry, with the nicest accuracy of perception and the 
 raost exemplary candor; and, after an argument of hours, revert, with a faint 
 ■mile, to his own despair! 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 75 
 
 7'oom foi' me, leisure for me, and are jou all pretty well? 
 Tell me all this honestly — immediately. And by what 
 £?a?/-coach could I come soonest and nearest to Stowey ? 
 A few months hence may suit you better ; certainly me, 
 as well. If so, say so. I long, I yearn, with all the long- 
 ings of a child do I desire to see you, to come among you 
 — to see the young philosopher, to thank Sara for her last 
 year's invitation in person — to read your tragedy — to read 
 over together our little book — to breathe fresh air — to 
 revive in me vivid images of 'Salutation scenery.' There 
 is a sort of sacrilege, in my letting such ideas slip out of 
 
 my mind and memory. Still that E, reniaineth — a 
 
 thorn in the side of Hope, when she would lean towards 
 Stowey. Here I will leave off, for I dislike to fill up this 
 paper, which involves a question so connected with my 
 heart and soul, with meaner matter, or subjects to me less 
 interesting. I can talk, as I can think, nothing else. Tliurs- 
 day. C. Lamb." 
 
 The visit was enjoyed ; the book was published ; and 
 Lamb was once more left to the daily labors of the India 
 House and the unceasing anxieties of his home. His feel- 
 ings, on the recurrence of the season, which had, last year, 
 been darkened by his terrible calamity, will be understood 
 from the first of two pieces of blank verse, which fill the 
 two first sheets of a letter to Coleridge, written under an 
 apprehension of some neglect on the part of his friend, 
 which had its cause in no estrangement of Coleridge's af- 
 fections, but in the vicissitudes of the imaginative philoso- 
 pher's fortune and the constancy of his day-dreamings. 
 
76 LETTERS TO COLERIiTgE. 
 
 WRITTEN A TWELVEMONTH AFTER THE EVENTS. 
 
 [^Frida^ next, Coleridge, is the day on wJiich my mother diedj\ 
 
 Alas ! how am I chang'd ! where be the tears, 
 
 The sobs, and fore'd suspensions of the breath, 
 
 And all the dull desertions of the heart 
 
 With which I hung o'er my dear mother's corse ? 
 
 AVhere be the blest subsidings of the storm 
 
 Within : the sweet resignedness of hope 
 
 Drawn heavenward, and strength of filial love, 
 
 In which I bow'd me to my Father's will? 
 
 My God and my Redeemer, keep not thou 
 
 My heart in brute and sensual thanklessness 
 
 Seal'd up, oblivious ever of that dear grace, 
 
 And health restor'd to my long-loved friend 
 
 Long lov'd and worthy known I Thou didst not keep 
 
 Her soul in death. keep not now, my Lord, 
 
 Thy servants in far worse — in spiritual death 
 
 And darkness — blacker than those feared shadows 
 
 0' the valley all must tread. Lend us thy balms. 
 
 Thou dear Physician of the sin-sick soul. 
 
 And heal our cleansed bosoms of the wounds 
 
 With which the world hath pierc'd us thro' and thro'! 
 
 Give us new flesh, new birth; Elect of heaven 
 
 May we become, in thine election sure 
 
 Contain'd, and to one purpose steadfast drawn — 
 
 Our souls' salvation. 
 
 Thou and I, dear friend, 
 With filial recognition sweet, shall know 
 One day the face of our dear mother in heaven. 
 And her remember'd looks of love shall greet 
 With answering looks of love, her placid smile* 
 Meet with a smile as placid, and her hand 
 With drops of fondness wet, nor fear repulse.* 
 
 Be witness for me, Lord, I do not ask 
 Those days of vanity to return again, 
 (Nor fitting me to ask, nor thee to give;. 
 Vain loves, and "wanderings with a fair-hair'd maid " 
 
 * 'Note in the margin of MS.] " This ia almost literal from a letter of my sister 
 loss (ban a year ago." 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 77 
 
 (Child of the dust as I am) who so long 
 
 My foolish heart steep'd in idolatry, 
 
 And creature-loves. Forgive it, my Maker ! 
 
 If in a mood of grief, I sin almost 
 
 In sometimes brooding on the days long past, 
 
 (And from the grave of time wishing them back,) 
 
 Days of a mother's fondness to her child — 
 
 Her little one ! Oh, where be now those sports 
 
 And infant play-games ? AVhere the joyous troops 
 
 Of children, and the haunts I did so love ? 
 
 my companions ! yJloved names 
 
 Of friend, or playmate dear, gone are ye now. 
 Gone divers ways ; to honor and credit some ; 
 And some, I fear, to ignominy and shame! * 
 
 1 only am left, with unavailing grief 
 
 One parent dead to mourn, and see one live 
 Of all life's joys bereft, and desolate: 
 Am left, with a few friends, and one above 
 The rest, found faithful in a length of years, 
 Contented as I may, to bear me on, 
 T' the not unpeaceful evening of a day 
 Made black by morning storms. 
 
 " The following I wrote when I had returned from C. 
 Lloyd, leaving him behind at Burton, with Southey. To 
 understand some of it, you must remember that at that 
 time he was very much perplexed in mind. 
 
 A stranger, and alone, I past those scenes 
 We past so late together; and my heart 
 Felt something like desertion, as I look'd 
 Around me, and the pleasant voice of friend 
 Was absent, and the cordial look was there 
 No more, to smile on me. I thought on Lloyd — 
 All he had been to me ! And now I go 
 Again to mingle with a world impure ; 
 W^ith men who make a mock of holy things. 
 Mistaken, and of man's best hope think scorn. 
 The world does much to warp the heart of man ; 
 And I may sometimes join its idiot laugh : 
 Of this I now complain not. Deal with me, 
 
 • [Note in the margin of MS.] " Alluding to some of my old play-fellows being, litei* 
 ally, ' on the town,' and some otherwise wretched." 
 
 7* 
 
78 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE 
 
 Omniscient Father, as thnii judgest best. 
 
 And in thy season soften thou my heart. 
 
 I pray not for myself: I pray for him 
 
 AVhose soul is sore perplexed. Shine thou on him, 
 
 Father of lights ! and in the difBcult paths 
 
 Make plain his way before him : his own thoughts 
 
 May he not think — his own ends not pursue — 
 
 So shall he best perform thy will on earth. 
 
 Greatest and Best, Thy will be ever ours ! 
 
 " The former of these poems I wrote with unusual ce- 
 hirity t'other morning at office. I expect you to like it 
 better than anything of mine ; Lloyd does, and I do my- 
 self. 
 
 "You use Lloyd very ill, never writing to him. I tell 
 you again that his is not a mind with which you should 
 play tricks. He deserves more tenderness from you. 
 
 " For myself, I must spoil a little passage of Beaumont 
 and Fletcher to adapt it to my feelings :- 
 
 ' I am prouder 
 That I was once your friend, tho' now forgot, 
 Than to have had another true to me.' 
 
 If you don't write to me now, as I told Lloyd, I shall get 
 angry, and call you hard names — Manchineel and I don't 
 know what else. I wish you would send me my great-coat. 
 The snow and the rain season is at hand, and I have but 
 a wretched old coat, once my father's, to keep 'em off, and 
 that is transitory. 
 
 'When time drives flocks from field to fold. 
 When ways grow foul and blood gets cold,' 
 
 I shall remember wher.e I left my coat. Meet emblem 
 Avilt thou be, old Winter, of a friend's neglect — cold, cold, 
 cold ! C. Lamb." 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 79 
 
 The following lines, which Lamb transmitted to his new 
 friend, Southey, bespeak the remarkable serenity with 
 which, when the first shock was over and the duties of life- 
 lofig love arranged, Lamb was able to contemplate the vic- 
 tim of his sister's frenzy :* 
 
 V 
 
 Thou should'st have longer lived, and to the grave 
 Have peacefully gone down in full old age ; 
 Thy children would have tended thy gray hairs. 
 We might have sat, as we have often done, 
 By our fire-side, and talk'd whole nights away, 
 Old time, old friends, and old events recalling, 
 With many a circumstance of trivial note. 
 To memory dear, and of importance grown. 
 How shall we tell them in a stranger's ear ! 
 
 A wayward son ofttimes was I to thee — 
 
 And yet, in all our little bickerings. 
 
 Domestic jars, there was I know not what 
 
 Of tender feeling that were ill exehang'd 
 
 For this world's chilling friendships, and their smiles 
 
 Familiar, whom the heart calls stranger still. 
 
 A heavy lot hath he, most wretched man, 
 
 Who lives the last of all his family ! 
 
 He looks around him, and his eye discerns 
 
 The face of the stranger; and his heart is sick. 
 
 Man of the world, what can'st thou do for him 7 
 
 Wealth is a burthen which he could not bear; 
 
 Mirth a strange crime, the which he dares not act; 
 
 And generous wines no cordial to his soul. 
 
 For wounds like his, Christ is the only cure. 
 
 Go ! preach thou to him of a world to come. 
 
 Where friends shall meet and know each other's face! 
 
 Say less than this, and say it to the winds. 
 
 * These lines are now first introduced in this Edition; — becoming ktiown 
 to the Editor by their publication in the first volume of " Southey's Life ami 
 Correspondence," p. 325, where they appear in a letter from Southey to Mr. 
 AVynn. The Biographer courteously adds, that they would have been sent to 
 the Editor, but that tbey were not observed till after the publication of the' 
 First Edition of these Memorials. 
 
80 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 An addition to Lamb's household-cares is thus mentioned 
 m a letter 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 " December 10th, 1797. 
 "In truth, Coleridge, I am perplexed, and at times al- 
 most cast down. I am beset with perplexities. The old 
 hag of a wealthy relation, who took my aunt off our hands 
 in the beginning of trouble, has found out that she is ' in- 
 dolent and mulish,' I quote her own words, and that her 
 attachment to us is so strong that she can never be happy 
 apart. The lady, with delicate irony, remarks, that if I 
 am not an hypocrite, I shall rejoice to receive her again ; 
 and that it will be a means of making me more fond of 
 home to have so dear a friend to come home to ! The fact 
 is, she is jealous of my aunt's bestowing any kind recollec- 
 tions on us, while she enjoys the patronage of her roof. 
 She says she finds it inconsistent with her own 'ease and 
 tranquillity,' to keep her any longer ; and, in fine, summons 
 me to fetch her home. Now, much as I should rejoice to 
 transplant the poor old creature from the chilling air of 
 such patronage, yet I know how straitened we are already, 
 how unable already to answer any demand which sickness 
 or any extraordinary expense may make. I know this, 
 and all unused as I am to struggle Avith perplexities, I am 
 somewhat nonplussed, to say no worse. This prevents me 
 from a thorough relish of what Lloyd's kindness and your's 
 have furnished me with. I thank you though from my 
 heart, and feel myself not quite alone in the earth." 
 
 In 1798, Coleridge seemed to attain a settled home by 
 accepting an invitation to become the minister of a Unita- 
 rian congregation at Shrewsbury ; a hope of short dura- 
 tion. The following letter was addressed by Lamb to him 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 81 
 
 at this time as " S. T. Coleridge" — as if the Mr. "were 
 dropped and the "Reverend'' not quite adopted — "at the 
 Reverend A. Rowe's, Shrewsbury, Shropshire." The 
 tables are turned here ; — Lamb, instead of accusing Cole- 
 ridge of neglect, takes the charge to himself, in deep humil- 
 ity of spirit, and regards the effect of Miss Lamb's renewed 
 illness on his mind as inducing indifference, with an 
 affecting self-jealousy. 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 " January 28th, 1798. 
 
 -^ " You have writ me many kind letters, and I have an- 
 swered none of them. I don't deserve your attentions. 
 An unnatural indifference has been creeping on me since 
 my last misfortunes, or I should have seized the first open- 
 ing of a correspondence with you^ To you I owe much, 
 under God. In my brief acquaintance with you in Lon- 
 don, your conversations won me to the better cause, and 
 rescued me from the polluting spirit of the world. I 
 might have been a worthless character without you ; as it 
 is, I do possess a certain improvable portion of devotional 
 feelings, tho' when I view m^^sclf in the light of divine 
 truth, and not according to the common measures of 
 human judgment, I am altogether corrupt and sinful. 
 This is no cant. I am very sincere. 
 
 " These last afflictions, Coleridge, have failed to soften 
 and bend my will. They found me unprepared. My 
 former calamities produced in me a spirit of humility and 
 a spirit of prayer. I thought they had sufficiently disci- 
 plined me, but the event ought to humble me ; if God'g 
 judgments now fail to take away from me the heart 
 of stone, what more grievous trials ought I not to ex- 
 pect ? I have been very querulous, impatient under 
 the rod — full of little jealousies and heart burnings 
 
82 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 I had well nigh quarrelled with Charles Lloyd— and 
 for no other reason, I believe, than that the good 
 creature did all he could to make me happy. The 
 truth is, I thought he tried to force my mind from its 
 natural and proper bent ; he continually wished me to be 
 from home, he was drawing mQ from the consideration of 
 my poor dear Mary's situation, rather than assisting me 
 tc gain a proper view of it with religious consolations. I 
 wanted to be left to the tendency of my own mind, in a 
 solitary state, which, in times past, I knew had led to 
 quietness and a patient bearing of the yoke. He was 
 hurt that I was not more constantly with him, but he was 
 living with White, a man to whom I had never been ac- 
 customed to impart my dearest feelings, tho' from long 
 habits of friendliness, and many a social and good quality, 
 I loved him very much. I met company there sometimes 
 — indiscriminate company. Any society almost, when I 
 am in affliction, is sorely painful to me. I seem to breathe 
 more freely, to think more collectedly, to feel more pro- 
 perly and calmly, when alone. All these things the good 
 creatm-e did with the kindest intentions in the world, but 
 they produced in me nothing but soreness and discontent. 
 I became, as he complained, 'jaundiced' towards him. . . 
 but he has forgiven me — and his smile, I hope, will draw 
 all such humors from me. I am recovering, God be praised 
 for it, a healthiness of mind, something like calmness — 
 but I want more religion — I am jealous of human helps 
 and leaning-places. I rejoice in your good fortunes. 
 May God at the last settle you ! — You have had many 
 and painful trials ; humanly speaking they are going to 
 end ; but we should rather pray that discipline may attend 
 
 us thro' the whole of our lives A careless and a dis- 
 
 eoiute spirit has advanced upon me with large strides-— 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 83 
 
 pray God that my present afflictions may be sanctified to 
 me ! Mary is recovering ; but I see no opening yet of a 
 situation for her ; your invitation went to my very heart, 
 but you have a power of exciting interest, of leading all 
 hearts captive, too forcible to admit of Mary's being with 
 you. I consider her as perpetually on the brink of mad- 
 ness. I think you would almost make her dance within 
 an ir.ch of the precipice ; she must be with duller fancies, 
 and cooler intellects. I know a young man of this des- 
 cription, who has suited her these twenty years, and may 
 live to do so still, if we are one day restored to each other. 
 In answer to your suggestions of occupation for me, I 
 must say that I do not think my capacity altogether 
 
 suited for disquisitions of that kind I have read 
 
 little, I have a very weak memory, and retain little of 
 what I read ; am unused to compositions in which any 
 methodising is required ; but I thank you sincerely for the 
 hint, and shall receive it as far as I am able, that is, en- 
 deavor to engage my mind in some constant and innocent 
 pursuit. I know my capacities better than you do. 
 
 "Accept my kindest love, and believe me yours, as 
 ever. C. L". 
 
 At this time, the only literary man whom Lamb knew 
 in London was George Dyer, who had been noted as an 
 accomplished scholar, in Lamb's early childhood, at 
 Christ's Hospital. For him Lamb cherished all the es- 
 teem that his guileless simplicity of character and gentle- 
 ness of nature could inspire ; in these qualities the friends 
 were akin ; but no two men could be more opposite than 
 they were to each other, in intellectual qualifications and 
 tastes — Lamb, in all things original, and rejoicing in the 
 quaint, the strange, the extravagant ; Dyer, the quintes 
 
84 LETTER TO SOUTHEY. 
 
 sence of learned commonplace ; Lamb -wildlj catching tbd 
 most evanescent spirit of wit and poetry ; Dyer, the woc- 
 dering disciple of their established forms. Dyer officiated 
 as a revering High Priest at the Altar of the Muses — such 
 as they were in the staid, antiquated trim of the closing 
 years of the eighteenth century, before they formed sen- 
 timental attachments in Germany, or flirted with revolu- 
 tionary France, or renewed their youth by drinking the 
 Spirit of the Lakes. Lamb esteemed and loved him so 
 well, that he felt himself entitled to make sport with his 
 peculiarities ; but it was as Fielding might sport with his 
 own idea of Parson Adams ; or Goldsmith with his Dr. 
 Primrose. The following passage occurs in a letter of 28th 
 November, 1798, addressed — 
 
 TO MR. SOUTHEY. 
 
 "I showed my 'Witch,' and 'Dying Lover,' to Dyer 
 last night, but George could not comprehend how that 
 could be poetry which did not go upon ten feet, as George 
 and his predecessors had taught it to do ; so George read 
 me some lectures on the distinguishing qualities of the Ode, 
 the Epigram, and the Epic, and went home to illustrate 
 his doctrine, by correcting a proof sheet of his own Lyrics. 
 George writes odes where the rhymes, like fashionable man 
 and wife, keep a comfortable distance of six or eight lines 
 apart, and calls that ' observing the laws of verse.' 
 George tells you, before he recites, that you must listen 
 with great attention, or you'll miss the rhymes. I did so, 
 and found them pretty exact. George, speaking of the 
 dead Ossian, cxclairaeth, ' Dark are the poet's eyes.' I 
 humbly represented to him that his own eyes were dark, 
 and many a living bard's besides, and recommended 
 ' Clos'd are the poet's eyes.' But that would not do. I 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 85 
 
 found there was an antithesis between the darkness of his 
 eyes and the splendor of his genius ; and I acquiesced." 
 
 The following passage on the same subject occurs in a 
 letter about the same time, addressed 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 " Now I am on the subject of poetry, I must announce 
 to you, who, doubtless, in your remote part of the island, 
 have not heard tidings of so great a blessing, that George 
 Dyer hath prepared two ponderous volumes full of poetry 
 and criticism. They impend over the town, and are 
 threatened to fall in the winter. Tlie first volume contains 
 every sort of poetry, except personal satire, which George, 
 in his truly original prospectus, renounceth for ever, whim- 
 sically foisting the intention in between the price of his 
 book and the proposed number of subscribers. (If I can, 
 I will get you a copy of his handbill.) He has tried his 
 vein in every species besides — the Spenserian, Thomso- 
 nian. Masonic and Akensidish more especially. The second 
 volume is all criticism ; wherein he demonstrates to the en- 
 tire satisfaction of the literary world, in a way that must 
 silence all reply for ever, that the Pastoral was introduced 
 by Theocritus and polished by Virgil and Pope — that 
 Gray and Mason (who always hunt in couples in George's 
 brain) have a good deal of poetical fire and true lyric 
 genius — that Cowley was ruined by excess of wit (a warn- 
 ing to all moderns) — that Charles Lloyd, Charles Lamb,- 
 and William Wordsworth, in later days, have struck the 
 true chords of poesy. George, George ! with a head 
 uniformly Avrong, and a heart uniformly right, that I had 
 power and might equal to my wishes : then would I cal) 
 
86 LETTERS TO COLERIDUE. 
 
 the gentry of thy native island, and they should come in 
 troops, flocking at the sound of thy prospectus-trumpet, 
 and crowding who shall be first to stand in thy list of sub- 
 scribers ! I can only put twelve sliillings into thy pocket 
 (which, I will answer for them, will not stick there long), 
 out of a pocket almost as bare as thine. Is it not a pity 
 so much fine writing should be erased ? But, to tell the 
 truth, I began to scent that I was getting into that sort 
 of style which Longinus and Dionysius Halicarnassus 
 fitly call ' the affected.' " 
 
 Lamb's apprehensions of the recurrence of his sister's 
 malady were soon realised. An old maid-servant wdio as- 
 sisted her in the lodging became ill ; Miss Lamb inces- 
 santly watched the death-bed ; and just as the poor crea- 
 ture died, was again seized with madness. Lamb placed 
 her under medical care ; and, left alone, wrote the foUow- 
 ins short and miserable letter : — 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 "May 12th, 1800. 
 
 " My dear Coleridge. — I don't know why I write, ex- 
 cept from the propensity misery has to tell her griefs. 
 Hetty died on Friday night, about eleven o'clock, after 
 eight days' illness : Mary, in consequence of fatigue and 
 anxiety, is fallen ill again, and I was obliged to remove 
 her yesterday. I am left alone in a house with nothing 
 but Hetty's dead body to keep me company. To-morrow 
 I bury her, and then I shall be quite alone, with notidng 
 but a cat, to remind me that the house has been full of 
 living beings like myself. My heart is quite sunk, and I 
 don't know where to look for relief. Mary will get better 
 again, but her constantly being liable to such relapses is 
 
LETTER TO MANNING. 87 
 
 dreadful ; nor is it the least of our evils that her case and 
 all our story is so -vvell known around us. We are in a 
 manner marked. Excuse my troubling you, but I have 
 nobody by me to speak to me. I slept out last night, not 
 being able to endure the change and the stillness. But I 
 did not sleep well, and I must come back to my own bed. 
 I am going to try and get a friend to come and be with 
 me to-morrow. I am completely shipwrecked. My head 
 is quite bad. I almost wish that Mary were dead. God 
 bless you. Love to Sara and Hartley. — Mondaij. 
 
 C. Lamb." 
 
 The prospect of obtaining a residence more suited to 
 the peculiar exigencies of his situation than that which he 
 then occupied at Pentonville, gave Lamb comfort, which 
 he expressed in the following short letter : 
 
 TO MR. MANNING. 
 
 "1800. 
 
 " Dear Manning. — I feel myself unable to thank you 
 sufiSciently for your kind letter. It was doubly acceptable 
 to me, both for the choice poetry and the kind honest 
 prose which it contained. It was just such a letter as I 
 should have expected from Manning. 
 
 " I am in much better spirits than when I wrote last. 
 I have had a very eligible offer to lodge with a friend in 
 town. He will have rooms to let at midsummer, by which 
 time I hope my sister will be well enough to join me. It 
 is a great object to mo to live in town, where we shall bo 
 much more private, and to quit a house and a neighbor- 
 hood, where poor Mary's disorder, so frequently recurring, 
 has made us a sort of marked people. We can be no- 
 where private except in the midst of London. We shall 
 
88 LETTER TO COLERIDaE. 
 
 be in a family where we visit very frequently ; only my 
 landlord and I have not yet come to a conclusion. He has a 
 partner to consult. I am still on the tremble, for I do not 
 know where we could go into lodgings that would not be, in 
 many respects, highly exceptionable. Only God send 
 Mary well again, and I hope all will be well ! The pros- 
 pect, such as it is, has made me quite happy. I have 
 just time to tell you of it, as I know it will give you plea- 
 sure. Farewell. C. Lamb." 
 
 This hope was accomplished, as appears from the fol- 
 lowing letter : — 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 "1800. 
 
 " Dear Coleridge. — Soon after I wrote to you last, an 
 offer was made me by Gutch (you must remember him, at 
 Christ's, — you saw him, slightly, one day with Thomson 
 at our house) — to come and lodge with him, at his house 
 in Southampton Buildings, Chancery-lane. This was a 
 very comfortable offer to mc, the rooms being at a reason- 
 able rent, and including the use of an old servant, besides 
 being infinitely preferable to ordinary lodgings in our case^ 
 as you must perceive. As Gutch know all our story and 
 the perpetual liability to a recurrence in my sister's dis- 
 order, probably to the end of her life, I certainly think 
 the offer very generous and very friendly. I have got 
 three rooms (including servant) under oAl. a year. Here 
 I soon found myself at home ; and here, in six weeks after, 
 Mary Avas well enough to join me. So wc are once more 
 settled. I am afraid we are not placed out of the reach 
 of future interruptions. But I am determined to take 
 what snatches of pleasure we can between the acts of our 
 distressful drama I have passed two days at Ox- 
 
LETTER TO COLERIDQE. 89 
 
 ford, on a visit whicli I have long put off, to Gutch's 
 family. The sight of the Bodleian Library, and, above 
 all, a fine bust of Bishop Taylor, at All Souls', were par- 
 ticularly gratifying to me ; unluckily, it was not a family 
 where I could take Mary with me, and I am afraid there 
 is something of dishonesty in any pleasures I take with- 
 out her. She never goes anywhere. I do not know what 
 I can add to this letter. I hope you are better by this 
 time; and I- desire to be affectionately remembered to 
 Sara and Hartley. 
 
 " I expected before this to have had tidings of another 
 httle philosopher. Lloyd's wife is on the point of favor- 
 ing the world. 
 
 " Have you seen the new edition of Burns ? his posthu- 
 mous works and letters ? I have only been able to pro- 
 cure the first volume, which contains his life — very con- 
 fusedly and badly written, and interspersed with dull pa- 
 thological and medical discussions. It is written, by a 
 Dr. Currie. Do you know the well-meaning doctor ? 
 Alas, ne sutor ultra erepidam ! 
 
 " I hope to hear again from you very soon. Godwin is 
 gone to L-cland on a visit to Grattan. Before he went I 
 passed much time with him, and ho has showed me par- 
 ticular attention: N.B, A thing I much like. Your 
 books are all safe : only I have not thought it necessary 
 to fetch away your last batch, which I understand are at 
 Johnson's, the bookseller, who has got quite as much 
 
 room, and will take as much care of them as myself and 
 
 you can send for them immediately from him. 
 
 " I wish you would advert to a letter I sent you at Grass- 
 mere about Christabel, and comply with my request con- 
 tained therein. 
 
 " Love to all friends round Skiddaw. C Lamb." 
 
 8* 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 mSCELIANEOUS LETTERS TO MANNING, COLERIDGE, AND WORDSWORTH. 
 
 [ISOO to 1805.] 
 
 It would seem from the letters of 1800, that the natural 
 determination of Lamb "to take what pleasure he could 
 between the acts of his distressful drama," had led him 
 into a wider circle of companionship, and had prompted 
 sallies of wilder and broader mirth, which afterwards soft- 
 ened into delicacy, retaining all its whim. The following 
 passage, which concludes a letter to Manning, else occu- 
 pied with merely personal details, proves that his appre- 
 hensions for the diminution of his reverence for sacred 
 things were not wholly unfounded ; while, amidst its gro- 
 tesque expressions, may be discerned the repugnance to 
 the philosophical infidelity of some of his companions he 
 retained through life. The passage, may, perhaps, be 
 regarded as a sort of desperate compromise between a 
 wild gaiety and religious impressions obscured but not ef- 
 faced ; and intimating his disapprobation of infidelity, with 
 a melancholy sense of his own unworthiness seriously to 
 express it. 
 
 TO MR. MANNING. 
 
 " Coleridge inquires after you pretty often. I wish to 
 be the pandar to bring you together again once before I 
 (90) 
 
LETTER TO MANNING. 91 
 
 die. When we die, you and I must part ; tlie sheep, you 
 know, take the right hand, and the goats the left. Strip- 
 ped of its allegory, you must know, the sheep are T, and 
 the Apostles and the j\Iartyrs, and the Popes, and Bishop 
 Taylor, and Bishop Horsley, and Coleridge, &c.,&c. ; the 
 goats are the Atheists, and the Adulterers, and dumh dogs, 
 
 and Godwin, and M g, and that Thyest?ean crew — 
 
 yaw ! how my saintship sickens at the idea ! 
 
 "You shall have my play and the Falstaff letters in a 
 day or two. I will write to Lloyd by this day's post. 
 
 " God bless you, Manning. Take my trifling as tri' 
 fling — and believe me seriously and deeply your well- 
 Avisher and friend, C. Lamb." 
 
 In the following letter Lamb's fantastic spirits find scope 
 freely, though in all kindness, in the peculiarities of the 
 learned and good George Dyer : — 
 
 TO MR. MANNING. 
 
 "August 22nd, ISOO. 
 
 "Dear jSIanning. — You needed not imagine any apology 
 necessary. Y'our fine hare and fine birds (which just noAV 
 are dangling by our kitchen blaze), discourse most eloquent 
 music in your justification. You just nicked my palate. 
 For, with all due decorum and leave may it be spoken, 
 my worship hath taken physic to-day, and being low and 
 puling, requireth to be pampered. Fob! how beautiful 
 and strong those buttered onions come to my nose. For 
 you must know we extract a divine spirit of gravy from 
 those materials, which, duly compounded with a consist- 
 ence of bread and cream (y'clept bread-sauce), each to 
 each, giving double grace, do mutually illustrate and set 
 
92 LETTER TO MANNING. 
 
 off (as skilful gold-foils to rare jewelsj your partridge, 
 pheasant, woodcock, snipe, teal, widgeon, and the other 
 lesser daughters of the ark. My friendship, struggling 
 with my carnal and fleshly prudence (which suggests that 
 a bird a man is the proper allotment in such cases, yearn- 
 oth faometimes to have thee here to pick a wing or so. I 
 q»aestion if your Norfolk sauces match our London culin- 
 aric. 
 
 " George Dyer has introduced me to the table of an agree- 
 able old gentleman, Dr. A , who gives hot legs of mutton 
 
 and grape pies at his sylvan lodge at Isleworth ; where, in the 
 middle of a street, he has shot up a wall most preposter- 
 ously before his small dwelling, which, with the circum- 
 stance of his taking several panes of glass out of bedroom 
 windows (for air) causeth his neighbors to speculate strangely 
 on the state of the good man's pericranicks. Plainly, he lives 
 under the reputation of being deranged. George does 
 not mind this circumstance ; he rather likes him the bet- 
 ter for it. The Doctor, in his pursuits, joins agricultural 
 to poetical science, and has set George's brains mad about 
 the old Scotch writers, Barbour, Douglas's J^neid, Blind 
 Harry, &;c. We returned home in a returned postchaise 
 (having dined with the Doctor,) and George kept wonder- 
 ing, and wondering, for eight or nine turnpike miles, what was 
 the name, and striving to recollect the name of a poet anterior 
 to Barbour. I be2;a;ed to know what was remaining of his 
 works. ' There is nothing extant of his works, sir, but 
 by all accounts he seems to have been a fine gcniub ! This 
 fine genius, without anything to show for it, or any title 
 beyond George's courtesy, Avithout even a name ; and 
 Barbour, and Douglas, and Blind Harry, now are the 
 predominant sounds in George's pia mater, and their buz- 
 Siiugs exclude politics, criticism, and algebra — the late 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 93 
 
 lords of that illustrious lumber-room. Mark, he has never 
 read any of these bucks, but is impatient till he reads 
 them all at the Doctor's suggestion. Poor Dyer ! his 
 friends should be careful what sparks they let fall into 
 such inflammable matter. 
 
 " Could I have my will of the heathen, I would lock 
 him up from all access of new ideas ; I would exclude all 
 critics that would not swear me first (upon their Virgil) 
 that they would feed him with nothing but the old, safe, 
 familiar notions and sounds (the rightful aborigines of his 
 brain) — Gray, Akenside, and Mason. In these sounds, re- 
 iterated as often as possible, there could be nothing pain- 
 ful, nothing distracting. 
 
 " God bless me, here are the birds, smoking hot ! 
 
 "All that is gross and unspiritual in me rises at tho 
 sight ! 
 
 " Avaunt friendship, and all memory of absent friends ! 
 
 " C. Lamb." 
 
 In the following letter, the exciting subjects of Dr. 
 A and Dyer are further played on :— 
 
 TO MR. COLE^ICGE. 
 
 "August 26th, 1800. 
 
 " George Dyer is the only literary character I am hap- 
 pily acquainted with; the oftener I see him, the more 
 deeply I admire him. He is goodness itself. If I could 
 but calculate the precise date of his death, I would write 
 a novel on purpose to make George the hero. I could hit 
 him off to a hair.* George brouglit a Dr. A to see 
 
 * This passage, thus far, is printed in the former volumes ; the remainder 
 was then suppressed (with other passages now for the first time published) 
 relating to Mr. Dyer, lest they should give pain to that excellent person then 
 living. 
 
•^'i LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 me. The Doctor is a very i^leasant old man, a great ge- 
 nius for agriculture, one that ties his breeches-knees with 
 packthread, and boasts of having had disappointments 
 from ministers. The Doctor happened to mention an epic 
 poem by one Wilkie, called the 'Epigoniad,' in which he 
 assured us there is not one tolerable line from beginning 
 to end, but all the characters, incidents, &c., verbally 
 copied from Homer. George, who had been sitting quite 
 inattentive to the Doctor's criticism, no sooner heard the 
 sound of Home7' strike his pericranicks, than up he gets, 
 and declares he must see that poem immediately : where 
 was it to be had ? An epic poem of 8000 lines, and he 
 not hear of it ! There must be some things good in it, 
 and it was necessary he should see it, for he had touched 
 pretty deeply upon that subject in his criticisms on the 
 Epic. George has touched pretty deeply upon the Lyric, 
 I find ; he has also prepared a dissertation on the Drama 
 and the comparison of the English and German theatres. 
 As I rather doubted his competency to do the latter, know- 
 ing that his peculiar turyi lies in the lyric species of com- 
 position, I questioned George what English plays he had read. 
 I found that he had read Shakspeare (whom he calls an 
 original, but irregular, genius) ; but it ?v^as a good while 
 ago ; and he has dipped into Rowe and Otway, I suppose 
 having found their names in 'Johnson's Lives' at full 
 length ; and upon this slender ground he has undertaken 
 the task. He never seemed even to have heard of Fletcher, 
 Ford, Marlowe, Massinger, and the worthies of Dodsley's 
 Collection ; but he is to read all these, to prepare him for 
 bringing out his ' Parallel' in the winter. I find he is also 
 determined to vindicate Poetry from the shackles which 
 Aristole and some others have imposed upon it, which is 
 very good-natured of him, and very necessary just now ! 
 
LETTERS TO MANNING. 95 
 
 Now I am toucliing so deeply upon poeiry, can I forget 
 
 that I have just received from D a magnificent copy 
 
 of his Guinea Epic. Four-and-tAventy Books to read in 
 the dog-days ! I got as far as the Mad Monk the first 
 
 day, and fainted. Mr. D 's genius strong!}' points 
 
 him to the Pastoral, but his inclinations divert him per- 
 petually from liis calling, lie imitates Southey, as Rowe 
 did Shakspeare, with his ' Good morrow to ye ; good mas- 
 ter Lieutenant.' Instead of a man, a woman, a daughter, 
 he constantly writes one a man, one a woman, one his 
 daughter. Instead of tlie king, the hero, he constantly 
 writes, he the king, he the hero ; two flowers of rhetoric, 
 
 palpably from the ' Joan.' But Mr. D soars a higher 
 
 pitch : and when he is original, it is in a most original way 
 indeed. His terrific scenes are indefatigable. Serpents, 
 asps, spiders, ghosts, dead bodies, staircases made of no- 
 thing, with adders' tongues for bannisters — Good Heavens 
 what a brain he must have. He puts as many plums in 
 his pudding as my grandmother used to do ; — and then 
 his emerging from Hell's horrors into light, and treading 
 on pure flats of this earth — for twenty-three Books to- 
 gether ! C. L." 
 
 The following letter, obviously written about the same 
 time, pursues the same theme. There is some irritation 
 in it ; but even that is curious enough to prevent the ex- 
 cision of the reproduced passages : — 
 
 TO MR. MANNING. 
 
 "1800, 
 
 "Dear Manning. — I am going to ask a favor of you, 
 
 and am at a loss how to do it in the most delicate manner. 
 
 .For this purpose I have been looking into Pliny's Letters, 
 
 who is noted to haA'e had the best grace in begging of all tho 
 
98 LETTERS TO MANNING. 
 
 ancients (I read him in the elegant transLation of Mr. 
 Melmoth), but not finding any case there exactly similar 
 with mine, I am constrained to beg in my own barbarian 
 way. To come to the point then, and hasten into the 
 middle of things, have you a copy of your Algebra to 
 give away ? I do not ask it for myself ; I have too much 
 reverence for the Black Arts, ever to approach thy circle, 
 illustrious Trismegist ! But that worthy man, and excel- 
 lent Poet, George Dyer, made me a visit yesternight, on pur- 
 pose to borrow one, supposing rationally enough, I must 
 say, that you had made me a present of one before this ; 
 the omission of which I take to have proceeded only from 
 negligence ; but it is a fault. I could lend him no assist- 
 ance. You must know he is just now diverted from the 
 pursuit of the Bell Letters by a paradox, which he has 
 heard his friend Frend,* (that learned mathematician) 
 maintain, that the negative quantities of mathematicians 
 were merce nugce, things scarcely in rerum natura^ and 
 smacking too much of mystery for gentlemen of Mr. 
 Frond's clear Unitarian capacity. However, the dispute 
 once set a-going, has seized violently on George's pericra- 
 nick ; and it is necessary for his health that he should 
 speedily come to a resolution of his doubts. He goes 
 about teasing his friends with his new mathematics ; he 
 even frantically talks of purchasing Manning's Algebra, 
 which shows him far gone, for, to my knowledge, he had 
 not been master of seven shillings a good time. George's 
 
 pockets and 's brains are two things in nature which 
 
 do not abhor a vacuum. . . . Now, if you could step in, 
 in this trembling suspense of his reason, and he should 
 
 * Mr. Frond, many years the Actuary of tho Rock Insurance Office, in early 
 life the thampion of Unitarianism at Cambridge; the object of a great Univor 
 eity's displeasure; in short, the "village Hampden" of the day. 
 
LETTERS TO MANNING. 97 
 
 find on Saturday morning, lying for him at the Porter's 
 Lodge, Clifford's Inn— his safest address— Manning's 
 Algebra, with a neat manuscrlption in the blank leaf, 
 running thus, 'From tue Author!' it might save his wits 
 and restore the unhappy author to those studies of poetry 
 and criticism, which are at present suspended, to the in- 
 finite regret of the whole literary world. N.B.— Dirty 
 books, smeared leaves, and dogs' ears, will be rather a 
 recommendation than otherwise. KB.— He must have 
 the book as soon as possible, or nothing can withhold him 
 from madly purchasing the book on tick. . . . Then 
 shall we see him sweetly restored to the chair of Longinus 
 —to dictate in smooth and modest phrase the law? of 
 verse ; to prove that Theocritus first introduced the Pas- 
 toral, and Virgil and Pope brought it to its perfection ; 
 that Gray and Mason (who always hunt in couples in 
 George's brain) have shown a great deal of poetical fire 
 in their lyric poetry; that Aristotle's rules are not to be 
 servilely followed, which George has shown to have im- 
 posed great shackles upon modern genius. His poems I 
 find, are to consist of two vols.— reasonable octavo ; and a 
 third book will exclusively contain criticisms, in which he 
 asserts he has gone pretty deeply into the laws of blank 
 verse and rhyme— epic poetry, dramatic and pastoral 
 ditto— all which is _to come out before Christmas. But 
 above all he has touched most deeply upon the Drama, 
 comparing the English with the modern German stage,' 
 their merits and defects. Apprehending that his studiJs 
 (not to mention his turn, which I take to be chiefly to- 
 wards the lyrical poetry) har<lly qualified him for these 
 disquisitions, I modestly inquired what [.lays he had read. 
 I found by George's reply that he had read Shakspeare, 
 but that was a good wliile since : he calls him a great but 
 
 9 
 
^^ LETTERS TO MANNIiVG. 
 
 irregular genius, which I think to be an original and just 
 remark. (Beaumont and Fletcher, Massinger, Ben Jon- 
 son, Shirley, Marlowe, Ford, and the worthies of Dodsley's 
 Collection— he confessed he had read none of them, but 
 professed his intention of looking through them all, so as 
 to be able to touch upon them in his book.) So Shaks- 
 peare, Otway, and I believe Rowe, to whom he was 
 naturally directed by Johnson's Lives, and these not read 
 lately, are to stand him in stead of a general knowledge 
 of the subject. God bless his dear absurd head ! 
 
 "By the by, did I not write you a letter with something 
 about an invitation in it— but let that pass ; I suppose it is 
 not agreeable. 
 
 "N.B. It would not be amiss if you were to accom- 
 pany your present with a dissertation on negative quan- 
 tities. C L " 
 
 The " Algebra " arrived ; and Lamb wrote the follow- 
 ing invitation, in hope to bring the author and the presen- 
 tee together. 
 
 TO MR. MANNING. 
 
 "1800. 
 
 " George Dyer is an Archimedes, and an Archimagus, 
 and a Tycho Brah^, and a Copernicus ; and thou art the 
 darling of the Nine, and midwife to their wandering babe 
 also ! We take tea with that learned poet and critic on 
 Tuesday night, at half-past five, in his neat library ; the 
 repast will be light and Attic, with criticism. If thou 
 couldst contrive to wheel up thy dear carcass on the 
 Monday, and after dining with us on tripe, calves' kid- 
 neys, or whatever else the Cornucopia of St. Clare may 
 be willing to pour out on the occasion, might we not 
 
LETTERS TO MANNING. 99 
 
 adjourn together to tlie Heathen's— thou with thy Black 
 Backs, and I with some innocent volume of the Bell Letters, 
 Shenstone or the like : it would make him wash his old 
 flannel gown (that has not been washed to my knowledge 
 since it has been hts— Oh the long time !) with tears of 
 joy. Thou shouldst settle his scruples and unravel his 
 cobwebs, and sponge ofif the sad stuflf that weighs upoL 
 his dear wounded pia mater ; thou shouldst restore light 
 to his eyes, and him to his friends and the public ; Par- 
 nassus should shower her civic crowns upon thee for saving 
 the wits of a citizen ! I thought I saw a lucid interval in 
 George the other night— he broke in upon my studies just 
 
 at tea-time, and brought with him Dr. A , an old 
 
 gentleman who ties his breeches' knees with packthread, 
 and boasts that he has been disappointed by ministers. 
 The Doctor wanted to see me; for I being a Poet, he 
 thought I might furnish him with a copy of verses to suit 
 his Agricultural Magazine. The Doctor, in the course 
 of the conversation, mentioned a poem called the ' Epigoniad' 
 by one Wilkie, an epic poem, in which there is not one 
 tolerable good line all through, but every incident and 
 speech borrowed from Homer. George had been sitting 
 inattentive, seemingly, to what was going on — hatching 
 of negative quantities — when, suddenly, the name of 
 his old friend, Homer, stung his pericranicks, and jump- 
 ing up, he begged to know where he could meet with Wil- 
 kie's works. ' It was a curious fact that there should be 
 such an epic poem and he not know of it ; and he must 
 get a copy of it, as he was going to touch pretty deeply 
 upon the subject of the Epic— and he was sure there must 
 be some things good in a poem of 8000 lines !' I was 
 pleased with this transient return of his reason and recur- 
 rence to his old ways of thinking : it gave me great hopes 
 
100 LETTERS TO MANNING. 
 
 of a recovery, Avhich nothing but your book can com- 
 pletely insure. Pray come on Monday, if you caw, and stay 
 your own time. I have a good large room, with two beds 
 in it, in the handsomest of which thou shalt repose a-nights, 
 and dream of Spheroides. I hope you will understand by 
 the nonsense of this letter that I am yiot melancholy at the 
 thoughts of thy coming : I thought it necessary to add 
 this, because you love precision. Take notice that our 
 stay at Dyer's will not exceed eight o'clock, after which 
 our pursuits will be our own. But indeed, I think a little 
 recreation among the Bell Letters and poetry will do you 
 some service in the interval of severer studies. I hope we 
 shall fully discuss with George Dyer what I have never 
 yet heard done to my satisfaction, the reason of Dr. John- 
 son's malevolent strictures on the higher species of the 
 Ode." 
 
 Manning could not come ; and Dyer's subsequent symp- 
 toms are described in the following letter : — 
 
 TO MR. MANNING. 
 
 "December 27th, 1800. 
 
 " At length George Dyer's phrenesis has come to a 
 crisis ; he is raging and furiously mad. I waited upon the 
 Heathen, Thursday was a se'nnight ; the first symptom 
 which struck my eye and gave me incontrovertible proof 
 of the fatal truth was a pair of nankeen pantaloons four 
 times too big for him, which the said Heathen did perti- 
 naciously affirm to be new. 
 
 " They were absolutely ingrained with the accumulated 
 dirt of ages ; but he affirmed them to be clean. He was 
 going to visit a lady that was nice about those things, and 
 
LETTERS TO 3ilAJSrN^J^,41,' ' ', > '^? ;', ; > /', 101 
 
 that's the reason he wore nankeen tliat day. And then 
 he danced, and capered, and fidgeted, and pulled up his 
 pantaloons, and hugged his intolerable flannel vestment 
 closer about his poetic loins ; anon he gave it loose to the 
 zephyrs, which plentifully insinuate their tiny bodies 
 through every crevice, door, window or wainscot, ex- 
 pressly formed for the exclusion of such impertinents. 
 Then he caught at a proof sheet, and catched up a laun- 
 dress's bill instead — made a dart at Bloomfield's Poems 
 and threw them in agony aside. I could not bring him to 
 one direct reply; he could not maintain his jumping mind 
 in a right line for the tithe of a moment by Clifford's Inn 
 clock. He must go to the printer's immediately — the most 
 unlucky accident — he had struck off five hundred impres- 
 sions of his Poems, which were ready for delivery to sub- 
 scribers, and the Preface must all be expuno-ed ; there 
 were eighty pages of Preface, and not till that morning 
 had he discovered that in the very first page of said Pre- 
 face he had set out with a principle of Criticism funda- 
 mentally wrong, which vitiated all his following reasoning ; 
 the Preface must be expunged, although it cost him 30/,, 
 the lowest calculation, taking in paper and printing ! In 
 vain have his real friends remonstrated against this Mid- 
 summer madness. George is as obstinate as a Primitive 
 Christian— and wards and parries off all our thrusts with 
 one unanswerable fence ;— ' Sir, it's of great consequence 
 that the world is not misled P 
 
 '^ I've often wished I lived in the Golden A ge, before 
 doubt, and propositions, and corollaries, got into the world. 
 
 JVow, as Joseph D , a Pard of Nature, sing , going uji 
 
 Malv^ern Hills. 
 
 ' IIow steep ! how piiinful the ascent; 
 It needs tlio evidence of close deduction 
 To know that ever I shall gain the top.' 
 
 9* 
 
102 
 
 LETTE^a, ,T0 MANNING. 
 
 You must know tliat Joe is lame, so that he had some 
 reason for so singing. These two lines, I assure you, are 
 taken totidem Uteris from a very popular poem. Joe is 
 also an Epic Poet as well as a Descriptive, and has written 
 a tragedy, though both his drama and epopoiea are strictly 
 descriptive, and chiefly of the Beauties of Nature, for Joe 
 thinks man with all his passions and frailties not a proper 
 subject of the Drama. Joe's tragedy hath the following 
 surpassing speech in it. Some king is told that his enemy 
 has engaged twelve archers to come over in a boat from 
 an enemy's country and waylay him ; he thereupon pa- 
 thetically exclaims — 
 
 'Twelve, dost thou say? Curso on those dozen villains !' 
 
 D read two or three acts out to us, A^ery gravely on 
 
 both sides till he came to this heroic touch — and then he 
 asked what we laughed at ? I had no more muscles that 
 day. A poet that chooses to read out his own verses has 
 but a limited power over you. There is a bound where 
 his authority ceases." 
 
 The following letter, written some time in 1801, shows 
 that Lamb had succeeded in obtaining occasional employ- 
 ment as a writer of epigrams for newspapers, by which he 
 added something to his slender income. The disparaging 
 reference to Sir James Mackintosh must not be taken as ex- 
 pressive of Lamb's deliberate opinion of that distinguished 
 person. Mackintosh, at this time, was in great disfavor, 
 for his supposed apostacy from the principles of his youth, 
 with Lamb's philosophic friends, Avhose minds were of 
 temperament less capable than that of the author of the 
 Vindieice Crallicce of being diverted from abstract theories 
 of liberty by the crimes and sufferings which then at- 
 tended the great attempt to reduce them to practice. 
 
LETTER TO MANNING. 103 
 
 Lamb, through life, utterly indifferent to politics, was al- 
 ways ready to take part with his friends, and probably 
 scouted, with them, Mackintosh as a dn-^orter. 
 
 TO MR. MANNING. 
 
 "ISOl. 
 
 " Dear Manning. — ^I have forborne writing so long (and 
 BO have you for the matter of that), until I am almost 
 ashamed either to write or to forbear any longer. But as 
 your silence may proceed from some worse cause than ne- 
 glect — from illness, or some mishap which may have be- 
 fallen you, I begin to be anxious. You may have been burnt 
 out, or you may have married, or you may have broken a 
 limb, or turned country parson ; any of these would be ex- 
 cuse sufficient for not coming to my supper. I am not so 
 unforgiving as the nobleman in Saint Mark. For me, 
 nothing new has happened to me, unless that the poor 
 Albion died last Saturday of the world's neglect, and 
 with it the fountain of my puns is choked up for ever. 
 
 " All the Lloyds wonder that you do not write to them. 
 They apply to me for the cause. Relieve me from this 
 weight of ignorance, and enable me to give a truly oracu- 
 lar response. 
 
 " I have been confined some days with swelled cheek 
 and rheumatism — they divide and govern me with a vice- 
 roy-headache in the middle. I can neither Avi'ite nor read 
 without great pain." It must be something like obstinacy 
 that I choose tliis time to write to you in aftei many 
 months interruption. 
 
 '' I will close my letter of simple inquiry with an epi- 
 gram on Mackintosh, the Vindicioe Gfallicce-ma^n — who has 
 got a place at last — one of the last I did for the Albion: — • 
 
104 LETTER TO MR, WALTER WILSON. 
 
 ' Though thou'rt like Judas, an apostate black, 
 In the resemblance one thing thou dost lack ; 
 When he had gotten his ill-purchas'd pelf, 
 He went away, and wiselj' hang'd himself; 
 This thou may do at last, yet much I doubt, 
 If thou hast any Bowels to gush out !' 
 
 " Yours, as ever, C. Lajub." 
 
 Some sportive extravagance which, however inconsistent 
 with Lamb's early sentiments of reverent piety, was very 
 far from indicating an irreligious purpose, seems to have 
 given offence to Mr. Walter Wilson, and to have induced 
 the following letter, illustrative of the writer's feelings at 
 this time, on the most momentous of all subjects : — 
 
 TO MR. WALTER WILSON. 
 
 "August 14th, 1801. 
 
 " Dear Wilson. — I am extremely sorry that any serious 
 difference should subsist between us, on account of some 
 foolish behaviour of mine at Richmond ; you knew me well 
 enough before, that a very little liquor will cause a con- 
 siderable alteration in me. 
 
 " I beg you to impute my conduct solely to that, and 
 not to any deliberate intention of offending you, from 
 whom I have received so many friendly attentions. I 
 know that you think a very important difference in opinion 
 with respect to some more serious subjects between us 
 makes me a dangerous companion ; but do not rashly infer, 
 from some slight and light expressions which I may have 
 made use of in a moment of levity, in your presence, with- 
 out sufBcient regard to your feelings — do not conclude 
 that I am an inveterate enemy to all religion. I have 
 had a time of seriousness, and I have known the impor- 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 105 
 
 tance and reality of a religious belief. Latterly, I ac- 
 knowledge, much of mj seriousness has gone off, whether 
 from new company, or some other new associations ; but I 
 still retain at bottom a conviction of the truth, and a cer- 
 tainty of the usefulness of religion. I will not pretend to 
 more gravity or feeling than I at present possess ; my in- 
 tention is not to persuade you that any great alteration 
 IS probably in me; sudden converts are superficial and 
 transitory ; I only want you to believe that I have stamina 
 of seriousness within me, and that I desire nothing more 
 than a return of that friendly intercourse which used to 
 subsist between us, but which my folly has suspended. 
 " Believe me, very affectionately, yours, 
 
 "C.Lamb." 
 
 In 1803 Coleridge visited London, and at his departure 
 left the superintendence of a new edition of his poems io 
 Lamb. The following letter, written in reply to one of 
 Coleridge's, giving a mournful account of his journey to 
 the north with an old man and his influenza, refers to a 
 splendid smoking-cap which Coleridge had worn at their 
 evening meetin";s : — 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 "April 13th, 1803. 
 
 " My dear Coleridge. — Things have gone on better with 
 me since you left me. I expect to have my old house- 
 keeper home again in a week or two. She has mended 
 most rapidly. My health too has been better since you 
 took away that Montero cap. I have left off cayenncd 
 eggs and such bolsters to discomfort. There was death in 
 that cap. I mischievously wished that by some inauspi- 
 cious jolt the whole contents might be shaken, and the coach 
 set on fire ; for you said they had that property. IIo^v 
 
106 LETTER TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 the old gentleman, who joined you at Grantham, would 
 have clapt his hands to his knees, and not knowing but it 
 was an immediate visitation of heaven that burnt him, how 
 pious it would have made him ; him, I mean, that brought 
 the influenza with him, and only took places for one — an 
 old sinner ; he must have known what he had got with him ! 
 However, I wish the cap no harm for the sake of the head 
 it fits, and could be content to see it disfigure my healthy 
 side-board again. 
 
 " What do you think of smoking ? I want your sober, 
 average, 7ioon opinion of it. I generally am eating my 
 dinner about the time I should determine it. 
 y" Morning is a girl, and can't smoke — she's no evidence 
 one way or the other ; and Night is so bought over, that 
 he can't be a very upright judge. May be the truth is, 
 that one pipe is wholesome ; tivo pipes toothsome ; tltree 
 pipes noisome ; four pipes fulsome ; five pipes quarrelsome, 
 and that's the sum on't. But that is deciding rather upon 
 rhyme than reason. . . . After all, our instincts may be 
 best. Wine, I am sure, good, mellow, generous Port, can 
 hurt nobody, unless those who take it to excess, which they 
 may easily avoid if they observe the rules of temperance. 
 
 " Bless you old sophist, who next to human nature taught 
 me all the corruption I was capable of knowing ! And 
 bless your Montero cap, and your trail (which shall come 
 after you whenever you appoint), and your wife and chil- 
 dren — Pipes especially. 
 
 "When shall we two smoke again ?/ Last night I had 
 been in a sad quandary of spirits, in what they call the 
 evening, but a pipe, and some generous Port, and King 
 Lear (being alone), had their effects as solacers. I went 
 to bed pot-valiant. By the way, may not the Ogles v^i 
 Somersetshire be remotely descended from King Lear ? 
 
 «C. L." 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 107 
 
 The next letter is prefaced by happy news. 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 " Mary sends love from home. 
 
 "1803. 
 
 " Dear C. — I do confess that I have not sent your 
 books as I ought to have done ; but you know how the hu- 
 man free-will is tethered, and that we perform promises 
 to ourselves no better than to our friends. A watch is 
 come for you. Do you want it soon, or shall I wait till 
 some one travels your way ? You, like me, I suppose, 
 reckon the lapse of time from the waste thereof, as boys 
 let a cock run to waste ; too idle to stop it, and rather 
 amused with seeing it dribble. Your poems have begun 
 printing ; Longman sent to me to arrange them, the old 
 and the new together. It seems you have left it to him ; 
 so I classed them, as nearly as I could, according to dates. 
 First, after the Dedication, (which must march first,) and 
 which I have transplanted from before the Preface, (which 
 stood like a dead wall of prose between,) to be the first 
 poem — then comes 'The Pixies,' and the things most ju- 
 venile — then on 'To Chatterton,' &c. — on, lastly, to the 
 ' Ode on the Departing Year,' and ' Musings,' — which fin- 
 ish. Longman wanted the Ode first, but the arrangement 
 I have made is precisely that marked out in the Dedica- 
 tion, following the order of time. I told Longman I was 
 sure that you would omit a good portion of the first edition. 
 I instanced several sonnets, &;c. — but that w^as not his 
 plan, and, as you have done nothing in it, all I could do 
 was to arrange 'em on the supposition that all were to be 
 retained. A few I positively rejected; such as that of 
 ' The Thimble,' and that of ' Flicker and Flicker's wife,' 
 and that not in the manner of Spenser, which you your' 
 
108 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 self had stigmatised — and ' The Man of Ross,' — I doubt 
 -whether I should this Last. It is not too late to save it. 
 The first proof is only just come. I have been forced to 
 call that Cupid's Elixir, 'Kisses.' It stands in your 
 first volume, as an Effusion, so that, instead of prefixing 
 The Kiss to that of ' One Kiss, dear Maid,' &c., I have 
 ventured to entitle it ' To Sara.' I am aware of the 
 nic3ty of changing even so mere a trifle as a title to so 
 short a piece, and subverting old associations ; but two 
 called " Kisses' would have been absolutely ludicrous, and 
 ' Effusion' is no name, and these poems come close together. 
 I promise you not to alter one word in any poem what- 
 ever, but to take your last text, where two are. Can you 
 send any wishes about the book? Longman, I think, 
 should have settled with you ; but it seems you have left 
 it to him. Write as soon as you possibly can ; for, without 
 making myself responsible, I feel myself, in some sort, ac- 
 cessary to the selection, which I am to proof-correct ; but 
 I decidedly said to Biggs that I was sure you would omit 
 more. Those I have positively rubbed off, I can swear to 
 individually, (except the 'Man of Ross,' which is too fa- 
 miliar in Pope,) but no others — you have your cue. For 
 my part, I had rather all the Juvenilia were kept — mem- 
 orise causa. 
 
 " Robert Lloyd has written me a masterly letter, con- 
 taining a character of his father ; see how different from 
 Charles he views the old man ! [Literatim.) ' My father 
 smokes, repeats Homer in Greek, and Virgil, and is learn- 
 ing, when from business, with all the vigor of a young 
 man, Italian. He is, really, a wonderful man. He mixes 
 public and private business, the intricacies of disordering 
 life with his religion and devotion. No one more ration- 
 ally enjoys the romantic scenes of nature, and the chit- 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 100 
 
 chat and little vagaries of his children ; and, though sur- 
 rounded with an ocean of affairs, the very neatness of his 
 most obscure cupboard in the house passes not unnoticed. 
 I never knew any one view with such clearness, nor so 
 well satisfied with things as they are, and make such 
 allowance, for things which must appear perfect Syriac to 
 him.' By the last he means the Lloydisms of the younger 
 branches. His portrait of Charles (exact as far as he has 
 had the opportunities of noting him) is most exquisite. 
 ' Charles is become steady as a church, and as straight- 
 forward as a Roman Road. It would distract him to men- 
 tion anything that was not as plain as sense ; he seems to 
 have run the whole scenery of life, and now rests as the 
 formal precision of non-existence.' Here is genius I think, 
 and 'tis seldom a young man, a Lloyd, looks at a father 
 (so differing) with such good nature while he is alive. 
 Write — I am in post-haste, C. Lamb." 
 
 "Love, &c., to Sara, P. and H." 
 
 The next letter, containing a further account of Lamb's 
 superintendence of the new edition, bears the date of 
 Saturday, 27th May, 1803. 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 " My dear Coleridge. — The date of my last was one day 
 prior to the receipt of your letter, full of foul omens. I 
 explain, lest you should have thought mine too light a 
 reply to such sad matter. I seriously hope by this time 
 you have given up all thoughts of journeying to the green . 
 Islands of the Blest — voyages in time of war are very pre- 
 carious — or at least, that you will take them in your way 
 to the Azores. Pray be careful of this letter till it has 
 done its duty, for it is to inform you that I have booked 
 10 
 
110 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 off your watch (laid in cotton like an untimely fruit), and 
 with it Condillac, and all other books of yours which were 
 left here. These will set out on Monday next, the 29th 
 May, by Kendal wagon, from White Horse, Cripplegate. 
 "iou will make seasonable inquiries, for a watch mayn't 
 come your way again in a hurry. I have been repeatedly 
 after Tobin, and now hear that he is in the country, not 
 to return till middle of June. I will take care and see 
 him with the earliest. But cannot you write pathetically 
 to him, enforcing a speedy mission of your books for lite- 
 rary purposes ? He is too good a retainer to Literature, 
 to let her interests suffer through his default. And why, 
 in the name of Beelzebub, are your books to travel from 
 Barnard's Inn to the Temple, and thence circuitously to 
 Cripplegate, when their business is to take a short cut 
 down Holborn-hill, up Snow do,, on to Wood-street, &c. ? 
 The former mode seems a sad superstitious subdivision of 
 labor. Well ! the ' Man of Ross' is to stand ; Lono-man 
 begs for it ; the printer stands with a wet sheet in one 
 hand, and a useless Pica in the other, in tears, pleading 
 for it ; I relent. Besides, it was a Salutation poem, and 
 has the mark of the beast ' Tobacco' upon it. Thus much 
 I have done ; I have swept off the lines about widows and 
 orphans in second edition, which (if you remember) you 
 most awkwardly and illogically caused to be inserted 
 between two Ifs, to the great breach and disunion of said 
 Ifs, which now meet again (as in first edition), like two 
 clever lawyers arguing a case. Another reason for sub- 
 tracting the pathos was, that the ' Man of Ross' is too 
 familiar, to need telling what he did, especially in worse 
 lines than Pope told it, and it now stands simply as ' Re- 
 flections at an Inn about a known Character,' and sucking 
 an old story into an accommodation with present feelings. 
 
LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. Ill 
 
 Here is no breaking spears with Pope, but a new, inde- 
 pendent, and really a very pretty poem. In fact 'tis as 
 I used to admire it in the first volume, and I have even 
 dared to restore 
 
 'If 'neath this roof thy wine-cheer'd mcments pass,' 
 
 for 
 
 'Beneath this roof if thy cheer'd moments pass/ 
 
 * Cheer'd' is a sad general word, ' wine-cheer d' I'm sure 
 you'd give me, if I had a speaking-trumpet to sound to 
 you 300 miles. But I am your factotum, and that save 
 in this instance, which is a single case, and I can't get at 
 you, shall be next to afac-nihil — at most 2k facsimile. I 
 have ordered ' Imitation of Spenser' to be restored on 
 Wordsworth's authority ; and now, all that you will miss 
 will be 'Flicker and Flicker's Wife,' 'The Thimble,' 
 'Breathe, dear harmonist,' and I believe, 'The Child that 
 was fed with Manna.' Another volume will clear off all 
 your Anthologic Morning-Postian Epistolary Miscellanies; 
 but pray don't put ' Christabel' therein ; don't let that 
 sweet maid come forth attended with Lady Holland's mob 
 at her heels. Let there be a separate volume of Tales, 
 Choice Tales, 'Ancient Mariners,' &c. C. Lamb." 
 
 The following is the fragment of a letter (part being 
 lost), on the re-appearance of the Lyrical Ballads, in two 
 volumes, and addressed 
 
 TO MR. AVORDSWORTir. 
 
 " Thanks for your letter and present. I had already 
 borrowed your second volume. What most please me are, 
 ' The Song of Lucy ;' Simon s sickly daughter, in ' The 
 
^12 LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Sexton' made me cry. Next to these are the description 
 of the continuous echoes in the story of 'Joanna's Laugh,' 
 where the mountains, and all the scenery absolutely seem 
 alive ; and that fine Shaksjoearian character of the ' happy 
 man,' in the 'Brothers,' 
 
 'that creeps about the fields, 
 
 Following his fancies by the hour, to bring 
 Tears down his cheeks, or solitary smiles 
 Into his face, until the setting sun 
 Write Fool upon his forehead !' 
 
 I will mention one more— the delicate and curious feeling 
 in the wish for the 'Cumberland Beggar,' that he may 
 have about him the melody of birds, altho' he hear them 
 not. Here the mind knowingly passes a fiction upon her- 
 self, first substituting her own feelings for the Bego-ar's, 
 and in the same breath detecting the fallacy, will not part 
 with the Avish. The ' Poet's Epitaph' is disfigured, to my 
 taste, by the common satire upon parsons and lawyers in 
 the beginning, and the coarse epithet of 'pin-point,' in 
 the sixth stanza. All the rest is eminently good, and 
 your own. I will just add that it appears to me a fault in 
 the ' Beggar,' that the instructions conveyed in it are too 
 direct, and like a lecture : they don't slide into the mind 
 of the reader while he is imagining no such matter. An 
 intelligent reader finds a sort of insult in being told, 'I 
 will teach you how to think upon this subject.' This fault, 
 if I am right, is in a ten-thousandth worse degree to be 
 found in Sterne, and many many novelists and modern 
 poets, who continually put a sign-post up to show where 
 you are to feel. They set out with assuming their readers 
 to be stupid; very different from 'Robinson Crusoe,' 'The 
 Vicar of Wakefield,' 'Roderick Random,' and other beau- 
 tiful, bare narratives. There is implied an unwritten 
 
LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 113 
 
 compact between author and reader ; ' I will tell you a 
 ?tory, and I suppose you will understand it.' Modern 
 novels, ' St. Leons' and the like, are full of such flowers 
 as these — 'Let not my reader suppose/ 'Imagine, if you 
 can, modest !' &c. I will here have done Avith praise and 
 blame. I have written so much, only that you may not 
 think I have passed over your book without observa 
 
 tion I am sorry that Coleridge has christened his 
 
 'Ancient Marinere' 'a Poet's Reverie;' it is as bad as 
 Bottom the Weaver's declaration that he is not a lion, but 
 only the scenical representation of a lion. What new 
 idea is gained by this title but one subversive of all credit 
 — which the tale should force upon u>— of its truth ! 
 
 For me, I was never so affected with any human tale. 
 After first reading it, I was totally possessed with it for 
 many days. I dislike all the miraculous part of it, but 
 the feelings of the man under the operation of such scenery, 
 dragged me along like Tom Pipes's magic whistle. I to- 
 tally differ from your idea that ' Marinere' should have 
 had a character and profession. This is a beauty in ' Gul- 
 liver's Travels,' where the mind is kept in a placid state 
 of little wonderments ; but the ' Ancient Marinere' under- 
 goes such trials as overwhelm and bury all individuality 
 or memory of what he was — like the state of a man in a 
 bad dream, one terrible peculiarity of which is, that all 
 consciousness of personality is gone. Your other obser- 
 vation is, I think as well, a little unfounded : the ' Marinere,' 
 from being conversant in supernatural events, has acquired 
 a supernatural and strange cast of j^hrase, eye, appear- 
 ance, &;c., which frighten the 'wedding-guest.' You will 
 excuse my remarks, because I am hurt and vexed that 
 you should think it necessary, Avith a prose apology, to 
 open the eyes of dead men that cannot see. 
 
 10* 
 
^14 LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 " To sum up a general opinion of the second volume, I 
 do not feel any one poem in it so forcibly as the ' Ancient 
 Marinere,' the 'Mad Mother/ and the 'Lines at Tintern 
 Abbey' in the first." 
 
 The following letter was addressed, on 28th September, 
 1805, when Lamb was bidding his generous farewell to 
 Tcbacco, to Wordsworth, then living in noble poverty 
 with his sister in a cottage by Grasmere, which is as sacred 
 to some of his old admirers as even Shakspeare's House. 
 
 TO MR. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 " My dear Wordsworth (or Dorothy rather, for to you 
 appertains the biggest part of this answer by right), I will 
 not again deserve reproach by so long a silence. I have 
 kept deluding myself with the idea that Mary would write 
 to you, but she is so lazy (or I believe the true state of the 
 case, so diffident), that it must revert to me as usual : 
 though she writes a pretty good style, and has some notion 
 of the force of words, she is not always so certain of the 
 true orthography of them ; and that, and a poor hand- 
 writing (in this age of female calligraphy), often deters 
 her, where no other reason does.* 
 
 " We have neither of us been very well for some weeks 
 past. I am very nervous, and she most so at those times 
 when I am ; so that a merry friend, adverting to the noble 
 consolation we were able to aiford each other, denominated 
 us, not unaptly, Gum-Boil and Tooth-Ache, for they used 
 to say that a gum-boil is a great relief to a tooth-ache. 
 
 " We have been two tiny excursions this summer for 
 
 * This is mere banter; Miss Lamb wrote a very good hand. 
 
LETTERS TO AVORDSWORTH. 115 
 
 three or four days each, to a place near Harrow and to 
 Egham, where Cooper's Iliil is : and that is the total his- 
 tory of our rustications this year. Alas ! how poor a 
 round to Skiddaw and Helvellyn, and Borrowdale, and 
 the magnificent sesquipedalia of the year 1802. Poor old 
 Molly ! to have lost her pride, that ' last infirmity of noble 
 minds,' and her cow. Fate need not have set her wits to 
 such an old Molly. I am heartily sorry for her. Re- 
 member us lovingly to her ; and in particular remember 
 us to Mrs. Clarkson in the most kind manner. 
 
 "I hope, by 'southwards,' you mean that she will be at 
 or near London, for she is a great favorite of both of us, 
 and w^e feel for her health as much as possible for any one 
 to do. She is one of the friendliest, comfortablest women 
 we know^, and made our little stay at your cottage one of 
 the pleasantest times we ever past. We were quite 
 strangers to her. Mr. C. is with you too; our kindest 
 separate remembrances to him. As to our special affairs, 
 I am looking about me. I have done nothing since the 
 beginning of last year, when I lost my newspaper job, and 
 having had a long idleness, I must do something, or we 
 shall get very poor. Sometimes I think of a farce, but 
 hitherto all schemes have gone off; an idle brag or two 
 of an evening, vaporing out of a pipe, and going oflF in the 
 morning ; but now I have bid farewell to my ' sweet enemy,' 
 Tobacco, as you will see in my next page,* I shall perhaps 
 set nobly to work. Hang work ! 
 
 "I wish that all the year were holiday ; I am sure that in- 
 dolence — indefeasible indolence — is the true state of man, 
 and business the invention of the old Teazer, whose inter- 
 
 * The " Farewell to Tobacco" was transcribed on the next page ; but the ac. 
 tual sacrifice was not completed till some years after. 
 
116 LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 ference doomed Adam to an apron, and set him a hoeing. 
 Pen and ink, and clerks and desks, were the refinements 
 of this old torturer some thousand years after, under pre- 
 tence of ' Commerce allying distant shores, promoting and 
 diffusing knowledge, good,' &c. &c. Yours truly, 
 
 "C. Lamb." 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 LETTERS TO HAZLITT, ETC. 
 
 [1805 to ISIO.] 
 
 About the year 1805 Lamb was introduced to odo 
 whose society through life was one of his chief pleasures— 
 the great critic and thinker, William Hazlitt— who, at 
 that time, scarcely conscious of his own literary powers, 
 was striving hard to become a painter. At the period of 
 the following letter (which is dated 15th March, 1806) 
 Hazlitt was residing with his father, an Unitarian minister 
 at Wem. 
 
 TO MR. HAZLITT. 
 
 " Dear H. — I am a little surprised at no letter from 
 you. This day week, to wit, Saturday the 8th of March, 
 180G, I book'd off by the Wem coach, Bull and Mouth 
 Inn, directed to you, at the Rev. Mr. Ilazlitt's, Wem, 
 Shropshire, a parcel containing, besides a book, &c., a 
 rare print, which I take to be a Titian ; begging the said 
 W. II. to acknowledge the receipt thereof; Avhich he not 
 having done, I conclude the said parcel to be lying at the 
 inn, and may be lost ; for which reason, lest you may be a 
 Wales-hunting at this instant, I have authorised any of 
 your family, whosoever first gets this, to open it, that so 
 
 (117) 
 
118 LETTER TO IIAZLITT. 
 
 precious a parcel may not moulder away for want of look- 
 ing after. What do you in Shropshire when so many fine 
 pictures are a-going a-going every day in London ? Mon- 
 day I visit the Marquis of Lansdowne's, in Berkley 
 Square. Catalogue 2s. 6d. Leonardos in plenty. Some 
 other day this week, I go to see Sir Wm. Young's, in 
 Stratford Place. Hulse's, of Blackheath, are also to be 
 sohl this month, and in May, the first private collection 
 in Europe, Welbore Ellis Agar's. And there are you per- 
 verting Nature in lying landscapes, filched from old rusty 
 Titians, such as I can scrape up here to send you, with an 
 additament from Shropshire nature thrown in to make the 
 ■whole look unnatural. I am afraid of your mouth water- 
 ing vfhen I tell you that Manning and I got into Anger- 
 stein's on Wednesday. J\Ion Dieu ! Such Claudes ' 
 Four Claudes bought for more than 10,000Z. (those who 
 talk of W^ilson being equal to Claude are either mainly 
 ignorant or stupid) ; one of these was perfectly miraculous. 
 What colors short of bona fide sunbeams it could be painted 
 in, I am not earthly colorman enough to say; but I did 
 not think it had been in the possibility of things. Then, 
 a music-piece by Titian — a thousand-pound picture — five 
 figures standing behind a piano, the sixth playing ; none 
 of the heads, as M. observed, indicating great men, or af- 
 fecting it, but so sweetly disposed ; all leaning separate 
 ways, but so easy, like a flock of some divine shepherd ; 
 the coloring, like the economy of the picture, so sw^eet and 
 harmonious — as good as Shakspeare's ' Twelfth Night,' — 
 almost, that is. It will give you a love of order, and cure 
 you of restless, fidgety passions for a week after — more 
 musical than the music which it would, but cannot, yet in 
 a manner does, show. I have no room for the rest. Let 
 me say, Angerstein sits in a room — his study (only that 
 
LETTER TO MRS. HAZLITT. 119 
 
 and the library are shown), when he writes a common 
 letter, as I am doing, surrounded with twenty pictures 
 worth 60,0001. What a luxury ! Apicius and Helioga- 
 balus, hide your diminished heads ! 
 
 " Yours, my dear painter, 
 
 " C. Lamb." 
 
 Hazlitt married Miss Sarah Stoddart, sister of the pre- 
 sent Sir John Stoddart, who became very intimate with 
 Lamb and his sister. To her Lamb, on the 11th Decem- 
 ber, 1806, thus communicated the failure of "Mr. H." 
 
 TO MRS. HAZLITT. 
 
 " Don't mind this being a queer letter. I am in haste, 
 and taken up by visitors, condolers, &c. God bless you. 
 
 " Dear Sarah. — ^Mary is a little cut at the ill success 
 of ' Mr. H.' which came out last night, and failed. I 
 know you'll be sorry, but never mind. We are deter- 
 mined not to be cast down. I am going to leave off to- 
 bacco, and then we must thrive. A smoking man must 
 ■write smoky farces. 
 
 " Mary is pretty well, but I persuaded her to let me 
 write. We did not apprise you of the coming out of ' Mr. 
 H.' for fear of ill-luck. You were much better out of the 
 house. If it had taken, your partaking of our good luck 
 would liave been one of our greatest joys. As it is, we 
 shall expect you at the time you mentioned. But when- 
 ever you come you shall be most welcome. 
 
 " God bless you, dear Sarah, 
 
 " Yours, most truly, C. L. 
 
120 LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 " Mary is by no means unwell, but I made her let me 
 write." 
 
 The following is Lamb's account of the same calamity, 
 addressed 
 
 TO MR. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 " Mary's love to all of you — I wouldn't let her write. 
 
 "Dear Wordsworth. — 'Mr. H.' came out last night, 
 and failed. I had many fears ; the subject was not sub- 
 stantial enough. John Bull must have solider fare than a 
 letter. We are pretty stout about it ; have had plenty of 
 condoling friends ; but, after all, we had rather it should 
 have succeeded. You will see the prologue in most of 
 the morning papers. It was received with such shouts as 
 I never witnessed to a prologue. It was attempted to be 
 encored. How hard !— a thing I did merely as a task, 
 because it was wanted, and set no great store by ; and 
 ' Mr. H.' ! ! The quantity of friends we had in the house— 
 my brother and I being in public offices, &c. — was aston- 
 ishing, but they yielded at last to a few hisses. 
 
 " A hundred hisses ! (Hang the word, I write it like 
 kisses— how different!) — a hundred hisses outweigh a 
 thousand claps. The former come more directly from the 
 heari. Well, 'tis withdrawn, and there is an end. 
 
 '■Better luck to us, C Lamb. 
 
 "P.S. Pray, when any of you write to the Clarksons 
 give our kind l.ves, and say Tve shall not be able to come 
 Dnd see th?m a-:, Christmas, as I shall have but a day or 
 two, and tell them we bear our mortification pretty well.' 
 
LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 121 
 
 About this time Miss Lamb sought to contribute to her 
 brother's scanty income bj presenting the plots of some 
 of Shakspeare's plays in prose, with the spirit of the poet's 
 genius interfused, and many of his happiest expressions 
 preserved, in which good work Lamb assisted her; though 
 he always insisted, as he did in reference to " Mrs. Lei- 
 cester's School," that her portions were the best. The 
 following letter refers to some of those aids, and gives 
 a pleasant instance of that shyness in Hazlitt, which he 
 never quite overcame, and which afforded a striking con- 
 trast to the boldness of his published thoughts. 
 
 TO MR. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 "1S06. 
 
 "Mary is just stuck fast in 'All's Well that Ends 
 
 Well.' She complains of having to set forth so many female 
 
 characters in boys' clothes. She begins to think Shaks- 
 
 peare must have wanted — Imagination. I, to encourage 
 
 her, for she often faints in the prosecution of her great work> 
 
 flatter her with telling her how well such a play and such 
 
 a play is done. But she is stuck fast, and I have been 
 
 obliged to promise to assist her. To do this, it will be 
 
 necessary to leave off tobacco. But I had some thoughts 
 
 of doing that before, for I sometimes think it docs not 
 
 agree with me. W. Hazlitt is in town. I took him to see 
 
 a very pretty girl, professedly, where there were two 
 
 young girls— the very head and sum of the girlery was 
 
 two young girls— they neither laughed, nor sneered, nor 
 
 giggled, nor whispered— but they were young girls— and 
 
 he sat and frowned blacker and blacker, indignant that 
 
 there should be such a thing as youth and beauty, till he 
 
 tore me away before supper, in perfect misery, and owned 
 11 
 
122 LETTER TO IIAZLITT. 
 
 he could not bear young girls ; they drove him mad. So 
 I took him home to my old nurse, where he recovered per- 
 fect tranquillity. Independent of this, and as I am not a 
 young girl myself, he is a great acquisition to us. He is, 
 rather imprudently I think, printing a political pamphlet 
 on his own account, and will have to pay for the paper, 
 &c. The first duty of an author, I take it, is never to pay 
 anything. But non cuivis contigit adire Corinthum. The 
 managers, I thank my stars, have settled that question for 
 i^e. Yours truly, C. Lamb." 
 
 Hazlitt, coming to reside in town, became a frequent 
 guest of Lamb's, and a brilliant ornament of the parties 
 which Lamb now began to collect on Wednesday evenings. 
 He seems, in the beginning of 1808, to have sought soli- 
 tude in a little inn on Salisbury Plain, to which he became 
 deeply attached, and which he has associated Avith some 
 of his profoundest meditations ; and some fantastic letter, 
 in the nature of a hoax, having puzzled his father, who 
 expected him at Wem, caused some inquiries of Lamb re- 
 specting the painter's retreat, to which he thus replied in 
 a letter to 
 
 THE REV. MR. HAZLITT. 
 
 "Temple, 18th February, 1S08. 
 
 " Sir. — I am truly concerned that any mistake of mine 
 should have caused you uneasiness, but I hope we have 
 got a clue to William's absence, which may clear up all 
 apprehensions. The people where he lodges in town have 
 received direction from him to forward some liner to a 
 place called Winterslow, in the county of Wilts (not far 
 from Salisbury), where the lady lives whose cottage, pic- 
 tured upon a card, if you opened my letter you have 
 
LETTER TO MRS. HAZLITT. 123 
 
 doubtless seen, and though we have had no explanation of 
 the mystery since, we shrewdly suspect that at the time 
 of writing that letter, which has given you all this trouble, 
 a certain son of yours (who is both painter and author) 
 was at her elbow, and did assist in framing that very car- 
 toon which was sent to amuse and mislead us in town, as 
 to the real place of his destination. 
 
 "And some words at the back of the said cartoon, 
 which we had not marked so narrowly before, by the 
 similarity of the handwriting to William's, do very much 
 confirm the suspicion. If our theory be right, they have 
 had the pleasure of their jest, and I am afraid you have 
 paid for it in anxiety. 
 
 " But I hope your uneasiness will now be removed, and 
 you will pardon a suspense occasioned by Love, who does 
 so many worse mischiefs every day. 
 
 " The letter to the people where William lodges says, 
 moreover, that he shall be in town in a fortnight. 
 
 " My sister joins in respects to you and Mrs. Ilazlitt, 
 and in our kindest remembrances and wishes for the re- 
 storation of Peggy's health. 
 
 "I am, Sir, your humble servant, C. Lamb." 
 
 " Mr. and Mrs. Hazlitt afterwards took up their tem- 
 porary abode at WintersloAv, to which place Miss Lamb 
 addressed the folloAving letter, containing interesting details 
 of her own and her brother's life, and illustrating her own 
 gentle character — 
 
 TO MRS. HAZLITT. 
 
 "Decemftpr 10th, 1S08. 
 
 " My dear Sarali. — I hear of you from your brother, 
 but you do not write yourself, nor does ILizlitt. I l)Og 
 
124 LETTER TO MRS. HAZLITT. 
 
 that one or both of you -will amend this fault as speedily 
 as possible, for I am very anxious to hear of your health. 
 I hope, as you say nothing about your fall to your brother, 
 you are perfectly recovered from the effects of it. 
 
 "You cannot think how very much we miss you and H. 
 of a Wednesday evening — all the glory of the night, 1 
 may say, is at an end. Phillips makes his jokes, and there 
 is no one to applaud him ; Rickman argues, and there is 
 no one to oppose him. 
 
 " The worst miss of all to me is, that when we are in 
 the dismals there is now no hope of relief from any quar- 
 ter whatsoever. Hazlitt was most brilliant, and most 
 ornamental, as a Wednesday-man, but he was a more use- 
 ful one on common days, when he dropt in after a quarrel 
 or a fit of the glooms. The Sheffington is quite out now, my 
 brother having got merry with claret and Tom Sheridan. 
 This visit, and the occasion of it, is a profound secret, and 
 therefore I tell it to nobody but you and Mrs. Reynolds. 
 Through the medium of Wroughton, there came an invita- 
 tion and proposal from T. S. that C. L. should write some 
 scenes m a speaKing pantomime, the other parts of which 
 Tom now, and his father formerly, have manufactured 
 between them. So in the Christmas holidays my brother, 
 and his two great associates, we expect will be all three 
 damned together ; this is, I mean if Charles's share, which 
 is done and sent in, is accepted. 
 
 "I left this unfinished yesterday, in the hope that my 
 brother would have done it for me. His reason for re- 
 fusing me was 'no exquisite reason,' for it was because he 
 must write a letter to Manning in three or four weeks, 
 and therefore 'he could not be always wTiting letters,' he 
 said. I wanted him to tell your husband about a great 
 work Avhich Godwin is going to publish to enlighten the 
 
LETTER TO MRS. HAZLITT. 125 
 
 world once more, and I sliall not be able to make out what 
 it is. He (Godwin) took his usual walk one evening, a 
 fortnight since, to the end of Hatten Garden and back again. 
 During; that walk a thouirht came into his mind, which he 
 instantly sate down and improved upon till he brought it, 
 in seven or eight days, into the compass of a reasonable 
 sized pamphlet. 
 
 " To propose a subscription to all well-disposed people 
 to raise a certain sum of money, to be expended in the 
 care of a cheap monument for the former and the future 
 great dead men ; the monument to be a white cross, with a 
 wooden slab at the end, telling their names and qualifica- 
 tions. This wooden slab and white cross to be perpetuated 
 to the end of time ; to survive the fall of empires, and the 
 destruction of cities, by means of a map, which, in case 
 of an insurrection among the people, or any other cause 
 by which a city or country may be destroyed, was to bo 
 carefully preserved ; and then, when things got again into 
 their usual order, the white-cross-wooden-slab-makers were 
 to go to Avork again and set the Avooden slabs in their 
 former places. This, as nearly as I can tell you, is the 
 sum and substance of it ; but it is written remarkably well 
 — in his very best manner — for the proposal (which seems 
 to me very like throwing salt on a sparrow's tail to catch 
 him) occupies but half a page, Avhich is followed by very 
 fine Avriting on the benefits he conjectures Avould folloAV if 
 it Avere done ; very excellent thoughts on death, and our 
 feelings concerning dead friends, and the advantages an 
 old country has over a noAv one, even in the slender me- 
 morials Ave have of great men who once flourished. 
 
 " Charles is come home and wants his dinner, and so 
 the dead men must be no more thought of. Tell us hoAV 
 you go on, and hoAV you like WintcrsloAV and winter even 
 11* 
 
126 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 ings. Kiiowlcs lias not yet got back again, but he is In 
 better spirits. John Hazlitt was here on Wednesday. 
 Our love to Hazlitt, 
 
 "Yours, affectionately, M. Lamb." 
 
 " Saturday." 
 
 To this letter Charles added the following postscript : — 
 
 " There came this morning a printed prospectus from 
 '■ S. T. Coleridge, Grasraerc,' of a Aveeldy paper, to be 
 called *Thc Friend ;' aflaming prospectus. I have no time 
 to give the heads of it. To commence first Saturday in 
 January. There came also notice of a turkey from Mr. 
 Clarkson, -which I am more sanguine in expecting the 
 accomplishment of than I am of Coleridge's prophecy. 
 
 "CLamc." 
 
 During the next year Lamb and his sister produced 
 their charming little book of " Poetry for Children," and 
 removed from Mitre Court to those rooms in Inner Tem- 
 ple Lane — most dear of all their abodes to the memory of 
 their ancient friends — Avhcrc first I knew them. The 
 change produced its natural and sad effect on Miss Lamb, 
 during Avhose absence Lamb addressed the following vari- 
 ous letter. 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 "June Tth, 1S09. 
 
 " Dear Coleridge. — I congratulate you c:a the appear- 
 ance of ' The Friend.' Your first number promises wel), 
 and I have no doubt the succeeding numbers Avill fulfil the 
 promise. I had a kind letter from you some time since, 
 which I have left unanswered. I am also obliged to you. 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 127 
 
 I believe, for a Revie^v in the Annual, am I not? The 
 Monthly Review sneers at me, and asks ' if Comus is not 
 good enoiigli for ]Mr. Lamb V because I have said no good 
 serious dramas have been written since the death of 
 Charles the First, except ' Sampson Agonistes ;' so because 
 they do not know, or won't remember, that Comus was 
 written long before, I am to be set down as an undervaluer 
 of Milton. 0, Coleridge ! do kill those reviews, or they 
 Avill kill us ; kill all we like ! Be a friend to all else, but 
 their foe. I have been turned out of my chambers in the 
 Temple by a landlord who wanted them for himself, but I 
 have got other at No. 4, Inner Temple Lane, far more 
 commodious and roomy. I have two rooms on third floor 
 and five rooms above, with an inner staircase to myself, 
 and all new painted, &c., and all for 30/. a year ! I came 
 into them on Saturday week ; and on Monday following, 
 Mary was taken ill with fatigue of moving, and affected, I 
 believe, by the novelty of the home she could not sleep, 
 and I am left alone with a maid quite a stranger to me, 
 and she has a month or two's sad distraction to go through. 
 "What sad large pieces it cuts out of life ; out of her life, 
 who is getting rather old ; and we may not have many 
 years to live together ! I am weaker, and bear it worse 
 than I ever did. But I hope we shall be comfortable by 
 and bye. The rooms arc delicious, and the best look 
 backwards into Hare Court, where there is a pump always 
 going. Just now it is dry. Ilare Court trees come in at 
 the window, so that it's like living in a garden. I try to 
 persuade myself it is much pleasanter than Mitre Court ; 
 but, alas ! the household gods are slow to come in a new 
 mauoion. They are in their infancy to me ; I do not feel 
 them yet ; no hearth has blazed to tliem yet. How I hate 
 and dread new places ! 
 
128 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 " I was very glad to see Wordsworth's book advertised ; 
 I am to have it to-morrow lent me, and if Wordsworth 
 don't send me an order for one upon Longman, I 
 will buy it. It is greatly extolled and liked by all who 
 have seen it. Let me hear from some of you, for I am 
 desolate. I shall have to send you in a Aveek or two, two 
 volumes of Juvenik Poetry, done by Mary and me within 
 the last six months, and that tale in prose which Words- 
 worth so much liked, which was published at Christmas, 
 with nine others, by us, and has reached a second edition. 
 There's for you ! We have almost worked ourselves out 
 of child's work, and I don't know what to do. Sometimes 
 I think of a drama, but I have no head for play-making ; 
 I can do the dialogue, and that's all. I am quite aground 
 for a plan, and I must do something for money. Not that 
 I have immediate wants, but I have prospective ones. 
 money, money, hoAv blindly thou hast been Avorshipped, 
 and hoAV stupidly abused ! Thou art health and liberty, 
 and strength, and he that has thee may rattle his pockets 
 at the fould fiend ! 
 
 " Nevertheless, do not understand by this that I haA'e 
 not quite enough for my occasions for a year or tAvo to 
 come. While I think on it, Coleridge, I fetch'd away my 
 books which you had at the Courier Office, and found all 
 but a third volume of the old plays, containing ' The White 
 DeAdl,' Green's ' Tu Quoque,' and the ' Honest Whore,' 
 perhaps the most A'aluable volume of them all — tliat I 
 could not find. Pray, if you can, remember Avhat you did 
 with it, or where you took it out Avith you a walking per- 
 haps; send me word, for to use the old plea, it spoils a 
 set. I found tAvo other volumes (you had three), the 
 ' Arcadia,' and Daniel, enriched with manuscript notes. 
 I Avish every book I have Avere so noted. They have 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 129 
 
 tlioroiiglily converted mc to rclisli Daniel, or to say 
 I relish him, for after all, I believe I did relish 
 him. You will call him sober-minded. Your notes 
 are excellent. Perhaps you've forgot them. I have read 
 a review in the Quarterly, by Southey, on the Mission- 
 aries, which is most masterly. I only grudge it being 
 there. It is quite beautiful. Do remember my Dodsley ; 
 and, pray, do Avrite, or let some of you write. Clarkson 
 tells me you are in a smoky house. Have you cured it ? 
 It is hard to cure anything of smoking. Our little poems 
 are but humble, but they have no name. You must read 
 them, remembering they vrere task-work ; and perhaps 
 you will admire the number of subjects, all of children, 
 picked out by an old Bachelor and an old Maid. Many 
 parents would not have found so many. Have you read 
 ' Coelebs ?' It has reached eight editions in so many 
 Aveeks, yet literally it is one of the very poorest sort of 
 common novels, with the draAV-back of dull religion in it. 
 Had the religion been high and flavored, it would have 
 been something. I borrowed this ' Coelebs in Search of a 
 "Wife,' of a very careful, neat lady, and returned it with 
 this stuff written in the beginning : — 
 
 'If ever I marry a wife 
 
 I'd marry a landlord's daughter, 
 For then I may sit in the bar, 
 
 And drink cold brnndy-and water.' 
 
 " I don't expect you can find time from your ' Friend' 
 to Avrite to me much, but write something, for there has 
 been a long silence. You knoAV Ilolcroft is dead. God- 
 win is well. He has Avritten a very pretty, absurd book 
 about sepulchres. He was affronted because I told him 
 it was better than Hervey, but not so good as Sir '1\ 
 Browne. This letter is. all about books ; but my head 
 
130 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 aclies, and I liardly know what I write : but I could not 
 let ' The Friend' pass without a congratulatory epistle. I 
 won't criticise till it comes to a volume. Tell me how I 
 shall send my packet to 3'ou ? — by Avhat conveyance ? — by 
 Longman, Short-man, or how ? Give my kindest remem- 
 brances to the Wordsworths. Tell him he must give me 
 a book. My kind love to Mrs. W. and to Dorothy sepa- 
 rately and conjointly. I wish you could all tome and see 
 me in my new rooms. God bless you all. C. L." 
 
 A journey into Wiltshire, to visit Hazlitt, followed Miss 
 Lamb's recovery, and produced the following letters : — 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 "Monday, Oct. 30th, 1S09. 
 
 " Dear Coleridge. — I have but this moment received 
 your letter, dated the 9th instant, having just come off a 
 journey from Wiltshire, where I have been with Mary on 
 a visit to Hazlitt. The journey has been of infinite ser- 
 vice to her. We have had nothing but sunshiny days, 
 and daily walks from eight to twenty miles a day ; have 
 seen Wilton, Salisbury, Stonehenge, &c. Her illness 
 lasted but six weeks ; it left her weak, but the country 
 has made us whole. We came back to our Hoo;arth 
 Room. I have made several acquisitions since you saw 
 them — and found Nos. 8, 9, 10, of The Friend. The 
 account of Luther in the Warteburg is as fine as anything 
 I ever read.* God forbid that a man who has such things 
 
 * The Warteburg is a Castle, standing on a lofty rock, about two miles 
 from the city of Eisenach, in which Luther vras confined, under the friendly 
 arrest of the Elector of Saxony, after Charles V. had pronounced against him 
 the Ran in the Imperial Diet; where he composed some of his greatest works, 
 and translated the New Testament ; and where he is recorded as engaged 
 in the personal conflict with the Prince of Darkness, of which the vestiges 
 are still shown in a black stain on the wall, from the inkstand hurled at the 
 
LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 131 
 
 to say sliould be silenced for want of 100/. This Custom- 
 and-Duty-Age would have made the Preacher on the 
 Mount take out a license, and St. Paul's Epistles not 
 missible -without a stamp. that you may find means to 
 go on ! But alas ! where is Sir G. Beaumont ? — Sotheby ? 
 What is become of the rich Auditors in Albemarle Street? 
 Your letter has saddened me. 
 
 Euemy. In the Essaj' referred to, Coleridge accounts for the story — depict- 
 ing the state of the great prisoner's mind in most vivid colors — and then pre- 
 senting the following picture, which so nobly justifies Lamb's eulogy, that I 
 venture to gratify myself by inserting it here. 
 
 " Methinks I see him sitting, the heroic student, in his chamber in tho 
 Warteburg, with his midnight lamp before him, seen by the late traveller in 
 the distant plain of Bischofsroda, as a star on the mountain ! Below it lies the 
 Hebrew Bible open, on which he gazes j his brow pressing on his palm, brood- 
 ing over some obscure text, which he desires to make plain to the simple boor 
 and to the humble artizan, and to transfer its whole force into their own natu- 
 ral and living tongue. And he himself does not understand it! Thick dark- 
 ness lies on the original text; he counts the letters, he calls up the roots of 
 each separate word, and questions them as the familiar Spirits of an Oracle. 
 In vain; thick darkness continues to cover it; not a ray of meaning dawns 
 through it. With sullen and angry hope he reaches for the Vulgate, his old 
 and sworn enemy, the treacherous confederate of the Roman Antichrist, which 
 he so gladly, when ho can, rebukes for idolatrous falsehood, that had dared 
 place 
 
 ' Within the sanctuary itself their shrines, 
 Abominations — ' 
 
 Now — thought of humiliation — he must entreat its aid. See ! there has tho 
 sly spirit of apostacy worked in a phrase, which favors the doctrine of purga- 
 tory, the intercession of saints, or the efficacy of prayers for the dead ; and, 
 what is worst of all, the interpretation is plausible. The original Hebrew 
 might be forced into this meaning : and no other meaning seems to lie in it, 
 none to hover above it in the heights of allegory, none to lurk beneath it even 
 in the depths of Cabala! This is the work of the Tempter; it is a cloud of 
 darkness conjured up between the truth of the sacred letters and the eyes of 
 his understanding, by the malice of the evil-one, and for a trial of his faith ! 
 Must ho then at length confess, must he subscribe the name of Lutheh to an 
 exposition which consecrates a weapon for the hand of tno idolatrouy Hier 
 ^Tchj ? Never I Never ! 
 
132 LETTERS TO COLERIDGE. 
 
 " I am so tired with my journey, being up all night, I 
 have neither things nor words in my power. I believe I 
 expressed my admiration of the pamphlet. Its poAver over 
 me was like that which Milton's pamphlets must have had 
 on his contemporaries, who were tuned to them. What a 
 piece of prose ! Do you hear if it is read at all ? I am out 
 of the world of readers. I hate all that do read, for they read 
 
 " There still remains one auxiliary in reserve, the translation of the Seventy. 
 The Alexandrine Greeks, anterior to the Church itself, could intend no sup- 
 port to its corruptions — The Septuagint will have profimed the Altar of Truth 
 with no incense for the nostrils of the universal Bishop to snuff up. And here 
 again his hopes are baffled ! Exactly at this perplexed passage had the 
 Greek translator given his understanding a holiday, and made his pen supply 
 its place. honored Luther ! as easily mightest thou convert the whole 
 City of Rome, with the Pope and the conclave of Cardinals, inclusively, as 
 strike a spark of light from the words, and nothing hut words, of the Alexan- 
 drine version. Disappointed, despondent, enraged, ceasing to lliinlc, yet con- 
 tinuing his brain on the stretch in solicitation of a thought; and gradually 
 giving himself up to angry fancies, to recollections of past persecutions, to 
 uneasy fears, and inward defiances, and floating images of the Evil Being, 
 their supposed personal author; he sinks, without perceiving it, into a trance 
 of slumber; during which his brain retains its waking energies, excepting 
 that what would have been mere thoughts before, now (the action and coun- 
 terweight of his senses and of their impressions being withdrawn) shape and 
 condense themselves into things, into realities ! Repeatedly half-wakening, 
 and his eye-lids as often reclosing, the objects which really surround him 
 form the place and scenery of his dream. All at once he sees tho arch-fiend 
 coming forth on the wall of the room, from the very spot, perhaps, on which 
 his eyes had been fixed, vacantlj', during the perplexed moments of his for- 
 mer meditation : the inkstand which he had at the same time been using, 
 becomes associated with it; and in that struggle of rage, which in those dis- 
 tempered dreams almost constantly precedes the helpless terror by the pain 
 of which we are finally awakened, he imagines that he hurls it at the intruder, 
 or not improbably in the first instant of awakening, while yet both his imagi= 
 nation and his eyes are possessed by the dream, he actually hurls it. Some 
 weeks after, perhaps, during which interval he had often mused on the inci- 
 dent, undetermined whether to deem it a visitation of Satan to him in the 
 body or out of the body, he discovers for the first time the dark spot on hia 
 wall, and receives it as a sign and pledge vouchsafed tc him of the event hav- 
 ing actually taken place." 
 
MISS LAMB TO MRS. HAZLITT. 13S 
 
 notliing but reviews and new books. I gather mjse'if up 
 unto the old things. 
 
 " I have put up shelves. You never saw a book-case 
 in more true harmony with the contents, than what I've 
 nailed up in a room, which, though ncAV, has more ayiti- 
 tudes for growing old than you shall often see — as one 
 sometimes gets a friend in the middle of life, who becomes 
 an old friend in a short time. My rooms are luxurious; 
 one is for prints and one for books ; a summer and a 
 •winter parlor. "When shall I ever see you in them ? 
 
 "C. L." 
 
 MISS LAMB TO MRS. HAZLITT. 
 
 "November 7tli, 1809. 
 
 " My dear Sarali. — The dear, quiet, lazy, delicious 
 month we spent with you is remembered by me with such 
 regret that I feel quite discontented and Winterslow-sick. 
 I assure you I never passed such a pleasant time in the 
 country in my life, both in the house and out of it — the 
 card-playing quarrels, and a few gaspings for breath, after 
 your swift footsteps up the high hills, excepted ; and those 
 draw-backs are not unpleasant in the recollection. We 
 have got some salt butter, to make our toast seem like 
 yours, and we have tried to eat meat suppers, but that 
 would not do, for we left our appetites behind us, and the 
 dry loaf, which offended you, now comes in at night un- 
 accompanied; but, sorry am I to add, it is soon followed 
 by the pipe. We smoked the very first night of our ar- 
 rival. 
 
 '• Great news I I have just been interrupted by Mr. 
 Daw, who came to tell me he was elected a Royal Acade- 
 mician. He said none of his own friends voted for him, 
 12 
 
134 MISS LAMB TO MRS. HAZLITT. 
 
 he got it by strangers, who were pleased Avith his picture 
 of Mrs. White. 
 
 " Charles says he does not believe Northcote ever voted 
 for the admission of any one. Though a very cold day, 
 Daw was in a prodigious perspiration, for joy at his good 
 fortune. 
 
 " More great news ! My beautiful green curtains were 
 put up yesterday, and all the doors listed with green baize, 
 and four new boards put to the coal-hole, and fastening hasps 
 put to the windows, and my dyed Manning-silk cut out. 
 
 " We had a good cheerful meeting on Wednesday, 
 much talk of Winterslow, its woods and its sun-flowers. I 
 
 did not so much like P at Winterslow as I noAV like 
 
 him for having been with us at Winterslow. We roasted 
 the last of his ' Beech of oily nut prolific' on Friday at the 
 Captain's. Nurse is now established in Paradise, alias 
 the incurable ward of Westminster Hospital. I have 
 seen her sitting in most superb state, surrounded by her 
 seven incurable companions. They call each other ladies; 
 nurse looks as if she would be considered as the first lady 
 in the ward ; only one seemed at all likely to rival her in 
 dignity. 
 
 " A man in the India House has resigned, by which 
 Charles will get twenty pounds a year, and White has 
 prevailed on him to write some more lottery puffs ; if that 
 ends in smoke the twenty pounds is a sure card, and has 
 made us very joyful. 
 
 "I continue very Avell, and return you very sincere 
 thanks for my good health and improved looks, which have 
 
 almost made Mrs. die with envy. She longs to 
 
 come to Winterslow as much as the spiteful elder sister 
 did to go to the well for a gift to spit diamonds. 
 
 " Jane and I have agreed to boil a round of beef for 
 
LETTER TO HAZLITT. 135 
 
 your supi^ors when j-ou come to town again. She (Jane) 
 broke two of the Hogarth ghasses, while we were away, 
 whereat I made a great noise. Farewclh Love to AVil- 
 liam, and Charles's love and good wishes for the speedy 
 arrival of the 'Life of Holcroft,' and the bearer thereof. 
 "Yours, most afiectionately, M. Lamb. 
 
 " Tuesday. 
 
 " Cliarles told Mrs. , Hazlitt Lad found a well in 
 
 bis garden, •which, water being scarce in your county, 
 would bring him in two hundred a year; and she came in 
 great haste, the next morning, to ask me if it were true. 
 
 " Your brother and sister are quite well." 
 
 The country excursions, with which Lamb sometimes 
 occupied his "weeks of vacation, were taken with fear and 
 trembling — often foregone — and finally given up, in con- 
 sequence of the sad effects which the excitement of travel 
 and change produced in his beloved companion. The fol- 
 lowing refers to one of these disasters : — 
 
 TO MR. HAZLITT. 
 
 "August 9th, 1810. 
 
 " Dear H. — Epistemon is not well. Our pleasant ex- 
 cursion has ended sadly for one of us. You will guess I 
 mean my sister. She got home very well (I Avas very ill 
 on the journey), and continued so till Monday night, when 
 her complaint came on, and she is now absent from home. 
 
 '• I am glad to hear you are all well. I think I shall be 
 mad if I take any more journeys with two experiences 
 against it. I find all well here. Kind remembrances to 
 Sarah — have you just got her letter. 
 
 "H. Robinson has been to Blenheim, he says you will be 
 ■sorry to hear that we should not have asked for the Titian 
 
136 LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH 
 
 Gallery there. One of his friends knew of it, and asked 
 to see it. It is never shown but to those who inquire 
 for it. 
 
 "The pictures are all Titians, Jupiter and Lcdas, Mars 
 and Venuses, &c., all naked pictures, which may be a 
 reason they don't show it to females. But he says they 
 are very fine ; and perhaps it is shown separately to put 
 another fee into the shower's pocket. AVell, I shall never 
 see it. 
 
 " I have lost all wish for sights. God blesa you. 
 I shall be glad to see you in London. 
 
 " Yours truly, C. Lamb. 
 
 " Tliursdcnj." 
 
 Mr. Wordsworth's Essay on Epitaphs, afterwards ap 
 pended to " The Excursion," produced the following 
 letter : — 
 
 TO MR. WORDSAVORTH. 
 
 "Friday, 19tli Get. ISIO. 
 
 " Dear W. — Mary has been very ill, which you have 
 heard, I suppose, from the Montagues. She is very weak 
 and low spirited now. I was much pleased with your con- 
 tinuation of the Essay on Epitaphs. It is the only sensi- 
 ble thing which has been written on that subject, and it 
 goes to the bottom. In particular I was pleased with 
 your translation of that turgid epitaph into the plain feel- 
 ing under it. It is perfectly a test. But what is the 
 reason we have no good epitaphs after all? 
 
 "Avery striking instance of your position might be 
 found in the churchyard of Ditton-upon-Thames, if you 
 know such a place. Ditton-upon-Thames has been blessed 
 by the residence of a poet, who, for love or money, I do 
 
LETTER TO WORDSWORTH. 137 
 
 not well know which, has dignified every grave-stone, for 
 the last few years, with bran-new verses, all different, and 
 all ingenious, Avith the author's name at the bottom of 
 each. Tliis sweet Swan of Thames has artfully diver- 
 s fied Lis strains and his rhymes, that the same thought 
 never occurs twice ; more justly, perhaps, as no thought 
 ever occurs at all, there was a physical impossibility that 
 the same thouiiht should recur. It is long since I s;iw 
 and read these inscriptions, but I remember the impres- 
 sion was of a smug usher at his desk in the intervals of 
 instruction, levelling his pen. Of death, as it consists of 
 dust and worms, and mourners and uncertainty, he had 
 never thought ; but the word ' death' he had often seen 
 separate and conjunct with other words, till he had learned 
 to speak of all its attributes as glibly as Unitarian Belsham 
 will discuss you the attributes of the word ' God' in a pulpit ; 
 and will talk of infinity Avith a tonirue that dangles from a 
 skull that never reached in thought and thorough imagina- 
 tion two inches, or further than from his hand to his 
 mouth, or from the vestry to the sounding-board of the 
 pulpit. 
 
 " But the epitaphs were trim, and sprag, and patent, 
 and pleased the survivors of Thames Ditton above the old 
 mumpsimusof Afflictions Sore.' .... To do justice though, 
 it must be owned that even the excellent feeling Avhich dic- 
 tated this dirge when new, must have suffered something 
 in passing through so many thousand applications, many 
 of them no doubt quite misplaced, as I have seen in Isling- 
 t )n churchyard (I think) an Epitaph to an infant, who died 
 *■ x^tatis four months,' with this seasonable inscription ap- 
 pended, ' Honor thy father and thy mother ; that thy days 
 may be long in the land,' &c. Sincerely wishing your 
 children long life to honor, &c. I remain, C. Lamb. " 
 
 12* 
 
CHAPTER Vr. 
 
 LETTEHS TO WORDSWORTH, ETC., CHIEFLY RESPECTINK WORDSWORTH's POEMS 
 
 [1S15 to 1S18.] 
 
 The admirers of "Wordsworth — few, but energetic and 
 hopeful — were delighted, and his opponents excited to the 
 expression of their utmost spleen, bj the appearance, in 
 1814, of •' The Excursion," (in the quarto form marked 
 by the bitter flippancy of Lord Byron) ; and by the publi- 
 cation, in 1815, of two volumes of Poems, some of which 
 only were new. The following letters are chiefly expressive 
 of Lamb's feelings respecting these remarkable works, and 
 the treatment which his own Review of the latter received 
 from Mr. Gifi"ord, then the Editor of the Quarterly Review, 
 for which it was written. The following letter is in ac- 
 knowledgment of an early copy of " The Excursion." 
 
 TO MR. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 "ISH. 
 
 "Dear Wordsworth. — I cannot tell you how pleased I 
 
 was at the receipt of the great armful of poetry which 
 
 you have sent me ; and to get it before the rest of the 
 
 world too ! I have gone quite through with it, and was 
 
 thinking to have accomplished that pleasure a second 
 
 time before I wrote to thank you, but 1\L B. came in the 
 
 night (while we were out) and made holy theft of it, but 
 
 we expect restitution in a day or two. It is the noblest 
 
 conversational poem I ever read — a day in Heaven. The 
 
 part (or rather main body) which has left the sweetest odour 
 (i;i8) 
 
LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 139 
 
 on my memory (a bad term for the remains of an in.pression 
 so recent) is the Tales of the Church-yard ; — the only 
 girl among seven brethren, born out of due time, and not 
 duly taken away again ; — the deaf man and the blind 
 man ; — the Jacobite and the Hanoverian, whom antipa- 
 thies reconcile the Scarron-entry of the rusticating parson 
 upon his solitude ; — these were all new to me too. My 
 having known the story of Margaret (at the beginning), a 
 very old acquaintance, even as long back as when I saw 
 you first at Stowey, did not make her reappearance less 
 fresh. I don't know what to pick out of this best of 
 books upon the best subjects for partial naming. That 
 gorgeous sunset is famous;* I think it must have been the 
 identical one Ave saw on Salisbury Plain five years ago, 
 
 that drew P from the card-table, where he had sat 
 
 from rise of that luminary to its unequalled setting ; but 
 neither ho nor I had gifted eyes to see those symbols of 
 common things glorified, such as the prophets saAV them 
 in that sunset — the wheel, the potter's clay, the Avashpot, 
 the Avine-press, the almond-tree rod, the baskets of figs, 
 the four-fold visaged head, the throne, and Him that sat 
 thereon. f 
 
 I " One feeling I Avas particularly struck Avith, as Avhat I 
 recognised so very lately at HarroAv Church on entering in 
 it after a hot and secular day's pleasure, the instantaneous 
 coolness and calming, almost transforming properties of a 
 
 * Tlio pnssnge to wbic-h tlio allusion applies does not picture a sunset, but 
 the cfl'oet of sunliglit on a receding mist among tlie mountains, in Ibe seconj 
 V)o/)k of "The Excursion." 
 
 -j- " Fix'd resemblances were seen 
 
 To iuiplements of ordinary use, 
 
 But vast in size, in substance glorified ; 
 
 Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld 
 
 In vision — forms inicouth of niighliest powers, 
 
 For admiration and mysterious awe." 
 
140 LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 country cliurcli just entered ; a certain fragrance which it 
 has, either from its holiness, or being kept shut all the 
 week, or the air that is let in being pure country, exactly 
 what you have reduced into words — but I am feeling that 
 which I cannot express. The reading your lines about it 
 fixed me for a time, a monument in Harrow Church ; do 
 you know it? with its fine long spire, white as washed 
 marble, to be seen, by vantage of its high site, as far as 
 Salisbury spire itself almost. 
 
 " I shall select a day or two, very shortly, when I am 
 coolest in brain, to have a steady second reading, which I 
 feel will lead to many more, for it will be a stock book 
 with me while eyes or spectacles shall be lent me. There 
 is a great deal of noble m.atter about mountain scenery, 
 yet not so much as to overpower and discountenance a poor 
 Londoner or south-countryman entirely, though Mary seems 
 to have felt it occasionally a little too powerfully, for it 
 was her rema'rk during reading it, that by your system it 
 was doubtful whether a liver in towns had a soul to be saved. 
 She almost trembled for that invisible part of us in her. 
 
 " Save for a late excursion to Harrow, and a day or 
 two on the banks of the Thames this summer, rural images 
 were fast fading from my mind, and by the wise provision 
 of the Regent, all that was country-fy'd in the Parks is 
 all but obliterated. The very color of green is vanished ; 
 the whole surface of Hyde Park is dry crumbling sand 
 (Arabia Arenosa), not a vestige or hint of grass ever hav- 
 ing grown there; booths and drinking-places go a-i round 
 it for a mile and half, I am confident — I might say two 
 miles in circuit — the stench of liquors, had tobacco, dirty 
 people and provisions, conquers the air, and we are stifled 
 and suffocated in Hyde Park." 
 
 Earn!) was delighted with the proposition, made through 
 
LETTERS TO WORDSWOETII. 141 
 
 Soiithey, that he should review " The Excursion" in the 
 '■'• Quarterly" — though he had never before attempted con- 
 temporaneous criticism, and cherished a dislike to it, Avhich 
 the event did not diminish. The ensuing letter was ad- 
 dressed Avhile meditating on his office, and uneasy least 
 he shouhl lose it for Avant of leisure. 
 
 TO MR. AVORDSWORTH. 
 
 "1814. 
 
 " My dear W. — I have scarce time or quiet to explain 
 my present situation, hoAV unquiet and distracted it is, 
 OAving to the absence of some of my compeers, and to the 
 deficient state of payments at E. I. II., OAving to bad 
 peace speculations in the calico market. (I write this to 
 W. W"., Esq., Collector of Stamp Duties for the conjoint 
 Northern Counties, not to W. W., Poet.) I go back, and 
 have for these many days past, to evening work, generally 
 at the rate of nine hours a day. The nature of my work, 
 too, puzzling and hurrying, has so shaken my spirits that 
 my sleep is nothing but a succession of dreams of business 
 I cannot do, of. assistants that give me no assistance, of 
 terrible responsibilities. I reclaimed your book, which 
 Hazlitt has unciA'illy kept, only tAvo days ago, and have 
 made shift to read it again Avith shattered brain. It does 
 not lose — rather some parts have come out Avitli a promi- 
 nence I did not perceive before — but such Avas my aching 
 liead yesterday (Sunday), that the book Avas like a moun- 
 tain landscape to one that should Avalk on the edge of a 
 precipice ; I perceived beauty dizzily. Noav, Avhat I 
 Avould say is, that I see no prospect of a quiet half-day, or 
 hour even, till this Avcek and the next are past. I tlicii 
 hope to get four Aveeks' absence, and if the7i is time 
 enough to begin, I will most gladly do Avhat is required, 
 
142 LETTERS TO AVORDSAYORTH. 
 
 tliougli I feel my inability, for my brain is always desul- 
 tory, and snatches off hints from things, but can seldom 
 follow a ' work' methodically. But that shall be no ex- 
 cuse. What I beg you to do, is, to let me tnow from 
 Southey, if that will be time enough for the ' Quarterly,' 
 i. c, suppose it done in three weeks from this date (19th 
 Sept.) : if not, it is my bounden duty to express my re- 
 gret, and decline it. Mary thanks you, and feels highly 
 grateful for your 'Patent of Nobility,' and acknowledges 
 the author of 'The Excursion' as the legitimate Fountain 
 of Honor. We both agree, that to our feeling, Ellen is 
 best as she is. To us there would have been something 
 repugnant in her challenging her Penance as a Dowry; 
 the fact is explicable, but how few are those to whom it 
 would have been rendered explicit. The unlucky reason 
 of the detention of ' The Excursion' was Hazlitt, for whom 
 M. Burney borrowed it, and after reiterated messages, I 
 only got it on Friday. His remarks had some vigor in 
 them;* particularly something about an old ruin being 
 too modern for your Pj'imeval Nature, and about a lichen. 
 I forget the passage, but the whole Avore an air of des- 
 patch. That objection which M. Burney had imbibed 
 from him about Voltaire, I explained to M. B. (or tried} 
 exactly on your principle of its being a characteristic 
 speech. f That it was no settled comparative estimate of 
 
 * This refers to an article of Ilazlitt on " The Excursion" in the "Exaroi- 
 ner," very fine in passages, but more characteristic of the critic than descrip- 
 tive of the poem. 
 
 f The passage in which the copy of " Candido," found in the apartaxnt of 
 the Recluse, is described as "the dull production of a scoffer's brain," which 
 had excited Hazlitt to energetic vindication of Voltaire from the charge of 
 dulnCss. "Whether the work written in mockery of human hopes, be dull, I 
 will not venture to determine,- but I do not hesitate at any risk, to avow a 
 conviction that no book in the world is more adapted to make a good maa 
 wretched. 
 
LETTERS TO V/ORDSAVORTH. 143 
 
 Voltaire witli any of his own tribe of buffoons — no injus- 
 tice, even \^ you spoke it, for I dared say you never could 
 relish ' Candide.' I know I tried to get through it 
 about a twelvemonth since, and could'nt for the dulness. 
 Now I think I have a wider range in buffoonery than you. 
 Too much toleration perhaps. 
 
 " I finish this after a raw ill-baked dinner fast gobbled 
 up to set me off to ofnce again, after working there till 
 near four. how I wish I were a rich man, even though 
 I were squeezed camel-fashion at getting through that 
 needle's eye that is spoken of in the Writteyi Word. 
 Apropos ; is the Poet of ' The Excursion' a Christian ? 
 or is it the Pedlar and the Priest that are ? 
 
 " I find I miscalled that celestial splendor of the mist 
 going off, a sunset. That only shows my inaccuracy of 
 head. 
 
 " Do, pray, indulge me by writing an answer to the 
 point of time mentioned above, or let Soulliey. I am 
 ashamed to go bargaining in this way, but indeed I have 
 no time I can reckon on till the first week in October. 
 God send I may not be disappointed in that ! Coleridge 
 swore in a letter to me he would review ' The Excursion' 
 in the ' Quarterly.' Therefore, though that shall not stop 
 me, yet if I can do anything, when done, I must know of 
 him if he has anything ready, or I shall fill the world with 
 loud exclaims. 
 
 " I keep writing on, knowing the postage is no more for 
 much writing, else so fagged and dispirited I am with 
 cursed India House work, I scarce know what I do. My 
 left arm reposes on ' The Excursion.' I feel what it would 
 be in quiet. It is now a sealed book.'' 
 
 The next letter Avas written after the fatal critique v.'as 
 despatched to the Editor, and before its appearance. 
 
14-i LETTERS TO WOPDSWORTH. 
 
 TO ME. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 "1814. 
 
 " Dear W. — Your experience about tailors seems to be 
 in point blank opposition to Burton, as much as the au- 
 thor of ' The Excursion' does, toto ccelo, differ in his notion 
 of a country life, from the picture which W. H. has exhi- 
 bited of the same. But, with a little explanation, you 
 and B. may be reconciled. It is evident that he confined 
 his observations to the genuine native London Tailor. 
 What freaks tailor-nature may take in the country is not 
 for him to give account of. And certainly some of the 
 freaks recorded do give an idea of the persons in question 
 being beside themselves, rather than in harmony with the 
 common, moderate, self-enjoyment of the rest of mankind. 
 A flying-tailor, I venture to say, is no more in rcrum 
 natiira than a flying-horse or a Gryphon. Ilis wheeling 
 his airy flight from the precipice you mention, had a 
 parallel in the melancholy Jew who toppled from the monu- 
 ment. Were his limbs ever found ? Then, the man ^vho 
 cures diseases by words, is evidently an inspired tailor. 
 Burton never aflSnned that the art of sewing disqualified 
 the practiser of it from being a fit organ for superna- 
 tural revelation. He never enters into such subjects. 'Tis 
 the common, uninspired tailor which he speaks of. Acrain, 
 the person who makes his smiles to be heard, is evidently 
 a man under possession ; a demoniac tailor. A greater 
 hell than his own must have a hand in this. I am not 
 certain that the cause -which you advocate has much reason 
 for triumph. You seem to me to substitute light-headed- 
 ness for ligh-heartedness by a trick, or not to know the 
 difterence. I confess a grinning tailor would shock me. 
 Enough of tailors ! 
 
 " The ' 'scapes' of the Great God Pan, who apDeared 
 
LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 145 
 
 among your mountains some dozen years since, and his 
 narrow chance of being submerged by the swains, afforded 
 me much pleasure. I can conceive the water-nymphs pull- 
 ing for him. He would have been another Hylas — W. 
 Hylas. In a mad letter which Capel Lofft wrote to M. 
 M.* Phillips (now Sir Richard) I remember his noticing a 
 metaphysical article of Pan, signed H., and adding, ' I 
 take your correspondent to be the same with Hylas.' 
 Hylas had put forth a pastoral just before. How near 
 the unfounded conjecture of the certainly inspired Lofft 
 (unfounded as we thought it) was to being realised ! I 
 can conceive him being ' good to all that wander in that 
 perilous flood.' One J. Scottf (I know no more) is editor 
 of ' The Champion.' Where is Coleridge ? 
 
 " That Review you speak of, I am only sorry it did not 
 appear last month. The circumstances of haste and pe- 
 culiar bad spirits under which it was written, would have 
 excused its slightness and inadequacy, the full load of 
 which I shall suffer from its lying by so long, as it will 
 seem to have done, from its postponement. I write with 
 great difficulty, and can scarce command my own resolu- 
 tion to sit at writing an hour together. I am a poor crea- 
 ture, but I am leaving off gin. I hope you will see good- 
 will in the thing. I had a difficulty to perform not to 
 make it all panegyric ; I have attempted to personate a 
 mere stranger to you ; perhaps with too much strangeness. 
 But you must bear that in mind when you read it, and not 
 think that I am, in mind, distant from you or your poem, 
 but that both are close to me, among the nearest of per- 
 
 * Monthly Magnzinc. 
 
 t Afterwards the distinguished and unfortunate editor of the London Mag- 
 azine. 
 
 13 
 
146 LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 sons and things. I do but act the stranger in the RevieTV. 
 Then I was puzzled about extracts, and determined upon 
 not giving one that had been in the ' Examiner ;' for ex- 
 tracts repeated give an idea that there is a meagre al- 
 lowance of good things. By this way, I deprived myself 
 of ' Sir Alfred Irthing,' and the reflections that conclude 
 his story, which are the flower of the poem. Hazlitt had 
 given the reflections before me. Then it is the first re- 
 view I ever did, and I did not know how long I might 
 make it. But it must speak for itself, if Gifford and his 
 crew do not put words in its mouth, which I expect. Fare- 
 well. Love to all. Mary keeps very bad. 
 
 " C. Lamb." 
 
 The apprehension expressed at the close of the last let- 
 ter was dismally verified. The following contains Lamb's 
 first burst of an indignation which lasted amidst all his 
 gentleness and tolerance unquenched through life : — 
 
 TO MR. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 "1S14. 
 
 " Dear Wordsworth. — I told you my Review was a very 
 imperfect one. But what you will see in the ' Quarterly' 
 is a spurious one, which Mr. Baviad Giff'ord has palmed 
 upon it for mine. I never felt more vexed in my life than 
 when I read it. I cannot give you an idea of what he has 
 done to it, out of spite at me, because he once suff'ercd me 
 to be called a lunatic in his Review.* The laiujuage he 
 has altered throughout. Whatever inadequateness it had 
 to its subject, it was, in point of composition, the prettiest 
 
 * In iillnding to Liimb's note on tbo great scene of "The Broken Heart," 
 •whore Calantha dances on, after hearing at every pause of some terrible 
 calamity, a writer in tho " Quarterly" had affected to excuse the writer as a 
 " maniac ;" a suggestion which circumstances rendered most cruel. 
 
LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 147 
 
 piece of pvose I ever writ ; and so my sister (to Avhom alone 
 I read the MS.) said. That charm, if it had any, is all 
 gone : more than a third of the substance is cut away, and 
 that not all from one place, but passim, so as to make ut- 
 ter nonsense. Every warm expression is changed for a 
 nasty cold one. 
 
 " I have not the cursed alteration by me ; I shall never 
 look at it again ; but for a specimen, I remember I had 
 said the poet of ' The Excursion' ' walks through common 
 forests as through some Dodona or enchanted wood, and 
 every casual bird that flits upon the boughs, like that mi- 
 raculous one in Tasso, but in language more piercing than 
 any articulate sounds, reveals to him far higher love-lays.' 
 It is now (besides half-a-dozen alterations in the same half- 
 dozen lines) ' but in language more intelligent reveals to 
 him ;' — that is one I remember. 
 
 " But that would have been little, putting his shoemaker 
 phraseology (for he was a shoemaker) instead of mine, 
 which has been tinctured with better authors than his 
 ignorance can comprehend ; — for I reckon myself a dab at 
 prose ; — -verse I leave to my betters : God help them, if 
 they are to be so reviewed by friend and foe as you have 
 been this quarter ! I have read ' It won't do.' * But 
 worse than altering words ; he has kept a few members only 
 of the part I had done best, which was to explain all I 
 could of your 'Scheme of Harmonies,' as I had ventured 
 to call it, between the external universe and what within 
 us answers to it. To do this I had accumulated a good 
 many short passages, rising in length to the end, weaving 
 in the extracts as if they came in as a part of the text nat- 
 
 * Though the article on "The Excursion," in the "Edinburgh Review," 
 commenced " This will never do!" it contained ample illustrations of thii 
 author's genius, and helped the world to disprove its oracular beginning. 
 
148 LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 urall}?-, not obtruding tliem as specimens. Of this part a 
 little is left, but so as, without conjuration, no man could 
 tell what I was driving at. A proof of it you may see 
 (though not judge of the whole of the injustice) by these 
 words. I had spoken something about ' natural method- 
 ism ;' and after follows, 'and therefore the tale of Marga- 
 ret should have been postponed' (I foi'get my words, or 
 his words) ; now the reasons for postponing it are as de- 
 ducible from Avhat goes before, as they are from the 104tn 
 Psalm. The passage whence I deduced it, has vanished, 
 but clapping a colon before a therefore is always reason 
 enough for Mr. Baviad Gilford to allow to a reviewer that 
 is not himself. I assure you my complaints are founded. 
 I know how sore a word altered makes one ; but, indeed, 
 of this review the whole complexion is gone. I regret only 
 that I did not keep a copy. I am sure you would have 
 been pleased Avith it, because I have been feeding my fancy 
 for some months with the notion of pleasing you. Its imper- 
 fection or inadequateness in size and method I knew ; but 
 for the writing-part of it I was fally satisfied ; I hoped it 
 would make more than atonement. Ten or twelve dis- 
 tinct passages come to my mind, which are gone, and 
 what is left is, of course, the worse for their having been 
 there ; the eyes are pulled out, and the bleeding sockets are 
 left. 
 
 " I read it at Arch's shop with my face burning with 
 vexation secretly, with just such a feeling as if it had been 
 a review written against myself, making false quotations 
 from me. But I am ashamed to say so much about a 
 short piece. How are you served ! and the labors of years 
 turned into contempt by scoundrels ! 
 
 " But I could not but protest against your taking that 
 clung as mine. Every pretty expression (I knriAv there Avere 
 
LETTER TO MISS IIUTCHINSOX. 14'"' 
 
 many) ; every warm expression (there was nothing else) 
 13 vulgarised and frozen. But if they catch me in their 
 camps again, let them spitclicock me ! They had a right 
 to do it, as no name appears to it, and jMr. Shoemaker Gif- 
 ford, I suppose, never waived a right he had since ho com- 
 menced author. Heaven confound him and all caitiffs ! 
 
 "C. L." 
 
 The following letter to Mrs. Wordsworth's sister, who 
 resided with the poet at Rydal, relates to matters of yet 
 nearer interest. 
 
 TO MISS HUTCHINSON. 
 
 "Thursday, 19th Oct., 1815. 
 
 "Dear Miss II. — I am forced to be the replier to your 
 letter, for Mary has been ill, and gone from home these 
 five weeks yesterday. She has left me very lonely, and 
 very miserable. I stroll about, but there is no rest but at 
 one's own fireside, and there is no rest for me there now. 
 I look forward to the worse half being past, and keep up 
 as well as I can. She has begun to show some favorable 
 symptoms. The return of her disorder has been fright- 
 fully soon this time, with scarce a six months' interval. I 
 am almost afraid my worry of spirits about the E. I. House 
 was partly the cause of her illness, but one always imputes 
 it to the cause next at hand ; more probably it comes from 
 some cause we have no control over or conjecture of. It 
 cuts sad great slices out of the time, the little time, wo 
 shall have to live together. I don't know but the recur- 
 rence of these illnesses might help me to sustain her death 
 better than if we had had no partial separations. But I 
 won't talk of death. I will imagine us immortal, or forget 
 
 that we are otherwise. By God's blessing, in a few weeks 
 13* 
 
150 LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 we may be making our meal together, or sitting in tnt 
 front row of the Pit at Drury Lane, or taking our evening 
 walk past the theatres, to look at the outside of them, at 
 least, if not to be tempted in. Then we forget we are as- 
 sailable ; we are strong for the time as rocks ; — ' the wind 
 is tempered to the shorn Lambs.' Poor C. Lloyd, and 
 poor Priscilla ! I feel I hardly feel enough for him ; my 
 own calamities press about me, and involve me in a thick 
 integument not to be reached at by other folks' misfor- 
 tunes. But I feel all I can — all the kindness I can, to- 
 wards you all— God bless you ! I hear nothing from Cole- 
 rido-e. Yours truly, C. Lamb." 
 
 The following three letters best speak for themselves : — 
 
 TO MR. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 " The conclusion of this epistle getting gloomy, I h^ve 
 chosen this part to desire our kindest loves to Mrs. Words- 
 worth and to Dorothea. Will none of you ever be in Lon- 
 don again ? 
 
 "ISlo. 
 
 " Dear Wordsworth. — You have made me very proud 
 with your successive book presents. I have been carefully 
 throuo-h the two volumes, to see that nothing was omitted 
 Avhich used to be there. I think I miss nothing but a 
 character in antithetic manner, which I do not know why 
 you left out — the moral to the boys building the giant, 
 the omission whereof leaves it, in my mind, less complete, 
 — and one admirable line gone (or something come instead 
 of it), ' the stone-chat, and the glancing sand-piper,' which 
 was a line quite alive. I demand these at your hand. I 
 am glad that you have not sacrificed a verse to those sconn- 
 
LETTERS TO AVORDSWORTII. 
 
 151 
 
 drels. I would not have had you offer up tlie ])Oorest rag 
 that lingered upon the strlpt shouhiers of little Alice Fell, to 
 have atoned all their malice ; I would not hnve given 'em 
 a red cloak to save their souls. I am afraid lest that sub- 
 stitution of a shell (a flat falsification of the history) for 
 the household implement, as it stood at first, was a kind 
 of tub thrown out to the beast, or rather thrown out for 
 him. The tub was a good honest tub in its place, and no- 
 thing could fairly be said against it. You say you made 
 the alteration for the ' friendly reader,' but the ' malicious' 
 will take it to himself. If you give 'em an inch, &c. The 
 Preface is noble, and such as jou should write. I wish I 
 could set my name to it, Imprimatur, — but you have set 
 it there yourself, and I thank you. I had rather be a 
 y door-keeper in your margin, than have their proudest text 
 swelling with my eulogies. The poems in the volumes, 
 which are new to me, are so much in the old tone, that I 
 hardly received them as novelties. Of those, of Avhich I 
 had no previous knowledge, the ' Four Yew Trees,'* and 
 the mysterious company which you have assembled there, 
 most struck me — ' Death the Skeleton and Time the Shadow.' 
 It is a sight not for every ^^outhful poet to dream of; it is 
 one of the last results he must have gone thinking on for 
 years for. ' Laodamia' is a very original poem ; I mean 
 original with reference to your own manner. Y'ou have 
 nothing like it. I should luive seen it in a strange place, 
 and greatly admired it, but not suspected its derivation. 
 
 "Let me in this place, for I have writ you several letters 
 naming it, mention that my brother, who is a picture col 
 
 * The poem on the four great yew trees of BorrowJale, wbicli the poet hiis, 
 by the most potent magic of the imagination, converted into a temple for the 
 ghastly forms of Death and Time " to moot at noon-tide," — a passage sur^lj 
 not surpassed in any English poetry written since the days of Milton 
 
T^9 * 
 
 ^^ LETTERS TO "WORDSWORTH. 
 
 lector, has picked up an undoubtable picture of Milton. 
 He gave a few shillings for it, and could get no history 
 with it, but that some old lady had had it for a great manv 
 years. Its age is ascertainable from the state of the can- 
 vas, and you need only see it to be sure that it is the 
 original of the heads in the Tonson editions, with which 
 we are all so well familiar. Since I saw you I have had 
 a treat in the reading Avay, Avhich comes not every day,* 
 the Latin Poems of V. Bourne, Avhich were quite new to 
 me. What a heart that man had, all laid out upon town 
 scenes, a proper counterpoise to so7ne peoples rural ex- 
 travaganzas. Why I mention him is, that your ' Power 
 of Music' reminded me of his poem of ' The Ballad-singer 
 in the Seven Dials.' Do you remember his epigram on 
 the old woman who taught Newton the ABC, which, 
 after all, he says, he hesitates not to call NcAvton's ' Prin- 
 cipia !' I w\as lately fatiguing myself with going through 
 a volume of fine words by Lord Thurlow ; excellent words ; 
 and if the heart could live by w^ords alone, it could desire 
 no better regales ; but what an aching vacuum of matter ! 
 I don't stick at the madness of it, for that is only a con- 
 sequence of shutting his eyes and thinking he is in the age 
 of the old Elizabeth poets. From thence I turned to 
 Bourne. What a sweet, unpretending, pretty-mannered, 
 matter-ful creature sucking from every flower, making a 
 flower of everything, his diction all Latin, and his thoughts 
 all English. Bless him ! Latin wasn't good enough for 
 him. Why wasn't ho content witli the langunge which 
 Gay and Prior wrote in ? 
 
 " I am almost sorry that you printed extracts from 
 
 * Tht) following little p.Tssago about Vincent Bourne has been previously 
 printed. 
 
tETTERS TO AVORDS.WORTH. 153 
 
 those first poems,* or that you did not print them at 
 length. They do not read to me as they do aUogether. 
 Besides, they have diminished the value of the original 
 (which I possess) as a curiosity. I have hitherto kept 
 them distinct in my mind as referring to a particular 
 period of your life. All the rest of your poems are so 
 much of a piece, they might have been written in the same 
 "week ; these decidedly speak of an earlier period. They 
 tell more of what you had been reading. We were glad 
 to see the poems 'by a female friend. 'f The one on the 
 wind is masterly, but not new to us. Being only three, 
 perhaps you might have clapt a D. at the corner, and let 
 it have past as a printer's mark to the uninitiated, as a de- 
 lightful hint to the better instructed. As it is, expect a 
 formal criticism on the poems of your female friend, and 
 she must expect it. I should have written before, but I 
 am cruelly engaged, and like to be. On Friday I was at 
 office from ten in the morning (two hours dinner except) 
 to eleven at night ; last night till nine. My business and 
 office-business in general have increased so ; I don't mean 
 I am there every night, but I must expect a great deal of 
 it. I never leave till four, and do not keep a holiday now 
 once in ten times, where I used to keep all red-letter 
 days, and some five days besides, which I used to dub 
 Nature's holidays. I have had my day. I had formerly 
 little to do. So of the little that is left of life, I may 
 reckon tw^o-thirds as dead, for time that a man may call 
 his own is his life ; and hard work and thinking about it 
 taint even the leisure hours — stain Sunday with work-day 
 
 * The "Evening Walk," and "Descriptive Sketches among the Alps"— 
 Wordsworth's earliest poems— now happily restored in their sr.tirety to theif 
 proper places in the poet's collected works. 
 
 f By Miss Dorothea Wordsworth. 
 
15'1 LETTERS TO WOTIDSWOKTH. 
 
 contemplations. This is SuncLiy : and the head-ache I 
 have is pnrt hite hours at work the two preceding nights, 
 and part later hours over a consoling pipe afterwards. 
 But I find stupid acquiescence coming over me. I bend 
 to the yoke, and it is almost with me and my household 
 as with the man and his consort, 
 
 ' To them each evening bad its glittering star, 
 And every Sabbath-day its golden sun,' 
 
 to such straits am I driven for the life of life. Time ! 
 that from that superfluity of holiday-leisure my youth 
 wasted, ' Age might but take some hours youth wanted 
 not.' N.B. — I have left off spirituous liquors for four or 
 more months, with a moral certainty of its lasting.* 
 Farewell, dear Wordsworth ! 
 
 " happy Paris, seat of idleness and pleasure ! from 
 some returned English I hear, that not such a thing as a 
 counting-house is to be seen in her streets, scarce a desk. 
 Earthquakes swallow up this mercantile city and its 
 'gripple merchants,' as Drayton hath it — 'born to be the 
 curse of this brave isle !' I invoke this, not on account 
 of any parsimonious habits the mercantile interest may 
 have, but, to confess truth, because I am not fit for an 
 ofiice. 
 
 "Farewell, in haste, from a head that is too ill to 
 methodise, a stomach to digest, and all out of tune. Bet- 
 ter harmonies await you ! C. Lamb." 
 
 TO MR. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 " Excuse this maddish letter ; I am too tired to write 
 in forma. 
 
 * Alas ! for moral certainty in this moral but mortal wor/d ! Lamb's reso- 
 lution to leave off spirituous liquors was a brave one ; but he strengthened and 
 rewarded it by such copious libations of porter, that his sister, for whose sake 
 maicly h"? attempted the sacrifice, entreated him to "live like himself," anil 
 in a few weeka after this assurance he obeyed her. 
 
LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 155 
 
 "1815. 
 
 " Dear Wordsworth. — The more I read of your two last 
 volumes, the more I feel it necessary to make my acknow- 
 ledgments for them in more than one short letter. The 
 ' Night Piece, to which you refer me, I meant fully to 
 have noticed ; but, the fact is, I come so fluttering and 
 languid from business, tired with thoughts of it, frightened 
 with fears of it, that when I get a few minutes to sit down 
 to scribble (an action of the hand now seldom natural to 
 me — I mean voluntary pen-work) I lose all presential 
 memory of what I had intended to say, and say what I 
 can, talk about Vincent Bourne, or any casual image, 
 instead of that Avhich I had meditated, (by the way, I 
 must look out V. B. for you). So I had meant to have 
 mentioned 'Yarrow Visited,' with that stanza, ' But thou, 
 that didst appear so fair ;'* than which I think no lovelier 
 stanza can be found in the wide world of poetry; yet the 
 poem, on the whole, seems condemned to leave behind it a 
 melancholy of imperfect satisfaction, as if you had wronged 
 the feeling with which, in what preceded it, you had re- 
 solved never to visit it, and as if the Muse had determined, 
 in the most delicate manner, to make you, and scarce make 
 you, feel it. Else, it is far superior to the other, which 
 has but one exquisite verse in it, the last but one, or the 
 two last — this has all fine, except, perhaps, that that of 
 'studious ease and generous cares,' has a little tinge of 
 the lci<s romantic about it. ' The Farmer of Tilsbury 
 Vale' is a charming counterpart to 'Poor Susan,' with the 
 addition of that delicacy towards aberrations from tlie 
 strict path, which is so fine in the ' Old Thief and the Bo_y 
 
 * "But thou, that didst appear so fiiir 
 To fond imagination, 
 Dost rival in the light of day 
 Her delicate creation." 
 
156 LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 by his side,' "which always brings Avater into my eyes. 
 Perhaps it is the -worse for being a repetition ; ' Susan' 
 stood for the representative of poor Rus in Urhe. There 
 was quite enough to stamp the moral of the thing never 
 to be forgotten ; ' bright volumes of vapor,' &:c. The last 
 verse of Susan Avas to be got rid of, at all events. It 
 threw a kind of dubiety upon Susan's moral conduct, 
 Susan is a servant maid. I see her trundling her mop, 
 and contemplating the whirling phenomenon through 
 blurred optics ; but to term her ' a poor outcast' seems as 
 much as to say that poor Susan was no better than she 
 should be, which I trust Avas not Avhat you meant to ex- 
 press. Robin GoodfelloAv supports himself without that 
 stick of a moral Avhich you have throAvn aAvay ; but hoAv I 
 can be brought in felo de orniUendo for that ending to the 
 Boy-builders is a mystery. I can't say positively now — 
 I only know that no line oftener or readier occurs than 
 that ' Light-hearted boys, I will build up a Giant Avith 
 you.' It comes naturally, Avith a Avarm holiday, and the 
 freshness of the blood. It is a perfect summer amulet, 
 that I tie round my legs to quicken their motion Avhen I 
 go out a maying. (N.B.) I don't often go out a maying; 
 Must is the tense Avith me noAV. Do you take the pun ? 
 Young Romilly is diA'ine ;* the reasons of his mother's 
 
 * The admirable little poem, entitled "The Force of Prayer," developing 
 the depths of a widowed mother's grief, whose only son has been drowned in 
 attempting to leap over the precipice of the " AVharf" at Bolton Abbey. The 
 first line, printed in old English characters, from some old English ballad, 
 
 ' AVbat is good for a bootless bene '!' 
 
 suggests Miss Lamb's single pun. The following are the profoundest stauzaa 
 among those which excite her brother's most just admiration — 
 
 "If for a lover the lady wept, 
 
 A solace she might borrow 
 From death and from the passion of death ; — 
 
 Old Wharf might heal her sorrow. 
 
LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 15T 
 
 grief being remediless — I never saw parental love carried 
 i;p so liigli, towering above the other loves — Shak spear e 
 had done something for the filial, in Cordelia, and, by 
 implication, for the fatherly too, in Lear's resentment ; 
 he left it for you to explore the depths of the maternal 
 heart. I get stupid, and flat, and flattering ; what's the 
 use of telling you what good things you have written, or 
 — I hope I may add — that I know them to be good? 
 Apropos — when I first opened upon the just-mentioned 
 poem, in a careless tone, I said to Mary, as if putting a 
 riddle, ' What is good for a bootless bene T To which, 
 with infinite presence of mind, (as the jest-book has it) she 
 answered, ' a shoeless pea.' It was the first joke she ever 
 made. Joke the second I make. You distinguish well, 
 in your old preface, between the verses of Dr. Johnson, 
 of the ' Man in the Strand,' and that from ' The Babes in 
 the Wood.' I was thinking, whether taking your own 
 glorious lines — 
 
 'And from tlie love which was in her soul 
 For her youthful Romill}',' 
 
 which, by the love I bear my own soul, I think have no 
 parallel in any of the best old ballads, and just altering it 
 to— 
 
 'And from tho great respect she felt 
 For Sir Samuel llomilly,' 
 
 would not have explained the boundaries of prose expres- 
 sion, and poetic feeling, nearly as well. Excuse my levity 
 on such an occasion. I never felt deeply in my life if that 
 
 She weeps not for tho wedJing-day, 
 
 Which was to be to-morrow : 
 Her hope was a further-looking hope, 
 
 And hers is a mother's sorrow." 
 
 14 
 
158 
 
 LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 poem did not make me, both lately and wlien I read it in 
 MS. No alderman ever longed after a haunch of bucV 
 venison more than I for a spiritual taste of that ' White 
 Doe' you promise. I am sure it is superlative, or will be 
 when drest, i. e., printed. All things read raw to me in 
 MS.; to compare magna parvis, I cannot endure m.y own 
 writings in that state. The only one which I think would 
 not very much win upon me in print is Peter Bell. But 
 I am not certain. You ask me about your preface. I 
 like both that and the supplement without an exception. 
 The account of what you mean by imagination is very 
 valuable to me. It wdll help me to like some things in 
 poetry better, Avhich is a little humiliating in me to con- 
 fess. I thought I could not be instructed in that science 
 (I mean the critical), as I once heard old obscene, beastly 
 Peter Pindar, in a dispute on Milton, say he thought that 
 if he had reasoa to value himself upon one thino- more 
 than another, it was in knowing what good verse was. 
 Who looked over your proof-sheets and left ordebo in that 
 line of Virgil 1 
 
 "My brother's picture of Milton is very finely painted, 
 that is, it might have been done by a hand next to Van- 
 dyke's. It is the genuine Milton, and an object of quiet 
 gaze for the half-hour at a time. Yet though I am con- 
 fident there is no better one of him, the face does not 
 quite answer to Milton. There is a tinge of petit (or 
 2:)etite, how do you spell it ?) querulousness about it ; yet, 
 hang it ! now I remember better, there is not ; it is calm, 
 melancholy and poetical. One of the copies of the poems 
 you sent has precisely the same pleasant blending of a 
 sheet of second volume with a sheet of first. I think it 
 was page 245 ; but I sent it and had it rectified. It gave 
 me, in the first impetus of cutting the leaves, just such a 
 
LETTERS TO AYORDSWORTH. 159 
 
 cold squelcn as going down a plausible turning and sud- 
 denly reading 'No thoroughfare.' Robinson's is entire: 
 I wish you would write more criticism about Spenser, &c. 
 1 think I could say something about him myself, but, 
 Lord b:'jss me ! these 'merchants and their spicy drugs,' 
 which are so harmonious to sing of, they lime-twig up my 
 poor soul and body, till I shall forget I ever thought my- 
 self a bit of a genius ! I can't even put a few thoughts on 
 paper for a newspaper. I ' engross' when I should ' pen' 
 a paragraph. Confusion blast all mercantile transactions, 
 all traffic, exchange of commodities, intercourse between 
 nations, all the consequent civilisation, and wealth, and 
 amity, and link of society, and getting rid of prejudices, 
 and knowledge of the face of the globe ; and rot the very 
 firs of the forest, that look so romantic, alive, and die into 
 desks ! Vak. 
 
 " Yours, dear W., and all yours, 
 
 "C. Lamb." 
 
 TO MR. AVORDSWORTH. 
 
 "April 9th, 1S16. 
 
 " Dear Wordsworth. — Thanks for the books you have 
 given me, and for all the books you mean to give me. I 
 will bind up the Political Sonnets and Ode according to 
 your suggestion. I have not bound tlie poems yet. I 
 wait till people have done borrowing them. I think I 
 shall get a chain and chain them to my shelves, ojiore 
 Bodleiano, and people may come and read them at chain's 
 length. For of those who borrow, some read slow; some 
 mean to read but don't read ; and some neither read nor 
 meant to read, but borrow to leave you an opinion of their 
 sagacity. I must do my money borrowing friends the jus- 
 tice to say that there is nothing of this caprice or wanton 
 
ItiO LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 ness of alienation in them. When they borrow my money 
 they never fail to make use of it. Coleridge has been 
 here about a fortnight. His health is tolerable at present, 
 though beset with temptations. In the first place, the 
 Covent Garden Manager has declined accepting his Tra- 
 gedy, though (having read it) I see no reason upon earth 
 why it might not have run a very fair chance, though it 
 certainly wants a prominent part for a Miss O'Neil or a 
 Mr. Kean. However, he is going to-day to write to Lord 
 Byron to get it to Drury. Should you see Mrs. C, who 
 has just written to C. a letter, which I have given him, it 
 will be as well to say nothing about its fate, till some 
 answer is shaped from Drury. He has two volumes print- 
 ing, together at Bristol, both finished as far as the com- 
 position goes ; the latter containing his fugitive poems, the 
 former his Literary Life. Nature, who conducts every 
 creature by instinct, to its best end, has skilfully directed 
 C. to take up his abode at a Chymist's Laboratory in 
 Norfolk-street. She might as well have sent a Helluo 
 Librorum for cure to the Vatican. God keep him invio- 
 late among the traps and pitfalls I He has done pretty 
 well as yet. 
 
 " Tell Miss H., my sister is every day wishing to be 
 quietly sitting down to answer her very kind letter, but 
 Avhile C. stays she can hardly find a quiet time ; God bless 
 him ! 
 
 " Tell Mrs. W. her postscripts are always agreeable. 
 They are so legible too. Your manual-graphy is terrible, 
 dark as Lycophron. 'Likelihood,' for instance, is thus 
 
 typified * I should not Avonder if the constant 
 
 making out of such paragraphs is the cause of that weak- 
 ness in Mrs. W.'s eyes, as she is tenderly pleased to ex- 
 
 * Here is a most inimitable scrawl. 
 
LETTERS TO "WORDSWORTH. 161 
 
 press it. Dorothy, I hear, has mounted spectacles ; so 
 you have deocuhitcd two of your dearest rehations in life. 
 Well, God bless you, and continue to give you power to 
 ^yrite with a finger of poAver upon our hearts Avhat you fail 
 to imprcoS, in corresponding lucidness, upon our outward 
 eye-sight ! 
 
 " Mary's love to all ; she is quite well. 
 
 " I am called off to do the deposits on Cotton AYool — 
 but why do I relate this to you, who want faculties to 
 comprehend the great mystery of deposits, of interest, of 
 warehouse rent, and contingent fund ? Adieu ! 
 
 " C. Lamb. 
 
 " A longer letter when C. is gone back into the country, 
 relating his success, &;c. — ?»^ judgment ol your new books, 
 kc. ka. — I am scarce quiet enough while he stays. 
 
 "Yours again, C. L." 
 
 The next letter is fantastically written beneath a regu- 
 lar official order, the words in italics being printed. 
 
 " Sir. — Please to state the iceigltts and amounts of the 
 following Lots of 
 sold Sale, 181 for 
 
 " Your obedient Servant, 
 
 " CiiAS. Lamb." 
 
 "Accountant's OfTico, 20lli April, ISIG.* 
 
 "Dear W. — I have just finished the pleasing task of 
 correcting the revise of the poems and letter. I hope 
 they will come out faultless. One blander I saw and shud 
 dered at. The hallucinating rascal had printed batterej 
 
 * This is shown by tlie postmark to bo an error; it should bo 1818. 
 14* 
 
162 LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 for battened, this last not conveying any distinct sense to 
 his gaping souL The Reader (as they call 'em) had dis- 
 covered it, and given it the marginal brand, but the sub- 
 Btitutory n had not yet appeared, I accompanied his 
 notice with a most pathetic address to the printer not to 
 neglect the correction. I know how such a blunder would 
 'batter at your peace.' With regard to the works, the 
 Letter I read with unabated satisfaction. Such a thint^ 
 was Avanted; called for. The parallel of Cotton with 
 Burns I heartily approve. Iz. Walton hallows any page 
 in which his reverend name appears. ' Duty archly bend- 
 ing to purposes of general benevolence' is exquisite. The 
 poems I endeavored not to understand, but to read them 
 with my eye alone, and I think I succeeded. (Some peo- 
 ple will do that when they come out, you'll say.) As if 1 
 were to luxuriate to-morrow at some picture-gallery I Avas 
 never at before, and going by to-day by chance, found the 
 door open, and having but five minutes to look about me, 
 peeped in ; just such a chastised peep I took with my 
 mind at the lines my luxuriating eye was coursino- over 
 unrestrained, not to anticipate another day's fuller satis- 
 faction. Coleridge is printing ' Christabel,' by Lord 
 Byron's recommendation to Murray, with what he calls a 
 vision, 'Kubla Khan,' which said vision he repeats so 
 enchantingly that it irradiates and brings heaven and ely- 
 sian bowers into my parlor while he sings or says it ; but 
 there is an observation, 'Never tell thy dreams,' and I 
 am almost afraid that ' Kubla Khan' is an owl that won't 
 bear day-light. I fear lest it should be discovered by the 
 lantern of typography and clear reducing to letters no 
 better than nonsense or no sense. When I was j^oung, 
 I used to chant with ecstacy ' Mild Ai;cadian» evkr 
 BLOOJIING,' till somebody told me it was meant to be non- 
 
LETTERS TO WORDSWORTH. 163 
 
 sense. Even yet I have a lin;2:ering attachment to it, and 
 I think it better tlian 'Windsor Forest,' 'Dying Chris- 
 tian's Address,' &c. Coleridge has sent his tragedy to 
 D. L. T. ; it cannot he acted this season, and by their 
 manner of receiving, I hope lie will be able to alter it to 
 make them accept it for next. He is, at present, under 
 the medical care of a Mr. Oilman (Killman ?) at High- 
 gate, where he plaj^s at leaving ofi* laud — m ; I think his 
 essentials not touched ; he is very bad, but then he won- 
 derfully picks up another day, and his face, when he re- 
 peats Lis verses, hath its ancient glory ; an archangel a 
 little damaged. Will Miss 11. pardon our not replying at 
 length to her kind letter ? We are not quiet enough ; 
 Morgan is with us every day, going betwixt Highgate and 
 the Temple. Coleridge is absent but four miles, and the 
 neighborhood of such a man is as exciting as the presence 
 of fifty ordinary persons. 'Tis enough to be within the 
 whiff and Avind of his genius for us not to possess our souls 
 in quiet. If I lived with him or the Author of the Ex- 
 cursion, I should, in a very little time, lose my own iden- 
 tity, and be dragged along in the current of other people's 
 thoughts, hampered in a net. How cool I sit in this 
 office, with no possible interruption further than what I 
 may term material! There is not as much metaphysics 
 in thirty-six of the people here as there is in the first pa ffo 
 of Locke's ' Treatise on the Human Understanding,' or as 
 much poetry as in any ten lines of the ' Pleasures of 
 Hope,' or more natural 'Beggar's Petition.' I never 
 entangle myself in any of their speculations. Interrup- 
 tions, if I try to write a letter even, I have dreadful. 
 Just now, within four lines, I was called off for ten min- 
 utes to consult dusty old books for the settlement of obso- 
 lete errors. I hold you a guinea you don't find the chasm 
 
164 LETTERS TO WORDSWORTIL 
 
 Avliere I left off, so excellently the wounded sense closed 
 again, and -was healed. 
 
 '' N.B. — Nothing said above to the contrary, but that ] 
 hold the personal presence of the two mentioned potent 
 spirits at a rate as high as any ; but I pay dearer ; what 
 amuses others robs me of myself; my mind is positively 
 discharged into their greater currents, but flows with a 
 willing violence. As to your question about work ; it is 
 far less oppressive to me than it was, from circumstances ; 
 it takes all the golden part of the day away, a solid lump, 
 from ten to four ; but it does not kill my peace as before. 
 Some day or other I shall be in a taking again. My head 
 aches, and you have had enough. God bless you ! 
 
 "C. Lamb." 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE " LONrON MAGAZINE" — CHARACTER AND FATE OF MR. JOHN SCOTT, ITS 
 EDITOR — GLIMPSE OP MR. THOMAS GRIFFITHS WAINWRIGHT, ONE OF ITS 
 CONTRIBUTORS — JIISCELLANEOUS LETTERS OP LAMB TO WORDSWORTH, COLE- 
 RIDGE, AND OTHERS. 
 
 [1S18 to 1825.] 
 
 Lamb's association with Hazlitt in the year 1820 intro- 
 duced him to that of the "London Magazine," which 
 supplied the finest stimulus his intellect had ever received, 
 and induced the composition of the Essays fondly and 
 familiarly known under the fantastic title of Elia. Never 
 was a periodical work commenced with happier auspices, 
 numbering a list of contributors more original in thought, 
 more fresh in spirit, more sportive in fancy, or directed 
 by an editor better qualified by nature and study to pre- 
 side, than this "London." There was Lamb, Avith 
 humanity ripened among town-bred experiences, and pa- 
 thos matured by sorrow, at his wisest, sagest, airiest, in- 
 discreetest, best ; Barry Cornwall, in the first bloom of 
 nis modest and enduring fame, streaking the darkest pas- 
 /sion with beauty ; John Hamilton Reynolds, lighting up 
 the wildest eccentricities and most striking features of 
 many colored life with vivid fancy ; and, with others of 
 less note, Hazlitt, whose pen, unloosed fi'oui tlie chain 
 which earnest thought and metaphysical dreamings had 
 woven, gave radiant expression to the results of the soli- 
 tary musings of many years. Over these contributora 
 
 (165) 
 
1G() " LONDON magazine" — JOHN SCOTT. 
 
 John Scott presided, himself a critic of remarkable can- 
 dor, eloquence, and discrimination, unfettered bj the dog- 
 mas of contending schools of poetry and art ; apt to dis- 
 cern the good and beautiful in all ; and having, as editor, 
 that which Kent recognised in Lear, Avhich subjects revere 
 in kings, and hojs admire in schoolmasters, and contri- 
 butors should welcome in editors — authority/; — not mani- 
 fested in a worrying, teasing, intolerable interference in 
 small matters, but in a judicious and steady superintend- 
 ence of the whole ; with a wise allowance of the occasional 
 excesses of Avit and genius. In this respect, Mr. Scott 
 differed entirely from a celebrated poet, who was induced, 
 just a year after, to undertake the Editorship of the "New 
 Monthly Magazine," an office for which, it may be said, 
 with all veneration for his poetic genius, he was the most 
 unfit person who could be found in the wide world of let- 
 ters — who regarded a magazine as if it were a long affi- 
 davit, or a short answer in Chancery, in which the abso- 
 lute truth of every sentiment and the propriety of every 
 jest were verified by the editor's oath or solemn affirma- 
 tion ; who stopped the press for a week at a comma ; 
 balanced contending epithets for a fortnight ; and, at last, 
 grew rash in despair, and tossed the nearest, and often 
 the worst article, *' unAvhipped of justice," to the impatient 
 printer. Mr. Scott, indeed, Avas more fit to preside over 
 a little commonwealth of authors than to hold a despotic 
 rule over subject contributors ; he had not the airy grace 
 of Jeffrey by which he might give a certain familiar live- 
 liness to the most laborious disquisitions, and shed the 
 glancing light of fancy among party manifestoes ; nor the 
 boisterous vigor of Wilson, riotous in poAver, reckless in 
 wisdom, fusing the production of various intellects, into 
 one brilliant reflection of his OAvn master-mind ; and it Avas 
 
" LONDON magazine" — JOHN SCOTT. 167, 
 
 well that he wanted these weapons of a tyranny which Ins 
 chief contributors were too original and too sturdy to 
 endure. He heartily enjoyed his position ; duly appre- 
 ciated his contributors and himself; and when he gave 
 audience to some young aspirant for periodical honors at 
 a late breakfast, amidst the luxurious confusion of news- 
 papers, reviews, and uncut novels, lying about in fascina- 
 ting litter, and carelessly enunciated schemes for bright 
 successions of essays, he seemed destined for many years 
 of that happy excitement in which thought perpetually 
 glows into unruffled but energetic language, and is assured 
 by the echoes of the world. 
 
 Alas ! a few days after he thus appeared the object of 
 admiration and envy to a young visitor, in his rooms in 
 York street, he was stretched on a bed of mental agony — 
 the foolish victim of the guilty custom of a world which 
 would have laughed at him for regarding himself as within 
 the sphere of its opinion, if he had not died to shame it ! 
 In a luckless hour, instead of seeking to oppose the bitter 
 personalities of "Blackwood" by the exhibition of a 
 serencr power, ho rushed with spurious chivalry into a 
 personal contest ; caught up the weapons which he had 
 himself denounced, and sought to unmask his opponents 
 and draw them beyond the pale of literary courtesy ; 
 plticed himself tlius in a doubtful position in which he 
 oould neither consistently reject an appeal to the conven- 
 *:ional arbitrament of violence nor embrace it; lost his 
 most legitimate opportunity of daring the unhallowed stiife, 
 and found another with an antagonist connected with the 
 quarrel only by too zealous a friendship; and, at last, met 
 his death almost by lamentable accident, in the uncertain 
 glimmer of moonlight, from the hand of one who went out 
 resolved not to harm him ! Such was the melancholy re.-ult 
 
1G3 "LONDOX magazine" — JOHN SCOTT. 
 
 — first of a controversy too envenomed — and afterwards of 
 enthralnient in usages, absurd in all, but most absurd 
 when applied by a literary man to a literary quarrel. 
 Apart from higher considerations, it may befit a life 
 destined for the listless excesses of gaiety to be cast on an 
 idle brawl ; " a youth of folly, an old age of cards" may 
 be no great sacrifice to preserve the hollow truce of fash- 
 ionable society ; but for men of thought — whose minds 
 are their possession, and who seek to live in the minds of 
 others by sympathy with their thoughts — for them to 
 hazard a thoughtful being because they dare not own that 
 they prefer life to death — contemplation to the grave — the 
 preparation for eternity to the unbidden entrance on its 
 terrors, would be ridiculous if it did not become tragical. 
 " Sir, I am a metaphysician !" said Hazlitt once, when in 
 a fierce dispute respecting the colors of Holbein and Van- 
 dyke, AYords almost became things ; " and nothing makes 
 an impression upon me but abstract ideas ;" and woeful, 
 indeed, is the mockery when thinkers condescend to be 
 duellists ! 
 
 The Magazine did not perish with its Editor ; though 
 its unity of purpose was lost, it was still rich in essays of 
 surpassing individual merit ; among which the masterly 
 vindication of the true dramatic style by Darley ; the 
 articles of Gary, the admirable translator of Dante ; jfhd 
 the " Confessions of an English Opium Eater," held a 
 distinguished place. Mr. De Quincy, whose youth had 
 been inspired by enthusiastic admiration of Coleridge, 
 shown in contributions to " The Friend," not unworthy of 
 his master, and substantial contributions of the blessings 
 of fortune, came up to London, and found an admiring 
 welcome from Messrs. Taylor and Hessey, the publishers 
 into whose hands the "London Magazine" had passed. 
 
THOMAS GRIFFITHS WAINWRIGHT. 169 
 
 After tbft good old- fashion of the GREAT TRADE, these 
 genial booksellers used to assemble their contributors 
 round their hospitable table in Fleet street, -where Mr. De 
 Quincy was introduced to his new allies. Among the 
 contributors who jijartook of their professional festivities, 
 was a gentleman whose subsequent career has invested 
 the recollection of his appearances in the familiarity of 
 SDcial life with fearful interest — Mr. Thomas Griffiths 
 Wainwright. He was then a young man ; on the bright 
 side of thirty ; with a sort of undress 'military air, and 
 the conversation of a smart, lively, clever, heartless, vo- 
 luptuous coxcomb. It was whispered that he had been an 
 officer in the Dragoons ; had spent more than one fortune ; 
 and he now condescended to take a part in periodical 
 literature, with the careless grace of an amateur who felt 
 himself above it. He was an artist also ; sketched boldly 
 and griiphically ; exhibited a portfolio of his own draw- 
 ings of female beauty, in which the voluptuous trembled 
 on the borders of the indelicate ; and seized on the criti- 
 cal department of the Fine Arts, both in and out of the 
 Magazine, undisturbed by the presence or pretensions of 
 the finest critic on Art who ever wrote — William Hazlitt. 
 On this subject, he composed, for the Magazine, under 
 the signature of "Janus Weathercock," articles of flashy 
 assumption — in which disdainful notices of living artists 
 were set off by fascinating references to the personal ap- 
 pearance, accomplishments, and luxurious appliances of 
 the writer, ever the first hero of his essay. He created a 
 new sensation in the sedate circle, not only by his braided 
 surtouts, jewelled fingers, and various neck-handkerchiefs, 
 but by ostentatious contempt for everything in the world 
 but elegant enjoyment. Lamb, who delighted to find 
 sympathy in dissimilitude, fancied that he really liked 
 
 15 
 
170 LETTER TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 him ; took, as he ever did, the genial side of character ; 
 and, instead of disliking the rake in the critic, thouglit it 
 pleasant to detect so much taste and good-nature in n 
 fashionable roue ; and regarded all his vapid gaiety, 
 which to severer observers looked like impertinence, as 
 the playful effusion of a remarkably guileless nature. We 
 lost sight of him Avhen the career of the " London Mao;a- 
 zine" ended; and Lamb did not live to learn the sequel 
 of his history. 
 
 In 1819, Mr. Wordsworth, encouraged by the extend- 
 ing circle of his earnest admirers, announced for publica- 
 tion his " Peter Bell" — a poem written in the first enthu- 
 siasm of his system, and exemplifying, amidst beauty and 
 pathos of the finest essence, some of its most startling 
 peculiarities. Some wicked jester, gifted with more inge- 
 nuity and boldness than wit, anticipated the real " Simon 
 Pure," by a false one, burlesquing some of the character- 
 istics of the poet's homeliest style. This grave hoax 
 produced the following letter from Lamb, appropriately 
 written in alternate lines of red and black ink, till the 
 last sentence, in which the colors are alternated, word by 
 word — even to the signature — and " Mary's love," at the 
 close ; so that " Mary" is black, and her " love" red. 
 
 TO MR. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 "1819. 
 
 " Dear Wordsworth. — I received a copy of ' Peter 
 Bcir a week ago, and I hope the author will not be of- 
 fended if I say I do not much relish it. The humor, if 
 it is meant for humor, is forced ; and then the price ! — 
 sixpence would have been dear for it. Mind I do not 
 
LETTER TO WORDSWORTH. ITl 
 
 mean your 'Peter Bell,' but a ' Peter Bell,' which pre- 
 ceded it about a week, and is in every bookseller's shop 
 window in London, the type and paper nothing differing 
 from the true one, the preface signed W. W., and the 
 supplementary preface quoting as the author's words an 
 extract from the supplementary preface to the 'Lyrical 
 Ballads.' Is there no law against these rascals ? I would 
 have this Lambert Simnel whipt at the cart's tail. Who 
 started the spurious ' P. B.' I have not heard. I should 
 
 euess, one of the sneerino; : but I have heard no 
 
 name mentioned. ' Peter Bell' (not the mock one) is ex- 
 cellent. For its matter I mean. I cannot say the style 
 of it quite satisfies me. It is too lyrical. The auditors 
 to whom it is feigned to be told, do not arride me. I had 
 rather it had been told me, the reader, at once. ' Hart- 
 leap Weir is the tale for me ; in matter as good as this, 
 in manner infinitely before it, in my poor judgment. Why 
 did you not add ' The Waggoner ?' — Have I thanked you, 
 though, yet, for 'Peter Bell?' I would ^oi not have it 
 for a good deal of money. C is very foolish to scrib- 
 ble about books. Neither his tongue nor fingers are very 
 retentive. But I shall not say anything to him about it. 
 lie would only begin a very long story with a very long 
 face, and I see him far too seldom to teaze him with affairs 
 of business or conscience when I do see him. He never 
 comes near our house, and when wc go to see him he is 
 generally writing, or thinking ; he is writing in his study 
 till the dinner comes, and that is scarce over before the 
 stage summons us away. The mock 'P. B.' had only this 
 effect on me, that after twice reading it over in hopes to 
 find something diverting in it, I reached your two books 
 off the shelf, and set into a steady reading of them, till 
 I had nearly finished both before I went to bed. The two 
 
172 LETTER TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 of your last edition, of course, I mean. And in the 
 morning I awoke, determined to take down the ' Excur- 
 sion.' I wish the scoundrel imitator could know this. 
 But why waste a wish on him ? I do not believe that 
 paddling about with a stick in a pond, and fishing up a 
 dead author, whom Ms intolerable wrongs had driven to 
 that deed of desperation, would turn the heart of one of 
 these obtuse literary Bells. There is no Cock for such 
 Peters ; hang 'em ! I am glad this aspiration came upon 
 the red ink line. It is more of a bloody curse. I have 
 delivered over your other presents to Alsager and G. D. 
 A., I am sure, will value it, and be proud of the hand 
 from which it came. To G. D. a poem is a poem. His 
 own as good as anybody's, and, God bless him ! anybody's 
 as good as his own ; for I do not think he has the most 
 distant guess of the possibility of one poem being better 
 than another. The gods, by denying him the very faculty 
 itself of discrimination, have effectually cut off every 
 seed of envy in his bosom. But with envy, they excited 
 curiosity also ; and if you wish the copy again, which you 
 destined for him, I think I shall be able to find it again 
 for you, on his third shelf, where he stuffs his presenta- 
 tion copies, uncut, in shape and matter resembling a lump 
 of dry dust; but on carefully removing that stratum, a 
 thing like a pamphlet will emerge. I have tried this with 
 fifty different poetical works that have been given G. D. 
 in return for as many of his OAvn performances, and I 
 confess I never had any scruple in taking ????/ own again, 
 wherever I found it, shaking the adherences off — and by 
 this means one copy of 'my works' served for G. D. — and, 
 with a little dusting, was made over to my good friend 
 Dr. G , who little thought whose leavings he was tak- 
 ing when he made me that graceful bow. By the way 
 
LETTER TO COLERIDGE. 173 
 
 the Doctor is the only one of my acquaintance who bows 
 gracefully, my town acquaintance, I mean. How do you 
 like my way of writing with two inks ? I think it is pretty 
 and motley. Suppose Mrs. W. adopts it, the next time 
 she holds the pen for you. My dinner waits. I have no 
 time to indulge any longer in these laborious curiosities. 
 God bless you, and cause to thrive and burgeon whatso- 
 ever you write, and fear no inks of miserable poetasters. 
 " Yours truly, Charles Lamb. 
 
 " Mary's love." 
 
 The following letter, probably written about this time, 
 is entirely in red ink. 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 " Dear Coleridge. — A letter written in the blood of 
 your poor friend would indeed be of a nature to startle 
 you; but this is nought but harmless red ink, or, as the 
 witty mercantile phrase hath it, clerk's blood. Hang 'em ! 
 my brain, skin, flesh, bone, carcase, soul, time is all theirs. 
 The Royal Exchange, Gresham's Folly, hath me body 
 
 and spirit. I admire some of 's lines on you, and I 
 
 admire your postponing reading them. He is a sad tat- 
 tler, but this is under the rose. Twenty years ago he es- 
 tranged one friend from me quite, whom I have been re- 
 gretting, but never could regain since ; he almost alienated 
 you also from me, or me from you, I don't know which. 
 But that breach is closed. The dreary sea is filled up. 
 He has lately been at work ' telling again,' as they call it, 
 a most gratuitous piece of mischief, and has caused a cool- 
 ness betwixt me and a (not friend exactly, but) intimate 
 acquaintance. I suspect also, he saps Manning's faith in 
 
 15* 
 
174 LETTER TO MISS WORDSWORTH. 
 
 me, who am to Manning more than an acquaintance. Still 
 I like his writing verses about you. Will your kind host 
 and hostess give us a dinner next Sunday, and better still, 
 not expect us if the weather is very bad. Why you 
 should refuse twenty guineas per sheet for Blackwood's or 
 any other magazine passes my poor comprehension. But, 
 as Strap says, ' you know best.' I have no quarrel with 
 you about prceprandial avocations, so don't imagine one. 
 That Manchester sonnet* I think very likely is Capel 
 Lofft's. Another sonnet appeared with the same initials 
 
 in the same paper, which turned out to be P 's. What 
 
 do the rascals mean ? Am I to have the fathering of 
 what idle rhymes every beggarly poetaster pours forth ! 
 Who put your marine sonnet ' about Browne' into ' Black- 
 wood ?' I did not. So no more, till we meet. 
 
 'Ever yours, C. L." 
 
 The following letter (of post-mark 1822) is addressed 
 to Trinity College, Cambridge, when Miss Wordsworth 
 was visiting her brother, Dr. Wordsworth. 
 
 TO MISS WORDSWORTH. 
 
 " Mary perfectly approves of the appropriation of the 
 feathers, and wishes them peacock's for your fair niece's 
 sake. 
 
 "1822. 
 
 "Dear Miss Wordsworth. — I had just written the above 
 
 «^.ndearing words when M tapped me on the shoulder 
 
 with an invitation to cold goose pie, which I was not bird 
 of that sort enough to decline. Mrs. M , I am most 
 
 * A sonnet in " Blackwood," dated Manchester, and signed C. L. 
 
LETTER TO MISS ^YORDSWOE,TH. . 175 
 
 happy to sa}^, is better. Mary has been tormented with 
 a rheumatism, which is leaving her. I am suffering from 
 the festivities of the season. I wonder how my misused 
 carcase holds it out. I have played the experimental phi- 
 losopher on it, that's certain. Willy"^ shall be welcome to 
 a mince-pie, and a bout at commerce whenever he comes. 
 He was in our eye. I am glad you liked my new year's 
 speculations, everybody likes them, except the author of 
 the ' Pleasures of Hope.' Disappointment attend him ! 
 How I like to be liked, and ivliat I do to be liked ! They 
 flatter me in magazines, newspapers, and all the minor 
 reviews; the Quarterlies hold aloof. But they must come 
 into it in time, or their leaves be waste paper. Salute 
 Trinity Library in my name. Two special things are 
 worth seeing at Cambridge, a portrait of Cromwell, at 
 Sydney, and a better of Dr. Harvey, (who found out that 
 blood was red) at Dr. Davy's ; you should see them. 
 Coleridge is pretty well ; I have not seen him, but hear 
 often of him from Allsop, who sends me hares and phea- 
 sants twice a week ; I can hardly take so fast as he gives. 
 I have almost forgotten butcher's meat, as plebeian. Are 
 you not glad the cold is gone ? I find winters not so 
 agreeable as they used to be ' when winter bleak had 
 charms for me.' I cannot conjure up a kind similitude 
 for those snowy flakes. Let them keep to twelfth cakes! 
 
 " Mrs. P , our Cambridge friend, has been in town. 
 
 You do not know the W 's in Trumpington Street. 
 
 They are capital people. Ask anybody you meet who is 
 the biggest woman in Cambridge, and I'll hold you a 
 
 w^ager they'll say Mrs. ; she broke down two benches 
 
 in Trinity gardens, one on the confines of St. John's, 
 
 * Mr. Wordsworth's second eon, then at the Charter-housa. 
 
176 LETTER TO "WILSON. 
 
 wliich occasioned a litigation between the Societies as to 
 repairing it. In warm weather she retires into an ice- 
 cellar (literally !) and dates the returns of the years from 
 a hot Thursday some tAventy years back. She sits in a 
 room with opposite doors and windows, to let in a thorough 
 draught, which gives her slenderer friends tooth-aches. 
 She is to be seen in the market every morning at ten 
 cheapening fowls, which I observe the Cambridge poulte- 
 rers are not sufficiently careful to stump. 
 
 " Having now answered most of the points contained in 
 your letter, let me end with assuring you of our very best 
 kindness, and excuse Mary for not handling the pen on 
 this occasion, especially as it has fallen into so much bet- 
 ter hands ! Will Dr. W. accept of my respects at the end 
 of a foolish letter? C L." 
 
 The following letter to Mr. Walter Wilson, who was 
 composing a "Life of De Foe," in reply to inquiries on 
 various points of the great novelist's history, is dated 24th 
 Feb., 1823. 
 
 TO MR. WALTER WILSON. 
 
 " Dear W. — I write that you may not think me neglect 
 ful, not that I have anything to say. In answer to your 
 questions, it was at your house I saw an edition of ' Rox- 
 ana,' the preface to which stated that the author had left 
 out all that part of it which related to Roxana's daughter 
 persisting in imagining herself to be so, in spite of the 
 mother's denial, from certain hints she had picked up, and 
 throwing herself continually in her mother's way (as Sa- 
 vage is said to have done in the Avry cf his, prying in at 
 windows to get a glimpse of her,) and that it was by ad- 
 
LETTER TO WILSON. 177 
 
 Vice of Southern, Avho objected to the circumstances as 
 being untrue, when the rest of the story was founded on 
 fact; wliich shows S. to have been a stupid-ish fellow. 
 The incidents so resemble Savage's story, that I taxed 
 Godwin Avith taking Falkner from his life by Dr. Johnson. 
 You should have the edition (if you have not parted with 
 it), for I saw it never but at your place at the Mews' Gate, 
 nor did I then read it to compare it with my own ; only 
 I know the daughter's curiosity is the best part of mi/ 
 'Roxana.' The prologue you speak of was mine, and so 
 named, but not worth much. You ask me for two or three 
 pages of verse. I have not WTitten so much since you 
 knew me. I am altogether prosaic. May be I may 
 touch off a sonnet in time. I do not prefer ' Colonel 
 Jack' to either ' Robinson Crusoe' or ' Roxana.' I only 
 spoke of the beginning of it, his childish history. The 
 rest is poor. I do not know anyAvhere any good charac- 
 ter of De Foe besides wdiat you mention.* I do not know 
 that Swift mentions him ; Pope does. I forget if D'ls- 
 raeli has. Dunlop I think has nothing of him. He is 
 quite new ground, and scarce known beyond ' Crusoe.' I 
 do not know who wrote ' Quarl.' I never thought of 
 ' Quarl' as having an author. It is a poor imitation ; the 
 monkey is the best in it, and his pretty dishes made of 
 shells. Do you knoAV the paper in the ' Englishman' by 
 Sir Richard Steele, giving an account of Selkirk ? It is 
 admirable, and has all the germs of ' Crusoe.' You must 
 quote it entire. Captain G. Carleton wrote his own me- 
 
 * Those who wish to read an admirable character of De Foe, associated 
 ■with the most valuable information respecting his personal history, should re- 
 vert to an article in the " Edinburgh Review" on Do Foe, attributed to the 
 author of the " Lives of the Statesmen of the Commonwealth," and of the 
 delightful " Biogrnphy of Oliver Goldsmith," almost as charming as its sub-, 
 ject. 
 
178 LETTER TO MISS HUTCHINSON. 
 
 moirs, tliej are about Lord Peterborough's campaign in 
 Spain, and a good book. ' Puzzelli' puzzles me, and I am 
 in a cloud about ' Donald M'Leod.' I never heard of 
 them ; so you see, mj dear Wilson, what poor assistances 
 I can give in the way of information. I wish your book 
 out, for I shall like to see anything about De Foe or from 
 you. Your old friend, C. Lamb. 
 
 "From my and your old compound." 
 
 The following is the fragment of a letter addressed in 
 the beginning of 1823 to Miss Hutchinson at Ramsgate, 
 whither she had e;one vrith an invalid relative. 
 
 TO MISS HUTCHINSON. 
 
 "April 25th, 1823. 
 
 " Dear Miss H. — It gives me great pleasure (the letter 
 now begins) to hear that you got down so smoothly, and 
 
 that Mrs. M 's spirits are so good and enterprising. 
 
 It shows whatever her posture may be, that her mind at 
 least is not supine. I hope the excursion will enable the 
 former to keep pace with its outstripping neighbor. Pray 
 present our kindest wishes to her and all ; (that sentence 
 should properly have come into the Postscript, but we 
 airy mercurial spirits, there is no keeping us in). ' Time' 
 (as was said of one of us) ' toils after us in vain.' I am 
 afraid our co-visit with Coleridge Avas a dream. I shall 
 not get away before the end (or middle) of June, and 
 then you will be frog-hopping at Boulogne ; and besides, 
 I think the Gilmans would scarce trust him with us ; I 
 have a malicious knack at cutting of apron-strings. The 
 Saints' days you speak of have long since fled to heaven, 
 with Astrgea, and the cold piety of the age lacks fervor 
 
LETTER TO MRS. IIAZLITT. 179 
 
 to recall them ; only Peter left his key — the iron one of 
 the two that ' shuts amain' — and that is the reason I am 
 locked up. Meanwhile of afternoons we pick up prim- 
 roses at Dalston, and Mary corrects me when I call 'em 
 cowslips. God bless you all, and pray, remember me 
 
 euphoniously to Mr. G . That Lee Priory must be a 
 
 dainty bower. Is it built of flints ? and does it stand at 
 Kingsgate ?" 
 
 In this year. Lamb made his greatest essay m house- 
 keeping, by occupying Colebrook Cottage at Islington, on 
 the banks of his beloved New River. There occurred 
 the immersion of George Dyer at noontide, which sup- 
 plies the subject of one of " The Last Essays of Elia ;" 
 and which is veritably related in the following letter 
 of Lamb, which is curious, as containing the germ of 
 that delightful article, and the first sketches of the 
 Brandy-and Water Doctor therein celebrated as miracu- 
 lous. 
 
 TO MRS. HAZLITT, 
 
 " November, 1823. 
 
 " Dear Mrs. H. — Sitting down to write a letter is such 
 a painful operation to Mary, that you must accept me as 
 her proxy. You have seen our house. What I now tell 
 you is literally true. Yesterday week, George Dyer 
 called upon us, at one o'clock, {bright noon day) on his 
 way to dine with Mrs. Barbauld, at Newington. He sat 
 with Mary about half an hour, and took leave. The maid 
 saw him go out, from her kitchen Avindow, but suddenly 
 losing sight of him, ran up in a fright to Mary. G. D., 
 instead of keeping the slip that leads to the gate, had 
 deliberately, staff in hand, in broad open day, inarched 
 
180 LETTER TO MRS. HAZLITT. 
 
 into the New River. He had not his spectacles on, and 
 you know his absence. Who helped him out, they can 
 hardly tell, but between 'em they got him out, drenched 
 thro' and thro'. A mob collected by that time, and ac- 
 companied him in. 'Send for the Doctor!' they said: 
 and a one-eyed fellow, dirty and drunk, was fetched from 
 the public-house at the end, where it seems he lurks, for 
 the sake of picking up water-practice ; having formerly 
 had a medal from the Humane Society, for some rescue. 
 By his advice, the patient was put between blankets ; and 
 when I came home at four, to dinner, I found G. D. a-bed, 
 and raving, light-headed, with the brandy-and water which 
 the doctor had administered. He sung, laughed, whim- 
 pered, screamed, babbled of guardian angels, would get 
 up and go home ; but we kept him there by force ; and 
 by next morning he departed sobered, and seems to have 
 received no injury. All my friends are opencd-mouthed 
 about having paling before the river, but I cannot see, 
 because an absent man chooses to walk into a river, with 
 his eyes open, at midday, I am any the more likely to be 
 drowned in it, coming home at midnight. 
 
 "I have had the honor of dining at the Mansion 
 House, on Thursday last, by special card from the Lord 
 Mayor, who never saw my face, nor I his ; and all from 
 being a writer in a magazine ! The dinner costly, served 
 on massy plate, champagne, pines, &c. ; forty-seven pres- 
 ent, among whom, the Chairman, and two other directors 
 of the India Company. There's for you! and got away 
 pretty sober ! Quite saved my credit ! 
 
 " We continue to like our house prodigiously. Our 
 kind remembrances to you and yours. — Yours truly, 
 
 " C. Lamb. 
 
 " I am pleased that H. liked my letter to the Laureate.' 
 
LETTERS TO BARTON. 181 
 
 Requested by the Quaker Poet, to advise him on a pro- 
 posal for appropriating a hirge sura of money raised by a 
 few admiring friends to his comfort in advancing years, 
 Lamb gave his wise and genial judgment in the following 
 letter 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 "March 24th, 1824. 
 
 Dear B. B. — I hasten to say that if my opinion can 
 strengthen you in your choice, it is decisive for your ac- 
 ceptance of what has been so handsomely offer'd. I can 
 see nothing injurious to your most honorable sense. 
 Think that you are called to a poetical Ministry — nothing 
 worse — the Minister is worthy of the hire. The only ob- 
 jection I feel is founded on a fear that the acceptance 
 may be a temptation to you to let fall the bone (hard as 
 it is) which is in your mouth and must afford tolerable 
 pickings, for the shadow of independence. You cannot 
 propose to become independent on what the low state of 
 interest could afford you from such a principal as you 
 mention ; and the most graceful excuse for the acceptance, 
 would be, that it left you free to your voluntary functions. 
 That is the less light part of the scruple. It has no 
 darker shade. I put in darker, because of the ambiguity 
 of the word light, which Donne in his admirable poem on 
 the Metempsychosis, has so ingeniously illustrated in his 
 invocation — 
 
 12 1 2 
 
 'Make my dark hearij poem, liijJit and liijht.' 
 
 where two senses of ligJtt are opposed to different oppo- 
 sites. A trifling criticism. I can see no reason for any 
 scruple then but what arises from your own interest : 
 which is in your own power of course to solve. If you 
 still have doubts, read over Sanderson's Cases of Con- 
 
 16 
 
182 LETTERS TO BARTON. 
 
 science, and Jeremy Taylor's Ductor Dubitantium, the 
 first a moderate octavo, the latter a folio of 900 close 
 pages, and Avhen you have thoroughly digested the ad- 
 mirable reasons pro and con Avhich they give for every 
 
 possible case, you will be just as wise as when you 
 
 began. Every man is his own best Casuist : and after 
 all, as Ephraim Smooth in the pleasant comedy of ' Wild 
 Oats,' has it, 'there is no harm in a Guinea.' A fortiori 
 there is less in 2000. 
 
 " I therefore most sincerely congratulate with you, ex- 
 cepting so far as excepted above. If you have fair pros- 
 pects of adding to the principal, cut the Bank ; but in 
 either case do not refuse an honest Service. Your heart 
 tells you it is not offered to bribe you /rom any duty, but 
 to a duty which you feel to be your vocation. Farewell 
 heartily. C. L." 
 
 The following, with its grotesque sketches, is addressed 
 also 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 " December 1st, 1S24. 
 
 " Dear B. B. — If Mr. Mitford will send me a full and 
 circumstantial description of his desired vases, I will 
 transmit the same to a gentleman resident at Canton, 
 whom I think I have interest enough in to take the pro- 
 per care for their execution. But ^Nlr. M. must have 
 patience. China is a great way off, further perhaps thin 
 
LETTER TO MISS IIUTCHIXSON. 183 
 
 he thinks ; and his next year's roses must be content to 
 wither in a Wedg\yood pot. He will please to say whether 
 he should like his arms upon them, &c. I send herewith 
 some patterns which suggest themselves to me at the first 
 blush of the subject, but he Avill probably consult his own 
 taste after all. 
 
 The last pattern is obviously fitted for ranunculuses only. 
 The two former may indifferently hold daisies, marjoram, 
 SAveet Williams, and that sort. My friend in Canton is In- 
 spector of Teas, his name is Ball ; and I can think of no 
 better tunnel. I shall expect Mr. M.'s decision. 
 
 " Taylor and Hessey finding their magazine goes off 
 very heavily at 2s. Qd. are prudently going to raise their 
 price another shilling ; and having already more authors 
 than they want, intend to increase the number of them. 
 If they set up against the New Monthly, they must change 
 their present hands. It is not tying the dead carcase of 
 a Review to a half-dead Magazine will do their business. 
 It is like G. D. multiplying his volumes to make 'em sell 
 better. When he finds one Avill not go off", he publishes 
 two ; two sticks, he tries three ; three hang fire, he is con- 
 fident that four will have a better chance. C. L." 
 
 The following letter to Miss Hutchinson at Torquay, 
 refers to some of Lamb's later articles, published in the 
 " London Magazine," which, in extending its size and pre- 
 tensions to a three-and-sixpenny miscellany, had lost much 
 of its spirit. He exults, however, in his veracious " Me- 
 moir of Listen !" 
 
 TO MISS HUTCHINSON. 
 " The brevity of this is owing to scratching it ofi" at my 
 desk amid expected interruptions. By habit, I can write 
 letters only at office. 
 
184 LETTER TO MISS HUTCHINSON 
 
 "January 20ib, 1S25, 
 
 " Dear Miss H. — Thank you for a noble goose, which 
 wanted only the massive incrustation that we used to pick- 
 axe open, about this season, in old Gloster Place. When 
 shall we eat another goose pie together ? The pheasant, 
 too, must not be forgotten ; twice as big, and half as good 
 as a partridge. You ask about the editor of the ' Lon- 
 don ;' I knoAV of none. This first specimen is flat and pert 
 enough to justify subscribers who grudge t'other shilling. 
 De Quincy's ' Parody' was submitted to him before printed, 
 and had his Prohatum.^ The ' Horns' is in a poor taste, 
 resembling the most labored papers in the 'Spectator.' I 
 had signed it ' Jack Horner ;' but Taylor and Hessey said 
 it would be thought an offensive article, unless I put my 
 known signature to it, and wrung from me my slow con- 
 sent. But did you read the ' Memoir of Listen ?' — and 
 did you guess whose it was ? Of all the lies I ever put 
 off, I value this most. It is from top to toe, every para- 
 graph, pure invention, and has passed for gospel ; has 
 been republished in ncAvspapers, and in the penny play- 
 bills of the night, as an authentic account. I shall cer- 
 tainly go to the naughty man some day for my fibbings. 1\\ 
 the next number I fio-ure as a theologian ! and have afe 
 tacked my late brethren, the Unitarians. What Jack 
 Pudding tricks I shall play next, I know not ; I am almost 
 at the end of my tether. Coleridge is quite blooming, but 
 his book has not budded yet. I hope I have spelt Torquay 
 right now, and that this will find you all mending, and 
 
 * Mr. de Quincy bad commenced a series of letters in the " London Maga- 
 zine," "To a Young Man whose education has been neglected," as a vehicle 
 for conveying miscellaneous information in his admirable style. Upon this 
 hint Lamb, with the assent which Mr. de Quincy could well afford to give, 
 contributed a parody on the scheme, in "A Letter to an Old Gentleman whose 
 education has been neglected." 
 
LETTER TO MANNING. 185 
 
 looking forward to a Loudon flight with the Spring. Win- 
 tor, tve have had none, hut plenty of foul weather. I 
 havx lately picked up an epigram which pleased me — 
 
 " ' Two noble earls, whom if I quote, 
 Some folks might call me sinner, 
 The one invented half a coat, 
 The other half a dinner. 
 
 The plan was good, as some will say. 
 
 And fitted to console one ; 
 Because in this poor starving day, 
 
 Few can afford a whole one.' 
 
 " I have made the lame one still lamer by imperfect 
 memory ; but spite of bald diction, a little done to it might 
 improve it into a good one. You have nothing else to do at 
 Torquay. Suppose you try it. Well, God bless you all, 
 as wishes Mary most sincerely, with many thanks for let- 
 ter, &c. Elia." 
 
 The first dawning hope of Lamb's emancipation from 
 the India house is suggested in the following note- to Man- 
 ning, proposing a visit, in which he refers to a certificate 
 of non-capacity for hard desk-AVork, given by a medical 
 friend. 
 
 TO MR. MANNING. 
 
 " My dear M. — You might have come inopportunely a 
 week since, when we had an inmate. At present and for 
 as long as ever you like, our castle is at your service. I 
 saw T yesternight, who has done for me what may 
 
 'To all my nights and days to come 
 
 Give solely sovran sway and masterdom.' 
 
 But I dare not hope, for fear of disappointment. I can- 
 not be more explicit at present. Bat I have it under hiii 
 
 16* 
 
186 LETTER TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 own hand, tliat I am wo?i-capacltated, (I cannot write it 
 
 in-) for business. joyous imbecility ! Not a susurra- 
 tion of tbis to anybody ! 
 
 " Mary's love. C. Lamb." 
 
 The dream was realised — in April 1825, the "world- 
 wearied clerk" went home for ever — with what delight has 
 been told in the elaborate raptures of his " Superannuated 
 Man," and in the letters already published. The follow- 
 ing may be now added to these illucidative of his too brief 
 raptures. 
 
 TO MR. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 " Dear W. — I write post-haste to ensure a frank. Thanks 
 for your hearty congratulations ! I may now date from 
 the sixth week of my ' Hegira, or Flight from Leadenhall.' 
 I have lived so much in it, that a summer seems already 
 past ; and 'tis but early May yet with you and other peo- 
 ple. How I look down on the slaves and drudges of the 
 ■world ! Its inhabitants are a vast cotton-web of spin-spin- 
 spinners ! the carking cares ! the money-grubbers ! 
 Sempiternal muckworms ! 
 
 " Your Virgil I have lost sight of, but suspect it is in 
 the hands of Sir G. Beaumont ; I think that circumstance 
 made me shy of procuring it before. Will you write to 
 him about it ? — and your commands shall be obeyed to a 
 
 tittle. 
 
 " Coleridge has just finished his prize Essay, by which, 
 if it get the prize, he'll touch an additional 100/. I fancy. 
 His book, too, (' Commentary on Bishop Leighton,') is 
 quite finished, and penes Taylor and Hessey. 
 
 " In the ' London' which is just out (1st May,) are two 
 papers entitled the ' Superannuated Man,' which I Avish 
 
LETTEK TO WORDSWOEXn. 187 
 
 you to see ; and also, 1st April, a little thing called ' Bar- 
 bara S ,' a story gleaned from Miss Kelly. The L. 
 M., if you can get it, will save my enlargement upon the 
 topic of my manumission. 
 
 " I must scribble to make up my hiatus crumence ; for 
 there are so many ways, pious and profligate, of getting 
 rid of money in this vast city and suburbs, that I shall 
 miss my thirds. But coiiragio ! I despair not. Your 
 kind hint of the cottage was well thrown out ; an anchor- 
 age for age and school of economy, when necessity comes ; 
 but without this latter, I have an unconquerable terror of 
 changing place. It does not agree with us. I say it from 
 conviction ; else I do sometimes ruralise in fancy. 
 
 " Some d — d people are come in, and I must finish ab- 
 ruptly. By d — d, I only mean deuced. 'Tis these suitors 
 of Penelope that make it necessary to authorise a little for 
 gin and mutton, and such trifles. 
 
 " Excuse my abortive scribble. 
 
 " Yours, not in more haste than heart, C. L. 
 
 " Love and recollects to all the Wms., Doras, Maries 
 round your Wrekin. 
 
 " Mary is capitally well. Do write to Sir G. B., for I 
 am shyish of applying to him." 
 
CHAPTER VIIT. 
 
 LETTERS OF LAJIB'S LAST TEARS. 
 
 [1825 to 1834.] 
 
 How imperfectly the emancipation, so rapturous-y 
 hailed, fulfilled its promises ; how Lamb left Islington for 
 Enfield, and there, after a while, subsided into a lodger ; 
 and how, at last, he settled at Edmonton to die, suflBciently 
 appear in the former series of his letters. Those which 
 occupy this chapter, scattered through nine years, have 
 either been subsequently communicated by the kindness 
 of the possessors, or were omitted for some personal rea- 
 son which has lost its force in time. The followinfr, ad- 
 dressed in 1829 to the Editor on occasion of his giving to 
 a child the name of " Charles Lamb," though withheld 
 from an indisposition to intrude matters so personal to 
 himself on the reader, may now, on his taking farewell of 
 the subject, find its place. 
 
 TO MR. TALFOURD. 
 
 " Dear Talfourd. — You could not have told me of a 
 more friendly thing than you have been doing. I am 
 proud of my namesake. I shall take care never to do any 
 dirty action, pick pockets, or anyhow get myself hanged, 
 for fear of reflecting ignominy upon your 3'oung Chrisom. 
 I have now a motive to be good. I shall not omnis 
 mortar; my name borne down the black gulf of oblivion. 
 
 " I shall survive in eleven letters, five more than Cjesar. 
 (188) 
 
LETTER TO TALFOURD. 189 
 
 Possibly I shall come to be knighted, or more ! Sir C. 
 L. Talfourd, Bart. ! 
 
 ''Yet hath it an authorish twang Avlth it, which Avill 
 wear out with my name for poetry. Give him a smile 
 iVom me till I see him. If you do not drop down before, 
 some day in the weeh after next I will come and take one 
 nio-ht's lodging with you, if convenient, before you go 
 hence. You shall name it. We are in tOAvn to-morrow 
 speeiali gratia, but by no arrangement can get up near 
 you. 
 
 "Believe us both, Avith greatest regards, yours and 
 Mrs. Talfourd's. 
 
 " Charles Lamb-Piiilo-Talfourd. 
 
 " I come as near it as I can."* 
 
 • The child who bore the name so honored by his p.arents, survived his 
 god-father only a year — dying at Brighton, whither he had been taken in the 
 vain hope of restoration, on the 3d December, 1835. Will the reader forgive 
 the weakness which prompts the desire, in this place, to link their memories 
 together, by inserting a few verses which, having been only published at the 
 end of the last small edition of the Editor's dramas, may have missed soma 
 of the friendly eyes for wliidi they were written? 
 
 Our gentle Charles has pass'J away, 
 
 From earth's short bondage free, 
 And k'.'t to us its le;uJeu day, 
 
 And oii.^t-enshrouded sea. 
 
 Here by the ocean's terraced side, 
 
 Sweet hours of hope were known, 
 When first the triumph of its tide 
 
 Seem'd omen of our own. 
 
 That capper joy the sea-breoze gave, 
 
 AVhmi first il; raised his tiair, 
 Sunk with each day's retiring wave, 
 
 Beyond the reacli of prayer. 
 
 The sun-blink that tlirough drizzling mist'. 
 
 To flickering hope akin, 
 Lone waves with feeble fondness kisa'd, 
 
 No smile as faint can win ; 
 
190 LETTERS TO BARTON. 
 
 The following eight Letters, evoked by Lamb's excel- 
 lent and indefatigable correspondent, Barton, speak for 
 themselves : — 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 "July 2d, 1S25. 
 
 " My dear B. B. — My nervous attack has so unfitted 
 me that I have not courage to sit down to a letter. My 
 
 Yet not in vain with radiance weak 
 The heavenly stranger gleams — 
 Not of the world it lights to spi?ak, 
 But that from whence it streams. 
 
 That world our patient sufferer sought, 
 
 Serene with pitying eyes, 
 As if his mounting spirit caught 
 
 The wisdom of the skies. 
 
 With boundless love it look'd abroad 
 
 For one bright moment given, 
 Shone with a loveliness that awed, 
 
 And quiver'd into Heaven. 
 
 A year made slow by care and toll 
 
 Has paced its weary round, 
 Since Death enrich'd with kindred spoil 
 
 The snow-clad, frost-ribb'd ground. 
 
 Then Lamb, with whose endearing name 
 
 Our boy we proudly graced. 
 Shrank from the warmth of sweeter fame 
 
 Thau ever hard embraced. 
 
 Still 'twas a mournful joy to think 
 
 Our darling might supply, 
 For years to us, a living link 
 
 With name that cannot die. 
 
 And though sucli fancy gleam no more 
 
 On earthly sorrow's niglit, 
 Truth's nobler torch unveils the shore 
 
 Which lends to both its light. 
 
 The nursling there that hand may take, 
 
 None ever grasp'd in vain, 
 And smiles of well-known sweetness wake, 
 
 Without their tinge of pain. 
 
LETTERS TO BARTON. 191 
 
 pool- ])ittance in ilie 'London' you will see is drawn froni 
 ray sickness. Your book is very acceptable to me, because 
 most of it is now to nie ; but your book itself we cannot 
 thank you for more sincerely than for the introduction 
 you favored us with to Anne Knight. Now cannat I 
 write jVi'S. Anne Knight for the life of me. She is a 
 
 very pleas , but I won't write all we have said of her 
 
 so often to ourselves, because I suspect you would read it 
 to her. Only give my sister's and my kindest remem- 
 brances to her, and how glad we are we can say that word. 
 If ever she come to Southwark again, I count upon another 
 
 Though, 'twixt the child and child-like bard 
 
 Late seem'd distinction wide, 
 They now may trace, in Heaven's regard, 
 
 How near they were allied. 
 
 Within the infant's ample brow 
 
 Blythe fancies lay unfurl'd, 
 Which all uncrusb'd may open now 
 
 To charm a sinless world. 
 
 Though the soft spirit of those eyes 
 
 Might ne'er with Lamb's compete^ 
 Ne'er sparkle with a wit as wise, 
 
 Or melt in tears, as sweet, 
 
 The nursling's unforgotten look 
 
 A kindred love reveals, 
 With bis who never friend forsook, 
 
 Or hurt a thing that feels. 
 
 In thought profound, in wildest glee, 
 
 In sorrow's lengthening range, 
 His guileless soul of infancy 
 
 Endured no spot or change. 
 
 From traits of each our love receives 
 
 For comfort nobler scope ; 
 While light which child-like genius leaved 
 
 Confirms the infant's hope : 
 
 And in that hope with sweetness fraugnt 
 
 Be aching hearts beguiled. 
 To blend in one delightful thought 
 
 The I'oet and the Child 1 
 
192 LETTERS TO BARTON. 
 
 pleasant Bridge walk with her. Tell her, I got home 
 time for a rubber ; but poor Tryphena will not understand 
 that phrase of the worldlings. 
 
 "I am hardly able to appreciate your volume now; bui 
 I liked the dedication much, and the apology for your bald 
 burying grounds. To Shelley, but that is not new. To 
 the young vesper-singer, Great Bealings, Playford, and 
 what not ? 
 
 " If there be a cavil, it is that the topics of religious 
 consolation, however beautiful, are repeated till a sort of 
 triteness attends them. It seems as if you were for ever 
 losing friends' children by death, and reminding their 
 parents of the Resurrection. Do children die so often, 
 and so good in your parts ? The topic taken from the 
 consideration that they are snatched away from possible 
 vanities, seems hardly sound ; for to an Omniscient eye 
 their conditional failings must be one with their actual ; 
 but I am too unwell for theology. Such as I am, 
 "I am yours and A. K.'s truly, 
 
 " C. Lamb." 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 "August 10th, 1825. 
 
 " We shall be soon again at Colebrook. 
 
 " Dear B. B. — You must excuse my not writing before, 
 when I tell you we are on a visit at Enfield, wVere I do 
 not feel it natural to sit down to a letter. It i6 at all 
 times an exertion. I had rather talk Avith you, and Anne 
 Knight, quietly at Colebrook Lodge, over the matter of 
 your last. You mistake me when you express mis.giving? 
 about my relishing a series of scriptural poems. I Avrote 
 confusedly — what I meant to say was, that one or two 
 
r.ETTEKS TO BARTON. 193 
 
 consolatorj poems on deaths would have had a more 
 condensed effect than many. Scriptural — devotional 
 topics — admit of infinite variety. So far from poetry 
 tiring me because religious, I can read, and I say it seri- 
 ously, the homely old version of tlie Psalms in our Prayer- 
 books for an hour or two together sometimes without sense 
 of weariness. 
 
 " I did not express myself clearly about what I think a 
 false topic insisted on so frequently in consolatory ad- 
 dresses on the death of infants. I know something like it 
 is in Scripture, but I think humanly spoken. It is a 
 natural thought, a sweet fallacy to the survivors — but still 
 a fallacy. If it stands on the doctrine of this being a 
 probationary state, it is liable to this dilemma. Omni- 
 science, to whom possibility must be clear as act, must 
 know of the child, what it would hereafter turn out : if 
 good, then the topic is false to say it is secured from fall- 
 ing into future wilfulness, vice, &c. If bad, I do not see 
 how its exemption from certain future overt acts, by being 
 snatched away at all tells in its favor. You stop the arm 
 of a murderer, or arrest the finger of a pickpurse, but is 
 not the guilt incurred as much by the intent as if never 
 so much acted? Why children are hurried off, and old 
 reprobates of a hundred left, whose trial humanly we may 
 think was complete at fifty, is among the obscurities of 
 providence. The very notion of a state of probation has 
 darkness in it. The All-knower has no need of satisfying 
 his eyes by seeing what we will do, when he knows before 
 what we will do. Methinks we might be condemned 
 before commission. In these things we grope and floun- 
 der, and if we can pick up a little human comfort that the 
 child taken is snatch'd from vice (no great compliment to 
 it, by the by) let us take it. And as to where an untried 
 17 
 
194 LETTERS TO BARTO]?r. 
 
 child goes, whether to join the assembly of its elders who 
 have borne the heat of the day — fire-purified martyrs, and 
 torment-sifted confessors — what know we ? We promise 
 heaven, methinks, too cheaply, and assign large revenues 
 to minors, incompetent to manage them. Epitaphs run 
 upon this topic of consolation, till the very frequency in- 
 duces a cheapness. Tickets for admission into Paradise 
 are sculptured out at a penny a letter, twopence a syllable, 
 &c. It is all a mystery, and the more I try to express 
 my meaning (having none that is clear), the more I floun- 
 der. Finally, write what your own conscience, which to 
 you is the unerring judge, deems best, and be careless 
 about the whimsies of such a half-baked notionist as I am. 
 We are here in a most pleasant country, full of walks, and 
 idle to our heart's desire. Taylor has dropt the 'Lon- 
 don.' It was indeed a dead weight. It has got in the 
 Slough of Despond. I shuffle off my part of the pack, 
 and stand like Christian with light and merry shoulders. 
 It had got silly, indecorous, pert, and everything that is 
 bad. Both- our kind remembrances to Mrs. K. and your- 
 self, and strangers'-greeting to Lucy— is it Lucy or Ruth ? — 
 that gathers wise sayings in a Book. C. Lamb." 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 "1S26. 
 
 " Dear B. B. — I don't know why I have delayed so 
 long writing. 'Twas a fault. The under current of ex- 
 cuse to my mind was that I had heard of the vessel in 
 which Mitford's jars were to come ; that it had been 
 obliged to put into Batavia to refit (wdiich accounts for its 
 delay), but was daily expected. Days are past, and it 
 comes not, and the mermaids may be drinking their tea 
 out of his china for aught I know ; but let's hope not. In 
 
LETTERS TO BARTON. 195 
 
 the meantime I have paid 28/., &c., for the fi eight and 
 prime cost. But do not mention it. I was enabled to do 
 it by a receipt of 30Z. from Colburn, Avith whom, hoAvever, 
 I have done. I should else have run short. For I just 
 make ends meet. We will wait the arrival of the trin- 
 kets, and to ascertain their full expense, and then bring 
 in the bill. 
 
 " Colburn had something of mine in last month, which 
 he has had in hand these seven months, and had lost, or 
 couldn't find room for : I was used to different treatment 
 in the ' London,' and have foresworn periodicals. I am 
 going thro' a course of reading at the Museum : the Gar- 
 rick plajs, out of part of which I have formed my speci- 
 mens. I have two thousand to go thro' ; and in a few 
 weeks have despatched the tythe of 'em. It is a sort of 
 office to me ; hours, ten to four, the same. It does me 
 good. ^lan must have regular occupation, that has been 
 used to it. 
 
 " Will you pardon my neglect ? Mind, again I say, 
 don't show this to M. ; let me wait a little longer to know 
 the event of his luxuries. Heaven send him his jars un- 
 crack'd, and me my . 
 
 " Yours, with kindest wishes to your daughter and 
 friend, in Avliich Mary joins, C. L." 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 "1826. 
 
 " Dear B. B.— The Biii<y Bee, as Hood after Dr. Watts 
 apostrophises thee, and well dost thou deserve it for tliy 
 labors in the Muses' gardens, wandering over parterres 
 of Think-on-mes and Forget-me-nots, to a total impossi- 
 bility of forgetting thee, — thy letter was acceptable, 
 
196 LETTERS TO BAllTON. 
 
 thy scruples may be dismissed, thou art rectus in cuira^ 
 not a Avord more to be said, verbum sapienti, and so forth, 
 the matter is decided Avith a Avliite stone, classically, mark 
 me, and the apparitions vanished 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 Mathews' like 
 intention to do it. See Ben Johnson. — I think you told 
 me your acquaintance with the Drama was confin'd to 
 Shakspeare and Miss Baillie : 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 missed seeing him, to have 
 talked 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 dis- 
 cover'd certain which have slipt his errata. I put 'em in 
 the next page, as perhaps thou cansi *iransmit them to 
 him. For what purpose, but to grieve him (which jet I 
 should be sorry to do), but then it shows my learning, and 
 the excuse is complimentary, as it implies their correction 
 in a future edition. His own things in the book are mag- 
 nificent, and as an old Christ's Hospitaller I was particu- 
 
LETTERS TO BARTON. 197 
 
 larly refresh'd 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 nine inches 
 in his girth, but is yet a lusty fellow\ Hood's book is 
 mighty clever, and went off 600 copies the first day. 
 Sion's Songs do not disperse so quickly. The next leaf 
 is for Rev. J. M. In this adieu, thine briefly, in a tall 
 friendship. 0. Lamb." 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 " June 11, 1S27. 
 
 " Dear B. B. — Martin's ' Belshazzar' (the picture) I have 
 seen. Its architectural effect is stupendous, but the hu- 
 man figures, the squalling contorted little antics that are 
 playing at being frightened, like children at a sham ghost, 
 who half know it to be a mask, are detestable. Then the 
 letters are nothing more than a transparency lighted up, 
 such as a Lord might order to be lit up on a sudden at a 
 Christmas gambol, to scare the ladies. The ty^ye is as 
 plain as Baskerville's — they should have been dim, full of 
 mystery, letters to the mind rather than the eye. 
 
 " Rembrandt has painted only Belshazzar and a cour- 
 tier or two, (taking a part of the banquet for the whole) 
 not fribbled out a mob of fine folks. Then everything is 
 so distinct, to the very necklaces, and that foolish little 
 prophet. What one point is there of interest ? The ideal 
 of such a subject is, that you the spectator should see 
 nothing but what at the time you Avould hav'C seen — the 
 hand, and the King — not to be at leisure to make tailor- 
 17* 
 
1&8 LETTERS TO BARTON. 
 
 remarks on the dresses, or, Dr. Kitchener-like, to examine 
 the good things at tahle. 
 
 "Just such a confused piece is his 'Joshua,' frittered 
 into a thousand fragments, little armies here, little armies 
 there — you should see only the Sun and Joshua. If I re- 
 member, he has not left out that luminary entirely, but 
 for Joshua, I was ten minutes a finding him out. Still he 
 is showy in all that is not the human figure or the preter- 
 natural interest : but the first are below a drawing school 
 girl's attainment, and the last is a phantasmagoric trick — 
 ' Now you shall see what you shall see, dare is Belshazar 
 and dare is Daniel.' 
 
 " You have my thoughts of M., and so adieu ! 
 
 " C. Lamb." 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 "1S27. 
 " My dear B. B. — You will understand my silence when 
 I tell you that my sister, on the very eve of entering into 
 a new house we have taken at Enfield, was surprised with 
 an attack of one of her sad long illnesses, which deprive 
 me of her society, though not of her domestication, for 
 eight or nine weeks together. I see her, but it does her 
 no good. But for tliis, we have the snuggest, most com- 
 fortable house, with everything most compact and desira- 
 ble. Colebrook is a wilderness. The books, prints, &c., 
 are come here, and the New Ptiver came down with us. 
 The familiar prints, the bust, the Milton, seem scarce to 
 have changed their rooms. One of her last observations 
 was 'how frightfully like this room is to our room in 
 Islington' — our up-stairs room, she meant. How I hope 
 you will come some better day, and judge of it ! We have 
 lri(;d quiet here for four months, and I will answer for the 
 comfort of it enduring. 
 
LETTERS TO BARTON. 199 
 
 " On emptying my bookshelves I found an Ulysses, 
 which I will send to A. K. -wlien I go to town, for her ac- 
 ceptance — unless the book be out of print. One likes to 
 have one copy of everything one does. I neglected to 
 keep one of ' Poetry for Children,' the joint production 
 of Mary and me, and it is not to be had for love or mo- 
 ney. It had in the title page ' by the Author of ISIrs. 
 Lester's School.' Know you any one that has it, and 
 would exchange it ? 
 
 " Strolling to Waltham Cross the other day, I hit off 
 these lines. It is one of the Crosses which Edward I. 
 caused to be built for his wife at every town where her 
 corpse rested between Northamptonshire and London. 
 
 " A stately cross each sad spot cloth attest, 
 M'hereat the corpse of Eleanor did rest, 
 From Herdby feteh'd — her spouse so honor'd her — 
 To sleep with royal dust at Westminster. 
 And, if less pompous obsequies were thine, 
 Duke Brunswick's daughter, princely Caroline, 
 Grudge not, great ghost, nor count thy funeral losses : 
 Thou in thy life-time had'st thy share of crosses. 
 
 " My dear B. B. 
 
 " My head aches with this little excursion. 
 " Pray accept two sides for three for once, 
 " And believe mo 
 
 " Yours sadly, C. L." 
 
 "Chase Side, Enfield." 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 "1827 
 
 "My dear B. — We arc all pretty well again and com- 
 fortable, and I take a first opportunity of sending the 
 Adventures of Ulysses, hoping that among us — Homer, 
 Chapman, and Co. — we shall afford you some pleasure. 
 
200 LETTERS TO BARTON. 
 
 I fear it is out of print ; if not, A. K. will accept it, with 
 wishes it were bigger ; if another copy is not to be had, 
 it reverts to me and my heirs /or ever. AVith it I send a 
 trumpery book ; to which, without my knowledge, the 
 editor of the Bijoux has contributed Lucy's verses; I am 
 asham'd to ask her acceptance of the trash accompanying 
 it. Adieu to Albums — for a great while — I said when I 
 came here, and had not been fixed for two days, but my 
 landlord's daughter (not at the Pot house) requested me 
 to write in her female friends', and in her own ; if I go 
 
 to , thou art there also, all pervading Album ! All 
 
 over the Leeward Islands, in Newfoundland, and the Back 
 Settlements, I understand there is no other reading. 
 They haunt me. I die of Albophobia ! C. L." 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 "1827. 
 
 " My dear B. B. — A gentleman I never saw before 
 brought me your welcome present — imagine a scraping, 
 fiddling, fidgetting, petit-maitre of a dancing school ad- 
 vancing into my plain parlour with a coupee and a side- 
 ling bow, and presenting the book as if he had been hand- 
 ing a glass of lemonade to a young miss — imagine this, 
 and contrast it with the serious nature of the book pre- 
 sented ! Then task your imagination, reserving this pic- 
 ture, to conceive of quite an opposite messenger, a lean, 
 strait-locked, whey-faced Methodist, for such was he in 
 reality who brought it, the Genius (it seems) of the Wes- 
 leyan Magazine. Certes, friend B., thy Widow's Tale is 
 too horrible, spite of the lenitives of Religion, to embody 
 in verse ; I hold prose to be the appropriate expositor of 
 such atrocities ! No offence, but it is a cordial that makes 
 
LETTERS TO BARTON. 201 
 
 the heart sick. Still thy skill in compounding it I do not 
 deny. I turn to what gave me less mingled pleasure. I 
 find mark'd -with pencil these pages in thy pretty book, 
 and fear I have been penurious. 
 
 " Page 52, 53— Capital. 
 
 " 59 — 6th stanza, exquisite simile. 
 
 *' 61 — 11th stanza, equally good. 
 
 " 108 — 3d stanza, I long to see Van Balen. 
 
 " 111 — A downright good sonnet. Dixi. 
 
 " 153 — Lines at the bottom. 
 
 So you see, I read, hear, and mark, if I don't learn. In 
 short this little volume is no discredit to any of your 
 former, and betrays none of the senility you fear about. 
 Apropos of Van Balen, an artist who painted me lately, 
 had painted a blackamoor praying, and not filling his can- 
 vas, stuffed in his little girl aside of blackey, gaping at 
 him unmeaningly ; and then did'nt know what to call it. 
 Now for a picture to be promoted to the Exhibition (Suf- 
 folk Street) as Historical, a subject is requisite. What 
 does me? I but christen it the 'Young Catechist' and 
 furbish'd it with dialogue following, which dubb'd it an 
 Historical Painting. Nothino; to a friend at need. 
 
 "While tins tawny Ethiop prayetb, 
 Painter, who is she that stayeth 
 By, with skin of whitest lustre j 
 Sunny locks, a shining cluster; 
 Saint-like seeming to direct him 
 To the Power that must protect him? 
 Is she of the heav'n-born Three, 
 Meek Hope, strong Failh, sweet Charity? 
 Or some Cherub? 
 
202 LETTERS TO EARTON. 
 
 They you mention 
 Far transcend m)' weak invention. 
 'Tis a simple Christian child, 
 Missionary young and mild, 
 From her store of script'ral knowledge, 
 (Bible-taught, without a college) 
 Which by reading she could gather, 
 Teaches him to say Our Father 
 To the common Parent, who 
 Colour not respects, nor hue. 
 White and black in him have part. 
 Who looks not to the skin, but heart. 
 
 When I'd done it, the artist (who had dapt in Miss merely 
 as a fill-space) swore I exprest his full meaning, and the 
 damosel bridled up into a missionary's vanity. I like 
 verses to explain pictures ; seldom pictures to illustrate 
 poems. Your woodcut is a rueful lignum mortis. By 
 the by, is the widow likely to marry again? 
 
 " I am giving the fruit of my old play reading at the 
 Museum to Hone, who sets forth a portion weekly in the 
 Table Book. Do you see it? IIow is Mitford ? I'll just 
 hint that the pitcher, the cord and the bowl are a little 
 too often repeated (passim) in your book, and that in page 
 17, last line but 4, hhn is put for he, but the poor widow 
 I take it had small leisure for grammatical niceties. Don't 
 you see there's he, myself, and him; why not both him? 
 likewise imperviously is cruelly spelt imperiously. These 
 are trifles, and I honestly like your book and you for giv- 
 ing it, though I really am ashamed of so many presents. 
 I can think of no news, therefore I Avill end with mine 
 and Mary's kindest remembrances to you and yours, 
 
 "C. L." 
 
 While Lamb was residing at Enfield, the friendship 
 which, in 1824, he had formed wdth Mr. Moxon, led to 
 very frequent intercourse, destined, in after years, to be 
 
LETTERS TO MOXON. 
 
 203 
 
 k 
 
 rendered habitual, by the marriage of liis friend ivitli the 
 young lady whom he regarded almost as a daughter. In 
 1828 Mr. Moxon, at the request of Mr. Hurst, of the 
 firm of Hurst, Chance, and Co., applied to Lamb to sup- 
 ply an article for the "Keepsake," which he, always dis- 
 liking the flimsy elegancies of the Annuals — sadly op- 
 posed to his own exclusive taste for old, standard, moth- 
 eaten books — thus declined : — 
 
 TO MR. MOXON. 
 
 " March 19th, 1828. 
 
 " My dear M. — It is my firm determination to have 
 nothing to do with 'Forget-me-Nots' — pray excuse me as 
 civilly as you can to Mr. Hurst. I will take care to re- 
 fuse any other applications. The things which Pickering 
 has, if to be had again, I have promised absolutely, you 
 know, to poor Hood, from whom I had a melancholy epis- 
 tle yesterday ; besides that Emma has decided objections 
 to her own and her friend's Album verses being pub- 
 lished; but if she gets over that, they are decidedly 
 Hood's. 
 
 " Till we meet, farewell. Loves to Dash.* C. L." 
 
 The following introduced Mr. Patmore to Mr. Moxon : — 
 
 TO MR. MOXON. 
 
 " May 3d, 1828. 
 
 " Dear M.. — My finend Patmore, author of the ' Months,' 
 a very pretty publication — of sundry Essays in the ' Lon- 
 don,' 'New Monthly,' &c., wants to dispose of a volume 
 
 * The great dog, which was, at one time, the constant companit n of hi« 
 long walks. 
 
204 LETTER TO BARTON. 
 
 or two of ' Tales.' Perhaps thej might chance to suit 
 Hurst ; but be that as it may, he will call upon you, un- 
 der favour of my recommendation ; and as he is return- 
 ing to France, where he lives, if you can do anything for 
 him in the Treaty line, to save him dancing over the 
 Channel every week, I am sure you will. I said I'd 
 never trouble you again ; but how vain are the resolves 
 of mortal man ! P. is a very hearty friendly good fel- 
 low — and was poor John Scott's second, as I will be yours 
 when you want one. May you never be mine ! 
 
 " Yours truly, C. L." 
 
 " Enfield." 
 
 The following letter exemplifies some of the most re- 
 markable peculiarities of thought and intellectual senti- 
 ment which streaked, without darkening, Lamb's evening 
 of life. 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 "March 25th, 1829. 
 
 '^ Dear B. B. — I have just come from Town, where I 
 have been to get my bit of quarterly pension. And have 
 brought home, from stalls in Barbican, the old ' Pilgrim's 
 Progress,' with the prints — Vanity Fair &c. — now scarce. 
 Four shillings. Cheap. And also one' of whom I have 
 oft heard and had dreams, but never saw in the flesh — 
 that is in sheepskin — ' The whole theologic works of 
 
 Thomas Aquinas !' 
 
 My arms ached with lugging it a mile to the stage, but the 
 burden was a pleasure, such as old Anchises was to the 
 shoulders of ^neas — or the Lady to the Lover in old ro- 
 mance, who having to carry her to the top of a high moun- 
 
LETTERS TO CCLERIDGE. 205 
 
 tain — the price of obtaining lier — clambered with her to the 
 top, and fell dead with fatigue. 
 
 * 0, the glorious old Schoolmen !' 
 
 There must be something in him. Such great names im- 
 ply greatness. Who hath seen Michael Angelo's things — 
 of us that never pilgrimaged to Rome — and yet which of 
 us disbelieves his greatness ? How I will revel in his cob- 
 webs and subtleties, till my brain spins ! 
 
 "N. B. I have writ in the Old Hamlet — offer it to 
 Mitford in my name, if he have not seen it. 'Tis woefully 
 below our editions of it. But keep it, if you like. 
 
 " I do not mean this to go for a letter, only to apprize 
 you, that the parcel is booked for you this 25th March, 
 1829, from the Four Swans, Bishopsgate. With both 
 our loves to Lucy and A. K., 
 
 "Yours ever, C. L." 
 
 The following notes, undated, but of about 1829, were 
 addressed to Coleridge under the genial care of Mr. Gil- 
 man at Highgate : 
 
 TO MR. COLERIDGE. 
 
 " Dear C. — Your sonnet is capital. The paper ingeni- 
 ous,* only that it split into four parts (besides a side splin- 
 ter) in the carriage. I have transferred it to the common 
 English paper, manufactured of rags, for better preserva 
 tion. I never knew before how the ' Iliad' and ' Odyssey' 
 were written. 'Tis strikingly corroborated by observa- 
 tions on Cats. These domestic animals, put 'em on a rug 
 before the fire, wink their eyes up, and listen to the kettle 
 and then purr, which is their poetry. 
 
 * Some gauzy tissue paper on which the J5onnet was copied. 
 18 
 
206 LETTERS TO OILMAN. 
 
 " On Sunday week we kiss your hands (if they are 
 clean). This next Sunday I have been engaged for '«onie 
 time. 
 
 " With remembrances to your good host and hostess, 
 " Yours ever, G. Lamb." 
 
 TO MR. COLERII/lifE. 
 
 " My dear Coleridge. — With pain and grief, I must en- 
 treat you to excuse us on Thursday. My head, though 
 externally correct, has had a severe concussion in my long 
 illness, and the very idea of an engagement hanging over 
 for a day or two, forbids my rest, and I ge^, up miserable. 
 I am not well enough for company. I do assure you, no 
 
 other thing prevents me coming. I expect and his 
 
 brothers this or to-morrow evening, and it worries me to 
 death that I am not ostensibly ill enough to put 'em off. 
 I will get better, when I shall hope to see your nephew. 
 He will come again. Mary joins in best love to the Gil- 
 mans. Do, I earnestly entreat you, excuse me. I assure 
 you, again, that I am not fit to go out yet. 
 
 "Yours (though shattered), C. Lamb." 
 
 " Tuesday." 
 
 The next two notelets are addressed to Coleridge's ex- 
 cellent host, on the occasion of borrowing and returning 
 the works of Fuller : 
 
 TO MR. gilman. 
 "Pray trust me with the ' Church History,' as well as 
 the 'Worthies.' A moon shall restore both. Also give 
 me back ' Him of Aquinum.' In return you have the liffht 
 of my countenance J^ Adieu. 
 
 * A sketch of Lamb, by an amateur artist. 
 
LETTERS TO GILMAN AND ROBINSOjST. 207 
 
 " P. S. A sister also of mine comes Avith it. A son 
 of Nimshi drives her. Their driving Avill have been furi- 
 ous, impassioned. Pray God they have not toppled over 
 the tunnel ! I promise you I fear their steed, bred out 
 of the wind without a father, semi-Melchisedecish, hot, 
 phaetontic. Prom my country lodgings at Enfield. 
 
 "C. L." 
 
 TO MR. GILMAN. 
 
 " Dear Gilman. — Pray do you, or S. T. C, immediately 
 write to say you have received back the golden works of 
 the dear, fine, silly old angel which I part from bleeding, 
 and to say how the winter has used you all. 
 
 " It is our intention soon, weather permitting, to come 
 over for a day at Highgate ; for beds we will trust to the 
 Gate-House, should you be full : tell me if we may come cas- 
 ually, for in this change of climate, there is no naming a 
 day for walking. With best loves to Mrs. Gilman, &;c., 
 
 " Yours, mopish but in health, C. Lamb." 
 
 " I shall be uneasy till I hear of Fuller's safe arrival." 
 
 The following two letters addressed to Mr. 11. C. Rob- 
 inson, when afiiicted with rheumatism, are in Lamb's wild- 
 est strain of mirth. In the first he pretends to endure all 
 the pain he believes his friend to be sufiering, and attrib- 
 utes it to his own incautious habits : in the second he at- 
 tributes the suffering to his friend in a strain of exaggera- 
 tion, probably intended to make the reality more tolerable 
 by compassion : 
 
 TO MR. 11. C. ROBINSON. 
 
 "April 10th, 1829. 
 
 " Dear Robinson, — 'Wc are afraid you will slip from ug 
 from England without again seeing us. It would be char 
 
208 LETTER TO ROBINSON. 
 
 itj to come and see me. I have these three days oeen 
 laid up with strong rheumatic pains, in loins, back, should- 
 ers. I shriek sometimes from the violence of them. I c^et 
 scarce any sleep, and the consequence is, I am restless, 
 and want to change sides as I lie, and I cannot turn with- 
 out resting on my hands, and so turning all my body all 
 at once, like a log with a lever. While this rainy weather 
 lasts, I have no hope of alleviation. I have tried flannels 
 and embrocation in vain. Just at the hip joint the pangs 
 sometimes are so excruciating, that I cry out. It is as vio- 
 lent as the cramp, and far more continuous. I am ashamed 
 to whine about these complaints to you, who can ill enter 
 into them ; but indeed they are sharp. You go about, in 
 rain or fine, at all hours, without discommodity. I envy 
 you your immunity at a time of life not much removed 
 from my own. But you owe your exemption to temper- 
 ance, which it is too late for me to pursue. I, in my life 
 time, have had my good things. Hence my frame is brittle 
 — ^your's strong as brass. I never knew any ailment you 
 had. You can go out at night in all weathers, sit up all 
 hours. Well, I don't want to moralise, I only wish to say 
 that if you are inclined to a game at double-dumby, I would 
 try and bolster up myself in a chair for a rubber or so. 
 My days are tedious, but less so and less painful, than my 
 nights. May you never know the pain and difficulty I 
 have in writing so much ! Mary, who is most kind, joins 
 m the wish ! C. Lamb." 
 
 THE COMPANION LETTER TO THE SAME. 
 
 (a week afterwards.) 
 
 " I do confess to mischief. It was the subtlest diaboli- 
 cal piece of malice heart of man has contrived. I have no 
 more rheumatism than that poker. Never was freer from 
 
LETTERS TO ROBINSON^. 209 
 
 all pains and aches. Every joint sound to the tip of the 
 ear from the extremity of the lesser toe. The report of 
 thy torments was blown circuitously here from Bury. I 
 could not resist the jeer. I conceived you w^rithing, when 
 you should just receive my congratulations. IIoav mad 
 you'd be. Well, it is not in my method to inflict pangs. 
 I leave that to Heaven. But in the existing pangs of a 
 friend I have a share. His disquietude crowns my exemp- 
 tion. I imagine you hov.'ling, and pace across the room, 
 shooting out my free arms, legs, &c., / \l I this way and 
 that way, Avith an assurance of not kindling a spark of pain 
 from them. I deny that Nature meant us to sympathise 
 with agonies. Those face-contortions, retortions, distor- 
 tions have the merriness of antics. Nature meant them 
 for farce — not so pleasant to the actor, indeed ; but Gri- 
 maldi cries when we laugh, and 'tis but one that suffers to 
 make thousands rejoice. 
 
 " You say that shampooing is ineffectual. But, per se, 
 it is good, to show the introvolutions, extravolutions, of 
 which the animal frame is capable — to show what the 
 creature is receptible of, short of dissolution. 
 
 " You are worst of nights, an't you ? You never was 
 rack'd, Avas you ? I should like an authentic map of those 
 feelings. 
 
 " You seem to have the flying gout. You can scarcely 
 •jcrew a smile out of your face, can you ? I sit at immu- 
 nity and sneer ad libitum. 'Tis now the time for you to 
 make good resolutions. I may go on breaking 'em for 
 anything the worse I find myself. Your doctor seems to 
 keep you on the long cure. Precipitate healings are ne- 
 ver good. Don't come while you are so bad ; I shan't be 
 able to attend to your throes and the dumby at once. 1 
 should like to know how slowly the pain goes off. But 
 
 18* 
 
210 LETTER TO BARTON. 
 
 don't write, unless the motion will be likely to make your 
 sensibility more exquisite. 
 
 " Your affectionate and truly healthy friend, 
 
 "C. Lamb. 
 
 " Mary thought a letter from me might amuse you in 
 your torment." 
 
 The illness of Mr. Barton's daughter drew from Lamb 
 the following expression of kindred loneliness and sor- 
 row: — 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 "July 3d, 1829. 
 
 " Dear B. B. — I am very much grieved indeed for the 
 indisposition of poor Lucy. Your letter found me in do- 
 mestic troubles. My sister is again taken ill, and I am 
 obliged to remove her out of the house for many weeks, I 
 fear, before I can hope to have her again. I have been 
 very desolate indeed. My loneliness is a little abated by 
 our young friend Emma having just come here for her 
 holidays, and a schoolfellow of hers that was, with her. 
 Still the house is not the same, tho' she is the same. Mary 
 had been pleasing herself with the prospect of seeing her 
 at this time ; and with all their company, the house feels 
 at times a frightful solitude. May you and I in no very 
 long time have a more cheerful theme to write about, and 
 congratulate upon a daughter's and a sister's perfect re- 
 covery. Do not be long without telling me how Lucy 
 goes on. I have a right to call her by her quaker-name, 
 you know. Emma knows that I am writing to you, and 
 begs to be remembered to you with thankfulness for your 
 ready contribution. Her album is filling apace. But of 
 
jjEtter to avordswokth. 211 
 
 her contributors, one, almost the flower of It, a most amia- 
 ble young man and late acquaintance of mine, has been 
 carried off by consumption, on return from one of the 
 Azores islands, to which he went with hopes of mastering 
 the disease, came back improved, went back to a most 
 close and confined counting-house, and relapsed. His name 
 was Dibdin, grandson of the Songster. C. L." 
 
 The following graphic sketch of the happy tempera- 
 ment of one of Lamb's intimate friends, now no more, is 
 contained in a letter to — 
 
 MR. WORDSWORTH. 
 
 " A is well, and in harmony with himself and the 
 
 world. I don't know how ho, and those of his constitu- 
 tion, keep their nerves so nicely balanced as they do. Or, 
 have they any ? Or, are they made of pack-thread ? 
 He is proof against weather, ingratitude, meat underdone, 
 every weapon of fate. I have just now a jagged end of 
 a tooth pricking against my tongue, which meets it half 
 way, in a wantonness of provocation-; and there they go 
 at it, the tongue pricking itself, like the viper against the 
 file, and the tooth galling all the gum inside and out to 
 torture ; tongue and tooth, tooth and tongue, hard at it ; 
 and I to pay the reckoning, till all my mouth is as hot as 
 brimstone ; and I'd venture the roof of my mouth, that 
 at this moment, at which I conjecture my full-happiness'd 
 friend is picking his crackers, that not one of the double 
 rows of ivory in his privileged mouth has as much as a flaw 
 in it, but all perform their functions, and, having performed 
 them, expect to be picked, (luxurious steeds !) and rubbed 
 down. I don't think he could be robbed, or have his house 
 
212 LETTER TO AYRTON. 
 
 set on fire, or even want money. I liave heard liim express 
 a similar opinion of his own infallibility. I keep acting 
 here Ileautontimorumenos. 
 
 ******* 
 
 " Have you seen a curious letter in the Morning Chroni- 
 cle, by C. L.,* the genius of absurdity, respecting Bona- 
 parte suing out his Habeas Corpus ? That man is his 
 own moon. He has no need of ascending into that gentle 
 planet for mild influences." 
 
 In the spring of the year, Mr. Murray, the eminent 
 publisher, through one of Lamb's oldest and most cherished 
 friends, Mr. Ayrton, proposed that he should undertake a 
 continuation of his Specimens of the Old English Drama- 
 tists. The proposal was communicated by Mr. Ayrton to 
 Lamb, then at Enfield, and then too painfully anxious for 
 the recovery of Miss Isola, who was dangerously ill in Suf- 
 folk to make the arrangement desired. The following is 
 the reply : — 
 
 TO MR AYRTON. 
 
 " Mr. Westwood's, Chase Side, Enfield, 
 "14th March, 1830. 
 
 " My dear Ayrton, — Your letter, which was only not 
 so pleasant as your appearance would have been, has re- 
 
 * Capel Lofft, a barrister residing in Suffolk, a well-known whig and friend 
 of Major Wyvil and Major Cartwright, who sometimes half vexed Lamb by 
 signing, as he had a right, their common initials to a sonnet. He wrote a 
 ve°ry vehement letter, contending that the detention of Napoleon on board a 
 vessel off the coast, preparatory to his being sent to St. Helena, was illegal, 
 and that the captain of the vessel would be compelled to surrender him in 
 obedience to a writ of Habeas Corpus. 
 
LETTER TO AYIITON. 213 
 
 vived some old images ; Phillips,* (not the Colonel,) with 
 his few hairs bristling up at the charge of a revoke, which 
 he declares impossible ; the old Captain's significant nod 
 over the right shoulderf (was it not) ; Mrs. B 's de- 
 termined questioning of the score, after the game was ab- 
 solutely gone to the d — 1 ; the plain but hospitable cold 
 boiled-beef suppers at sideboard ; all wdiich fancies, redo- 
 lent of middle age and strengthful spirits, come across us 
 ever and anon in this vale of deliberate senectitude, 
 yclcped Enfield. 
 
 " You imagine a deep gulf between you and us ; and 
 there is a pitiable hiatus in hind between St. James's Park 
 and this extremity of Middlesex. But the mere distance 
 in turnpike roads is a trifle. The roof of a coach swings 
 you doAvn in an hour or two. We have a sure hot joint 
 on a Sunday, and when had we better ? I suppose you 
 know that ill health has obliged us to give up housekeep- 
 ing, but we have an asylum at the very next door — only 
 twenty-four inches further from town, which is not mate- 
 rial in a country expedition — where a table cThote is kept 
 for us, without trouble on our parts, and we adjourn after 
 dinner, when one of the old world (old friends) drops ca- 
 sually down among us. Come and find us out ; and seal 
 
 * Edward Phillips, Esq., Secretary to the Right Hon. Charles Abbott, 
 Speaker of the House of Commons. The " Colonel" alluded to was the Lieu- 
 tenant of Marines who accompanied Capt. Cook in his last voyage, and on 
 shore with that great man when he fell a victim to his humanity. On the 
 death of his commander, Lieutenant Phillips, himself wounded, swam off to 
 the boats; but seeing one of his marines struggling in the water to escape 
 the natives who were persuing him, gallantly swam back, protected his man 
 at the peril of his life, and both reached their boat in safety. He afterwards 
 married that accomplished and amiable daughter of Dr. Burney, whose name 
 60 frequently occurs in the Diary and Correspondence of her sister, Madame 
 D'Arblay. 
 
 + Captain (afterwards Admiral), James Burney. 
 
214 LETTER TO MRS. WILLIAMS. 
 
 our judicious change with your approbation, whenever the 
 whim bites, or the sun prompts. No need of announce- 
 ment, for we are sure to be at home. 
 
 " I keep putting off the subject of my answer. In 
 truth I am not in spirits at present to see Mr. Murray on 
 such a business ; but pray oifer him my acknowledgments, 
 and an assurance that I should like at least one of his pro- 
 positions, as I have so much additional matter for the Spe- 
 cimens, as might make two volumes in all ; or ONE (new 
 edition) omitting such better known authors as Beaumont 
 and Fletcher, Johnson, &c. 
 
 " But we are both in trouble at present. A very dear 
 young friend of ours, who passed her Christmas holidays 
 here, has been taken dangerously ill with a fever, from 
 which she is very precariously recovering, and I expect a 
 summons to fetch her when she is well enough to bear the 
 journey from Bury. It is Emma Isola, with whom we 
 got acquainted at our first visit to your sister, at Cam- 
 bridge, and she has been an occasional inmate with us — 
 and of late years much more frequently — ever since. 
 While she is in this danger, and till she is out of it, and 
 here in a probable way to recovery, I feel that I have no 
 spirits for an engagement of any kind. It has been a 
 terrible shock to us ; therefore I beg that you will make 
 my handsomest excuses to Mr. Murray. 
 
 " Our very kindest loves to Mrs. A. and the younger 
 A.'s. Your unforgotten, C. Lamb." 
 
 Good tidings soon reached Lamb of Miss Isola's health, 
 and he went to Fornham to bring her, for a month's visit, 
 to Enfi'-'ld. The following are portions of letters addressed 
 to thi? lady from whose care he had removed her, after 
 their arrival at home, other parts of which have been 
 alrcA iy published. 
 
LETTER TO MRS. "WILLIAMS. 215 
 
 TO MRS. WILLIAMS. 
 
 '■ Enfield, April 2d, 1800. 
 
 " Dear Madam. — I have great pleasure in letting y.ou 
 know Miss Isola has suifered very little from fatigue on 
 her long journey ; I am ashamed to say that I came home 
 rather the more tired of the two. But I am a very un- 
 practised traveller. We found my sister very well in 
 health, only a little impatient to see her ; and, after a 
 few hysterical tears for gladness, all was comfortable 
 again. We arrived here from Epping between five and 
 six. 
 
 " How I employed myself between Epping and Enfield, 
 the poor verses in the front of my paper may inform you, 
 which you may please to Christen an ' Acrostic in a cross- 
 road,' and which I wish w^ere worthier of the lady they 
 refer to, but I trust you will plead my pardon to her on a 
 subject so delicate as a lady's good 7iame. Your candor 
 must acknowledge that they are written straight. And 
 now, dear madam, I have left myself hardly space to ex- 
 press my sense of the friendly reception I found at Forn- 
 hain. Mr. Williams will tell you that we had the plea- 
 sure of a slight meeting with him on the road, where I 
 could almost have told liim, but that it seemed ungracious, 
 that such had been your hospitality, that I scarcely mis- 
 sed the good master of the family at Fornham, though 
 lieartily I should have rejoiced to have made a little 
 longer acquaintance with him. I will say nothing of our 
 deeper obligations to both of you, because I think we 
 agreed at Fornham that gratitude may be over-exacted 
 on the part of the obliging, and over-expressed on the 
 part of the obliged person. 
 
216 LETTER TO MRS. HAZLITT. 
 
 " Miss Isola is writing, and will tell you that we are 
 going on very comfortably. Her sister is just come. She 
 blames my last verses, as being more written on Mr. Wil- 
 li(ims than on yourself; but how should I have parted 
 whom a Superior Power has brought together ? I beg 
 you will jointly accept of all our best respects, and par- 
 don your obsequious if not troublesome correspondent, 
 
 "CL. 
 
 " P.S. — I am the worst folder-up of a letter in the 
 world, except certain Hottentots, in the land of Caffre, 
 who never fold up their letters at all, writing very badly 
 upon skins, &c." 
 
 The following contains Lamb's account of the same 
 journey, addressed to Buxton : — 
 
 TO MRS. HAZLITT. 
 
 "May 24th, 1830. 
 
 " Mary's love ? Yes. Mary Lamb is quite well. 
 
 " Dear Sarah. — I found my way to NorthaAV on Thurs- 
 day, and saw a very good woman behind a counter, who 
 says also that you are a very good lady. I did not accept her 
 offered glass of wine (home-made, I take it) but craved a 
 cup of ale, with which I seasoned a slice of cold lamb, 
 from a sandwich box, which I ate in her back parlor, and 
 proceeded for Berkhampstead, &c. ; lost myself over a 
 heath, and had a day's pleasure. I wish you could walk 
 as I do, and as you used to do. I am sorry to find you 
 are so poorly ; and, now I have found my way, I wish you 
 back at Goody Tomlinson's. What a pretty village 'tis. 
 I should have come sooner, but was waiting a summons to 
 
LETTER TO MRS. HAZLITT. 217 
 
 Bury. Well, it came; and I found the good parson's lady 
 (he was from home) exceedingly hospitable. 
 
 " Poor Emma, the first moment Ave were alone, took me 
 into a corner, and said, ' Noav, pray, don't drink; do 
 chock 3"ourself after dinner, for my sake, and when we get 
 home to Enfield, j-ou shall drink as much as ever you 
 please, and I won't say a word about it.' How I behaved, 
 you may guess, when I tell you that Mrs. Williams and I 
 have written acrostics on each other ; and she hoped that 
 she should have ' no reason to regret Miss Isola's recovery, 
 by its depriving her of our begun correspondence.' Emma 
 stayed a month with us, and has gone back (in tolerable 
 health) to her long home, for she comes not again for a 
 twelvemonth. I amused Mrs. Williams with an occur- 
 rence on our road to Enfield.* We travelled with one 
 of those troublesome fellow-passengers in a stage-coach, 
 that is called a well-informed man. For twenty miles we 
 discoursed about the properties of steam, probabilities of 
 carriages by ditto, till all my science, and more than all, 
 was exhausted, and I was thinking of escaping my tor- 
 ment by getting up on the outside, when getting into 
 Bishops Stortford, my gentleman, spying some farming 
 land, put an unlucky question to me : ' What sort of a 
 crop of turnips I thought we should have this year ?' 
 Emma's eyes turned to me, to know what in the world I 
 could have to say ; and she burst into a violent fit of 
 laughter, maugre her pale, serious cheeks, when, with the 
 greatest gravity, I replied, that ' it depended, I believed, 
 upon boiled legs of mutton.' This clenched our conver- 
 sation, and my gentleman, with a face half wise, half in 
 Bcorn, troubled us Avith no more conversation, scientific or 
 
 * This little anecdote was told by Lsmb in a letter previously published, 
 Cut not quite so richly as here. 
 19 
 
218 LETTER TO MRS. HAZLITT. 
 
 philosophical, for the remainder of^the journey. S 
 
 was here yesterda}', and as learned to the full as my fel- 
 low-traveller. What a pity that he will spoil a wit, and a 
 
 most pleasant fellow (as he is) by wisdom. N. Y * 
 
 IS as good, and as odd as ever. We had a dispute about 
 the word ' heir,' which I contended was pronounced like 
 * air ;' he said that might be in common parlance ; or that 
 we might so use it, speaking of the ' Heir-at-Law,' a 
 comedy ; but that in the law courts it was necessary to 
 give it a full aspiration, and to say hayer ; he thought it 
 might even vitiate a cause, if a counsel pronounced it 
 otherwise. In conclusion, he 'would consult Serjeant 
 Wilde,' who gave it against him. Sometimes he falleth 
 into the water ; sometimes into the fire. He came down 
 here, and insisted on reading Virgil's 'Eneid' all through 
 with me, (which he did) because a counsel must know 
 Latin. Another time he read out all the Gospel of St. 
 John, because Biblical quotations are very emphatic in a 
 court of Justice. A third time, he would carve a fowl, 
 which he did very ill-favoredly, because ' we did not know 
 how indispensable it was for a barrister to do all those 
 sort of things well ? Those little things were of more 
 consequence than we supposed.' So he goes on, harass- 
 ing about the way to prosperity, and losing it. With a 
 long head, but somewhat a wrong one — harum-scarum. 
 Why does not his guardian angel look to him ? He de- 
 serves one : may be, he has tired him out. 
 
 " I am with this long scraAvl, but I thought in your 
 exile, you might like a letter. Commend me to all the 
 wonders in Derbyshire, and tell the devil I humbly kiss — 
 my hand to him. Yours ever, C. Lamb." 
 
 " Enfield, Satunlaij." 
 
 * A very old and dear friend of Lamb who bad just been called in tbe bar. 
 
LETTERS TO MOXON AND BARTON. 219 
 
 The esteem which Lamb had always cherished for Mr. 
 Rogers, was quickened into a livelier feeling bj the gene- 
 rous interest which the poet took in the success of Mr. 
 Moxon, who was starting as a publisher. The following 
 little note shows the state of his feelings at this time 
 towards two distinguished persons. 
 
 TO MR. MOXON. 
 
 " Enfield, Tuesday. 
 
 " Dear M. — I dined with your and my Rogers, at Mr. 
 Gary's, yesterday. Gary consulted me on the proper 
 bookseller to offer a lady's MS novel to. I said I would 
 write to you. But I wish you would call on the trans- 
 lator of Dante, at the British Museum, and talk with him. 
 He is the pleasantest of clergymen. I told him of all 
 Rogers's handsome behaviour to you, and you are already 
 no stranger. Go ! I made Rogers laugh about your 
 Nightengale Sonnet, not having heard one. 'Tis a good 
 sonnet, notwithstanding. You shall have the books 
 shortly. C. L." 
 
 The petty criticisms on the small volume of " Album 
 Verses," by which a genial trifle, intended to mark the 
 commencement of the career of a dear friend, was sub- 
 jected to absurd severity, and which called forth a little in- 
 dignant poem from the Laureate, provoked the following 
 notice from Lamb, in a letter addressed 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 "August 30th, 1830. 
 
 "DearB.B. — My address is 34, Southampton Buildings, 
 Holborn. For God's sake do not let me be pester'd with 
 Annuals. They are all rogues who edit them, and some- 
 
220 LETTERS TO MOXON AND BARTON. 
 
 tiling else who write in them. I am still alone, and very 
 much out of sorts, and cannot spur up my mind to writing. 
 The sight of one of those year books makes me sick. I 
 get nothing by any of 'em, not even a copy. 
 
 " Thank you for your warm interest about my little vol- 
 ume, for the critics on which I care the five hundred thou- 
 sandth part of the tythe of a half-farthing. I am too old a 
 Militant for that. How noble, tho', in R. S.,* to come 
 forward for an old friend, who had treated him so un- 
 worthily. 
 
 " Moxon has a shop without customers, I a book with- 
 out readers. But what a clamor against a poor collection 
 of Album verses, as if we had put forth an Epic. I cannot 
 scribble a long letter — I am, when not at foot, very deso- 
 late, and take no interest in anything, scarce hate any- 
 thing, but Annuals. I am in an interregnum of thought 
 and feeling. What a beautiful autumn morning this is, if 
 it was but with me as in times past when the candle of the 
 Lord shined round me. I cannot even muster enthusiasm 
 to admire the French heroism. In better times I hope we 
 may some day meet, and discuss an old poem or two. But 
 if you'd have me not sick, no more of Annuals. 
 
 " C. L. Ex-Elia. 
 
 " Love to Lucy and A. K. always." 
 
 In 1830, Lamb tried the experiment of lodging a little 
 while in London ; but Miss Lamb's malady compelled him 
 to return to the solitude of Enfield. He thus communi- 
 cates the sad state of his sister : 
 
 TO MR. MOXON. 
 
 " Dear Moxon. — I have brought my sister to Enfield, 
 being sure that she had no hope of recovery in London. 
 
 * Robert Southey. 
 
LETTER TO BARTON. 221 
 
 Her state of mind is deplorable beyond any example. I 
 almost fear whether she has strength at her time of life 
 ever to get out of it. Here she must be nursed, and nei- 
 ther see nor hear of anything in the world out of her sick 
 chamber. The mere hearing that Southey had called at 
 our lodgings totally upset her. Pray see him, or hear of 
 him at Mr. Rickman's, and excuse my not writing to him. 
 [ dare not write, or receive a letter in her presence ; every 
 little task so agitates her. Westwood will receive any 
 letter for me, and give it me privately. 
 
 " Pray assure Southey of ray kindliest feelings towards 
 him, and, if you do not see him, send this to him. 
 
 " Kindest remembrances to your sister, and believe me 
 ever yours, C. Lamb. 
 
 " Remember me kindly to the Allsops." 
 
 The following curious piece of modern Latin was ad- 
 dressed 
 
 TO BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 " April, 1S31. 
 
 " Vir Bone ! — Recepi literas tuas amicissimas et in men- 
 tem venit responsuro mihi, vol rare, vel nunquam, inter 
 nos interccdisse Latinum linguam, organum rescribendi, 
 loquendive. Epistohc ture, Plinianis elegantiis (supra quod 
 Tremulo deceat) refertye, tam a verbis Plinianis adeo ab- 
 horrent, ut no vocem quamquam (Roma nam scilicet) habere 
 videaris, quam 'ad canem,' ut aiunt, ' rejectare possis.' 
 Forsan desuetude Latinissandi ad vernaculam linguam 
 usitandam plus quam opus sit, coegit. Per adagia qucedam 
 nota, et in ore omnium pervulgata, ad Latinitatis perditge 
 recuperationem revocare te institui. 
 19* 
 
222 LETTER TO BARTON. 
 
 " Felis in abaco est, et ae2;i'^ videt. 
 
 " Omne quod splendet nequaquam aurum putes. 
 
 " Imponas equo mendicuin, equitabit idem ad diabolum. 
 
 " Fur commode a fure prenditur. 
 
 " Maria, Maria, valde contraria, quomodo crescit 
 hortulus tuus ? 
 
 "Nunc majora canamus. 
 
 " Thomas, Thomas, de Islington, uxorem duxit die nu- 
 pera Dominica. Reduxit domum postera,. Succedenti 
 baculum emit. Postridie ferit illam. j^lgrescit ilia sub- 
 Bubsequnti. Proximo, (nempe Veneris) est mortua. Plu- 
 rimum gestiit Thomas, quod appropinquanti Sabbato effer- 
 enda sit. 
 
 " Horner quidam Johanulus in angulo sedebat, ortocreas 
 quasdam deglutiens. Inseruit pollices, pruna nana evell- 
 ens, et magna, voce exclamavit, ' Dii boni, qudm bonus 
 puer fio !' 
 
 " Diddle-diddle-dumkins ! mens unicas filius Johannes 
 cubitum ivit, inegris braccis, caliga una tantum, indutus. 
 Diddle-diddle, &c. Da Capo. 
 
 " Hie adsum saltans Joannula. Cum nemo adsit mihi, 
 semper resto sola. 
 
 " Enigma mihi hoc solvas, et OEdipus fies. 
 
 " Qua ratione assimulandus sit equus Tremulo ? 
 
 " Quippe cui tota communicatio sit per Hay et Neigh, 
 juxta consilium illud Dominicum,' ' Fiat omnis communi- 
 catio vestra Yea et Nay.' 
 
 " In eis nugis caram diem consume, dum invigilo vale- 
 tudini carioris notroe Emmse, quge apud nos jamdudum 
 aegrotat. Sal vera vos jubet mecum Maria mea, ipsa in- 
 tegrd valetudine. Elia. 
 
LETTERS TO MOXON. 223 
 
 " Ab agro Enfeldiense datura, ,Aprilis nescio qnibus 
 Calendis — Davus sum, non Calendarius. 
 
 "P. S. — Perdita in toto est Billa Reformatura." 
 
 !Mi-. Moxon, having become the publisher of " The Eng- 
 lishman's Magazine," obtained Lamb's aid, as a contribu- 
 tor of miscellaneous articles, which Avere arranged to ap- 
 pear under the comprehensive title of " Peter's Net." The 
 folloAving accompanied his first contribution, in which some 
 reminiscences of the Royal Academy Avere enshrined. 
 
 TO MR. MOXON. 
 
 "August, 1831. 
 
 " Dear M. — The R. A. here memorised was George 
 Dawe, whom I knew Avell, and heard many anecdotes of, 
 from Daniels and Westall, at H. Rogers's ; to each of 
 them it will be well to send a magazine in my name. It 
 will fly like Avildfire among the Royal Academicians and 
 artists. Could you get hold of Procter ? — his chambers 
 are at Lincoln's Inn, at Montague's ; or of Janus Weather- 
 cock ? — both of their prose is capital. Don't encourage 
 poetry. The ' Peter's Net' does not intend funny things 
 only. All is fish. And leave out the sickening ' Elia' at 
 the end. Then it may comprise letters and characters, 
 addressed to Peter ; but a signature forces it to be all 
 characteristic of the one man, Elia, or the one man, Peter, 
 Avhich cramped me formerly. I have agreed not for my 
 sister to know the subjects I choose, till the magazine 
 comes out ; so bcAvare of speaking of 'cm, or Avriting about 
 'em, save generally. Be particular about this warning. 
 Can't you drop in some afternoon, and take a bed ? Th(5 
 'Athenaeum' has been hoaxed Avith some exquisite poetry, 
 
224 LETTERS TO MOXON. 
 
 that was, two or three months ago, in ' Hone's Book.' I 
 like your first number capitally. But is not it small? 
 Come and see us, week-day if possible. 
 
 " Send or bring me Hone's number for August. The 
 anecdotes of E. and of G, D. are substantially true ; what 
 does Elia (or Peter) care for dates ? 
 
 " The poem I mean, is in ' Hone's Book,' as far back as 
 April. I do not know who wrote it ; but 'tis a poem I envy 
 — that and ' Montgomery's Last Man :' I envy the writers, 
 because I feel I could have done something like them. 
 
 " C. L." 
 
 The following contams Lamb's characteristic acknowl- 
 edgment of a payment on account of these contributions. 
 
 TO MR. MOXON. 
 
 "September 5th, 1S31. 
 
 " Dear M —Your letter's contents pleased me. I am 
 only afraid c ( taxing you. Yet I want a stimulus, or I 
 think I should drag sadly. I shall keep the moneys in 
 trust, till I s,ee you fairly over the next 1st January. 
 Then I shall look upon 'era as earned. No part of your 
 letter gave mo more pleasure (no, not the lOZ., tho' you 
 may grin) than that you will revisit old Enfield, which I 
 hope will be always a pleasant idea to you. 
 
 " Yours, very faithfully, C. L." 
 
 The magazine, although enriched with Lamb's articles, 
 and some others of great merit, did not meet with a suc- 
 cess so rapid as to requite the proprietor for the labor and 
 anxiety of its production. The following is Lamb's letter, 
 in reply to one announcing a determination to discontinue 
 its publication : — 
 
LETTERS TO MOXON. 225 
 
 TO MR. MOXON. 
 
 "Oct. 24th, 1831. 
 
 *' To address an abdicated raonarch is a nice point of 
 breeding. To give him his lost titles is to mock him ; to 
 withhold 'em is to wound him. But his minister, who falls 
 ■with him, may be gracefully sympathetic. I do honestly 
 feel for your diminution of honors, and regret even the 
 pleasing cares which are part and parcel of greatness. 
 Your magnanimous submission, and the cheerful tone of 
 your renunciation, in a letter, which, without flattery, 
 would have made an 'article,' and which, rarely as I 
 keep letters, shall be preserved, comfort me a little. Will 
 it please, or plague you, to say that when your parcel 
 came I cursed it, for my pen was warming in my hand at 
 a ludicrous description of a Landscape of an K..A., which 
 I calculated upon sending you to-morrow, the last day you 
 gave me ? Now any one calling in, or a letter coming, 
 puts an end to my writing for the day. Little did I think 
 that the mandate had gone out, so destructive to my occu- 
 pation, so relieving to the apprehensions of the whole body 
 of R.A.'s ; so you see I had not quitted the ship while a 
 plank was remaining. 
 
 " To drop metaphors, I am sure you have done wisely. 
 The very spirit of your epistle speaks that you have a 
 weight off your mind. I have one on mine ; the cash in 
 
 hand, which, as less truly says, burns in my pocket. 
 
 I feel queer at returning it, (who does not ? you feel awk- 
 ward at retaking it, (who ought not ?) — is there no middle 
 way of adjusting this fine embarrassment ? I think I have 
 hit upon a medium to skin the sore place over, if not quite 
 to heal it. You hinted that there might be something 
 
226 LETTERS TO MOXON. 
 
 under 10/., bj and Ly, accruing to me—^DeviFs Money , 
 {you are sanguine, say 7/. 10s.) ; that I entirely renounce 
 and abjure all future interest in : I insist upon it, and, ' by 
 liim I will not name,' I won't touch a penny of it. That 
 will split your loss, one half, and leave me conscientious 
 possession of Avhat I hold. Less than your assent to this, 
 no proposal will I accept of. 
 
 " The Rev. Mr. , whose name you have left illegi- 
 ble (is it Seagull?) never sent me any book on Christ's 
 Hospital, by which I could dream that I was indebted to 
 him for a dedication. Did G. D. send his penny tract to 
 me, to convert me to Unitarianism ? Dear, blunderinof 
 soul ! why I am as old a one Goddite as himself. Or did 
 he think his cheap publication would bring over the Me- 
 thodists over the way here ?f However, I'll give it to the 
 pew-opener, in whom I have a little interest, to hand over 
 to the clerk, whose wife she sometimes drinks tea with, for 
 him to lay before the deacon, who exchanges the civility 
 of the hat with him, for to transmit to the minister, who 
 shakes hands with him out of chapel, and he, in all odds, 
 will light his pipe Avith it. 
 
 "I wish very much to see you. I leave it to you to 
 come how you will ; we shall be very glad (we need not 
 repeat) to see your sister, or sisters, with you ; but for you, 
 individually, I will just hint that a dropping in to tea, un- 
 looked for, about five, stopping bread-and-cheese and gin- 
 and- water, is worth a thousand Sundays. I am naturally 
 miserable on Sunday ; but a week-day evening and supper 
 is like old times. Set out now, and give no time to deli- 
 beration. 
 
 * Alludinj^ to a little extravagance of Lamb's — scarcely worth recollecting 
 — iu emulation of the "Devil's AValk" of Southey and Co. 
 ■f Referring to a chapel opposite his lodging at Enfield. 
 
LETTERS TO MOXON. 227 
 
 '' P. S. — The second volume of ' Elia' is delightful (ly 
 bound. I mean), and quite cheap. Why, man, 'tis a 
 unique ! 
 
 " If 1 ^vl•ite much more I shall expand into an article, 
 which 1 cannot afford to let you have so cheap. By the 
 by, to show the perverseness of human will, while I thought 
 T must furnish one of those accursed things monthly, it 
 seemed a labor above Hercules' ' Twelve' in a year, which 
 were evidently monthly contributions. Now I am emanci- 
 pated, I feel as if I had a thousand Essays swelling within 
 me. False feelings both ! 
 
 " Your ex-Lampoonist, or Lamb-punnist, from Enfield, 
 October 24, or ' last day but one for receiving articles that 
 can be inserted.' " 
 
 The following was addressed soon after 
 
 TO MR. MOXON. 
 
 " Feb., 1832. 
 
 " Dear Moxon. — The snows are ankle-deep, slush, and 
 mire, that 'tis hard to get to the post-office, and cruel to 
 send the maid out. 'Tis a slough of despair, or I should 
 sooner have thanked you for your ofi"er of the 'Life,' 
 which we shall very much like to have, and will return 
 duly. I do not know when I shall bo in town, but in a 
 week or two, at farthest, when I will come as far as 
 you, if I can. We arc moped to death with confinement 
 within doors. I send you a curiosity of G. Dyer's ten- 
 der conscience. Between thirty and forty years since, 
 G. published the ' Poet's Fate,' in which were two very 
 harmless lines about Mr. Rodgers, but Mr. R., not quite 
 approving of them, they were left out in a subsequent 
 edition, 1801. But G. has been worrying about them ever 
 
228 LETTERS TO MOXON. 
 
 since ; if I have heard him once, I have heard him a hun- 
 dred times, express a remorse proportioned to a conscious- 
 ness of having heen guilty of an atrocious libeh As the 
 devil would have it, a man they call Barker, in his ' Par- 
 riana' has quoted the identical two lines, as they stood in 
 some obscure edition anterior to 1801, and the withers of 
 poor G. are again wrung. His letter is a gem ; with his 
 poor blind eyes it has been labored out at six sittings. 
 The history of the couplet is in page 3 of this irregular 
 production, in which every variety of shape and size that 
 letters can be twisted into is to be found. Do show his 
 part of it to Mr. R. some day. If he has bowels, they 
 must melt at the contrition so queei'ly charactered of a 
 contrite sinner. G. was born, I verily think, without ori- 
 ginal sin, but chooses to have a conscience, as every Chris- 
 tian gentleman should have ; his dear old face is insuscep- 
 tible of the twist they call a sneer, yet he is apprehensive 
 of being suspected of that ugly appearance. When he 
 makes a complement, he thinks he has given an aifront — 
 a name is personality. But show (no hurry) this unique 
 recantation to Mr. R. : 'tis like a dirty pocket-handker- 
 chief, mucked Avith tears of some indigent Magdalen. 
 There is the impress of sincerity in every pot-hook and 
 hanger ; and then the gilt frame to such a pauper picture '• 
 It should go into the Museum. 
 
 " Come when the weather will possibly let you ; I want 
 to see the Wordsworths, but I do not much like to be all 
 night away. It is dull enough to be here together, but it 
 is duller to leave Mary ; in short, it is painful, and in a 
 flying visit I should hardly catch them. I have no beds 
 for them if they came down, and but a sort of a house to 
 receive them in ; yet I shall regret their departure unseen ; 
 I feel cramped and straitened every way. Where are they ? 
 
LETTER TO TALEOURD. 229 
 
 " "We have heard from Emma but once, and that a month 
 ago, and are very anxious for another letter. 
 
 " You say we have forgot your powers of being ser- 
 viceable to us. That we never shall ; I do not know what 
 I should do without you when I want a little commission. 
 Now then : there are left at Miss Buffon's, the ' Tales of 
 the Castle,' and certain volumes of the ' Retrospective Re- 
 view.' The first should be conveyed to Novello's, and the 
 Reviews should be taken to Talfourd's office, ground-floor, 
 east side, Elm Court, Middle Temple, to whom I should 
 have written, but my spirits are wretched ; it is quite an 
 eflFort to write this. So, with the ' Life,' I have cut you 
 out three pieces of service. What can I do for you here, 
 but hope to see you very soon, and think of you with most 
 kindness ? I fear to-morrow, between rains and snows it 
 would be impossible to expect you, but do not let a prac- 
 ticable Sunday pass. We are always at home. 
 
 "Mary joins in remembrances to your sister, whom we 
 hope to see in any fine-ish weather, when she'll venture. 
 
 " Remember us to Allsop, and all the dead people ; to 
 whom, and to London, we seem dead." 
 
 In February, 1833, the following letter was addressed 
 by Lamb to the editor, on his being made Serjeant: — 
 
 TO MR. SERJEANT TALFOURD. 
 
 "My dear T. — Now cannot I call him Serjeant; what 
 is there in a coif? Those canvas-sleeves protective from 
 ink,* when he was a law-chit — a ChittyYmg, (let the lea- 
 thern apron be apocryphal) do more 'specially plead to 
 
 *Mr. Lamb always insisted that the costume referred to was worn when ha 
 first gladdened his young friend by a call at Mr. Chitty's Chambers. lam 
 afraid it is all apocryphal. 
 20 
 
230 LETTER TO TALFOURD. 
 
 the Jury Court, of old niemory. The costume (will he 
 agnize it ?) was as of a desk-fellow, or Socius Plutei. Me- 
 thought I spied a brother ! 
 
 " That fiimiliaritj is extinct for ever. Curse me if I 
 can call him Mr. Serjeant — except, mark me, in comfany. 
 Honor where honor is due ; but should he ever visit us, 
 (do you think he ever will, Mary ?) what a distinction 
 should I keep up between him and our less fortunate 
 friend, H. C. R. ! Decent respect shall always be the 
 Crabb's — but, somehow, short of reverence. 
 
 "Well, of my old friends, I have lived to see two 
 knighted, one made a judge, another in a fair way to it. 
 Why am I restive ? why stands my sun upon Gibeah ? 
 
 "^ Variously, my dear Mrs. Talfourd, [I can be more 
 familiar with her !] Mrs. Serjeant Talfourd,— mj sister 
 prompts me — (these ladies stand upon ceremonies) has 
 the congratulable news affected the members of our small 
 community. Mary comprehended it at once, and entered 
 
 into it heartily. Mrs. W was, as usual, perverse ; 
 
 would'nt, or could'nt, understand it. A Serjeant ? She 
 thought Mr. T. was in the law. Did'nt know that he 
 ever 'listed. 
 
 "Emma alone truly sympathized. She had a silk 
 gown come home that very day, and has precedence be- 
 fore her learned sisters accordingly. 
 
 " We are going to drink the health of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Serjeant, with all the young serjeantry — and that is all 
 that I can see that I shall get by the promotion. 
 
 " Valete, et mementote amici quondam vestri humillimi. 
 
 "C. L." 
 
 The following note to Mr. Moxon, on some long for- 
 gotten occasion of momentary displeasure, the nature 
 
LETTER TO MOXON. 231 
 
 and object of wliich is uncertain, — contains a fantastical 
 exaggeration of anger, which, judged bj those who knew 
 the writer, will only illustrate the entire absence of all 
 the bad passions of hatred and contempt it feigns. 
 
 TO ME. MOXON. 
 
 "1833. 
 
 Dear M. — Many thanks for the books ; but most thanks 
 for one immortal sentence : ' If I do not cheat him, never 
 trust me again.' I do not know whether to admire most, 
 the wit or justness of the sentiment. It lias my cordial 
 approbation. My sense of meum and tuum applauds it. 
 I maintain it, the eighth commandment hath a secret 
 special reservation, by which the reptile is exempt from 
 any protection from it. As a dog, or a nigger, he is not 
 a holder of property. Not a ninth of what he detains 
 from the world is his own. Keep your hands from pick- 
 ing and stealing, is no ways referable to his acquists. 1 
 doubt whether bearing false witness against thy neighbor 
 at all contemplated this possible scrub. Could Moses 
 have seen the speck in vision ? An ex j^ost facto law 
 alone could relieve him ; and we are taught to expect no 
 eleventh commandment. The outlaw to the Mosaic dis- 
 pensation ! — unworthy to have seen Moses behind ! — to 
 lay his desecrating hands upon Elia ! Has the irreverent 
 ark-toucher been struck blind, I wonder? The more I 
 think of him, the less I think of him. His meanness is 
 invisible with aid of solar microscope. My moral eye 
 smarts at him. The less flea that bites little fleas ! The 
 great Beast ! The beggarly Nit ! 
 
 " More when we meet ; mind, you'll come, two of you ; 
 and could'nt you go off" in the morning, that we may have 
 
232 LETTER TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 a (lay-long curse at him, if curses are not dishallowed 
 by descending so low ? Amen. Maledicatur in extremis ! 
 
 "C. L." 
 
 In the spring of 1833, Lamb made his last removal 
 from Enfield to Edmonton. He was about to lose the 
 society of Miss Isola, on the eve of marriage, and de- 
 termined to live altogether with his sister, whether in her 
 sanity or hei madness. This change Avas announced in 
 the following letter 
 
 TO MR. WORDSW^ORTH. 
 
 " End of May nearly. 
 
 " Dear Wordsworth. — Your letter, save in what re- 
 spects your dear sister's health, cheered me in my new 
 solitude. Mary is ill again. Her illnesses encroach yearly. 
 The last Avas three months, followed by two of depression 
 most dreadful. I look back upon her earlier attacks with 
 long-ing:. Nice little durations of six weeks or so, followed 
 by complete restoration — shocking as they were to me 
 then. In short, half her life she is dead to me, and the 
 other half is made anxious with fears and lookings for- 
 ward to the next shock. With such- prospects, it seemed 
 to me necessary that she should no longer live with me, 
 and be fluttered with continued removals ; so I am come 
 to live with her, at a Mr. Walden's, and his wife, who take 
 in patients, and have arranged to lodge and board us only. 
 They have had the care of her before. I see little of her, 
 alas ! I too often hear her. Sunt lachrymie rerum ! and 
 you and I must bear it. 
 
 " To lay a little more load on it, a circumstance has 
 happened, cujus 'pars magna fui, and which, at another 
 crisis, I should have more rejoiced in. I am about to lose 
 
LETTER TO WORDSWORTH. 233 
 
 my old and only walk-companion, wliose mirthful spirits 
 were the ' youth of our house,' Emma Isola. I have her 
 here now for a little while, but she is too nervous, properly 
 to be lander such a roof, so she will make short visits — be 
 no more an inmate. With my perfect approval, and more 
 than concurrence, she is to be wedded to Moxon, at the 
 end of August — so ' perish the roses and the flowers' — how 
 is it? 
 
 " Now to the brighter side. I am emancipated from 
 Enfield. I am with attentive people, and younger. I 
 am three or four miles nearer the great city ; coaches half- 
 price less, and going always, of which I avail myself. I 
 have few friends left there, one or two though, most be- 
 loved. But London streets and faces cheer me inexpressi- 
 bly, though of the latter, there should be not one known 
 one remaining. 
 
 " Thank you for your cordial reception of ' Elia.' Inter 
 nos, the 'Ariadne' is not a darling Avith me ; several in- 
 congruous things are in it, but in the composition it served 
 me as illustrative. 
 
 " I want you in the ' Popular Fallacies'* to like the 
 'Home that is no home,' and ' Rising with the lark.' 
 
 " I am feeble, but cheerful in this my genial hot weather. 
 Walked sixteen miles yesterday. I can't read much in 
 summer time. 
 
 " With my kindest love to all, and prayers for dear 
 Dorothy, I remain most affectionately yours, 
 
 " C. Lamb." 
 
 " At Mr. "Walden's, church-street, Edmonton, Middlesex. 
 " Moxon has introduced Emma to Ilogers, and he smilea 
 
 * A series of articles coutributetl, under this title, by Lamb, to the " New 
 Monthly Magazine." 
 20* 
 
234 LETTER TO MOXON. 
 
 upon the project. I have given E. my Milton, (will you 
 pardon me ?*) in part of a portion. It hangs famously in 
 his Murray-like shop," 
 
 On the approach of the wedding-day, fixed for 30th July, 
 Lamb turned to the account of a half-tearful merriment, 
 the gift of a watch to the young lady whom he was about 
 to lose. 
 
 TO MR. MOXON. 
 
 "July 24th, 1833. 
 
 " For God's sake give Emma no more watches ; one has 
 turned her head. She is arrogant and insulting. She 
 said something very unpleasant to our old clock in the pas- 
 sage, as if he did not keep time, and yet he had made her 
 no appointment. She takes it out every instant to look at 
 the moment-hand. She lugs us out into the fields because 
 there the bird-boys ask you, ' Pray, sir, can you tell us 
 Avhat's o'clock ?' and she answers them punctually. She 
 loses all her time looking to see ' what the time is.' I 
 overheard her whispering, ' Just so many hours, minutes, 
 &c., to Tuesday ; I think St. George's goes to slow.' This 
 little present of Time ! — why, — 'tis Eternity to her ! 
 
 " What can make her so fond of a ginger-bread watch? 
 
 " She has spoiled some of the movements. Between 
 ourselves, she has kissed away 'half-past twelve,' which I 
 suppose to be the canonical hour in Hanover Square. 
 
 " Well, if ' love me, love my watch,' answers, she will 
 keep time to you. 
 
 " It goes right by the Horse Guards. 
 
 * It bad been proposed by Lamb that Mr. W. should be the possessor uf the 
 portrait if he outlived his friend, and that afterwards it was to be bequeathed 
 to Christ's College, Cambridge. 
 
LETTER TO MR. AND MRS. MOXON. 235 
 
 " Dearest i\I, — Never mind opposite* nonsense. She 
 does not love jou for the watch, but the Avatch for you. I 
 will be at the wedding, and keep the 30th July, as long 
 as mj poor months last me, as a festival, gloriously. 
 
 " Yours ever, Elia. 
 
 " We have not heard from Cambridge. I will write the 
 moment we do. 
 
 " Edmonton, 24th July, twenty minutes past three by 
 Emma's watch." 
 
 Miss Lamb was in the sad state of mental estrangement 
 up to the day of the wedding ; but then in the constant 
 companionship of her brother at Edmonton. The follow- 
 ing cluster of little letters to the new married pair — the 
 first from Charles, introducing one from Mary — shows tho 
 happy effect of the news on her mental health. 
 
 TO MR. AND MRS. MOXON. 
 
 "August, 1S33. 
 
 " Dear Mr. and Mrs. Moxon. — Time very short. I wrote 
 to Miss Fryer, and had the sweetest letter about you, Em- 
 ma, that ever friendship dictated. ' I am full of good 
 wishes, I am crying with good wishes,' she says ; but you 
 shall see it. 
 
 " Dear Moxon. — I take your writing most kindly, and 
 shall most kindly your writing from Paris. 
 
 " I want to crowd another letter to Miss Fryer into the 
 little time after dinner, before post-time. So with twentv 
 thousand congratulations, Yours, C. L. 
 
 * Written on the opposite pa^^e to that in wliich the previous alTi;cti'>7i;n« 
 banter appears. 
 
23G LETTER TO MR. AND MRS. MOXOX. 
 
 " I am calm, sober, happy. Turn over for tlie reason 
 i got home from Dover Street, by Evans, half as sober as 
 a judge. I am turning over a new leaf, as I hope you will 
 now." 
 
 The turn of the leaf presented the following from Miss 
 Lamb : — 
 
 " My dear Emma and Edv/ard Moxon. — Accept my 
 sincere congratulations, and imagine more good wishes 
 than my weak nerves will let me put into good set words. 
 The dreary blank of unanswered questions which I ven- 
 tured to ask in vain, was cleared up on the wedding-day 
 by Mrs. W.* taking a glass of wine, and with a total 
 change of countenance, begging leave to drink Mr. and 
 Mrs. Moxon's health. It restored me from that moment, 
 as if by an electrical stroke, to the entire possession of 
 my senses. I never felt so calm and quiet after a similar 
 illness as I do now. I feel as if all tears were wiped from 
 my eyes, and all care from my heart. 
 
 " Mary Lamb." 
 
 At the foot of this letter is the following by Charles : — 
 
 " Wednesday. 
 
 " Dears again. — Your letter interrupted a seventh game 
 at picquet which we were having, after walking to Vv^t: tght's 
 and purchasing shoes. We pass our time in cardo, walks, 
 and reading. We attack Tasso soon. C. L. 
 
 " Xcvcr was such a calm, or such a recovery. 'Tis her 
 own words, undictatcd." 
 
 • The wif'o of the landlord of the house at EJiuonton. 
 
LETTER TO CART. 237 
 
 Lamb's latter days were brightened by the frequent — 
 latterly periodical — hospitality of the admirable translator 
 of Dante, at the British Museum. The following was ad- 
 dressed to this new friend lately acquired, but who became 
 an old friend at once, while Mr. and Mrs. Moxon were on 
 their wedding tour : — 
 
 TO REV. 11. F. CART. 
 
 "Sept. 9th, 1833. 
 
 " Dear Sir. — Your packet I have only just received, 
 owing, I suppose, to the absence of Moxon, who is flaunt- 
 ing it about a la Parisienne, with his new bride, our 
 Emma, much to his satisfaction, and not a little to our 
 dulness. We shall be quite well by the time you return 
 from Worcestershire, and most, most (observe the repe- 
 tition) glad to see you here, or anywhere. 
 
 "I will take my time Avith Darley's act. I wish poets 
 would write a little plainer ; he begins some of his words 
 with a letter which is unknown to the English tj^pography. 
 " Yours, most truly, C. Lamb. 
 
 " p.g, — Pray let me know when you return. We are at 
 Mr. Walden's, Church-street, Edmonton ; no longer at 
 Enfield. You will be amused to hear that my sister and 
 I have, with the aid of Emma, scrambled through the 
 ' Inferno,' by the blessed furtherance of your polar-star 
 translation. I think we scarce left anything unmadeout. 
 But our partner has left us, and we have not yet resumed. 
 Mary's chief pride in it was that she should some day 
 brag of it to you. Your 'Dante' and Sandys' ' Ovid' are 
 the only helpmates of translations. Neither of you shirk 
 a word. 
 
 " Fairfax's ' Tasso' is no translation at all. It's better 
 
23b LETTER TO MOXON. 
 
 in some places, but it merely observes the number of 
 stanzas ; as for images, similes, &c., be finds 'em himself, 
 and never ' troubles Peter for the matter.' 
 " In haste, dear Gary, yours ever, 
 
 " C. Lamb. 
 
 "Has M. sent you 'Elia,' second volume ? if not he 
 shall." 
 
 Miss Lamb did not escape all the cares of housekeep- 
 ing by the new arrangement : the following little note 
 shows the grotesque uses to which Lamb turned the smal- 
 ler household anxieties : — 
 
 TO MR. MOXON. 
 
 "1833. 
 
 " I>ear M. — Mary and I are very poorly. We have 
 had a sick child, who, sleeping or not sleeping, next me, 
 with a pasteboard partition between, killed my sleep. 
 The little bastard is gone. My bedfellows are cough and 
 cramp ; we sleep three in a bed. Domestic arrangements 
 (baker, butcher, and all) devolve on Mary. Don't come 
 yet to this house of pest and age ! We propose, when 
 you and E. agree on the time, to come up and meet you 
 
 at the B 's, say a week hence, but do you make the 
 
 appointment. 
 
 " Mind, our spirits are good, and we are happy in your 
 happinesses. C. L. 
 
 " Our old and ever loves to dear Emma." 
 
 The following is Lamb's reply to a welcome communi- 
 cation of Sonnets, addressed by the bridegroom to the 
 
LETTERS TO MOXON. 239 
 
 fair object of Lamb's regard — beautiful in themselves — • 
 and endeared to Lamb by honored memories and generous 
 liopes : — 
 
 TO MR. MOXON. 
 
 "Nov. 29th, 1833. 
 
 " Mary is of opinion with me, that two of these Sonnets 
 are of a higher grade than any poetry you have done yet. 
 The one to Emma is so pretty ! I have only allowed my- 
 self to transpose a word in the third line. Sacred shall 
 it be from any intermeddling of mine. But we jointly 
 beg that you will make four lines in the room of the four 
 last. Read ' Darby and Joan,' in Mrs. Moxon's first 
 album. There you'll see hoAV beautiful in age the looking 
 back to youthful years in an old couple is. But it is a 
 violence to the feelings to anticipate that time in youth. 
 I hope you and Emma will have many a quarrel and many 
 a make-up (and she is beautiful in reconciliation !) before 
 the dark days shall come, in which ye shall say 'there is 
 small comfort in them.' You have begun a sort of charac- 
 ter of Emma in them, very sweetly ; carry it on, if. you 
 can, through the last lines. 
 
 " I love the sonnet to my heart, and you sliall finish it, 
 and I'll be hanged if I furnish a line towards it. So 
 much for tliat. The next best is to the Ocean. 
 
 ' Yc giilliints winds, if e'er your lusty cheeks 
 Blew longing loVer to his mistress' sido, 
 0, puffj'our loudest, spread the canvas wide,' 
 
 is spirited. The last line I altered, and have re-altered it 
 as it stood. It is closer. These two are your best. But 
 take a good deal of time in finishing the first. How proud 
 should Emma be of her poets ! 
 
240 LETTERS TO MOXON. 
 
 " Perhaps ' Ocean' (thougli I like it) is too much of 
 the open vowels, which Pope objects to. ' Great Ocean !' 
 is obvious. To save sad thoughts I think is better (though 
 not good) than for the mind to save herself. But 'tis a 
 noble Sonnet. ' St. Cloud' I have no fault to find with. 
 
 "If I return the Sonnets, think it no disrespect, for I 
 look for a printed copy. You have done better than ever. 
 And now for a reason I did not notice 'em earlier. On 
 Wednesday they came, and on Wednesday I was a gad- 
 ding. Mary gave me a holiday, and I set off to Snow 
 Hill. From Snow Hill I deliberately was marching down, 
 with noble Holborn before me, framing in mental cogi- 
 tation a map of the dear London in prospect, thinking to 
 traverse Wardour-street, &c., when, diabolically, I wad 
 interrupted by 
 
 Heigh-ho ! 
 Little Barrow ! — 
 
 Emma knows him — and prevailed on to spend the day at 
 his sister's, where was an album, and (0, march of intel- 
 lect !) plenty of literary conversation, and more acquain- 
 tance with the state of modern poetry than I could keep 
 up with. I was positively distanced. Knowles' play, 
 which, epilogued by me, lay on the Piano, alone made me 
 hold up my head. When I came home, I read your let- 
 ter, and glimpsed at your beautiful sonnet, 
 
 ' Fair art thou as the morning, my young bride/ 
 
 .•\nd dwelt upon it in a confused brain, but determined not 
 to open them all next day, being in a state not to be told 
 of at Chatteris. Tell it not in Gath, Emma, lest the 
 daughters triumph ! I am at the end of my tether. I 
 wish you could come on Tuesday with your fair bride. 
 
LETTER TO ROGERS. 241 
 
 Whv can't you ! Do. We are thankful to your sister 
 For being of the party. ComOj. and bring a sonnet on 
 Mary's birthday. Love to the whole Moxonry, and tell 
 E. I every day love her more and miss her less. Tell her 
 so, from her loving uncle, as she has let me call myself. 
 I bought a fine embossed card yesterday, and ^yrotc for 
 the pawnbrokeress's album. She is a Miss Brown, enga- 
 ged to a Mr. White. One of the lines was (I forgot the 
 rest — but she had them at twenty-four hours' notice ; she 
 is going out to India with her husband) : — 
 
 ' Ma}' your fame, 
 And fortune, Fniiices, Whiten with j-our name !' 
 
 Not bad as a pun. I ^vill expect you before two on Tues- 
 day. I am Avell and happy, tell E." 
 
 The following is Lamb's letter of acknowledgment to 
 the author of the "Pleasures of Memory," for an early copy 
 of his "Illustrated Poems," of a share in the publication of 
 which, Mr. Moxon Avas "justly vain." The artistical 
 allusions are to Stothard ; the allusions to the poet's own 
 kindnesses need no explanation to those who have been 
 enabled by circumstances, which now and then transpire, 
 to guess at the generous course of his life. 
 
 "^ TO MR. ROGERS. 
 
 'Dec. 1S33. 
 
 " My dear Sir. — Your book, by the unremitting punc- 
 tuality of your publisher, has reached me thus early. I 
 have not opened it, nor Avill till to-morrow, Avhen I promise 
 myself a thorough reading of it. The ' Pleasures of 
 Memory' was the first school-present I made to Mrs. 
 
 21 
 
242 LETTER TO ROGERS. 
 
 Moxon ; it has those nice woodcuts, and I believe she 
 keeps it still. Believe me, that all the kindness you have 
 shown to the husband of that excellent person seems done 
 unto myself. I have tried my hand at a sonnet in the 
 ' Times.' But the turn I gave it, though I hoped it would 
 not displease you, I thought might not be equally agree- 
 able to your artist. I met that dear old man at poor 
 Henry's with you, and again at Gary's, and it was sub- 
 lime to see him sit, deaf, and enjoy all that was going on 
 in mirth with the company. He reposed upon the many 
 graceful, many fantastic images he had created ; with 
 them he dined, and took wine. I have ventured at an 
 antagonist copy of verses, in the 'Athenaeum,' to him, in 
 which he is everything, and you as nothing. He is no 
 lawyer who cannot take two sides. But I am jealous of 
 the combination of the sister arts. Let them sparkle apart. 
 What injury (short of the theatres) did not Boydell's Shaks- 
 peare Gallery do me with Shakspeare ? to have Opie's Shaks- 
 peare, Northcote's Shakspeare, light-headed Fuseli's Shaks- 
 peare, heavy-headed Bomney's Shakspeare, wooden-headed 
 West's Shakspeare (though he did the best in Lear), deaf- 
 headed Beynold's Shakspeare, instead of my, and every- 
 body's Shakspeare ; to be tied down to an authentic face 
 of Juliet ! to have Imogen's portrait ! to confine the illimi- 
 table ! I like you and Stothard (you best), but ' out upon 
 this half-faced fellowship !' Sir, when I have read the 
 book, I may trouble you, through Moxon, with some faint 
 criticisms. It is not the flatteringest compliment in a let- 
 ter to an author to say, you have not read his book yet. 
 But the devil of a reader he must be, who prances through 
 it in five minutes ; and no longer have I received the par- 
 cel. It was a little tantalising to me to receive a letter 
 from Landor, Gehir Landor, from Florence, to say he was 
 
LETTER TO MISS FRYER. 243 
 
 just sitting down to read my 'Elia,' just received; but 
 the letter was to go out before the reading. There are 
 calamities in authorship which only authors know. I am 
 going to call on Moxon on Monday, if the throng of car- 
 •iages in Dover-street, on the morn of publication, do not 
 barricade me out. 
 
 " With manj^ thanks, and most respectful remembrancea 
 to your sister, Yours, C. Lamb. 
 
 " Have you seen Coleridge's happy exemplification in 
 English of the Ovidian Elegiac metre ? 
 
 In the Hexameter rises the fountain's silvery current, 
 In the Pentameter aye falling in melody down. 
 
 " My sister is papering up the book — careful soul !" 
 
 Lamb and his sister were now, for the last year of their 
 united lives, alwa^-s together. What his feelings were in 
 this companionship, when his beloved associate was de- 
 prived of reason, will be seen in the following most affect- 
 ing letter, to an old schoolfellow and very dear friend of 
 Mrs. Moxon 's — since dead — Avho took an earnest interest 
 in their welfare. 
 
 TO MISS FRYER. 
 
 "Feb. 14,1834. 
 
 " Dear ^Miss Fryer. — Your letter found me just returned 
 from keeping my birthday (pretty innocent !) at Dover- 
 street. I see them pretty often. I have since had letters 
 of business to write, or should have replied earlier. In 
 one word, be less uneasy about me ! I bear my privations 
 very well ; I am not in the depths of desolation, as here- 
 tofore. Y^our admonitions are not lost upon me. Y'our 
 
244 LETTER TO MISS FRYER. 
 
 kindness has sunk into mj heart. Have faith in me ! It 
 is no ncAY thing for me to be left to my sister. When she 
 is not violent, her rambling chat is better to me than the 
 sense and sanity of this world. Her heart is obscured, 
 not buried ; it breaks out occasionally ; and one can dis- 
 cern a strong mind struggling with the billows that have 
 gone over it. I could be nowhere happier than under the 
 same roof with her. Her memory is unnaturally strong ; 
 and from ages past, if we may so call the earliest records 
 of our poor life, she fetches thousands of names and things 
 that never would have dawned upon me again, and thou- 
 sands from the ten years she lived before me. What took 
 place from earliest girlhood to her coming of age prin- 
 cipally, lives again (every important thing, and every 
 trifle) in her brain, with the vividness of real presence. 
 For twelve hours incessantly she will pour out without 
 intermission, all her past life, forgetting nothing, pouring 
 out name after name to the Waldens, as a dream ; sense 
 and nonsense ; truths and errors huddled together ; a 
 medley between inspiration and possession. "What things 
 we are ! I know you will bear with me, talking of these 
 things. It seems to ease me, for I have nobody to tell 
 these things to now. Emma, I see, has got a harp ! and 
 is learning to play. She has framed her three Walto>n 
 pictures, and pretty they look. That is a book you should 
 read ; such sweet religion in it, next to Woolman's ! 
 though the subject be baits, and hooks, and worms, and 
 fishes. She has my copy at present, to do two more from. 
 "Very, very tired! I began this epistle, having been 
 epistolising all the morning, and very kindly would I end 
 it, could I find adequate expressions to your kindness. 
 We did set our minds on seeing you in spring. One of us 
 will indubitably. But I am not skilled in almanac learn- 
 
LETTER TO WORDSWORTH. 245 
 
 ing, to know "when spring precisely begins and ends. 
 Pardon my blots ; I am glad you like your book. I wish 
 it had been half as worthy of your acceptance as John 
 Woolman. But 'tis a good-natured book." 
 
 A few days afterwards Lamb's passionate desire to 
 serve a most deserving friend broke out in the following 
 earnest little letter : — 
 
 TO MR. WORDSWORTn. 
 
 '• Church-street, Edmonton, 
 
 "February 22, 1834. 
 
 " Dear Wordsworth. — I write from a house of mourn- 
 ing. The oldest and best friends I have left are in trouble. 
 A branch of them (and they of the best stock of God's 
 creatures, I believe) is establishing a school at Carlisle ; 
 
 her name is L M ; her address, 75, Castle-street, 
 
 Carlisle ; her qualities (and her motives for this exertion) 
 are the most amiable, most upright. For thirty years she 
 has been tried by me, and on her behavior I would stake 
 my soul. 0, if you can recommend her, how would I love 
 you — if I could love you better ! Pray, pray, recommend 
 her.' She is as good a human creature — next to my sister, 
 perhaps, the most exemplary female I ever knew. Moxon 
 tells me yoii would like a letter from me ; you shall have 
 one. This I cannot mingle up with any nonsense which 
 you usually tolerate from C. Lamb. Need he add loves 
 to wife, sister, and all ? Poor jNIary is ill again, after a 
 short lucid interval of four or five months. In short, I 
 may call her half dead to me. IIow good you are to mc. 
 Yours with fervor of friendship, for ever, C. L. 
 
 " If you want references, the P)ishop of Carlisle may be 
 
 21* 
 
24G LETTER TO GARY. 
 
 one. L 's sister (as frood as she, she cannot be better 
 
 tliough she tries) educated the daughters of the late Earl 
 of Carnarvon, and he settled a handsome annuity on her 
 for life. In short all the family are a sound rock." 
 
 A quiet dinner at the British Museum with Mr. Gary 
 once a month, to Avhich Lamb looked forward with almost 
 boyish eagerness, was now almost his only festival. In a 
 little note to his host about this time, he hints at one of 
 his few physical tastes. " We are thinking," he says, "of 
 roast shoulder of mutton with onion sauce, but I scorn to 
 prescribe to the hospitalities of mine host.'' The follow- 
 ing, after these festivities had been interrupted by Mr. 
 Gary's visit to the Continent, is their last memorial : 
 
 TO MR. GARY. 
 
 " September 12th, 1834, 
 
 " By Cot's plessing we will not be absence at the grace." 
 
 *' Dear C. — We long to see you, and hear account of 
 your peregrinations, of the Tun at Heidelburg, the Clock 
 at Strasburg, the statue at Rotterdam, the dainty Rhenish, 
 and poignant Moselle wines, Westphalian hams, and Bo- 
 targoes of Altona. But perhaps you have seen, not tasted 
 any of these things. 
 
 " Yours, very glad to chain you back again to your 
 proper centre, books and Bibliothecse, 
 
 " C. and M. Lamb. 
 
 "I have only got your note just \\o\f per Tiegligentiam 
 periniqui Moxoni." 
 
 The following little note has a mournful interest, as 
 Lamb's last scrap of writing. It is dated on the very day 
 
LETTER TO MRS. DYER. 247 
 
 on Avliicli erysipelas followed the accident, apparently tri- 
 ding, which five days after terminated in his death. It is 
 addressed to the wife of his oldest survivino; friend : 
 
 TO MRS. DYER. 
 
 " December 22(1, 1834 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Dyer. — I am very uneasy about a Booh 
 which I either have lost or left at your house on Thursday. 
 It was the book I went out to fetch from Miss Buffam's, 
 while the tripe was frying. It is called ' Phillip's Thea- 
 trum Poetarum,' but it is an English book. I think I left 
 it in the parlor. It is Mr. Gary's book, and I would not 
 lose it for the world. Pray, if you find it, book it at the 
 Swan, Snow llill, by an Edmonton stage immediately, di- 
 rected to Mr. Lamb, Church-street, Edmonton, or write to 
 say you cannot find it. I am quite anxious about it. If 
 it is lost, I shall never like tripe again. 
 
 '- With kindest love to Mr. Dyer and all, 
 
 ."Yours truly, C. Lamb." 
 
CHAPTER THE LAST. 
 
 Iamb's tvednesday nights compared with the evenings of Holland housb 
 
 HIS dead companions, DVER, GODWIN, THELWALL, HAZLITT, BARNES, BAY- 
 
 UON, COLERIDGE, AND OTHERS — LAST GLIMPSES OP CHARLES AND MARY LAMB. 
 
 " Gone; all are gone, the old familiar faces !" 
 
 Two circles of rare social enjoyment — differing as widely 
 as possible in all external circumstances — but each supe- 
 rior in its kind to all others, during the same period frankly 
 opened to men of letters — now existing only in the memo- 
 ries of those who are fast departing from us — may, with- 
 out offence, be placed side by side in grateful recollection ; 
 they are the dinners at Holland House and the suppers of 
 "the Lambs'' at the Temple, Great Russell-street and Is- 
 lington. Strange, at first, as this juxta-position may seem, 
 a, little reflection will convince the few survivors who have 
 enjoyed both, that it involves no injustice to either ; while 
 with those who arc too young to have been admitted to 
 these rare fe.stivitics, we may exercise the privilege of age 
 by boastiiig.^hat good' fellowship Avas once enjoyed, and 
 what "good talk" there was once in the world ! 
 
 But let; us call to mind the aspects of each scene, before 
 we attempt to tell of the conversation, which will be harder 
 to recall and impossible to characterise. And first, let us 
 invite the reader to assist at a dinner at Holland" House in 
 the height of the London and Parliamentary sea^'oii, say a 
 Saturday in June. It is scarcely seven — for the luxitries 
 of the house are enhanced by a punctuality in the main 
 object of the day, which yields to no dihitory guest of 
 whatever pretension — and you are seated in an oblong room, 
 (248) 
 
HOLLAND HOUSE. 249 
 
 rich 111 ok! gliding, opposite a deep rcccs.«, pierced by large 
 old Avindows, through which the rich branches of trees, 
 bathed in golden light, just admit the Taint outline of the 
 Surrey Hills. Among the guests are some perhaps of the 
 liighest rank, always some of high political importance, 
 about whom the interest of busy life gathers, intermixed 
 with others eminent already in literature or art, or of that 
 dawning promise which the hostess delights to discover 
 and the host to smile on. All are assembled for the pur- 
 pose of enjoyment ; the anxieties of the minister, the fever- 
 ish struggles of the partisan, fhe silent toils of the artist 
 or critic, are finished for the week ; professional and liter- 
 ary jealousies are hushed ; sickness, decrepitude, and death 
 are silently voted shadows ; and the brilliant assemblage 
 is prepared to exercise to the highest degree the extraor- 
 dinary privilege of mortals to live in the knowledge of mor- 
 tality without its consciousness, and to people the present 
 hour with delights, as if a man lived and laughed and en- 
 joyed in this world for ever. Every appliance of pliysical 
 luxury which the most delicate art can supply, attends on 
 each; every faint wish Avhich luxury creates is anticipated; 
 the noblest and most gracious countenance in the world 
 smiles over the happiness it is diffusing, and redoubles it 
 by cordial invitations and encouraging words, which set 
 the humblest stranger guest at perfect ease. As the din- 
 ner merges into the desert, and the sunset casts a richer 
 glow on the branches, still, or lightly waving in the even- 
 ing light, and on the scene within, the harmony of all sen- 
 sations becomes more perfect ; a delighted and delighting 
 chuckle invites attention to some joyous sally of the richest 
 intellectual wit reflected in the faces of all, even to the fa- 
 vorite page in green, who attgnds his mistress with duty 
 like that of the antique world ; the choicest Avines are en- 
 
250 HOLLAND HOUSE. 
 
 hanccil in their liberal but temperate use by the vista 
 opened in Lord Holland's tales of bacchanalian evenings 
 at Brookes's, with Fox and Sheridan, when potations 
 deeper and move serious rewarded the Statesman's toils 
 and shortened his days ; until at length the serener plea- 
 sure of conversation, of the now carelessly scattered groups, 
 is enjoyed in that old, long, unrivalled library in which 
 Addison mused, and wrote, and drank ; where every living 
 grace attends ; " and more' than echoes talk along the 
 walls." One happy peculiarity of these assemblies was, 
 the number of persons in different stations and of various 
 celebrity, Avho were gratified by seeing, still more in hear- 
 ing and knowing each other ; the statesman was relieved 
 from care by association with the poet of whom he had 
 heard and partially read ; and the poet was elevated by 
 the courtesy which " bared the great heart" which "beats 
 beneath a star ;" and each felt, not rarely, the true dig- 
 nity of the other, modestly expanding under the most ge- 
 nial auspices. 
 
 Now turn to No. 4, Inner Temple Lane, at ten o'clock, 
 when the sedater part of the company are assembled, and 
 the happier stragglers are dropping in from the play. Let 
 it be any autumn or winter month, when the fire is blazing 
 steadily, and the clean-swept hearth and whist-tablcs speak 
 of the spirit of Mrs. Battle, and serious looks require " the 
 rigor of the gamx?." The furniture is old-fiishioned and 
 worn ; the ceiling low, and not wholly unstained by traces 
 of " the great plant," though now virtuously forborne: 
 but the Ilogarths, in narrow black frames, abounding in 
 infinite thought, humor and pathos, enrich the walls ; and 
 all things wear an air of comfort and hearty Englisli 
 welcome. Lamb himself, yet unrelaxed by the glass, is 
 sitting with a sort of Quaker primness at the whist-table, 
 
LAMB'S SUPPERS. 251 
 
 the gentleness of his melancholy smile half lost in his in- 
 tentness on the game ; his partner, the author of " Political 
 Justice," (the majestic expression of his large head not 
 disturbed by disproportion of his comparatively diminutive 
 stature,) is regarding his hand with a philosophic but not 
 a careless eye ; Captain Burney, only not venerable 
 because so young in spirit, sits between them ; and H. C. 
 H., who alone now and then breaks the proper silence, to 
 welcome some incoming guest, is his happy partner — true 
 winner in the game of life, whose leisure achieved early, 
 is devoted to his friends ! At another table, just beyond 
 the circle which extends from the fire, sit another four. 
 The broad, burly, jovial bulk of John Lamb, the Ajax 
 Telamon of the slender clerks of the old South Sea House, 
 whom he sometimes introduces to the rooms of his younger 
 brother, surprised to learn from them that he is growing 
 famous, confronts the stately but courteous Alsager ; 
 while P., " his fcAV hairs bristling" at gentle objurgation, 
 Avatches his partner M. B., dealing, with "soul more 
 Avhite"* than the hands of which Lamb once said, " M., if 
 dirt was trumps, what hands you would hold !" In one 
 corner of the room, you may see the pale earnest counte- 
 nance of Charles Lloyd, who is discoursing " of fate, free- 
 will, fore-knowledge absolute," with Leigh Hunt; and, if 
 you choose to listen, you will scarcely know which most to 
 admire — the severe logic of the melancholy reasoner, or 
 its graceful evasion by the tricksome fantasy of the joy- 
 ous poet. Basil Montague, gentle enthusiast in the cause 
 of humanity, which he has lived to sec triumphant, is pour- 
 ing into the outstretched car of George Dyer some talc of 
 
 * Lamb's Sonnet, dedicatory of his first volume of proso to this cherished 
 friend, thus concludes : — 
 
 " Free from self-seekinjr, envy, low design, 
 I have not found a whiter eouI than thio^." 
 
252 lamb's suppers. 
 
 legalized injustice, wliicli the recipient is vainly endeavor- 
 ing to comprehend. Soon the room fills ; in slouches 
 Ilazlitt from the theatre, where his stubborn anger for 
 Napoleon's defeat at Waterloo has been softened bj Miss 
 Stephens's angelic notes, which might " chase anger, and 
 grief, and fear, and sorrow, and pain from mortal or 
 immortal minds;" Kenney, with a tremulous pleasure, 
 announces that there is a crowded house to the ninth re- 
 presentation of his new comedy, of which Lamb lays 
 down his cards to inquire : or Ayrton, mildly radiant, 
 whispers the continual triumph of " Don Giovanni," for 
 which Lamb, incapable of opera, is happy to take his word. 
 Now and then an actor glances on us from " the rich 
 Cathay" of the world behind the scenes, Avitli news of its 
 brighter human-kind, and with looks reflecting the public 
 favor — Listen, grave beneath the weight of the town's re- 
 gards — or Miss Kelly, unexhausted in spirit by alterna- 
 ting the drolleries of high farce with the terrible pathos 
 of melodrama — or Charles Kcmble mirrors the chivalry 
 of thought, and ennobles the party by bending on them 
 looks beaming with the aristocracy of nature. Meanwhile 
 Becky lays the cloth on the side-table, under the direc- 
 tion of the most quiet, sensible, and kind of women — who 
 soon compels the younger and more hungry of the guests 
 to partake largely of the cold roast lamb or boiled beef, 
 the heaps of smoking roasted potatoes, and the vast jug 
 of porter, often replenished from the foaming pots, which 
 the best tap of Fleet-street supplies. Perfect freedom i 
 prevails, save when the hospitable pressure of the mistress 
 excuses excess ; and perhaps, the physical enjoyment of 
 the play-goer, exhausted with pleasure, or of the author 
 jaded with the labor of the brain, is not less than that of 
 the guests at the most charming of aristocratic banquets. 
 
LAMB S SUPPERS. 253 
 
 As the hot water and its accompaniments appear, and the 
 severities of whist relax, the light of conversation thickens : 
 Ilazlitt, catching the influence of the spirit from which he 
 has lately begun to abstain, utters some fine criticism with 
 struggling emphasis ; Lamb stammers out puns suggestive 
 of wisdom, for happy Barron Field to admire and echa ; 
 the various driblets of talk combine into a stream, while 
 Miss Lamb moves gently about to see that each modest 
 stranger is duly served ; turning, now and then, an anxious 
 loving eye on Charles, Avhich is softened into a half 
 humorous expression of resignation to inevitable fate, as 
 he mixes his second tumbler ! This is on ordinary nights, 
 when the accustomed Wednesday-men assemble ; but there 
 is a difference on great extra nights, gladdened by "the 
 bright visitations" of Wordsworth or Coleridge : — the cor- 
 diality of the welcome is the same, but a sedater wisdom 
 prevails. Happy hours were they for the young disciple 
 of the tTien desperate, now triumphant cause of Words- 
 worth's genius, to be admitted to the presence of the poet 
 who had opened a new world for him in the undiscovered 
 riches of his own nature, and its affinities with the outer 
 universe ; whom he worshipped the more devoutly for the 
 world's scorn ; for whom he felt the future in the instant, 
 and anticipated the "All hail hereafter !" which the great 
 poet has lived to enjoy ! To win him to speak of his own 
 poetry — to hear him recite its noblest passages — and to 
 join in his brave defiance of the fashion of the ao-e — was 
 the solemn pleasure of such a season ; and, of course, 
 superseded all minor disquisitions. So, when Coleridge 
 came, argument, wit, humor, criticism Avere huslied ; the 
 pertest, smartest, and the cleverest felt that all were 
 assembled to listen ; and if a canl-table had bfeu filled, or 
 
 22 
 
254 SOCIAL COMPARISON. 
 
 a dispute begun before he ■\vas excited to continuous 
 speech, his gentle voice, unduhiting in music, soon 
 
 "Suspended wJu'-st, and took with ravishment 
 The thronging audience." 
 
 The conversation "which animated each of these memo- 
 rable circles, approximated, in essence, much more nearly 
 than might be surmised from the difference in station of 
 the principal talkers, and the contrast in physical appli- 
 ances; that of the bowered saloon of Holland House hav- 
 ing more of earnestness and depth, and that of the Temple- 
 attic more of airy grace than "would be predicated by a su- 
 perficial observer. The former possessed the peculiar inte- 
 rest of directly bordering on the scene of political conflict, 
 gathering together the most eloquent leaders of the Whig 
 party, whose repose from energetic action spoke of the 
 ■week's conflict, and in Avhom the moment's enjoyment de- 
 rived a peculiar charm from the perilous glories of the 
 struggle "which the morrow was to renew — when power 
 was just within reach, or held with a convulsive grasp — 
 like the eager and solemn pleasure of the soldiers' banquet 
 in the pause of victory. The pervading spirit of Lamb's 
 parties was also that of social progress ; but it was the spirit 
 of the dreamers and thinkers, not of the combatants of the 
 world — men who, it may be, drew their theories from a 
 deeper range of meditation, and embraced the future with 
 more comprehensive hope — but about \vhom the immediate 
 interest of party did not gather; whose victories were nil 
 within ; whose rewards were visions of blessings for their spe- 
 cies in the furthest horizon of benevolent prophecy. If a 
 profoundcr thought was sometimes dragged to liiilit in the 
 dim circle of Lamb's companions than was native to the 
 brighter sphere, it was still a rare felicity to watch theif 
 
SOCIAL COMPARISON. 255 
 
 the union of elegance with purpose in some leader of 
 party — the delicate, almost fragile grace of illustration in 
 some one, perhaps destined to lead advancing multitudes, 
 or to withstand their rashness ; to observe the growth of 
 strength in the midst of beauty expanding from the sense 
 of the heroic past, as the famed Basil tree of Boccaccio 
 grew from the immolated relic beneath it. If the alter- 
 nations in the former oscillated between wider extremes, 
 touching on the wildest farce and most earnest tragedy of 
 life ; the rich space of brilliant comedy which lived ever 
 between them in the latter, was diversified by serious inte- 
 rests and heroic allusions. Sydney Smith's wit — not so 
 wild, so grotesque, so deep-searching as Lamb's — had even 
 more quickness of intellectual demonstration ; wedded 
 moral and political wisdom to happiest language, with a 
 more rapid perception of secret affinities ; Avas capable of 
 producing epigrammatic splendor reflected more perma- 
 nently in the mind, than the fantastic brilliancy of those 
 rich conceits which Lamb stammered out with his painful 
 smile. Mackintosh might vie with Coleridge in vast and 
 various knoAvledge ; but there the competition between 
 these great talkers ends, and the contrast begins ; the 
 contrast between facility and inspiration ; between the 
 ready access to each ticketed and labelled compartment 
 of history, science, art, criticism, and the genius that fused 
 and renovated all. But then a younger spirit appeared 
 at Lord Holland's table to redress the balance — not so 
 poetical as Coleridge, but more lucid — in whose vast and 
 joyous memory all the mighty past lived and glowed 
 anew; whose declamations presented, not groups tinged 
 •with distant light, like those of Coleridge, but a series of 
 historical figures in relief, exhibited in bright succession, 
 as if by dioramic art there glided before us embossed sur- 
 
256 SOCIAL COJIPARISON. 
 
 faces of heroic life.* Rogers too was there — connectino 
 the literature of the last age with this, partaking of some 
 of the best characteristics of both — whose first poem 
 sparkled in the closing darkness of the last century " like 
 a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear,'' and who was advancing 
 from a youth which had anticipated memory, to an age of 
 kindness and hope ; and jMoore, who paused in the flutter- 
 ing expression of graceful trifles, to whisper some deep- 
 toned thouo'ht of Ireland's wrongs and sorrows. 
 
 Literature and Art supplied the favorite topics to each 
 of these assemblies — both discussed with earnest admira- 
 tion, but surveyed in different aspects. The conversation 
 at Lord HolUxnd's was wont to mirror the happiest aspects 
 of the livinji: mind : to celebrate the latest discoveries in 
 
 * I take loiivo to copy the glowing picture of the evenings of Holland House 
 and of its admirable master, drawn bj' this favorite guest himself, from an article 
 which adorned the "Edinburgh Review," just after Lord Holland's death. 
 
 " The time is coming when, perhaps, a few old men, the last survivors of 
 our generation, will in vain seek, amidst new streets and squares, and railway 
 stations, for the site of that dwelling which was in their youth the favorite 
 resort of wits and beauties — of painters, and poets — of scholars, philosophers, 
 and statesmen. 'I'hey will then remember, with strange tenderness, many ob- 
 jects once fomiliar to them — the avenue and the terrace, the busts and tha 
 paintings ; the carving, the grotesque gilding, and the enigmatical mottoes. 
 With peculiar fondness, they will reeal that venerable chamber, in which all 
 the antique gravity of a college library was so singularly blended with all that 
 female grace and wit could devise to embellish a drawing-room. They will re- 
 collect, not unmoved, those shelves loaded with the varied learning of many 
 Sands and many ages ; those portraits in which were preserved the features of 
 the best and wisest Englishmen of two generations. They will recollect how 
 snany men who have guided the politics of Europe — who have moved great 
 assemblies by reason and eloquence — who have put life into bronze and canvas, 
 or wlio have left to posterity things so written as it shall not willingly let them 
 die — were there mi.\ed with all that was loveliest and gayest in the society of 
 the mast splendid of capitals. They will remember the singular character 
 which 'belonged to that circle, in which every talent and accomplishment, 
 every art and science had its place. They will remember how the last debate 
 tvas discussed in one corner, and the last comedy of Scribe in another; while 
 
SOCIAL COMPARISON. 257 
 
 science ; to echo the quarterly decisions of imperial criti- 
 cism ; to reflect the modest glow of young reputations ; — • 
 all Avas gay, graceful, decisive, as if the pen of Jeffrey 
 could have spoken ; or, if it reverted to old times, it re- 
 joiced in those classical associations Avhich are always 
 young. At Lamb's, on the other hand, the topics were 
 chiefly sought among the obscure and remote ; the odd, 
 the quaint, the fantastic were drawn out from their duh,ty 
 recesses ; nothino; could be more foreiirn to its embrt-co 
 than the modern circulating library, even when it teemed 
 with the Scotch novels. Whatever the subject was, luw- 
 evcr, in the more aristocratic, or the humbler sphere , it 
 was always discussed by tnose best entitled to talk on it ; 
 no others had a chance of bcins: heard. This rcmarkwble 
 
 Wilkie gazed with modest admiration on Reynold's Baretti ; while Mackintosh 
 turned over Thomas Aquinas to verify a quotation ; while Talleyrand related 
 his conversations with Barras at the Luxemburg, or his ride with Lannes over 
 the field of Austerlitz. They will remember above all, the grace — and the 
 kindness, far more admirable than grace — with which the princely hospitality 
 of that ancient mansion was dispensed. They will remember the venerable 
 ■md benignant countenance, and the cordial voice of him who bade them wel- 
 !ome. They will remember that temper which years of pain, of sickness, of 
 lameness, of confinement, seemed only to make sweeter and sweeter ; and that 
 frank politeness, which at once relieved all the embarrassment of the youngest 
 and most timid writer or artist, who found himself for the first time among 
 Ambassadors and Earls. They will remember that constant flow of Conversa- 
 tion, so natural, so animated, so various, so rich with observation and anec- 
 dote ; that wit which never gave a wound ; that exquisite mimicry which 
 ennobled, instead of degrading; that goodness of heart which appeared in 
 every look and accent, and gave additional value to every talent ami acquiro- 
 mcnt. They will remember, too, that ho whose name they hold in rcvorenco 
 was not less distinguished by the inflexible uprightness of his political conduct, 
 Ihali by his loving disposition and his winning manners. Tliey will reinem- 
 ber that, in the last lines which ho traced, he expressed his joy that he h.id 
 done nothing unworthy of the friend of Fox and Grey : and they will have 
 reason to feel similar joy, if, in looking back on manj' troubled years, tliey 
 cannot accuse themselves of having done anything unwortliy of men who were 
 distinguished by the friendship of Lord Holland." 
 22* 
 
258 SOCIAL COMPARISON. 
 
 freedom from bores was produced in Lamb's circle by tLe 
 authoritative texture of its commanding minds ; in Lord 
 Holland's, by the more direct, and more genial influence 
 of the hostess, "which checked that tenacity of subject and 
 opinion which sometimes broke the charm of Lamb's par- 
 ties by " a duel in the form of a debate." Perhaps beyond 
 any other hostess — certainly far beyond any host, Lady 
 Holland possessed the tact of perceiving, and the power of 
 evoking the various capacities which lurked in every part 
 of the brilliant circles over Avhich she presided, and re- 
 strained each to its appropriate sphere, and portion of the 
 evening. To enkindle the enthusiasm of an artist on the 
 theme over which he had achieved the most facile mastery : 
 to set loose the heart of the rustic poet, and imbue his 
 speech with the freedom of his native hills ; to draw from 
 the adventurous traveller a breathing picture of his most 
 imminent danger ; or to embolden the bashful soldier to 
 disclose his own share in the perils and glories of some fa- 
 mous battle-field ; to encourage the generous praise of 
 friendship when the speaker and the subject reflected in- 
 terest on each other ; or win from an awkward man of sci- 
 ence the secret history of a discovery which had astonished 
 the world ; to conduct these brilliant developments to the 
 height of satisfaction, and then to shift the scene by the 
 magic of a word, were among her nightly successes. And 
 if this extraordinary power over the elements of social en- 
 joyment was sometimes wielded without the entire con- 
 cealment of its despotism ; if a decisive check sometimes 
 rebuked a speaker who might intercept the variegated 
 beauty of Jeffrey's indulgent criticism, or the jest aji- 
 nounced and self-rewarded in Sydney Smith's cordial and 
 triumphant laugh, the authority was too clearly exerted 
 for the evening's prosperity, and too manifestly imptdled 
 
SOCIAL COMPARISON. 259 
 
 by an urgent consciousness of the value of these gohlcn 
 hours which were fleeting witliin its confines, to sadden the 
 enforced silence with more thaii a momentary regret. If 
 ever her prohibition — clear, abrupt, and decisive — indi- 
 cated more than a preferable regard for livelier discourse, 
 it Avas when a depreciatory tone was adopted towards ge- 
 nius, or goodness, or honest endeavor, or when some friend, 
 personal or intellectual, was mentioned in slighting phrase. 
 Habituated to a generous partisanship, by strong sympa- 
 thy with a great political cause, she carried the fidelity of 
 her devotion to that cause into her social relations, and 
 was ever the truest and the fastest of friends. The ten- 
 dency, often more idle than malicious, to soften down the 
 intellectual claims of the absent, which so insidiously be- 
 sets literary conversation, and teaches a superficial insin- 
 cerity, even to substantial esteem and regard, and which 
 was sometimes insinuated into the conversation of Lamb's 
 friend's, though never into his own, found no favor in her 
 presence; and hence the conversations over which she pre- 
 sided, perhaps beyond all that ever flashed with a kindred 
 splendor, were marked by that integrity of good nature 
 which might admit of their exact repetition to every living 
 individual whose merits wore discussed, without the dan- 
 ger of inflicting pain. Under her auspices, not only all 
 critical, but all personal talk was tinged with kindness ; 
 the strong interest which she took in the happiness of her 
 friends, shed a peculiar sunniness over the aspects of life 
 presented by the common topics of alliances, and marri- 
 ages, and promotions ; and there was not a hopeful engage- 
 ment, or a happy wedding, or a promotion of a friend's 
 son, or a new intellectual triumph of any youth with whose 
 name and history she was familiar, but became an event 
 on which she expected and required congratulation us on a 
 
260 SOCIAL COMPARISOIT. 
 
 part of her own fortune. Although there was necessarily 
 a preponderance in her society of the sentiment of popu- 
 lar progress, which once was cherished almost exclusively 
 by the party to whom Lord Holland was united by sacred 
 ties, no expression of triumph in success, no virulence ir, 
 sudden disappointment, was evbr permitted to wound the 
 most sensitive ears of her conservative guests. It might 
 be that some placid comparison of recent with former 
 times, spoke a sense of freedom's peaceful victory ; or 
 that, on the giddy edge of some great party struggle, the 
 festivities of the evcnins; mio;ht take a more serious cast, 
 as news arrived from the scene of contest, and the plea- 
 sure might be deepened by the peril ; but the feeling was 
 always restrained by the supremacy given to those perma- 
 nent solaces for the mind, in the beautiful and the great, 
 which no political changes disturb. Although the death 
 of the noble master of the venerated mansion closed its 
 portals for ever on the exquisite enjoyments to which they 
 had been so generously expanded, the art of conversation 
 lived a little longer in the smaller circle which Lady Hol- 
 land still drew almost daily around her ; honoring his mem- 
 ory by following his example, and struggling against the 
 perpetual sense of unutterable bereavement, by rendering 
 to literature that honor and those reliefs, which English 
 aristocracy has too often denied it ; and seeking consola- 
 tion in making others proud and happy. That lingering 
 happiness is extinct now ; Lamb's kindred circle — kindred, 
 though so different — dispersed almost before he il. A ; the 
 "thoughts that wandered thiough eternity," arc no longer 
 expressed in time ; the fancies and conceits, " gay crea- 
 tures of the element" of social delight, " that in the colors 
 of the rainbow lived, and played in the plighted clouds," 
 flicker only in the backward perspective of waning years ; 
 
QEORQE DYER. 261 
 
 and for the survivors, I may venture to affirm, no such 
 conversation as they have shared in either circle will ever 
 be theirs again in this Avorld ! 
 
 Before closing these last Memorials of Charles and Mary 
 Lamb, it may be permitted me to glance separately at 
 some of the friends who are grouped around them in mem- 
 ory, and who, like them, live only in recollection, and in 
 the works they have left behind them. 
 
 George Dyer was one of the first objects of Lamb'g 
 youthful reverence, for he had attained the stately rank 
 of Grecian in the venerable school of Christ's Hospital, 
 when Charles entered it, a little, timid, affectionate child ; 
 but this boyish respect, once amounting to awe, gave place 
 to a familiar habit of loving banter, which, springing from 
 the depth of old regard, approximated to school-boy 
 roguery, and, now and then, though very rarely, gleamed 
 on the consciousness of the ripe scholar. No contrast 
 could be more vivid than that presented by the relations 
 of each to the literature they both loved ; one divining its 
 inmost essences, plucking out the heart of its mysteries, 
 shedding light on its dimmest recesses ; the other devoted, 
 with equal assiduity, to its externals. Books, to Dyer, 
 " were a real Avorld, both pure and good ; among tlicni lie 
 passed, unconscious of time, from youth to extreme age, 
 vegetating on their dates and forms, and " trivial fond 
 records," in the learned air of great librai-ics, or the 
 dusty confusion of his own, with the least j)ossil)ie ap- 
 prehension of any human interest vital in their pages, 
 or of any spiiit (jf wit or fancy glancing across them. J lis 
 life was an Academic pastoral. Methinks I see his gaunt, 
 awkward form, set off by trousers too short, like thosr 
 outgrown by a gawKy lad, ami a rusty coat as much fno 
 
2b2 GEORGE DYER. 
 
 lai'ge for the wearer, hanging about him like those gar- 
 ments which the aristocratic Milesian peasantry prefer to 
 the most comfortable rustic dress ; his long head silvered 
 over with short yet straggling hair, and his dark grey eyes 
 glistening with faith and wonder, as Lamb satisfies the cu- 
 riosity which has gently disturbed his studies as to the au- 
 thorship of the Waverley Novels, by telling him, in the 
 strictest confidence, that they are the works of Lord Cas- 
 tlereagh, just returned from the Congress of Sovereigns 
 at Vienna ! Olf he runs, with animated stride and shamb- 
 ling enthusiasm, nor stops till he reaches Maida Hill, and 
 breathes his news into the startled ear of Leigh Hunt, who 
 " as a public writer," ought to be possessed of the great 
 fact with which George is laden ! Or shall I endeavor to 
 revive the bewildered look with which, just after he had 
 been announced as one of Lord Stanhope's executors and 
 residuary legatees, he received Lamb's grave inquiry, 
 " Whether it was true, as commonly reported, that he was 
 to be made a Lord ?" " dear no ! Mr. Lamb," respond- 
 ed he with earnest seriousness, but not Avithout a moment's 
 quivering vanity, " I could not think of such a thing ; it 
 is not true I assure you." "I thought not," said Lamb, 
 " and I contradict it wherever I go ; but the government will 
 not ask your consent ; they may raise you to the peerage 
 without your even knowing it." " I hope not, Mr. Lamb ; 
 indeed, indeed, I hope not ; it would not suit me at all," 
 responded Dyer, and went his way, musing on the possi- 
 bility of a strange honor descending on his reluctant brow. 
 Or shall I recall the visible presentment on his bland un- 
 consciousness of evil when his sportive friend taxed it to 
 the utmost, by suddenly asking what he thought of the 
 murderer Williams, who, after destroying two families in 
 Ratcliffe Highway, had broken prison by suicide, and 
 
WILLIAM GODWIN. 263 
 
 whose body had just before been convoyed, in shocking 
 procession, to its cross-road grave ! The desperate at- 
 tempt to compel the gentle optimist to speak ill of a mor- 
 tal creature produced no happier success than the answer, 
 *' AVhy, I should think, Mr. Lamb, he must have been 
 lather an eccentric character." This simplicity of a na- 
 ture not only unspotted by the world, but almost abstracted 
 from it, will seem the more remarkable, when it is known 
 that it was subjected at the entrance of life, to a hard bat- 
 tle with fortune. Dyer was the son of very poor parents, 
 residing in an eastern suburb of London, Stepney or Bcth- 
 nal-greenward, where he attracted the attention of two el- 
 derly ladies as a serious child "with an extraordinary love 
 for books. They obtained for him a presentation to 
 Christ's Hospital, which he entered at seven years of age ; 
 fought his way through its sturdy ranks to its head ; and, 
 at nineteen, quitted it for Cambridge, with only an exhi- 
 bition and his schi)hvrly accomplishments to help liini. On 
 he went, liowevcr, pkicid, if not rejoicing, through the dif- 
 ficulties of a life ilhistrated only by scholarship ; cncount- 
 crin-T tremendous labors ; unresting yet serene; until at 
 eirfhty-five he breathed out the most blanudess of lives, 
 which began in a struggle to end in a learned drcara ! 
 
 Mr. GODWIX, who during the h:ii)])iost perioil of Lamb's 
 weekly parties, was a constant assistant at his whist-iahle, 
 rcscmljlcd Dyer in siniplicity of manner and devotion to 
 letters ; but the simplicity was morn supcrlicial, and llio 
 devotion more profound than the kindred qualities in the 
 guileless scholar ; Jind instead of forming the entire being, 
 onlv marked the surface of a nature beneath which extra- 
 ordinary power l.iy hidden. As the absence of wordly 
 wisdom subjccte<l Dyer to the sportive sallies of Lamb, so 
 
264 WILLIAM GODWIN. 
 
 a like deficiency in Godwin exposed him to the coar^jej 
 mirth of Mr. Ilorne Tooke, who was sometimes inclined to 
 seek relaxation for the iron muscles of his imperturbable 
 mind in trying to make a philosopher look foolish. To a 
 stranger's gaze the author of the "Political Justice" and 
 " Caleb Williams," as he appeared in the Temple, always 
 an object of curiosity except to his familiars, presented 
 none of those characteristics with which fancy had invested 
 the daring speculator and relentless novelist ; nor, when 
 he broke silence, did his language tend to reconcile the 
 reality with the expectation. The disproportion of a frame 
 which, low of stature, was surmounted by a massive head 
 which might befit a presentable giant, was rendered almost 
 imperceptible, not by any vivacity of expression, (for hia 
 countenance was rarely lighted up by the deep-seated ge- 
 nius within,) but by a gracious suavity of manner Avhich 
 many " a fine old English gentleman" might envy. His 
 voice was small ; the topics of his ordinary conversation 
 trivial, and discussed with a delicacy and precision which 
 might almost be mistaken for finical ; and the presence of 
 the most interesting persons in literary society, of which 
 he had enjoyed the best, would not prevent him from fall- 
 ing after dinner into the most profound sleep. This gen- 
 tle, drow^sy, spiritless demeanor, presents a striking con- 
 trast to a reputation which once filled Europe with its 
 echoes ; but it was, in truth, when rightly understood, per- 
 fectly consistent with those intellectual elements which in 
 some raised the most enthusiastic admiration, and from 
 others elicited the wildest denunciations of visionary ter- 
 ror. 
 
 In Mr. Godwin's mind, the faculty of abstract reason so 
 predominated over all others, as practically to extinguish 
 them ; and his taste, akin to this faculty, sought only for 
 
■WILLIAM GODAVIX. 205 
 
 its development through the medium of composition for 
 the press. lie had no imagination, no fancy, no wit, 
 no humor; or if he possessed any of those faculties, 
 they were obscured by that of pure reason ; and being 
 wholl}^ devoid of the quick sensibility which irritates 
 speech into eloquence, and of the passion for immediate 
 excitement and applause, which tends to its presentment 
 before admiring assemblies, he desired no other audience 
 than that which he could silently address, and learned to 
 regard all things through a contemplative medium. In 
 this sense, far more than in the extravagant application of 
 his wildest theories, he levelled all around him ; admitted 
 no greatness but that of literature ; and neither desired 
 nor revered any triumphs but those of thought. If such 
 a reasoning faculty, guided by such a disposition, had 
 been applied to abstract sciences, no effect remarkable 
 beyond that of rare excellence, would have been pro- 
 duced ; but the apparent anomalies of Mr. Godwin's in- 
 tellectual history arose from the application of his power 
 to the passions, the interests, and the hopes of man- 
 kind, at a time when they enkindled into frightful action, 
 and when he calmly worked out his problems among their 
 burning elements with the "ice-brook's temper," and the 
 severest logic. And if some extreme conclusions were in- 
 consistent with the faith and the duty which alone can sus- 
 tain and regulate our nature, there was no small compen- 
 sation in the severity of the process to which the student 
 was impelled, for the slender peril which might remain 
 lest the results should be practically adopted. A system 
 founded on pure reason, which rejected the impulses of 
 natural affection, the delights of gratitude, the influences 
 of prejudice, the bondage of» custom, the animation of per- 
 sonal hope ; which appealed to no passion — which suggcs- 
 
 23 ^*^ 
 
266 WILLIAM GODWIN. 
 
 ted no luxury — wliicli excited no animosities — and Avhich 
 offered no prize for the observance of its laws, except a 
 participation in the expanding glories of progressive hu- 
 manity, was little calculated to allure from the accustomed 
 paths of ancient ordinance any man disposed to Avalk in 
 them by the lights from heaven. On the other hand, it 
 was a healthful diversion from those seductions in which 
 the heart secretly enervates and infects the understanding, 
 to invite the revolutionary speculator to the contemplation of 
 the distant and the refined ; by the pursuit of impracticable 
 error to brace the mind for the achievement of everlasting 
 truth; and on the "heat and flame of the distemper" of 
 an impassioned democracy to "sprinkle cool patience." 
 The idol, Political Justice, of which he was the slow and 
 laborious architect, if it for a while enchanted, did not long 
 enthral or ever debase its worshippers ; " its bones were 
 marroAvless, its blood was cold," — but there was surely 
 " speculation in its eyes" which "glared withal" into the 
 future. Such high casuistry as it evoked has alwnys an 
 ennobling tendency, even when it dallies Avith error ; the 
 direction of thought in youth is of less consequence than 
 the mode of its exercise ; and it is only when the base in- 
 terests and sensual passions of mortality pander to the un- 
 derstanding that truth may fear for the issue. 
 
 The author of this cold and passionless intellectual 
 phantasy looked out upon the world he hoped to inform 
 from recesses of contemplation which the outward inci- 
 dents of life did not disturb, and which, when closed, left 
 him a common man, appearing to superficial observers 
 rather below than above the level of ordinary talkers. To 
 his inward gaze the stupendous changes which agitated Eu- 
 rope, at the time he wrote, were silent as a picture. The 
 pleasure of his life was to think ; its business was to write ; 
 
WILLIAM GODWIN. 267 
 
 all else in it was vanity. Regarding his o^Yn being through 
 the same spiritualising medium, he saw no reason why the 
 springs of its existence should wear out, and, in the spring- 
 time of his speculation, held that man might become immor- 
 tal on earth by the eifort of the will. His style partook of 
 the quality of his intellect and the character of its pur- 
 poses — it was pure, simple, colorless. His most imagina- 
 tive passages are inspired only by a logic quickened into 
 enthusiasm by the anticipation of the approaching discov- 
 ery of truth — the dawning Eureka of the reasoner ; they 
 are usually composed of " line upon line and precept upon 
 precept," without an involution of style, or an eddy in the 
 thought. He sometimes complained, though with the be- 
 nignity that always marked his estimate of his opponents, 
 that Mr. Malthus's style was too richly ornamented for ar- 
 gument ; and certainly, Avith all its vivacity of illustration 
 it lacks the transparent simplicity of his OM-n. The most 
 palpable result which he ever produced by his writings was 
 the dark theory in the first. edition of the work on Popula- 
 tion, which was presented as an answer to his reasoning 
 on behalf of the perfectibility of man ; and he used to 
 smile at his ultimate triumjih, when the writer, wlio had 
 only intended a striking paradox, tamed it down to the 
 wisdom of economy, and adapted it to Poor-law uses ; neu- 
 tralised his giant spectres of Vice and Misery by the prac- 
 tical intervention of Moral Restraint ; and left the op- 
 timist, Godwin, still in unclouded possession of the hopo 
 of universal peace and happiness, postponed only to tliac 
 time when passion shall be subjected to reason, and popu- 
 lation, no more rising like a resistless tide, between ada 
 mantine barriers to sul)inerg<; the reiinvalc<l earth, shall 
 obey the commands of wisdom ; rise and fall as the means 
 of subsistence expand or contract ; and only contribute an 
 impulse to the universal harmony. 
 
268 WILLIAM GODWIN. 
 
 The persons of Mr. Godwin's romances — stranger still 
 < — are the naked creations of the same intellectual power, 
 marvellously endowed with galvanic life. Though with 
 happier symmetry, they are as much made out of chains 
 and links of reasoning, as the monster Avas fashioned Ly 
 the chemistry of the student, in the celebrated novel of his 
 gifted daughter. Falkland and Caleb Williams, are the 
 mere impersonations of the unbounded love of reputation, 
 and irresistible curiosity ; these ideas are developed in 
 each with masterly iteration — to the two ideas all causes 
 give way ; and materials are subjected, often of remark- 
 able coarseness, to the refinement of the conception. 
 Hazlitt used to observe of these two characters, that the 
 manner they are played into each other, was equal to any- 
 thing of the kind in the drama ; and there is no doubt that 
 the opposition, though at the cost of probability, is most 
 powerfully maintained ; but the effect is partly owing to 
 the absence of all extrinsic interest which could interfere 
 with the main purpose ; the beatings of the heart become 
 audible, not only from their own intensity, but from the 
 desolation Avhieh the author has expanded around them. 
 The consistency in each is that of an idea, not of a char- 
 acter ; and if the effect of form and color is produced, it 
 is, as in line engraving, by the infinite minuteness and deli- 
 cacy of the single strokes. In like manner, the incidents 
 by which the author seeks to exemplify the wrongs inflicted 
 by power on goodness in civilized society, are utterly fan- 
 tastical ; nothing can be more minute, nothing more unreal ; 
 the youth being involved by a web of circumstances woven 
 to immesh him, Avhich the condition of society that the author 
 intends to repudiate, renders impossible ; and which if 
 true would prove, not that the framework of law is tyran- 
 nous, but that the Avill of a single oppressor may r;lude it 
 
WILLIAM GODWIN. 289 
 
 The subject of "St. Leon" is more congenial to the au- 
 thor's power ; but it is, in like manner, a logical develop- 
 ment of the consequences of a being prolonged on earth 
 through ages ; and, as the dismal vista expands, the skele- 
 ton speculators crowd in to mock and sadden us ! 
 
 Mr. Godwin was thus a man of two beings, which held 
 little discourse with each other — the daring inventor of 
 theories constructed of air-drawn diagrams — and the sim- 
 ple gentleman, who suffered nothing to disturb or excite 
 him, beyond his study. He loved to walk in the crowded 
 streets of London, not like Lamb, enjoying the infinite va- 
 rieties of many-colored life around him, but because he 
 felt, amidst the noise, and crowd, and glare, more intensely 
 the imperturbable stillness of his own contemplations. His 
 means of comfortable support were mainly supplied by a 
 shop in Skinner-street, Avhere, under the auspices of " M. 
 J. Godwin & Co.," the prettiest and Avisest books for chil- 
 dren issucil, which old-fashioned parents presented to their 
 children, without suspecting that the graceful lessons of 
 piety and goodness which charmed away the selfishness of 
 infancy, were published, and sometimes revised, and now 
 and then Avritten, by a philosopher whom they would 
 scarcely venture to name ! He met the exigencies which 
 the vicissitudes of business sometimes caused, Avith tlio 
 trusting simplicity which marked his course — he asked his 
 friends for aid without scruple, considering tliat their 
 means were justly the due of one who toiled in thought for 
 their inward life, and had little time to provide for Ids own 
 outward existence ; and took their excuses, -when ofTered, 
 without doubt or offence. The very next day after I had 
 been honored and delighted by an introduction to liim at 
 Lamb's chambers, I was made still more proud and happy 
 by his appearance ot my own on such an errand — which 
 93* 
 
270 JOHN THELAVALL. 
 
 my poverty, not my Avill rendered abortive. After some 
 pleasant chat on indifferent matters, lie carelessly observed, 
 that he had a little bill for 150/. falling due on the mor- 
 row, which he had forgotten till that morning, and de- 
 sired tlie loan of the necessary amount for a few weeks. 
 At first, in eager hope of being able thus to oblige one 
 whom I regarded with admiration akin to awe, I- began to 
 consider Avhether it was possible for me to raise such a 
 sum ; but, alas ! a moment's reflection sufficed to convince 
 me that the hope was vain, and I was obliged, with much con- 
 fusion, to assure my distinguished visitor how glad I should 
 have been to serve him, but that I was only just starting 
 as a special pleader, was obliged to write for magazines 
 to help me on, and had not such a sum in the world. 
 "Oh dear," said the philosopher, "I thought you were 
 a young gentleman of fortune — don't mention it — don't 
 mention it; I shall do A'ery well elsewhere:" — and then, 
 in the most gracious manner, reverted to our former topics ; 
 and sat in my small room for half an hour, as if to con- 
 vince me that my want of fortune made no difference in 
 his esteem. A slender tribute to the literature he had 
 loved and served so well, was accorded to him in the old 
 age to vfhich he attained, by the gift of a sinecure in the 
 Exchequer, of about 2001. a year, connected with the 
 custody of the Records ; and the last time I saw him, he 
 was heaving an immense key to vmlock the musty trea- 
 sures of which he was guardian — how unlike those he had 
 unlocked, with finer talisman, for the astonishment and 
 alarm of one generation, and the delight of all others ! 
 
 John Thelwall, Avho had once exulted in the appel- 
 lation of Citizen Thelwall, having been associated with 
 Coleridge and Southey in their days of enthusiastical 
 dreaming, though a more precise and practical reforraei 
 
JOHN THELWALL. 271 
 
 than either, was introduced by them to Lamb, and wcl- 
 cnmed to liis circle, in the true Catholicism of it? spirit, 
 althouo-h its master cared nothing for the Roman virtue 
 which Thelvvall devotedly cherished, and which Ilorne 
 Tooke kept in uncertain vibration between a rebellion and 
 a hoax. Lamb justly esteemed Thelwall as a thoroughly 
 honest man ; not lionest merely in reference to the moral 
 relations of life, but to the processes of thought ; one 
 whose mind, acute, vigorous, and direct, perceived only 
 the object immediately before it, and undisturbed by col- 
 lateral circumstances, reflected, Avith literal fidelity, the 
 impression it received, and maintained it as sturdily 
 against the beauty that might soften it, or the wisdom that 
 might mould it, as against the tyranny that would stifle 
 its expression. " If to be honest as the world goes, is to 
 be one man picked out of ten thousand," to be honest as 
 the mind works is to be one man of a million ; and such a 
 man was ThelwalL Starting Avith imperfect education 
 froui the thraldom of domestic oppression, with slender 
 knowledge but with fiery zeal, into the dnngers of political 
 enterprise, and treading fearlessly on the verge of sedi- 
 tion, lie saw nothing before him but powers which he as- 
 sumed to be despotism and vice, and rushed headlong to 
 crush them. The point of time — just that when the 
 accumulated force of public opinion had obtained a virtual 
 mastery over the accumulated corruptions of ages, but 
 when power, still unconvinced of its danger, presented its 
 boldest front to opposing intellect, or strove to crush it 
 in the cruelty of awaking fear — gave scope for the anient 
 temperament of an orator almost as poor in scholastic cul- 
 tivation as in external fortune; but strong in integrity, 
 and rich in burning words. 
 
 Thus passionate, Thelwall spoke boldly and vehemently 
 
272 JOHN THELWALL. 
 
 — at a time when indignation was thought to be a virtue; 
 but there is no reason to beheve he ever meditated any trea- 
 son except that accumulated in the arcliitectural sophistry 
 of Lord Ehlon, by Avhich he proved a person wlio desired to 
 awe the Government into a change of policy to be guilty of 
 compassing the king's death, as thus that the king must re- 
 sist the proposed alteration in his measures — that resisting 
 he must be deposed — and that being deposed, he must ne- 
 cessarily die ; though his boldness of speech placed him in 
 jeopardy even after the acquittals of his simple-minded asso- 
 ciate Hardy, and his enigmatical instructor Tooke, who for- 
 sook him, and left him, when acquitted, to the mercy of the 
 world. His life, which before this event had been one of 
 self-denial and purity remarkable in a young man who had 
 imbibed the impulses of revolutionary France, partook of 
 considerable vicissitudes. At one time, he was raised by 
 his skill in correcting impediments of speech, and teaching 
 elocution as a science, into elegant competence — at other 
 times saddened by the difficulties of poorly requited lite- 
 rary toil and wholly unrequited patriotism ; but he pre- 
 served his integrity and his cheerfulness — " a man of hope 
 and forward-looking mind even to the last." Unlike God- 
 Avin, whose profound thoughts slowly struggled into form, 
 and seldom found utterance in conversation — speech was, 
 in him, all in all, his delight, his profession, his triumph, 
 with little else than passion to inspire or color it. The 
 flaming orations of his " Tribune," rendered more piquant 
 by the transparent masquerade of ancient history, which, 
 in his youth, " touched monied worldlings with dismay," 
 and infected the poor with dangerous anger, seemed vapid, 
 spiritless, and shallow when addressed through the press 
 to the leisure of the thoughtful. The light which glowed 
 with so formidable a lustie before the evening audience, 
 
JOHN TIIELWALL. 273 
 
 vanislied on closer examination, and proved to be only a 
 iiarmless pliantoni-vapor which left no traces of destruc- 
 tive energy behind it. 
 
 Thehvall, in person small, compact, muscular — with a 
 head denoting indomitable resolution, and features deeply 
 furrowed by the ardent workings of the mind — was as 
 energetic in all his pursuits and enjoyments as in political 
 action. He was earnestly devoted to the drama, and 
 enjoyed its greatest representations wdth the freshness of 
 a boy wdio sees a play for the first time. He hailed the 
 kindred energy of Kean with enthusiastic praise ; but ab- 
 juring the narrowness of his political vision in matters of 
 taste, didjustice to the nobler qualities of Mrs. Siddons and 
 her brothers. In literature and art also, he relaxed the 
 bigotry of his liberal intolerance, and expatiated in their 
 wider fields wdth a taste more catholic. Here Lamb was 
 ready with his sympathy, which indeed even the political 
 zeal, that he did not share, Avas too hearted to repel. 
 Although generally detesting lectures on literature as 
 superficial and vapid substitutes for quiet reading, and re- 
 citations as unreal mockeries of the true Drama, he some- 
 times attended the entertainments, composed cf both, 
 which Thehvall, in the palmy days of his prosperity, gave 
 at his house in Lincoln's Inn Fields, not on politics, wdiicli 
 he had then forsaken for elocutionary science, though 
 maintaining the principles of his youth, but partly on 
 elocution, and partly on poetry and acting, into w^hich he 
 infused the fiery enthusiasm of his nature. Sometimes in- 
 deed, his fervor animated his disquisitions on the philoso- 
 phy of speech with greater warmth than he reserved for 
 more attractive themes ; the melted vowels were blended 
 into a rainbow, or dispersed like fleecy clouils ; and the 
 theory of language was made interesting by the honesty 
 
274 WILLIAM HAZLITT. 
 
 and viVor of the speaker. Like all men who have been 
 cIucm'Iv self-taught, he sometimes presented common-places 
 as original discoveries, with an air -which strangers mis- 
 took for quackery ; but they "were unjust ; to the speaker 
 these "were the product of his o^u-n meditation, though 
 familiar to many, and not rarely possessed the charm of 
 originality in their freshness. Lamb, at least, felt that it 
 was good, among other companions of richer and more com- 
 prehensive intelligence, to have one friend who was undis- 
 turbed by misgiving either for himself or his cause ; who 
 enunciated wild paradox and worn-out common-place with 
 e([ual confidence ; and who was ready to sacrifice ease, 
 fortune, fame — everything but speech, and, if it had been 
 possible, even that — to the cause of truth or friendship. • 
 William Hazlitt was, for many years, one of the 
 brightest and most constant ornaments of Lamb's parties ; 
 linked to him in the firm bond of intellectual friendship — 
 which remained unskaken in spite of some superficial dif- 
 ferences, "short and far between," arising from Lamb's 
 insensibility to Hazlitt's political animosities and his ad- 
 herence to Southey, Wordsworth, and Coleridge, who 
 shared them. ILizlitt in his boyhood had derived from 
 his father that attachment to abstract truth for its own 
 sake, and that inflexible determination to cherish it, which 
 naturally predominated in the being of the minister of a 
 small rural congregation, who cherished religious opinions 
 adverse to those of the great body of his countrymen, and 
 waged a spiritual warfare throughout his peaceful course. 
 Thus disciplined, he was introduced to the friendship of 
 youthful poets, in whom the dawn of the French Revo- 
 lution had enkindled hope, and passion, and opinions tinc- 
 tured Avith hope and passion, which he eagerly embraced ; 
 and when changes passed over the prospects of mankind, 
 
"WILLIAM IIAZLITT. 275 
 
 which induced them, in maturer years, to modify the doc- 
 trines they had taught, he resented these defections 
 almost as personal wrongs, and, "when his pen found scope, 
 and his tongue utterance, Avrote and spoke of them Aviih 
 such bitterness as can only spring from the depths of old 
 affection. No writer, however, except Wilson, did such 
 noble justice to the poetry of Wordsworth, when most 
 despised, and to the genius of Coleridge, when most 
 obscured ; he cherished a true admiration for each in " the 
 last recesses of the mind," and defended them with dog- 
 ged resolution against the scorns and slights of the woidd. 
 Still the superficial difference was, or seemed, too wide to 
 admit of personal intercourse ; and I do not think that 
 during the many years which elapsed between my intro- 
 duction to Lamb and Hazlitt's death, he ever met either 
 of the poets at the rooms of the man they united in loving. 
 Although Mr. Ilazlitt was thus staunch in his attach- 
 n.ent to principles which he reverenced as true, he was by 
 no means rigid in his mode of maintaining and illustrat- 
 ing them ; but, on the contrary, frequently diminished 
 the immediate effect of his reasonings by the prodigality 
 and richness of the allusions with which he embossed 
 them. He had as unquenchable a desire for truth as 
 others have for wealth, or power, or fame ; he pursued it 
 with sturdy singleness of purpose, and enunciated it 
 without favor or fear. But, besides that love of truth, 
 that sincerity in pursuing it, and that boldness in telling 
 it, ne had also a fervent aspiration after the beautiful ; a 
 vivid sense of pleasure, and an intense consciousness of 
 his own individual being, which sometimes produced ob- 
 stacles to the current of speculation, by which it was 
 broken into dazzling eddies or urged into devious wind- 
 ings. Acute, fervid, vigorous, as his mind was, it wanted 
 
276 WILLIAM HAZLITT, 
 
 the one great central power of Imagination, "which bringg 
 all the other faculties into harmonious action ; multiplies 
 them into each other ; makes truth visible in the forms of 
 beauty, and substitutes intellectual vision for proof. Thus, 
 in him, truth and beauty held divided empire. In him, 
 the spirit was willing, but the flesh was strong ; and, Avhen 
 these contend, it is not difiicult to anticipate the result ; 
 " for the power of beauty shall sooner transform honesty 
 from what it is into a bawd, than the person of honesty 
 shall transform beauty into its likeness." This " some- 
 time paradox" was vividly exemplified in Hazlitt's perso- 
 nal history, his conversation, and his writings. To the 
 solitudes of the country in which he mused on " fate, free- 
 will, foreknowledge absolute, a temperament of unusual 
 ardor had given an intense interest, akin to that with 
 which Rousseau has animated and oppressed the details of 
 his early years. 
 
 lie had not then, nor did he find till long afterwards, 
 power to embody his meditations and feelings in words. 
 The consciousness of thoughts which he could not hope 
 adequately to express, increased his natural reserve, and 
 he turned for relief to the art of painting, in which he 
 might silently realize his dreams of beauty, and repay the 
 loveliness of nature by fixing some of its fleeting aspects 
 in immortal tints. A few old prints from the old masters 
 awakened the spirit of emulation within him ; the sense 
 of beauty became identified in his mind with that of glory 
 and duration ; while the peaceful labor he enjoyed calmed 
 tlie tumult in his veins, and gave steadiness to his pure 
 and distant aim. He pursued the art with an earnestness 
 and patience which he vividly describes in his essay, " On 
 the Pleasure of Painting;" and to which he frequently re- 
 verted in the happiest moods of his conversation ; and. 
 
WILLIAM HAZLITT. 277 
 
 although in this, his chosen pursuit, he failed, the passion- 
 ate desire for success, and the long struggle to attain it, 
 left deep traces in liis mind, heightening his keen percep- 
 tion of external things, and mingling with all his specula- 
 tions, airj shapes and hues which he had vainly striven 
 to transfer to canvas. A painter may acquire a fine in- 
 sight into the nice distinctions of character — he may copy 
 manners in words as he does in colors — but it may be 
 apprehended that his course as a severe reasoner will be 
 somewhat "troubled with thick-coming fancies." And if 
 the successful pursuit of art may thus disturb the process 
 of abstract contemplation, how much more may an un- 
 satisfied ambition rufile it : bid the dark threads of thousrht 
 glitter with radiant fancies unrealized, and clothe the dia- 
 grams of speculation with the fragments of picture which 
 the mind cherishes the more fondly, because the hand re- 
 fused to realize ? What wonder, if, in the mind of an 
 ardent youth, thus struggling in vain to give palpable ex- 
 istence to the shapes of loveliness which haunted him, 
 "the homely beauty of the good old cause" should assume 
 the fascinations not properly its own ? 
 
 This association of beauty with reason diminished the 
 immediate effect of Mr. Hazlitt's political essays, while it 
 enhanced their permanent value. It Avas the fashion, in 
 his lifetime, to denounce him as a sour Jacobin ; but no 
 description could be more unjust. Under the influence of 
 some bitter feeling, or some wayward fancy, he occasion- 
 ally poured out a furious invective against tliose whom he 
 regarded as the enemies of liberty, or as apostates from 
 her cause ; but, in general, the force of his expostulation, 
 or his reasoning, was diverted (unconsciously to himself) 
 by figures and phantasies, by fine and quauit allusions, by 
 (juotations from his favorite authors, introduced with siiv 
 
 24 
 
278 \VIL1IAM IIAZLITT. 
 
 rrular felicity, as respects the direct link of association, 
 but tending, by their very beauty, to unnerve the mind of 
 the reader, and substitute the sense of luxury for clear 
 conviction, or noble anger. In some of his essays, where 
 the reasoning is most cogent, every other sentence con- 
 tains some exquisite passage from Shakspeare, or Fletcher, 
 or Wordsworth, trniling after it a line of golden associa- 
 tions ; or some reference i-o a novel, over which we have 
 a thousand times forgotten the wrongs of mankind ; till, 
 in the recurring shocks of pleasurable surprise, the main 
 argument is forgotten. When, for example, he compares 
 the position of certain political waverers to that of Cla- 
 rissa Harlowe confronting the ravisher who would repeat 
 his outrage, with the penknife pointed to her breast, and 
 her eyes uplifted to Heaven, and describes them as having 
 been, like her, trepanned into a house of ill-fame, near 
 Pall j\Iall, and there defending their soiled virtue with 
 their penknives ; what reader, at the suggestion of the 
 stupendous scene which the allusion directly revives, can 
 think or care about the renegade of yesterday? Here, 
 again, is felt the want of that Imagination Avhich brings 
 all things into one, tinges all our thoughts and sympathies 
 with one hue, and rejects every ornament which does not 
 heighten or prolong the feeling which it seeks to embody. 
 Even when he retaliates on Southey for attacking his 
 old co-patriots, the poetical associations which bitter re- 
 membrance suggests, almost neutralize the vituperation ; 
 he brings every " flower which sad embroidery wears to 
 strew the laureate hoarse," wliere ancient regards are in- 
 terred ; and niei'ges all the censure of the changed politi- 
 cian in praise of the simple dignity and the generous la- 
 bors of a singularly noble and unsullied life. So little 
 docs he regard the unity of sentiment in his compositions, 
 
WILLIAM HAZLITT. 279 
 
 that in his "Letter to Gifford," after a series of just and 
 bitter retorts on his malio-ner as "• the fine link "which con- 
 nects literature with the police," he takes a fancy to teach 
 that " ultra-crepidarian critic" his own theory of the 
 natural disinterestedness of the human mind, and develops 
 it, not in the dry, hard, mathematical style in Avhich it 
 was first enunciated, but "o'er informed" with the glow 
 of sentiment, and terminating in an eloquent rhapsody. 
 This latter portion of the letter is one of the noblest of 
 his effusions, but it entirely destroys the first in the mind 
 of the reader ; for who, when thus contemplating the liv- 
 ing wheels on which human benevolence is borne onwards 
 in its triumphant career, and the spirit with which they 
 are instinct, can think of the literary wasp which had 
 settled for a moment upon them, and who had just before 
 been mercilessly transfixed with minikin arrows ? 
 
 But the most signal example of the influences which 
 "the show of things" exercised over Mr. Hazlitt's mind 
 was the setting up the Emperor Napoleon as his idol. He 
 strove to justify this predilection to himself by referring 
 it to the revolutionary origin of his hero, and the con- 
 tempt Avith which he trampled upon the claims of legiti- 
 macy, and humbled the pride of kings. But if his " only 
 love" thus sprung "from his only hate," it was not cher 
 ished in its blossom by antipathies. If there had been 
 nothing in his mind whicli tended to a,L\grandizcmcnt and 
 o-lory, and which would fain reconcile the principles of 
 freedom with the lavish accumulation of power, he might 
 have desired the triumph of young tyranny over legiti- 
 mate thrones; but lie would scarcely have watched ita 
 progress and its fall "like a lover and a child." His feel- 
 ing for Bonaparte in exile was not a sentiment of respect 
 for fallen greatness ; not a desire to trace " the soul of 
 
280 WILLIAM IIAZLITT. 
 
 goodness in tilings evil ;" not a loathing of the treatment 
 the Emperor received from " his cousin kings" in the day 
 of adversity ; but entire affection mingling with the cur- 
 rent of the blood, and pervading the moral and intellec- 
 tual being. Nothing less than this strong attachment, at 
 once personal and refined, would have enabled him to en- 
 counter the toil of collecting and arranging facts and dates 
 for four volumes of narrative, which constitute his " Life 
 of Napoleon;" — a drudgery too abhorrent to his habits 
 of mind as a thinker, to be sustained by any stimulus 
 which the prospect of remuneration or the hope of ap- 
 plause could supply. It is not so much in the ingenious 
 excuses Avhicli he discovers for the worst acts of his hero — 
 offered even for the midnight execution of the Duke 
 d'Enghien and the invasion of Spain — that the stamp of 
 personal devotion is obvious, as in the graphic force with 
 which he has delineated the short-lived splendors of the 
 Imperial Court, and "the trivial fond records" he has 
 gathered of every vestige of human feeling by which he 
 could reconcile the Imperial Cynic to the species he 
 scorned. The first two volumes of his work, although re- 
 deemed by scattered thoughts of true originality and 
 depth, are often confused and spiritless ; the characters of 
 the principal revolutionists are drawn too much in the 
 style of awkward, sprawling caricatures ; but when the 
 hero casts all his rivals yito the distance, erects himself 
 the individual enemy of England, consecrates his power 
 by religious ceremonies, and defines it by the circle of a 
 crown, the author's strength becomes concentrated ; his 
 narrative assumes an epic dignity and fervor ; dallies with 
 the flowers of usurped prerogative, and glows with " the 
 long-resounding march and energy divine." How happy 
 and proud is he to picture the meeting of the Emperor 
 
WILLIAM HAZLITT. 281 
 
 mth. the Pope, and the grandeurs of the coronation ! How 
 he grows wanton in celebrating the fetes of the Tuihn-ies, 
 as " presenting all the elegance of enchanted pageants," 
 and laments them as "gone like a fairy revel!" How he 
 "lives along the line" of Austerlitz, and rejoices in its 
 thunder, and hails its setting sun, and exults in the minu- 
 test details of the subsequent meeting of the conquered 
 sovereigns at the feet of the conqueror ! How he expati- 
 ates on the fatal marriage with "the deadly Austrian," 
 (as Air. Cobbett justly called Maria Louisa), as though it 
 were a chapter in romance, and sheds the grace of beauty 
 on the imperial picture ! How he kindles with material 
 ardor as he describes the preparations against Russia; 
 musters the myriads of barbarians with a show of dra- 
 matic justice ; and fondly lingers among the brief tri- 
 umphs of Moskwa on the verge of the terrible catastro- 
 phe ! The narrative of that disastrous expedition is, in- 
 deed, written with a master's hand ; we see the " grand 
 army" marching to its destruction through the immense 
 perspective : the wild hordes flying before the terror of its 
 "coming;" the barbaric magnificence of Moscow tower- 
 ing in the remote distance ; and when we gaze upon the 
 sacrificial conflagration of the Kremlin, we feel that it is 
 Avorthy to become the funeral pile of the conqueror's glo- 
 ries. It is well for the readers of this splendid work, that 
 there is more in it of the painter than of the metaphvsi- 
 cian : that its style glows with the fervor of battle, or 
 stifl'ens with the spoils of victory ; yet we wonder that this 
 monument to imperial grandeur should be raised from the 
 dead level of jacobinism by an honest and profound thinker. 
 The solution is, that although he was this, he was also 
 more — that, in opinion, he was devoted to the cause of the 
 people ; but that, in feeling, he required some individual 
 2-1 » 
 
282 WILLIAM IIAZLITT. 
 
 object of worship ; that he selected Napoleon as one in 
 whose origin and career he might at once impersonate his 
 principles and gratify his affections ; and that he adhered 
 to his own idea with heroic obstinacy, when the " child 
 and champion of the Republic" openly sought to repress 
 all feeling and thought, but such as he could cast in his 
 own iron moulds, and scoffed at popular enthusiasm even 
 while it bore him to the accomplishment of his loftiest de- 
 sires. 
 
 Mr. Hazlitt had little inclination to talk or write about 
 contemporary authors, and still less to read them. Ho 
 was Avith difficulty persuaded to look into the Scotch 
 novels, but Avhen he did so, he found them old in substance 
 though new in form, read them with as much avidity as 
 the rest of the world, and expressed better than any one 
 else Vtdiat all the world felt about them. Ilis hearty love 
 of them, however, did not diminish, but aggravate his dis- 
 like of the political opinions so zealously and consistently 
 maintained, of their great author ; and yet the strength 
 of his hatred towards that which was accidental and tran- 
 sitory only set off the unabated power of his regard for 
 the great and the lasting. Coleridge and Wordsworth 
 were not nnjdcrns to him, for they Avere the inspirers of 
 his youth, which was his own antiquity, and the feelings 
 which were the germ of their poetry had sunk deep into 
 his heart. With the exception of the works of these, and 
 of his friends Barry Cornwall and Sheridan Knowles, in 
 wiiosc successes he rejoiced, he held modern literature in 
 slight esteem, and regarded the discoveries of science and 
 the visions of optimism with an undnzzled eye. His 
 " large discourse of reason" looked not before, but after. 
 He felt it a sacred duty, as a lover of genius and art, to 
 defend the fame of the mighty dead. When the old pain 
 
WILLIAM IIAZLITT. 283 
 
 ters were assailed in "The Catalogue Raisonne of the 
 British Institution," he was "touched with noble anger." 
 All his own vain longings after the immortality of the 
 works which were libelled — all the tran([uilllty and beauty 
 they had shed into his soul — all his comprehension of tlie 
 sympathy and delight of thousands, which, accumulating 
 through long time, had attested their worth — were fused 
 together to dazzle and subdue the daring critic who would 
 disturb the judgment of ages. So, when a popular poet 
 assailed the fame of Rousseau, seeking to reverse the de- 
 cision of posterity on what that great though unhappy 
 writer had achieved by suggesting the opinion of people 
 of condition in his neighborhood on the figure he made to 
 their apprehensions while in the service of Madame de 
 Warrens, he vindicated the prerogatives of genius with 
 the true logic of passion. Few things irritated him more 
 than the claims set up for the present generation to be 
 wiser and better than those which have gone before it. 
 He had no power of imagination to embrace the golden 
 clouds which hung over the Future, but he rested and ex- 
 patiated in the Past. To his apprehension human good 
 did not appear a slender shoot of yesterday, like the bean- 
 stalk in the fairy tale, aspiring to the skies, and leading 
 to an enchanted castle, but a huge growth of intertwisted 
 fibres, grasping the earth by numberless roots of custom, 
 habit, and affection, and bearing vestiges of " a thousand 
 storms, a thousand thunders." 
 
 When I first met Ilazlitt, in tlie year 1815, he was 
 staggering under the blow of Waterloo. The re-appear- 
 ance of his imperial idol on the coast of France, and his 
 triumphant march to Paris, like a fairy vision, had excited 
 his admiration and sympathy to the utmost piicli; and 
 though in many respects sturdily English in feeling, he 
 
284 WILLIAM IIAZLITT. 
 
 could scarcely forgive the valor of the conquerors ; and 
 bitterly resented the captivity of the Emperor in St. He- 
 lena, which followed it, as if he had sustained a personal 
 wrong. On this subject only, he was " eaten up with pas- 
 sion ;" on all others he was the fairest, the most candid 
 of reasoners. His countenance was then handsome, but 
 marked by a painful expression ; his black hair, which had 
 curled stiffly over his temples, had scarcely received its 
 first tints of gray ; his gait was awkward ; his dress was 
 neglected ; and, in the company of strangers, his bashful- 
 ness was almost painful — but when, in the society of Lamb 
 and one or two others, he talked on his favorite themes 
 of old English books, or old Italian pictures, no one's 
 conversation could be more delightful. The poets, from 
 intercourse with whom he had drawn so much of his taste, 
 and who had contributed to shed the noble infection of 
 beauty through his reasoning faculties, had scarcely the 
 opportunity of appreciating their progress. It w^as, in 
 after years, by the fire-side of "the Lambs," that liis 
 tongue was gradually loosened, and his passionate thoughts 
 found appropriate words. There his struggles to express 
 the fine conceptions with which his mind was filled were 
 encouraged by entire sympathy ; there he began to stam- 
 mer out his just and original conceptions of Chaucer and 
 Spenser, and other English poets and prose writers, more 
 talked of, though not better known, by their countrymen ; 
 there he was thoroughly understood and dexterously 
 cheered by Miss Lamb, whose nice discernmeiu uf his 
 first eft'orts in conversation Avere dwelt upon by him with 
 affectionate gratitude, even when most out of humor Avith 
 the world. When he mastered his diffidence, he did not 
 talk for effect, to dazzle, or surprise, or annoy, but Avith 
 the most simple and honest desire to make his vicAV of the 
 
WILLIAM HAZLITT. 285 
 
 subject in hand entirely apprehended by his hearer. There 
 ■«-as sometimes an obvious struggle to do this to his own 
 satisfaction ; he seemed laboring to drag his thought to 
 light from its deep lurking-place ; and, with timid distrust 
 of that power of expression which he had found so late 
 in life, he often betrayed a fear lest he had failed to make 
 himself understood, and recurred to the subject .again and 
 ao-ain, that he might be assured he had succeeded. With 
 a certain doggedness of manner, he showed nothing prag- 
 matical or exclusive ; he never drove a principle to its ut- 
 most possible consequences, but, like Locksley, " allowed 
 for the wind." For some years previous to his death he 
 observed an entire abstinence from fermented liquors, 
 •which he had once quaffed with the proper relish he had 
 for all the good things of this life, but which he courage- 
 ously resigned when he found the indulgence perilous to 
 his health and faculties. The cheerfulness with wdiich he 
 made this sacrifice was one of the most amiable traits in 
 his character. He had no censure for others, who, in the 
 same dangers, were less wise or less resolute ; nor did he 
 think he had earned, by his own constancy, any right to 
 intrude advice which he knew, if wanted, must be una- 
 vailing. Nor did he profess to be a convert to the gene- 
 ral system of abstinence, which was advanced by one of 
 his kindest and staunchest friends ; he avowed that he 
 yielded to necessity ; and instead of avoiding the sight of 
 that which he could no longer taste, he was seldom so hap- 
 py as when he sat with friends at their wine, participating 
 the sociality of the time, and renewing liis own past en- 
 joyment in that of his companions, witliout regret and 
 without envy. Like Dr. Jolmson, lie made himself poor 
 amends for the loss of Avine by drinking tea, not so largely, 
 indeed, as the hero of Boswell, but at least of equal po- 
 
286 WILLIAM IIAZLITT. 
 
 tcncy ; for he might have challenged Mrs. Thrale and all 
 her sex to make stronger tea than his own. In society, 
 as in politics, he was no flincher. He loved " to hear the 
 chimes at midnight," without considering them as a sum- 
 mons to rise. At these seasons, when in his happiest 
 mood, he used to dwell on the conversational powers of 
 his friends, and live over again the delightful hours he 
 had passed with them ; repeat the pregnant puns that one 
 had made ; tell over again a story with which another had 
 convulsed the room ; or expatiate on the eloquence of a 
 third ; always host pleased when he could detect some tal- 
 ent which was unregarded hy the world, and giving alike, 
 to the celebrated and the unknown, due honor. 
 
 Mr. Hazlitt delivered three courses of lectures at tho 
 Surrey Institution, on The English Poets; on The 
 English Comic Writers ; and on The Age of Elizabeth ; 
 which Lamb (under protest against lectures in general) 
 regularly attended, an earnest admirer, amidst crowds 
 with whom the lecturer had " an imperfect sympathy." 
 They consisted chiefly of Dissenters, who agreed with him 
 in his hatred of Lord Castlereagh, and his love of religious 
 freedom, but who "loved no plays;" of Quakers, who 
 approved him as the earnest opponents of slavery and 
 capital punishment, but who "heard no music;" of citi- 
 zens, devoted to the main chance, who had a hankering 
 after "the improvement of the mind;" but to whom his 
 favorite doctrine of its natural disinterestedness was a 
 riddle ; of a few enemies who came to sneer ; and a few 
 friends, who were eager to learn and to admire. Tho 
 comparative insensibility of the bulk of his audience to 
 his finest passages sometimes provoked him to awaken 
 their attention by points which broke the train of his dis- 
 course ; after which, he could make himself amends bv 
 
WILLIAM HAZLITT. 287 
 
 some abrupt paradox ■which might set their prejudices on 
 edge, and make them fancy they were shocked. He 
 startled many of them at the onset, by observing, that 
 since Jacob's dream, "the heavens have gone farther off, 
 apd become astronomical;" a fine extravagance, which 
 th«i ladies and gentlemen, who had grown astronomical 
 themselves under the preceding lecturer, felt called on to 
 resent as an attack on their severer studies. When he 
 read a Avell known extract from Cowpcr, comparing a poor 
 cottager with Voltaire, and had pronouncL-d the line : 
 " A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew," they 
 broke into a joyous shout of self-gratulation, that they 
 were so much wiser than the scornful Frenchman. When 
 he passed by Mrs. Hannah More with observing that "she 
 had written a great deal which he had never read," a voice 
 gave expression to the general commisseration and sur- 
 prise, by calling out "More pity for you!" They were 
 confounded at his reading with more emphasis, perhaps, 
 than discretion, Gay's epigrammatic lines on Sir Richard 
 Blackstonc, in which scriptural persons are too freely 
 hitched into rhyme ; but he went doggedly on to the end, 
 and, by his perseverance, baffled those who, if he had 
 acknowledged himself wrong, by stopping, would have 
 visited him with an outburst of displeasure which he felt 
 to be gathering. He once had a more edifying advantage 
 over them. He was enumerating the humanities which 
 endeared Dr. Johnson to his mind, and at the close of an 
 agreeable catalogue, mentioned, as last and noblest, " his 
 carrying the poor victim of disease and dissipation on his 
 back, through Fleet-street," at which a titter arose from 
 some, who were struck by the picture, as ludicrous, and a 
 murmur from others, who deemed tlic allusion unfit for 
 ears polite : he paused for an instant, and then added, in 
 
288 WILLIAM HAZLITT. 
 
 his sturdiest and most impressive manner — "an act which 
 realises the parable of the Good Samaritan ;" at which his 
 moral and his delicate hearers shrunk, rebuked into deep 
 silence. He was not eloquent, in the true sense of the 
 term ; for his thoughts were too weighty to be moved 
 along by the shallow stream of feeling which an evening's 
 excitement can rouse. He wrote all his lectures, and read 
 them as they were written ; but his deep voice and earn- 
 est manner suited his matter well. He seemed to dig into 
 his subject, and not in vain. In delivering his longer 
 quotations, he had scarcely continuity enough for the ver- 
 sification of Shakspeare and Milton, "with linked sweet- 
 ness long drawn out ;" but he gave Pope's brilliant satire 
 and delightful compliments, which are usually complete 
 within the couplet, with an elegance and point which the 
 poet himself, could he have heard, would have felt as in- 
 dicating their highest praise. 
 
 Mr. Hazlitt, having suffered for many years from de- 
 rangement of the digestive organs, for which perhaps a mode- 
 rate use of fermented liquors would have been preferable to 
 abstinence, solaced only by the intense tincture of tea, in 
 which he found refuge, worn out at last, died on 18th 
 Sept., 1830, at the age of fifty-two. Lamb frequently 
 visited him during his sufi"erings, which were not, as has 
 been erroneously suggested, aggravated by the want of ' 
 needful comforts ; for although his careless habits had 
 left no provision for sickness, his friends gladly acknow- 
 ledged, by their united aid, the deep intellectual obliga- 
 tions due to the great thinker. In a moment of acute 
 pain, Avhen the needless apprehension for the future rushed 
 upon him, he dictated a brief and peremptory letter to the 
 editor of the "Edinburgh Review," requiring a conside- 
 rable remittance, to which he had no claim but that of 
 
THOMAS BARNES. 289 
 
 former remunerated services, which the friend, Avho obeyed 
 his bidding, feared might excite displeasure ; but he mis- 
 took Francis Jeffrey ; the sum demanded was received by 
 return of post, with the most anxious wishes for Hazlitt's 
 recovery — just too late for him to understand his error. 
 Lamb joined a few friends in attending his funeral in the 
 church-yard of St. Anne's Soho, where he was interred, 
 and felt his loss not so violently at the time, as mourn- 
 fully in the frequent recurrence of the sense that a chief 
 source of intellectual pleasure was stopped. His personal 
 frailties are nothing to us now ; his thoughts survive ; in 
 them we have his better part entire, and in them must be 
 traced his true history. The real events of his life are 
 not to be traced in its external changes ; as his engage- 
 ment by the " Morning Chronicle," or his transfer of his 
 services to the " Times," or his introduction to the "Edin- 
 burgh Review;" but in the progress and development of 
 his fine understanding as nurtured and checked and 
 Bwayed by his affections. His warfare was within; its 
 spoils are ours ! 
 
 One of the soundest and most elegant scholars whom 
 the school of Christ's Hospital ever produced, Mr. Thomas 
 Barnes, was a frequent guest at Lamb's chambers in the 
 Temple ; and though the responsibilities he undertook, 
 before Lamb quitted that, his happiest abode, prevented 
 him from visiting often at Great Russel-street, at Isling- 
 ton, or Enfield, he was always ready to assist by the kind 
 word of the powerful journal in which he became most 
 potent, the expanding reputation of his school-mate and 
 friend. After establishing a high social and intellectual 
 character at Cambridge, he had entered the legal profes- 
 sion as a special pleader, but was prevented from apply- 
 ing the needful devotion to that laborious pursuit by vio- 
 
290 THOMAS BARNES. 
 
 lent rheumatic affections, which he solaced by writing 
 critiques and essays of rare merit. So shattered did he 
 appear in health, that when his friends learned that he 
 had accepted the editorship of the " Times" newspaper, 
 they almost shuddered at the attempt as suicidal, and 
 anticipated a speedy ruin to his constitution from the 
 pressure of constant labor and anxiet}^ on the least health- 
 ful hours of toil. But he had judged bettor than they of 
 his own physical and intellectual resources, and the mode 
 in which the grave responsibility and constant exertion of 
 his office vfould affect both ; for the regular eff'ort consoli- 
 dated his feverish strength, gave evenness and tranquillity 
 to a life of serious exertion, and supplied, for many years, 
 power equal to the perpetual demand ; aff'ording a striking 
 example how, when finely attuned, the mind can influence 
 the body to its uses. The facile adaptation of his intel- 
 lect to his new duties was scarcely less remarkable than 
 the mastery it achieved over his desultory habits and 
 physical infirmities ; for, until then, it had seemed more 
 refined than vigorous — more elegant than weighty — too 
 fastidious to endure the supervision and arrangement of 
 innumerable reports, paragraphs, and essays ; but, while 
 a scholarly grace was shed by him through all he wrote 
 or moulded, the needful vigor was never wanting to the 
 high oflice of superintending the great daily miracle ; to 
 the discipline of its various contributors ; or to the com- 
 position of articles which he Avas always ready, on the 
 instant of emergency, to supply. 
 
 Mr. Barnes, linked by school associations with Leigh 
 Hunt, filled the theatrical department of criticism in the 
 '■•Examiner" during the period when the Editor's im- 
 prisonment for alleged libel on the Prince Regent pre- 
 cluded his attendance on the theatres. It was no easy 
 
 i 
 
THOMAS BARNES. 291 
 
 office of friendship to supply the place of Hunt in the de- 
 partment of criticism, he may be almost said to have in- 
 vented ; but Mr. Barnes, though in a different style, well 
 sustained the attractions of the "Theatrical Examiner." 
 Fortunately the appearance of Mr. Kean during this in- 
 terval enabled him to gratify the profound enthusiasm of 
 his nature, without doing violence to the fastidious taste 
 to which it was usually subjected. lie perceived at once 
 the vivid energy of the new actor ; understood his faults 
 to be better than the excellencies of ordinary aspirants ; 
 and hailed him with the most generous praise — the more 
 valuable as it proceeded from one rarely induced to ren- 
 der applause, and never yielding it except on the convic- 
 tion of true excellence. Hazlitt, who contributed theatri- 
 cal criticism, at the same time, to the " Morning Chroni- 
 cle," and who astounded the tame mediocrity of Mr. 
 Perry's subordinates by liis earnest eulogy, and Barnes, 
 had the satisfaction of first appreciating this unfriended 
 performer, and while many were offended by the daring 
 novelty of his style, and more stood aloof with fashionable 
 indifference from a deserted theatre, of awakening that 
 spirit which retrieved the fortunes of Old Drury — which 
 revived, for a brilliant interval, the interest of the English 
 stage, and which bore the actor on a tide of intoxicating 
 success that " knew no retiring ebb," till it was unhajipily 
 checked by his own lamentable frailties."* 
 
 * As the Essays of Mr. Barnes have never been coUectetl, I take lenvo to 
 present to the reader the conclusion of his article in the " Examiner" of Feb- 
 ruary 27, 1814, on the flrst appearance of Mr. Kean in Richard: — 
 
 "III the heroic parts, he animated every spectator with his own foeliiiga; 
 when ho exclaimed ' that a thousand hearts wore swelliiig in his bosom,' tbd 
 house shouted to express their accordance to u truth so nobly exempiilied by 
 the energy of his voice, by the grandeur of his mien. His doalh-sceno wftS 
 the grandest conception, and exucutod in the most im])ressivo manner: it 
 was a piece of noble poetry, expressed l>y action instead of language. Hg 
 
292 THOMAS BARNES. 
 
 The manners of Mr. Barnes, though extremely cour- 
 teous, were so reserved as to seem cold to strangers ; but 
 they Yi'ere changed, as by magic, by the contemplation of 
 moral or intellectual beauty, awakened in a small circle. 
 I well remember him, late one evening, in the year 1816, 
 when only two or three friends remained with Lamb and 
 his sister, long after " we had heard the chimes at mid- 
 night," holding inveterate but delighted controversy with 
 Lamb, respecting the tragic power of Dante as compared 
 with that of Shakspeare. Dante w^as scarcely known to 
 Lamb, for he was unable to read the original, and Gary's 
 noble translation was not then known to him ; and Barnes 
 aspired to the glory of affording him a glimpse of a kin- 
 dred greatness in the mighty Italian with that which he 
 had conceived incapable of human rivalry. The face of 
 the advocate of Dante, heavy when in repose, grew bright 
 with earnest admiration as he quoted images, sentiments, 
 dialogues, against Lamb, who had taken his own immortal 
 Btand on Lear, and urged the supremacy of the child- 
 changed father against all the possible Ugolinos of the 
 world. Some reference having been made by Lamb to his 
 
 fights desperately : ho is disarmed and exhausted of all bodilj' strength : he 
 disdains to full, and his strong volition keeps him standing; he fixes that 
 bead, fall of intellectual and heroic power, directly on the enemy : he bears 
 up his chest with an expression which seems swelling with more than human 
 spirit : he holds his uplifted arm in calm but dreadful defiance of his con- 
 queror. But he is but man, and he falls after this sublime effort senseless to 
 the ground. We have felt our eyes gush on reading a passage of exquisite 
 poetry. AVe have been ready to leap at sight of a noble picture, but we never 
 felt stronger emotion, more over-powering sensations, than were kindled by 
 the novel sublimity of this catastrophe. In matters of mere taste, there will 
 bo a difference of opinion; but hero there was no room to doubt, no rea- 
 son could be imprudent enough to hesitate. Every heart beat an echo res- 
 ponsive to this call of elevated nature, and yearned with fondness towards 
 the man who, while he excited admiration for himself, made also his admirers 
 glow with a warmth of conscious superiority, because they were able toappre» 
 elate such an exalted degree of excellence." 
 
THOMAS BARNES. 293 
 
 own exposition of Lear, which had been recently pub- 
 lished in a magazine, edited by Leigh Hunt, under the 
 «:itle of " The Reflector," touched another and a tenderer 
 string of feeling, turned a little the course of his enthusi- 
 asm the more to inflame it, and brought out a burst of 
 afiectionate admiration for his friend, then scarcely known 
 to the world, which was the more striking for its contrast 
 with his usually sedate demeanour. I think I see him 
 now, leaning forward upon the little table on which the 
 candles were just expiring in their sockets, his fists 
 clenched, his eyes flashing, and his face bathed in perspir- 
 ation, exclaiming to Lamb, " And do I not know, my boy, 
 that you have written about Shakspeare, and Shakspeare'a 
 own Lear, finer than any one ever did in the world, and 
 won't I let the world know it ?" lie Avas right; there is 
 no criticism in the world more worthy of the genius it es- 
 timates than that little passage referred to on Lear ; few 
 felt it then like Barnes ; thousands have read it since, 
 here, and tens of thousands in America ; and have felt as 
 he did, and will answer for the truth of that cxrked hour. 
 Mr. Barnes combined singular acuteness of unaerstand- 
 ing with remarkable simplicity of character. If he was 
 skilful in finding out those who duped others, he made 
 some amends to the world of sharpers by being abund- 
 antly duped himself. He might caution the public to be 
 on their guard against impostors of every kind, but hli 
 heart was open to every species of delusion which came in 
 the shape of misery. Poles — real and theatrical — refu- 
 gees, pretenders of all kinds, found tlicir way to the 
 " Times' " inner oflice, and thougli the inexorable editor 
 excluded their lucubrations from the precious space of its 
 columns, he rarely omitted to make them amends by large 
 contributions from his purse. The intimate acquaintance 
 
 26* 
 
294 BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON. 
 
 with all the varieties of life forced on him by his position 
 in the midst of a moving epitome of the world, which 
 vividly reflected them all, failed to teach him distrust or 
 discretion. He was a child in the centre of the iiir^st 
 feverish agitations ; a dupe in the midst of the quickest 
 apprehensions ; and while, with unbending pride, he re- 
 pelled the slightest interference with his high functions 
 from the greatest quarters, he was open to every tale from 
 the lowest which could win from him personal aid. Rarely 
 as he Avas seen in his later years in Lamb's circle, he is 
 indestructibly associated with it in the recollection of the 
 few survivors of its elder days ; and they will lament with 
 me that the influences for good which he shed largely on 
 all the departments of busy life, should have necessarily 
 left behind them such slender memorials of one of the 
 kindest, the wisest, and the best of men who have ever 
 enjoyed signal opportunities of moulding public opinion, 
 and who have turned them to the noblest and the purest 
 uses. 
 
 Among Lamb's early acquaintances and constant ad- 
 mirers was an artist, whose chequered career and melan- 
 choly death gave an interest to the recollections with 
 which he is linked, independent of that which belongs to 
 nis pictures — Benjamin Robert Haydon. The ruling 
 misfortune of his life was somewhat akin to that dispro- 
 portion in Hazlitt's mind to which I have adverted, but 
 productive in his case of more disastrous results — the pos- 
 session of two difi'erent faculties not harmonised into one, 
 and struggling for mastery — in that disarrangement of the 
 faculties in which the unproductive talent becomes not a 
 mere negative, but neutralises the other, and even turns 
 its good into evil. Haydon, the son of a respectable 
 tradesman at Plymouth, was endowed with two capacities, 
 
BENJAMIN ROBERT HATDON. 295 
 
 either of which exclusively cultivated with the energy of 
 his disposition, might have led to fortune — the genius of 
 a painter, and the passionate logic of a controversialist ; 
 talents scarcely capable of being blended in harmonious 
 action except under the auspices of prosperity, such as 
 should satisfy the artist by fame, and appease the literary 
 combatant by triumph. 
 
 The combination of a turbulent vivacity of mind, with a 
 fine aptitude for the most serene of arts, was rendered more 
 infelicitous by the circumstances of the young painter's 
 early career. lie was destined painfully to work his way 
 at once through the lower elements of his art and the 
 difficulties of adverse fortune; and though by indomitable 
 courage and unwearied industry he became master of 
 anatomic science, of colouring, and of perspective, and 
 achieved a position in which his efforts might be fairly 
 presented to the notice of the world, his impetuous tem- 
 perament was yet further ruffled by the arduous and com- 
 plicated struggle. With boundless intellectual ambition, 
 he sought to excel in the loftiest department of his art ; 
 and undertook the double responsibility of painting great 
 pictures, and of creating the taste which should appre- 
 ciate, and enforcing the patronage which should reward 
 them. 
 
 The patronage of high art, not thcu adopted by the gov- 
 ernment, and far beyond the means of individuals of the 
 middle class, necessarily appertained to a few members of 
 tlie aristocracy, who alone could encourage and remune- 
 rate the painters of history. Althouf!;li the beginning of 
 Mr. Haydon's career was not uncheered by aristocratic 
 favour, the contrast between the greatness of his own con- 
 ceptions and the humility of the covsc which prudence 
 suggested as necessary to obtain for Inmself the means of 
 
296 BENJAMIN ROBERT HATDON. 
 
 developing them on canvass, fevered his nature, which, 
 ardent in gratitude for the appreciation and assistance of 
 the wealthy, to a degree which might even be mistaken for 
 eervility, was also impatient of the general indifference 
 to the cause of which he sought to be, not only the orna- 
 ment, but unhappily for him, also the champion. Alas ! 
 he there "perceived a divided duty." Had he been con- 
 tented silently to paint — to endure obscurity and privation 
 for a while, gradually to mature his powers of execution 
 and soften the rigour of his style and of his virtue, he 
 might have achieved works, not only as vast in outline and 
 as beautiful in portions as those which he exhibited, but so 
 harmonious in their excellences as to charm away opposi- 
 tion, and ensure speedy reputation, moderate fortune, and 
 lasting fame. But resolved to battle for that which he 
 believed to be "the right,'' he rushed into a life-long con- 
 test with the Royal Academy ; frequently suspended the 
 gentle labours of the pencil for the vehement use of the 
 pen ; and thus gave to his course an air of defiance which 
 prevented the calm appreciation of his nobler works, and 
 increased the mischief by reaction. Indignant of the 
 scorns "that patient merit of the unworthy takes," he 
 sometimes fancied scorns which impatient merit in return 
 imputes to the worthy ; and thus instead of enjoying the 
 most tranquil of lives (which a painter's should be), led 
 one of the most animated, restless, and broken. The 
 necessary consequence of this disproportion was a series 
 of pecuniary embarrassments, the direct result of his 
 struggle with fortune ; a succession of feverish triumphs 
 and disappointments, the fruits of his contest with power ; 
 and worse perhaps than either, the frequent diversion of 
 his own genius from its natural course, and the hurried 
 and imperfect development of its most majestic concep- 
 
BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON. 297 
 
 tions. To paint as finely as he sometimes did in the ruffled 
 pauses of his passionate controversy, and amidst the ter- 
 rors of impending want, was to display large innate re- 
 sources of skill and high energy of mind ; but how much 
 more unquestionable fame might he have attained if his 
 disposition had permitted him to be content with charming 
 the world of art, instead of attempting also to instruct or 
 reform it ! 
 
 Mr. Haydon's course, though thus troubled, was one of 
 constant animation, and illustrated by hours of triumph, 
 the more radiant because they were snatched from adverse 
 fortune and a reluctant people. The exhibition of a sin- 
 gle picture by an artist at war with the Academy which 
 exhibited a thousand pictures at the same price — creating 
 a sensation not only among artists and patrons of art, but 
 amonfj the most secluded literary circles — and enaragino- 
 the highest powers of criticism — was, itself, a splendid 
 occurrence in life ; and, twice at least, in the instance of 
 the Entry into Jerusalem, and the Lazarus, was crowned 
 with signal success. It was a proud moment for the 
 daring painter, when, at the opening of the first of these 
 Exhibitions, while the crowd of visitors, distinguished in 
 rank or talent, stood doubting whether in the countenance 
 of the chief figure the daring attempt to present an aspect 
 differing from that which had enkindled the devotion of 
 ages — to mingle the human with the Divine, resolution 
 with sweetness, dignified composure with the anticipation 
 of mighty suffering — had not failed, jMrs. Siddons walked 
 slowly up to the centre of the room, surveyed it in siknicc 
 for a minute or two, and then ejaculated, in her deep, low, 
 thrilling voice, " It is perfect !" (fuelled all opposition, 
 and removed the doubt, from his own mind at least, for 
 ever. 
 
'208 BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON. 
 
 Although the great body of artists to whose corporate 
 power Mr. Hay don was so passion;) tely opposed, naturally 
 stood aside from his path, it was cheered by the attention 
 and often hy tlie applause of the chief literary spirits of 
 the age, who were attracted by a fierce intellectual strug- 
 gle. Sir Walter Scott, Wordsworth, Hazlitt, Godwin, 
 Shelley, Hunt, Coleridge, Lamb, Keats — and many young 
 writers for periodical works, in the freshness of unhack- 
 nied authorship — took an interest in a course so gallant 
 though so troublous, which excited their sympathy yet did 
 not force them to the irksome duty of unqualified praise. 
 Almost in the outset of his career, Wordsworth addressed 
 to him a sonnet, in heroic strain, associating the artist's 
 calling with his own ; making common cause with him, 
 " while the Avhole Avorld seems adverse to desert ;" admon- 
 ishing him " still to be strenuous for the bright reward, 
 and in the soul admit of no decay ;" and, long after, when 
 the poet had by a wiser perseverance, gradually created 
 the taste which appreciated his works, he celebrated, in 
 another sonnet, the fine autumnal conception in the pic- 
 ture of Napoleon on the rock of St. Helena, with his back 
 to the spectator, contemplating the blank sea, left deso- 
 late by the sunken sun. The Conqueror of Napoleon also 
 recognized the artist's claims, and supplied him with ano- 
 ther great subject, in the contemplation of the solitude of 
 Waterloo by its hero, ten years after the victory. 
 
 Mr. Haydon's vividness of mind burst out in his con- 
 versation, which, though somewhat broken and rugged, 
 like his career, had also like that a vein of beauty streaking 
 it. Having associated with most of the remarkable per- 
 sons of his time, and seen strange varieties of " many- 
 colored life" — gifted with a rapid perception of character 
 and a painter's eye for effect — he was able to hit off, with 
 
BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON. 299 
 
 Startling facility, sketches in words which lived b'efore the 
 hearer. His anxieties and sorrows did not destroy the 
 buoyancy of his spirits or rob the convivial moment of its 
 prosperity ; so that he struggled, and toiled, and laughed, 
 and triumphed, and failed, and hoped on, till the waning 
 of life approached and found him still in opposition to the 
 world, and far from the threshold of fortune. The object 
 of his literary exertions was partially attained ; the na- 
 tional attention had been directed to high art ; but he did 
 not pf rsonally share in the benefits he had greatly con- 
 tributed to win. ^ven his cartoon of the Curse in Para- 
 dise failed to obtain a prize when he entered the arena 
 with unfledged youths for competitors ; and the desertion 
 of the exhibition of his two pictures of Aristides and Nero, 
 at the Egyptian Hall, by the public, for the neighboring 
 exposure of the clever manikin, General Tom Thumb, 
 quite vanquished him. It was indeed a melancholy con- 
 trast ; the unending succession of bright crowds thronging 
 the levees of the small abortion, and the dim and dusty 
 room in which the two latest historical pictures of the 
 veteran hung for hours without a visitor. Opposition, 
 abuse, even neglect he could have borne, but the sense of 
 ridicule involved in such a juxtaposition drove him to 
 despair. No one who knew him ever apprehended from 
 his disasters such a catastrophe as that which closed them. 
 He had always cherished a belief in the religion of our 
 Church, and avowed it among scofiing unbelievers ; and 
 that belief he asserted even in the wild fragments he pen- 
 ned in his last terrible hour. His friends thought that 
 even the sense of the injustice of the world would have 
 contributed with his undimmcd consciousness of his own 
 powers to enable him to endure. In his domestic rela- 
 tions also he was happy, blessed in the affection of a wife 
 
300 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 of great beauty and equal discretion, who, by gentler 
 temper and serener wisdom than his own, had assisted 
 and soothed him in all his anxieties and griefs, and whose 
 image was so identified in his mind with the beautiful as 
 to impress its character on all the forms of female loveli- 
 ness he had created. Those who knew him best feel the 
 strongest assurance, that notwithstanding the appearances 
 of preparation which attended his extraordinary suicide, 
 his mind was shattered to pieces — all distorted and broken 
 — with only one feeling left entire, the perversion of which 
 led to the deed, a hope to awaken sympathy in death for 
 those whom living he could not shelter. The last hurried 
 lines he wrote, entitled " Haydon's last Thoughts," con- 
 sisted of a fevered comparison between the Duke of Wel- 
 lington and Napoleon, in which he seemed to wish to re- 
 pair some supposed injustice which in speech or writing 
 he had done to the Conqueror. It was enclosed in a let- 
 ter addressed to three fi-iends, written in the hour of his 
 death, and containing sad fragmental memorials of those 
 passionate hopes, fierce struggles, and bitter disappoint- 
 ments which brought him through distraction to the grave ! 
 A visit of Coleridge was always regarded by Lamb, 
 as an opportunity to afford a rare gratification to a few 
 friends, who, he knew, would prize it ; and I well remem- 
 ber the flush of prideful pleasure which came over his 
 face as he would hurry, on his way to the India House, 
 into the office in which I was a pupil, and stammer out 
 the welcome invitation for the evening. This was true 
 self-sacrifice ; for Lamb would have infinitely preferred 
 having his inspired friend to himself and his sister, for a 
 brief renewal of the old Salutation delights ; but, I believe, 
 he never permitted himself to enjoy this exclusive treat. 
 The pleasure he conferred was great ; for of all celebrated 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, 301 
 
 persons I ever saw, Coleridge alone surpassed the expec- 
 tation created by his writings ; for he not only was, but 
 appeared to be, greater than the noblest things he had 
 written. 
 
 Lamb used to speak, sometimes with a moistened eye 
 and quivering lip, of Coleridge when young, and Avish 
 that we could have seen him in the spring-time of his ge- 
 nius, at a supper in the little sanded parlor of the old 
 Salutation hostel. The promise of those days was never 
 realized, by the execution of any of the mighty works he 
 planned ; but the very failure gave a sort of mournful in- 
 terest to the " large discourse, looking before and after," 
 to which we were enchanted listeners ; to the wisdom 
 which lives only in our memories, and must perish with 
 them. 
 
 From Coleridge's early works, some notion may be 
 gleaned of what he was; when the steep ascent of fame 
 rose directly before him, while he might loiter to dally 
 with the expectation of its summit, without ignobly shrink- 
 ino- from its labors. His endowments at that time — the 
 close of the last century — when literature had faded into 
 a fashion of poor language, must have seemed, to a mind 
 and heart like Lamb's, no less than miraculous. 
 
 A rich store of classical knowledge — a sense of the 
 beautiful, almost verging on the effeminate — a facile power 
 of melody, varying from the solemn stops of the organ 
 to a bird-like flutter of airy sound — the glorious faculty 
 of poetic hope, exerted on human prospects, and present- 
 ing its results with the vividness of prophecy ; a power 
 of imaginative reasoning which peopled the nearer ground 
 of contemplation with thoughts 
 
 " All plumed like ostriuhes, like eaj^les bathed, 
 As full of spirit as the month of May, 
 And gorgeoua as the sun at Midsummer," 
 
 26 
 
302 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 endowed the author of " The Ancient Mariner," and 
 " Christabel." Thus gifted, he glided from youth into 
 manhood, as a fairy voyager on a summer sea, to eddy 
 round and round in dazzling circles, and to make little 
 progress, at last, towards any of those thousand mountain 
 summits which, glorified by aerial tints, rose before him 
 at the extreme verge of the vast horizon of his genius. 
 "The Ancient Mariner," printed with the "Lyrical Bal- 
 lads," one of his earliest works, is still his finest poem — 
 at once the most vigorous in design and the most chaste 
 in execution — developing the intensest human affection, 
 amidst the wildest scenery of a poet's dream. Nothing 
 was too bright to hope from such a dawn. The mind of 
 Coleridge seemed the harbinger of the golden years his 
 enthusiasm predicted and painted ; — of those days of peace 
 on earth and good will among men, which the best and 
 greatest minds have rejoiced to anticipate — and the ear- 
 nest belief in which is better than all frivolous enjoyments, 
 all worldly wisdom, all worldly success. And if the noon- 
 tide of his genius did not fulfil his youth's promise of 
 manly vigor, nor the setting of his earthly life honor it by 
 an answering serenity of greatness — they still have left 
 us abundant reason to be grateful that the glorious frag- 
 ments of his mighty and imperfect being were ours. Cloud 
 after cloud of German metaphysics rolled before his ima- 
 gination — Avhich it had ^^ower to irradiate with fantastic 
 beauty, and to break into a thousand shifting forms of 
 grandeur, though not to conquer ; mist after mist ascended 
 from those streams where earth and sky should have 
 blended in one imagery, and were turned by its obscured 
 glory to radiant haze ; indulgence in the fearful luxury 
 of that talismanic drug, which opens glittering scenes of 
 fantastic beauty on the waking soul to leave it in arid 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 303 
 
 desolation, too often veiled it in partial eclipse, and blended 
 fitful light "\\"itli melancholy blackness over its vast domain ; 
 but the great central light remained unquenched, and cast 
 its gleams through every department of human knowledge. 
 A boundlesr capacity to receive and retain intellectual 
 treasure made him the possessor of vaster stores of lore, 
 classical, antiquarian, historical, biblical, and miscellane- 
 ous, than were ever vouchsafed, at least in our time, to a 
 mortal being ; goodly structures of divine philosophy rose 
 before him like exhalations on the table-land of that his 
 prodigious knowledge ; but alas ! there was a deficiency 
 of the power of voluntary action which would have left 
 him unable to embody the shapes of a shepherd's dreams, 
 and made him feeble as an infant before the overpowering 
 majesty of his own ! Hence his literary life became one 
 splendid and sad prospectus — resembling only the portal 
 of a mighty temple which it was forbidden us to enter — 
 but whence strains of rich music issuing " took the pri- 
 soned soul and lapped it in Elysium," and fragments of 
 oracular wisdom startled the thought tliey could not 
 satisfy. 
 
 Hence the riches of his mind were developed, not in 
 writing, but in his speech — conversation I can scarcely 
 call it — which no one who once heard can ever forget. 
 Unable to work in solitude, ho sought the gentle stimulus 
 of social admiration, and under its influence poured forth, 
 without stint, the marvellous resoui-ccs of a mind rich in 
 the spoils of time — richer — richer far in its own glorioun 
 imagination and delicate fancy ! There was a noble j)ro- 
 digality in these outpourings; a generous disdain of self; 
 an earnest desire to scatter abroad the seeds of wisdom 
 and beauty, to take root Avhcrcvcr they might fall, and 
 spring up without bearing his name or impress, which 
 
304 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 miglit remind the listener of the first days of poetry be« 
 fore it became individualized by the press, "when the Hom- 
 eric rhapsodist "wandered through ne^y-born cities and 
 scattered hovels, flashing upon the minds of the "wonder- 
 ing audience the bright train of heroic shapes, the series 
 of godlike exploits, and sought no record more enduring 
 than the fleshly tablets of his hearers' hearts ; no memory 
 but that of genial tradition ; "when copyright did not as- 
 certain the reciter's property, nor marble at once perpetu- 
 ate and shed chillness on his fame — 
 
 " His bounty was as boundless as the sea, 
 His love as deep." 
 
 Like the ocean, in all its variety of gentle moods, his 
 discourse perpetually ebbed and flowed — nothing in it 
 angular, nothing of set purpose, but no"w trembling as the 
 "voice of divine philosophy, "not harsh nor crabbed, as 
 dull fools suppose, but musical as is Apollo's lute," "was 
 "wafted over the summer wave ; now glistening in long line 
 of light over some obscure subject, like the path of moon- 
 light on the black w^ater ; and, if ever receding from the 
 shore, driven by some sudden gust of inspiration, disclos- 
 ing the treasures of the deep, like the rich strond in 
 Spenser, "far sunken in their sunless treasuries," to be 
 covered anon by the foam of the same immortal tide. 
 The benignity of his manner befitted the beauty of his 
 disquisitions ; his voice rose from the gentlest pitch of 
 conversation to the height of impassioned eloquence with- 
 out cfibrt, as his language expanded from some common 
 topic of the day to the loftiest abstractions ; ascending 
 by a winding track of spiral glory to the highest truths 
 which the naked eye could discern, and suggesting starry 
 region^s, beyond which his own telescopic gaze might pos- 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 305 
 
 sibly decipher. Tf his entranced hearers often were un- 
 able to perceive the bearings of his argument — too mighty 
 for any grasp but his own — and sometimes reaching be- 
 yond his own — they understood " a beauly in the words, 
 if not the words ;" and a wisdom and piety in the illustra- 
 tions, even when unable to connect them with the idea 
 which he desired to illustrate. If an entire scheme of 
 moral philosophy was never developed by him, either in 
 speaking or writing, all the parts were great ; vast bibli- 
 cal knowledge, though sometimes eddying in splendid con- 
 jecture, was always employed with pious reverence ; the 
 morality suggested was at once elevated and genial ; the 
 charity hoped all things ; and the mighty imaginative 
 reasoner seemed almost to realize the condition suggested 
 by the great Apostle, " that he understood all mysteries 
 and all knowdcdge, and spake with the tongues both of 
 men and angels !" 
 
 After Coleridge had found his last earthly refuge, un- 
 der the wise and generous care of Mr. Gilman, at High- 
 gate, he rarely visited Lamb, and my opportunities of ob- 
 serving him ceaseil. From those who were more favored, 
 as well as from the fragments I have seen of his last effu- 
 sions, I know that, amidst suffering and weakness, his 
 mighty mind concentrated its energies on the highest sub- 
 jects which had ever kindled them ; that the speculations, 
 which sometimes seemed like paradox, because their ex- 
 tent was too vast to be comprehended in a single grasp 
 of intellectual vision, were informed by a sercner wisdom; 
 that his perceptions of the central truth became more un- 
 divided, and his piety more profound and humble. Ilia 
 love for Charles and Mary Lamb continued, to the last, 
 one of the strongest of his human affections — of which, 
 
 26* 
 
306 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 by the kindness of a friend,* I possess an affecting memo- 
 rial under his hand, written in the margin of a volume of 
 his " Sybilline Leaves," which — after his life-long habit — 
 he has enriched by manuscript annotations. The poem, 
 beside wdiich it is inscribed, is entitled " The Lime-Tree 
 Bower my Prison," composed by the poet in June, 1796, 
 when Charles and Mary Lamb, who were visiting at his 
 cottage near Bristol, had left him for a walk, which an 
 accidental lameness prevented him from sharing. The 
 visitors are not indicated by the poem, except that Charles 
 is designated by the epithet, against which he jestingly 
 remonstrated, as "gentle-hearted Charles ;" and is repre- 
 sented as "winning his way, with sad and patient soul, 
 through evil and pain, and strange calamity." Against 
 the title is written as follows : — 
 
 CH. & MARY LAMB, 
 
 dear to my heart, yea, 
 
 as it were, my heart, 
 
 S. T, C. iEt. 63. 1834. 
 
 1797 
 
 1834. 
 
 37 years ! 
 
 This memorandum, which is penned with remarkable 
 neati:ess, must have been made in Coleridge's last illness, 
 as he suffered acutely for several months before he died, 
 in July of this same year, 1834. What a space did that 
 thirty-seven years of fond regard for the brother and sister 
 occupy in a mind like Coleridge's, peopled with immortal 
 thoughts which might mviltiply in the true time, dialled in 
 heaven, its minutes into years ! 
 
 • Mr. Richard "Welsh, of Reading, editor of the Berkshire Chronicle — one 
 of the ablest productions of the Conservative Periodical Press. 
 
xamb's dead cOxMpanions. 307 
 
 These friends of Lamb's whom I have ventured to 
 sketch in companionship with him, and Southey also, 
 whom 1 only once saw, are all gone ; — and others of less 
 note in the world's eye have followed them. Among those 
 of the old set who are gone, is Manning, perhaps next to 
 Coleridge, the dearest of them, whom Lamb used to speak 
 of as marvellous in a tete-a-tete, but who, in company, 
 seemed only a courteous gentleman, more disposed to listen 
 than to talk. In good ©W age depart'^d Admiral Burney, 
 frank-hearted voyager with Captain Cook round the world, 
 who seemed to unite our society with the circle over which 
 Dr. Johnson reigned ; who used to tell of school-days 
 under the tutelage of Eugene Aram ; how he remembered 
 the gentle usher pacing the play-ground arm-in-arm with 
 some one of the elder boys, and seeking relief from the 
 unsuspected burthen of his conscience by talking of strange 
 murders, and how he, a child, had shuddered at the hand- 
 cuifs on his teacher's hands when taken away in the post- 
 chase to prison ; — the Admiral being himself the centre 
 of a little circle which his sister, the famous authoress of 
 " Evelina," " Cecelia," and " Camilla," sometimes graced. 
 John Lamb, tlie jovial and burly, who dared to argue with 
 Hazlitt on questions of art; Barron Field, who with vene- 
 ration enough to feel all tlie despised greatness of Words- 
 worth, had a sparkling vivacity, and, connected willi Lamb 
 by the link of Christ's Hospital associations, shared largely 
 in his re""ard ; Rickman, the sturdiest of jovial compan- 
 ions, severe in tlie discipline of whist as a.t the table of 
 the House of Commons, of which he was the principal 
 clerk; and Alsager, so calm, so bland, so considerate — all 
 are gone. These were all Temple guests — friomls of 
 Lamb's early days ; but the companions of a later time, 
 who first met in Great Russell-street, or Dalston. or Is- 
 
308 LAMB FULLY KNOWN. 
 
 lington, or Enfield, have been wofully thinned; Allan 
 Cunningham, stalwai't of form and stout of heart and 
 verse, a ruder Burns; Gary, Lamb's "pleasantest of cler- 
 gymen," whose SAveetness of disposition and manner would 
 have prevented a stranger from guessing that he was the 
 poet who had rendered the adamantine poetry of Dante 
 into English with kindred power ; Hood, so grave and sad 
 and silent, that you were astonished to recognise in him 
 the outpourer of a thousand wild fancies, the detector of 
 the inmost springs of pathos, and the powerful vindicator 
 of poverty and toil before the hearts of the prosperous ; 
 the Reverend Edward Irving, who, after fulfilling an old 
 prophecy he made in Scotland to Hazlitt, thac he would 
 astonish and shake the world by his preaching, sat humbly 
 at the feet of Coleridge to listen to wisdom — all are gone ; 
 the forms of others associated with Lamb's circle by more 
 accidental links (also dead) come thronging on the memory 
 from the mist of years — Alas ; it is easier to count those 
 that are left of the old familiar faces ! 
 
 The story of the lives of Charles and Mary Lamb is 
 now told ; nothing more remains to be learned respecting 
 it. The known collateral branches of their stock are ex- 
 tinct, and their upward pedigree lost in those humble 
 tracks on which the steps of Time leave so light an im- 
 press, that the dust of a few years obliterates all traces, 
 and affords no clue to search collaterally for surviving rel- 
 atives. The world has, -therefore, all the matci'i:ils for 
 judging of thcra which can be possessed by tLu. v, who, 
 not remembering the delightful peculiarities of their daily 
 manners, can only form imperfect ideas, of what they 
 were. Before bidding them a last adieu, we may be 
 allowed to linger a little longer, and survey their charac- 
 ters by the new and solemn lights which are now, for the 
 first time, fully cast upon them. 
 
LAMB FULLY KNOWN. 309 
 
 Except to the few who were acquainted with the tragical 
 occurrences of Lamb's earlj life, some of his peculiarities 
 seemed strange — to be forgiven, indeed, to the excellences 
 of his nature, and the delicacy of his genius — but still, 
 in themselves, as much to be wondered at as deplored. 
 The sweetness of his character, breathed through his 
 writings, was felt even by strangers ; but its heroic aspect 
 was unguessed, even by many of his friends. Let them 
 now consider it, and ask if the annals of self-sacrifice can 
 show anj^thing in human action and endurance more lovely 
 than its self-devotion exhibits ! It was not merely that 
 he saw (which his elder brother cannot be blamed for not 
 immediately perceiving) through the unsanguined cloud 
 of misfortune which had fallen upon his family, the un- 
 stained excellence of his sister, whose madness had caused 
 it ; that he was ready to take her to his own home with 
 reverential affection, and cherish her through life ; that 
 he gave up, for her sake, all meaner and more selfish love, 
 and all the hopes "which youth blends with the passion 
 which disturbs and ennobles it : not even that he did all 
 this cheerfully, and without pluming himself upon his 
 brotherly nobleness as a virtue, or seeking to repay him- 
 self (as some uneasy martyrs do) by small instalments of 
 long repining — but that lie carried the spirit of the hour 
 in which he first knew and took his course, to his last. So 
 far from thinking that his sacrifice of youth and love to 
 his sister gave him a license to follow his own caprice at 
 the expense of her feelings, even in the lightest matters, 
 he always wrote and spoke of her as his wiser self; his 
 generous benefactress, of whose protecting care he was 
 scarcely worthy. How his pen almost grew wanton in her 
 praise, even when she was a prisoner in the Asylum after 
 the fatal attack of lunacy, his letters of the time to Cole- 
 
310 LAMB FULLY KNOWN. 
 
 ridge show ; but that might have been a mere temporary 
 exaltation — the attendant fervor of a great exigency and 
 a great resolution. It was not so ; nine years afterwards 
 (1805), in a letter to Miss Wordsworth, he thus dilates on 
 his sister's excellences, and exaggerates his own frailties : — 
 
 " To say all that I know of her would be more than I 
 think anybody could believe or even understand ; and 
 when I hope to have her well again with me, it would be 
 sinning against her feelings to go about to praise her ; for 
 I can conceal nothing that I do from her. She is older, 
 and wiser, and better than I, and all my wretched imper- 
 fections I cover to myself by resolutely thinking on her 
 goodness. She would share life and death, heaven and 
 hell, with me. She lives but for n^e ; and I know I have 
 been wasting and teasing her life for five years past inces- 
 santly with my cursed ways of going on. But even in 
 this upbraiding of myself I am offending against her, for 
 I know that she has cleaved to me for better, for worse; 
 and if the balance has been against her hitherto, it ' was 
 a noble trade.' " 
 
 Let it also be remembered that this devotion of the 
 entire nature was not exercised merely in the conscious* 
 ness of a past tragedy; but during the frequent recur- 
 rences of the calamity which caused it, and the constant 
 apprehension of its terrors ; and this for a large portion 
 of life, in poor lodgings, where the brother and sister were, 
 or fancied themselves, "marked people;" where from an 
 income incapable of meeting the expense of the sorrow 
 without sedulous privations, he contrived to hoard, not for 
 holiday enjoyment, or future solace, but to provide for 
 expected distress. Of the misery attendant on this anti* 
 
LAMB FULLY KNOWN. 311 
 
 cipation, aggravated by jealous fears lest some imprudence 
 or error of his own sliould have hastened the inevitable 
 evil, Ave have a glimpse in the letter to Miss Wordsworth 
 above quoted, and which seems to have been written in 
 reply to one which that excellent lady had addressed to 
 Miss Lamb, and which had fallen into the brother's care 
 during one of her sad absences. 
 
 " Your long kind letter has not been thrown away, but 
 poor Mary, to whom it is addressed, cannot yet relish it. 
 She has been attacked by one of her severe illnesses, and 
 is at present /rom home. Last Monday week was the day 
 she left me ; and I hope I may calculate upon having her 
 again in a month or little more. I am rather afraid late 
 hours have, in this case, contributed to her indisposition. 
 But when she begins to discover symptoms of approaching 
 illness, it is not easv to sav what is best to do. Beins: bv 
 ourselves is bad, and going out is bad. I get so irritable 
 and wretched with fear, that I constantly hasten on the disor- 
 der. You cannot conceive the misery of such a foresight. 
 I am sure that, for the week before she left me, I was lit- 
 tle better than lightheaded. I now am calm, but sadly 
 taken down and ilat. I have every reason to suppose that 
 this illness, like all her former ones, will l)e but temporary. 
 But I cannot always feel so. Meantime she is dead to 
 me !" 
 
 The constant impendency of this giant sorrow saddened 
 to "the Lambs" even their holidays; as the journey 
 which they both regarded as the relief and charm of the 
 year was frequently f'dlowed Ijy a seizure ; and, when they 
 ventured to take it, a sti'ait-waistcoat, carefully packed by 
 Miss Lamb herself, was their constant companion. Sad 
 
312 LAMB FULLY KNOWN. 
 
 experience, ut last, induced the abandonment of tiie annuai 
 excursion, and Lamb was contented with walks in and near 
 London, during the interval of labor. Miss Lamb experi- 
 enced, and full well understood premonitory symptoms of 
 the attack, in restlessness, low fever, and the inability to 
 sleep ; and, as gently as possible, prepared her brother for 
 the duty he must soon perform ; and thus, unless he could 
 stave off the terrible separation till Sunday, obliged him to 
 ask leave of absence from the office as if for a day's plea- 
 sure — a bitter mockery! On one occasion Mr. Charles 
 Lloyd met them, slowly pacing together a little footpath 
 in Hoxton fields, both weeping bitterly, and found, on join- 
 ing them, that they were taking their solemn way to the 
 accustomed Asylum ! 
 
 Will any one, acquainted with these secret passages of 
 Lamb's history, wonder that, with a strong physical in- 
 clination for the stimulus and support of strong drinks — • 
 which man is framed moderately to rejoice in — he should 
 snatch some wild pleasure " between the acts" (as he called 
 them) "of his distressful drama," and that, still more, 
 during the loneliness of the solitude created by his sister's 
 absences, he should obtain the solace of an hour's feverish 
 dream ? That, notwithstanding that frailty, he performed 
 the duties of his hard lot with exemplary steadiness and 
 discretion is indeed wonderful — especially when it is recol- 
 lected that he had himself been visited, when in the dawn 
 of manhood, with his sister's malady, the seeds of Avhich 
 were lurking in his frame. While that natural predispo- 
 sition may explain an occasional flightiness of expression 
 on serious matters, fruit of some wayward fancy, which 
 flitted through his brain, without disturbing his constant 
 reason or reaching his heart, and some little extravagances 
 of fitful mirth, how does it heighten the moral courage by 
 
LAMB FULLY KNOWN. 313 
 
 whicli the disease was controlled and the severest duties 
 performed ! Never surely was there a more striking ex- 
 ample of tlic power of a virtuous, rather say, of a pious, 
 wish to conquer the fiery suggestions of latent insanity 
 than that presentf^d by Lamb's history. Nervous, tremu- 
 lous, as he seemed — so slight of frame that he looked only 
 fit for the most placid fortune — when the dismal emergen- 
 cies which chequered his life arose, he acted with as much 
 promptitude and vigor as if he had never penned a stanza 
 nor taken a glass too much, or was strung with herculean 
 sinews. None of those temptations, in which misery is the 
 most potent, to hazard a lavish expenditure for an enjoy- 
 ment to be secured against fate and fortune, ever tempted 
 him to exceed his income, when scantiest, by a shilling. 
 He had always a reserve for poor Mary's periods of seclu- 
 sion, and something in hand besides for a friend in need ; 
 — and on his retirement from the India House, he had 
 amassed, by annual savings, a sufficient sum (invested af- 
 ter the prudent and classical taste of Lord Stowell, in " the 
 elegant simplicity of the Three per Cents.") to secure com- 
 fort to Miss Lamb, when his pension should cease with 
 him, even if the India Company, his great employei'S, had 
 not acted nobly by the memory of their inspired clerk — as 
 they did — and gave her the annuity to Avhich a wife would 
 have been entitled — but of which he could not feel assured. 
 Living among literary men, some less distinguished and 
 less discreet than those whom we have mentioned, he was 
 constantly importuned to relieve distresses whicli ;in im- 
 provident speculation in literature produces, and whicli the 
 recklessness attendant on the empty vanity of self exagge- 
 i-ated talent renih-rs <lesperate and merciless ; — and to the 
 importunities of sueli hopeless petitioners he gave too 
 largely — though he used sometimes to express a painful 
 27 
 
3W: LAMB FULLY KNOWN, 
 
 sense that he was dhninishing his own store Avithoiit con- 
 ferring any real benefit. "Heaven," he used to say, 
 " does not OAve me sixpence for all I have given, or lent (as 
 they call it) to such importunity ; I only gave it because I 
 could not bear to refuse it ; and I have done good by my 
 weakness." On the other hand, he used to seek out occa- 
 sions of devoting a part of his surplus to those of his friends 
 whom he believed it would really serve, and almost forced 
 loans, or gifts in the disguise of loans, upon them. If he 
 thought one, in such a position, would be the happier for 
 501. or 100^., he would carefully procure a note for the 
 sum, and, perhaps, for days before he might meet the ob- 
 ject of his friendly purpose, keep the note in his waistcoat 
 pocket, burning in it to be produced, and, when the occa- 
 sion arrived — "in the sweet of the night" — he would crumple 
 it up in his hand and stammer out his difficulty of dispos- 
 ing of a little money ; " I don't know what to do Avith it — 
 pray take it — pray use it — you Avill do me a kindness if 
 you Avill" — he would say ; and it was hard to disoblige 
 him ! Let any one who has been induced to regard Lamb 
 as a poor, slight, excitable, and excited being, consider 
 that such acts as these were not infrequent — that he exer- 
 cised hospitality of a substantial kind, without stint, all 
 his life — that he spared no expense for the comfort of his 
 sister, there only lavish— and that he died leaving sufiicient 
 to accomplish all his wishes for survivors — and think what 
 the sturdy quality of his goodness must have been amidst 
 all the heart-aches and head-aches of his life — and ask the 
 virtue which has been supported by strong nerves, whether 
 it has often produced any good to match it ? 
 
 The influence of the events now disclosed may be traced 
 in the development and direction of Lamb's faculties 
 and tastes, and in the wild contrasts of expression which 
 
LAMB FULLY KNOWN. 315 
 
 sometimes startled strangers. The literarj preferences 
 disclosed in bis earlj letters, are often inclined to the su- 
 perficial in poetry and thought — the theology of Priestley, 
 though embraced with pious earnestness — the " divine chit- 
 chat" of Cowper — the melodious sadness of Bowles ; and 
 his own style, breathing a graceful and modest sweetness, 
 is without any decided character. But by the terrible 
 realities of his experience, he was turned to seek a kindred 
 interest in the "sterner stuff"' of old traged}^ — to catas- 
 trophes more fearful even than his own — to the aspects of 
 " pale passion" — to shapes of heroic daring and more he- 
 roic suffering — to the agonising contests of opposing affec- 
 tions, and the victories of the soul over calamity and death, 
 which the old English drama discloses, and in the contem- 
 plation of which he saw his own suffering nature at once 
 mirrored and exalted. Thus instead of admiring, as ho 
 once admired, E,owe and Otway, even Massinger seemed 
 too declamatory to satisfy him ; in Ford, Decker, Marlowe 
 and Webster, be found the most awful struo-o-lcs of affcc- 
 tion, and the " sad embroidery" of fancy-streaked grief, 
 and expressed his kindred feelings in those little quintes- 
 sences of criticism Avhich are appended to the noblest 
 scenes in his " Specimens ;" and, seeking auiidst the sun- 
 nier and more varied world of Shakspeare fur the pro- 
 foundcst and most earnest passion developed there, ob- 
 tained that marvellous insight into the soul of Lear which 
 gives to his presentment of its riches almost the character 
 of creation. On the otluu- liarid, it was congenial pastime 
 with him to levci in the ojijtosite excellences of Beaumont 
 and Fletcher, who clianged the domain of tr-.igedy into 
 fairy-land ; turned all its terror and its sorrow "to favor 
 and to prettincss ;" shed the rainbow hues of sportive fiiiicy 
 with equal hand among tyrants and viciiins, the dcvoLed 
 
316 LAMB FULLY KNOWN. 
 
 and the faithless, suffering and joy ; represented the beauty 
 of goodness as a happy accident, vice as a wayward aber- 
 ration, and invoked the remorse of a moment to chanire 
 them as with a harlequin's wand ; unrealised the terrible, 
 and left "nothing serious in mortality," but reduced the 
 struggle of life to a glittering and heroic game to be played 
 splendidly out, and quitted without a sigh. But neither 
 Lamb's own secret griefs, nor the tastes which they nur- 
 tured, ever shook his faith in the requisitions of duty, or 
 induced him to dally with that moral paradox to wliich 
 near acquaintance with the great errors of mighty natures 
 is sometimes a temptation. Never, either in writing or 
 in speech did he purposely confound good with evil. For 
 the new theories of morals which gleamed out in the con- 
 versation of some of his friends, he had no sympathy ; and, 
 though in his boundless indulgence to the perversities and 
 faults of those whom long familiarity had endeared to him, 
 he did not suffer their frailties to impair his attachment to 
 the individuals, he never palliated the frailties themselves ; 
 still less did he emblazon them as virtues. 
 
 No one, acquainted with Lamb's story, will wonder at 
 the eccentric wildness of his mirth — his violent changes 
 from the serious to the farcical — the sudden reliefs of the 
 " heat-oppressed brain," and heart weighed down by the 
 sense of ever-impending sorrow. His whim, however, 
 almost always bordered on wisdom. It was justly said of 
 him by Ilazlitt, " His serious conversation, like his seri- 
 ous writing, is his best. No one ever stammered out such 
 fine, piquant, deep, eloquent things in half-a-dozen half sen- 
 tences ; his jests scald like tears, and he jjrobes a ques- 
 tion with a play on words." 
 
 Although Lamb's conversation vibrated between the in- 
 tense and the grotesque, Ids writings are replete with 
 
LAMB FULLY KNOWN. 317 
 
 quiet pictures of the humbler scenery of middle life, 
 touched with a graceful and loving hand. We may trace 
 in them the experience of a nature bred up in slender cir- 
 cumstances, but imbued with a certain innate spirit of 
 gentility suggesting a respect for all its moderate appli- 
 ances and unambitious pleasures. The same spirit per- 
 vaded all his own domestic arrangements, so that the in- 
 tensity of his affliction was ameliorated by as much comfort 
 as satisfaction in the outward furniture of life can give to 
 slender fortune. 
 
 The most important light, however, shed on Lamb's in- 
 tellectual life by a knowledge of his true history, is that 
 which elucidates the change from vivid religious impres- 
 sions, manifested in his earlier letters, to an apparent in- 
 difference towards immortal interests and celestial rela- 
 tions, which he confesses in a letter to Mr. Walter Wilson.* 
 The truth is, not that he became an unbeliever, or even a 
 sceptic, but that the peculiar disasters in which he was 
 plunged, and the tendency of his nature to seek immedi- 
 ate solaces, induced an habitual reluctance to look boldly 
 into futurity. That conjugal love, which anticipates with 
 far-looking eye prolonged existence in posterity, was de- 
 nied to his self-sacrifice ; irksome labor wearied out tho 
 heart of his days ; and over his small household. Mad- 
 ness, like Death in tlie vision of Milton, continually 
 "shook its dart," and only, at the best, "delayed to 
 strike." Not daring to look onward, even for a little 
 month, he acquired the habitual sense of living entirely 
 in the present ; enjoying with tremulous /est the security 
 of the moment, and making some genial, but sad, amends 
 for the want of all the perspective of life, by cleaving, 
 
 * I'nge lOL 
 27* 
 
318 LAMB FULLY KNOV.'N. 
 
 with fondness, to its nearest objects, and becoming at 
 tacbed to them, even when least interesting in themselves. 
 This perpetual grasping at transient relief from the 
 minute and vivid present, associated Lamb's affections in- 
 timately and closely with the small details of daily exist- 
 ence; these became to him the "jutting frieze" and 
 " coigne of vantage" in which his home-bred fancy "made 
 its bed and procrcant cradle;" these became imbued with 
 his thoughts, and echoed back to him old feelings and old 
 loves, till his inmost soul shivered at the prospect of being 
 finally wrenched from them. Enthralled thus in the prison 
 of an earthly home, he became perplexed and bewildered 
 at the idea of an existence which, though holier and hap- 
 pier, would doubtless be entirely different from that to 
 which he was bound by so many delicate films of custom. 
 "Ah !" he would say, "we shall have none of these little 
 passages of this life hereafter — none of our little quarrels 
 and makings-up — no questionings about sixpence at whist ;" 
 and, thus repelled, he clung more closely to " the bright 
 minutes" which he strung "on the thread of keen domes- 
 tic anfruish ! " It is this intense feelino; of the " nice re- 
 gards of flesh and blood;" this dwelling in pretty felici 
 ties ; which makes us, apart from religious fears, unAvilling 
 to die. Small associations make death terrible, because 
 we know, that parting with this life, we part from their 
 company ; whereas great thoughts make death less fear- 
 ful, because we feel that they will be our companions in 
 all worlds, and link our future to our present being in all 
 ages. Such thoughts assuredly were not dead in a heart 
 like Lamb's ; they were only veiled by the nearer presen- 
 ces of famili;ir objects, and sometimes, perhaps, bursting 
 in upon him in all their majesty, produced those startling 
 references to sacred things, in which, though not to be 
 
LAMB I'ULLY KNOWX. 319 
 
 quoted with approval, there was no conscious profaaeness, 
 but rather a wayward, fitful, disturbed piety. If, indeed, 
 when borne beyond the present, he sought to linger in the 
 past ; to detect among the dust and cobwebs of antiquitv, 
 beauty, which had lurked there from old time, rather than 
 to " rest and expatiate in a life to come," no anti-christian 
 sentiment spread its chillness over his spirit. The shrink- 
 ing into mortal life was but the weakness of a nature which 
 shed the sweetness of the religion of its youth through 
 the sorrows and the snatches of enjoyment which crowded 
 his after years, and only feebly perceived its final glories, 
 which, w^e may humbly hope, its immortal part is now en- 
 
 Shortl}'" before his death, Lamb had borrowed of Mr. 
 Gary, Phillips's " Theatrum Poetarum Anglicanorum," 
 which, when returned by Mr. Moxon, after the event, was 
 found with the leaf folded down at the accoun.t of Sir 
 Philip Sydney. Its receipt was acknowledged by the fol- 
 lowing lines : — 
 
 " So should it be, my gentle friend ; 
 
 Thy leaf last closed at Sydney's end. 
 
 Thou, too, like Sydney wouliist have given 
 
 The water, thirsting and near heaven ; 
 
 Nay, were it wine, filleil to the brini, 
 'Thou hadiit looked hard, but given, like him. 
 
 And art tliou mingled tlicn among 
 Those famous sons of aneiont song? 
 And do they gather round, and praise 
 Thy relish of their noljlor lays ? 
 Waxing in mirth to hear thoi? tell 
 With what strange mortals thou didst dwell; 
 At thy quaint sallies more delighted, 
 Than any's long among them lighted 1 
 
320 MART LAMB. 
 
 'Tis done: and thou hast joined a crew, 
 To whom thy soul was justly due ; 
 And yet I think, where'er thou be, 
 They'll scarcely love thee more than we."* 
 
 Little could anyone, observing Miss Lamb in the habit- 
 ual serenity of her demeanor, guess the calamity in which 
 she had partaken, or the malady which frightfully cheq- 
 ured her life. From Mr. Lloyd, who, although saddened 
 by impending delusion, was always found accurate in his 
 recollection of long past events and conversations, I 
 learned that she had described herself, on her recovery 
 from the fatal attack, as having experienced, while it was 
 subsiding, sucli a conviction that she was absolved in 
 heaven from all taint of the deed in which she had been 
 the agent — such an assurance that it Avas a dispensation 
 of Providence for good, though so terrible — such a sense, 
 that her mother knew her entire innocence, and shed down 
 blessings upon her, as though she had seen the reconcile- 
 ment in solemn vision — that she was not sorely afflicted 
 by the recollection. It was as if the old Greek notion, 
 of the necessity for the unconscious shedder of blood, else 
 polluted though guiltless, to pass through a religious puri- 
 fication, had, in her case, been happily accomplished ; so 
 that, not only was she without remorse, but without other 
 sorrow than attends on the death of an infirm parent in a 
 good old age. She never shrank from alluding to her 
 mother, when any topic connected Avith her own youth 
 made such a reference, in ordinary respects, natural; but 
 spoke of her as though no fearful remembrance was asso- 
 
 * These lines, characteristic both of the writer and the subject, are copied 
 from the Memoir of the translator of Dante, by his son, tlie Rev. Henry Gary, 
 which, enriched by many interesting memorials of contemporaries, presents 
 as valuable a picture of rare ability and excellence as ever was 'raced by tha 
 fine observation of filial love. 
 
MART LAMB. 321 
 
 ciated with the image ; so that some of her most intimate 
 friends, who knew of tne disaster, believed that she had 
 never become aware of her own share in its horrors. It 
 is still more sincrular that, in the wanderinirs of her in- 
 sanity, amidst all the vast throngs of imagery she pre- 
 sented of her early days, this picture never recurred, or, 
 if ever, not associated with shapes of terror. 
 
 Miss Lamb would have been remarkable for the sweet- 
 ness of her disposition, the clearness of her understand- 
 ing, and the gentle wisdom of all her acts and words, 
 even if these qualities had not been presented in maxvel- 
 lous contrast with the distraction under which she suifered 
 for weeks, latterly for months, in every year. There was 
 no tinge of insanity discernible in her manner to the most 
 observant eye ; not even in those distressful periods when 
 the premonitory symptoms had apprised her of its ap- 
 proach, and she was making preparations for seclusion. 
 In all its essential sweetness, her character was like her 
 brother's ; while by a temper more placid, a spirit of en- 
 joyment more serene, she was enabled to guide, to coun- 
 sel, to cheer him, and to protect him on the verge of the 
 mysterious calamity, from the depths of which she rose 
 80 often unruffled to his side. To a friend in any difEculty 
 she was the most comfortable of advisors, the wisest of 
 consolers. Ilazlitt used to say, that he never met ^^^tll a 
 woman who could reason, and had met with only one 
 thoroughly reasonable — the sole exception being Mary 
 Lamb. She did not wish, however, to be made an excep- 
 tion, to a general disparagement of her sex ; for in all her 
 thoughts and feelings she was most womanly — keeping, 
 under even undue subordination, to her notion of a wo- 
 man's province, intellect of rare excellence, which flashed 
 out when the restraints of gentle habit and humble man- 
 
322 MARY LAMB. 
 
 ner were withdrawn by the terrible force of disease. 
 Though her conversation in sanity was never marked by 
 smartness or repartee, seldom rising beyond that of a sen- 
 sible quiet gentlewoman appreciating and enjoying the 
 talents of her friends, it was otherwise in her madness. 
 Lamb, in his letter to a female friend, announcing his de- 
 termination to be entirely with her, speaks of her pouring 
 out memories of all the events and persons of her younger 
 days ; but he docs not mention, what I am able from re- 
 peated experiences to add, that her ramblings often spar- 
 kled with brilliant description and shattered beauty. She 
 would fancy herself in the days of Queen Anne or George 
 the First, and describe the brocaded dames and courtly 
 manners as though she had been bred amon"; them, in the 
 best style of the old comedy. It was all broken and dis- 
 jointed, so that the hearer could remember little of her 
 discourse ; but the fragments were like the jewelled 
 speeches of Congreve, only shaken from their setting. 
 There was sometimes even a vein of crazy logic running 
 through them, associating things essentially most dissimi- 
 lar, but connecting them by a verbal association in strange 
 order. As a mere physical instance of deranged intellect, 
 her condition was, I believe, extraordinary ; it was as if 
 the finest elements of mind had been shaken into fantas- 
 tic combinations like those of a kaleidoscope ; — but not 
 for the purpose of exhibiting a curious phenomenon of 
 mental aberration as the aspects of her insanity unveiled, 
 but to illustrate the moral force of gentleness by which 
 the faculties that thus sparkled when restraining wisdom 
 was mthdrawn, were subjected to its swa}', in her periods 
 of reason. 
 
 The following letter from ^liss Lamb to Miss Words- 
 worth, on one of the chief external events of Lamb's his- 
 
MARY LAMB. 3'23 
 
 torj, tlie removal from the Temple to Covent Garden, will 
 illustrate the cordial and womanly strain of her observa- 
 tion on the occurrences of daily life, and afford a good 
 idea of her habitual conversation among her friends. 
 
 " jMy dear Miss Wordsworth. — Your kind letter has 
 given us very great pleasure, the sight of your hand- 
 writing was a most welcome surprise to us. We have 
 heard good tidings of you by all our friends who were so 
 fortunate as to visit you this summer, and rejoice to see 
 it confirmed by yourself. You have quite the advantage, 
 in volunteering a letter ; there is no merit in replying to 
 so welcome a stranger. 
 
 " We have left the Temple. I think you Avill be sorry 
 to hear this. I know I have never been so well satisfied 
 with thinking of you at Rydal Mount, as when I could 
 connect the idea of you with your own Grasmere Cottage. 
 Our rooms were dirty and out of repair, and the incon- 
 veniences of living in chambers became every year more 
 irksome, and so, at last, we mustered up resolution enough 
 to leave the good old place, that so long had sheltered us, 
 and here we are, living at a brazier's shop, No. 20, in 
 Russel-street, Covent-gardcn, a place all alive with noise 
 and bustle ; Drury-lane Theatre in sight from our front, 
 and Covent-gardcn from our back windows. The hubbub 
 of the carriages returning from the play does not annoy 
 me in the least ; strange that it does not, for it is quite 
 tremendous. I quite enjoy looking out of the window, 
 and listening to the calling up of the carringes, and the 
 squabbles of the coachmen and liidcboys. It is the oddest 
 scene to look down upon ; I am sure you would be amused 
 with it. It is well I am in a cheerful ])lace, or I should 
 have many misgivings about leaving the Temple. I look 
 
324 MART LAMB. 
 
 forward with great pleasure to tlie prospect of seeing m;^ 
 
 good friend, Miss Hutchinson. I wish llydal Mount, with 
 
 all its inhabitants enclosed, were to be transplanted with her, 
 
 and to remain stationary in the midst of Covent-garden. 
 ****** 
 
 " Charles has had all his Hogarths bound in a book ; 
 they were sent home yesterday, and now that I have them 
 altogether, and perceive the advantage of peeping close at 
 them through my spectacles, I am reconciled to the loss 
 of them hanging round the room, which has been a great 
 mortification to me — in vain I tried to console myself with 
 looking at our neAv chairs and carpets, for we have got 
 new chairs, and carpets covering all over our two sitting- 
 i-Qoms ; I missed my old friends, and could not be com- 
 forted — then I would resolve to learn to look out of the 
 window, a habit I never could attain in my life, and I have 
 given it up as a thing quite impracticable — yet when I was 
 at Brighton, last summer, the first week I never took my 
 eyes ofi" from the sea, not even to look in a book : I had 
 
 not seen the sea for sixteen years. Mrs. M , who was 
 
 with us, kept her liking, and continued her seat in the 
 window till the very last, while Charles and I played 
 truants, and wandered among the hills, which we magnified 
 into little mountains, and almost as good as Westmoreland 
 scenery : certainly we made discoveries of many pleasant 
 walks, which few of the Brighton visitors have ever 
 di-eamed of — for like as is the case in the neiglib-'rhood 
 of London, after the first two or three miles we ^s^.■ie sure 
 to find ourselves in a perfect solitude. I hope we shall 
 meet before the walking faculties of either of us fail ; you 
 flay you can walk fifteen miles with ease ; that is exactly 
 my stint, and more fatigues me ; four or five miles every 
 third or fourth day, keeping very quiet between, was all 
 Mrs. M could accomplish. 
 
MARY LAMli. 325 
 
 " God bless you and yours. Love to all and each one. 
 " I am ever yours most affectionately, 
 
 "M. Lamb" 
 
 Of that deeper veui of sentiment in Mary Lamb, sel- 
 dom revealed, the following passages from a letter to the 
 same lady, referring to the death of a brother of her be- 
 loved correspondent, maybe offered as a companion speci- 
 men. 
 
 " My dear Miss Wordsworth. — I thank you, my kinc\ 
 friend, for your most comfortable letter; till I saw your 
 own handwriting I could not persuade myself that I should 
 do well to Avrite to you, though I have often attempted it; 
 but I always left off dissatisfied with what I had written, 
 and feeling that I was doing an improper thing to intrude 
 upon your sorrow. I wished to tell you that you would 
 one day feel the kind of peaceful state of mind and sweet 
 memory of the dead, which you so happily describe as 
 now almost begun ; but I felt that it was improper, and 
 most grating to the feelings of the afflicted, to say to them 
 that the memoi'y of their affection Avould in time become 
 a constant part, not only of their dream, but of their most 
 wakeful sense of happiness. Tiiat you would see every 
 object with and through your lost brother, and that that 
 would at last become a real and everlasting source of 
 comfort to you, I felt, and well knew, from my own ex- 
 perience in sorrow; but till you yourself liegau to i\v\ 
 this I did not dare tell you so; but I scud you some poor 
 lines which I Avrote under this convictinu of miinl, und 
 before I heard Coleridge was returning Ikiuu'. I wili 
 transcribe them now, before I finish my letter, lest a false 
 shame prevent me then, for I know they are much wordt; 
 28 
 
S26 LAST EAKTIILY REMAINS. 
 
 than they ought to be, written, as they were, with strong 
 feeling, and on such a subject ; every line seems to me to 
 be borrowed, but I had no better way of expressing my 
 thoughts, and I never have the power of altering or 
 amending anythmg I have once laid aside with dissatis- 
 faction. 
 
 " Wby is he wandering on the sea ? — 
 Coleridge should now with Wordsworth bo. 
 By slow degrees he'd steal away 
 Their woe, and gently bring a ray 
 (So happily he'd time relief,) 
 Of comfort from their very grief. 
 He'd tell them that their brother dead, 
 When years have passed o'er their head, 
 Will be remembered with such holy, 
 True, and perfect melancholy, 
 That ever this lost brother John 
 Will be their heart's companion. 
 His voice they'll always hear, 
 
 His face they'll always see, 
 There's nought in life so sweet 
 
 As such a memory." 
 
 The excellence of Mary Lamb's nature "vvtis happily de- 
 veloped in her portion of those books for children — " wisest, 
 virtuousest, discreetest, best," — whicli she Avrote in con- 
 junction with her brother, the "Poetry for Children," the 
 " Tales from Shakspcare," and " Mrs. Leicester's School." 
 How different from the stony nutriment provided for those 
 delicate, apprehensive, affectionate creatures, in the utili- 
 tarian books, whicli starve their little hearts, and stuff their 
 little heads -with shallow science, and impertinent facta, 
 and selfish morals ! One verse which she did not print — 
 the concluhiuii of a little poem supposed to be cxpre.--sed in 
 a letter by the son of a family "who, v.hin expecting the re- 
 turn of its father from sea, received news of his death, re- 
 cited by her to Mr. Martin Burney, and retained in his 
 
LAST EARTHLY REMAINS. 327 
 
 fond recollection, may afford a concluding example of the 
 healtliful wisdom of her lessons : — 
 
 " I can no longer feign to be 
 A thoughtless child in infancy ; 
 I tried to write like young Marie, 
 
 But I am James her brother ; 
 And I can feel — but she's too young — 
 Yet blessings on her prattling tongue, 
 
 She sweetly soothes mj' mother." 
 
 Contrary to Lamb's expectation, ^Yho feared (as also his 
 friends feared with him) the desolation of his own surviv- 
 orship, which the difference of age rendered probable, Mis3 
 Lamb survived him for nearly eleven years. When he died 
 she was mercifully in a state of partial estrangement, which, 
 while it did not wholly obscure her mind, deadened her 
 feelings, so that as slie gradually regained her perfect senses, 
 she felt as gradually the full force of the blow, and was 
 the better able calmly to bear it. For awhile she declined 
 the importunities of her friends, that she would leave Ed- 
 monton for a residence nearer London, wlirre they might 
 more frequently visit her. He Avas there, asleep in the 
 old churchyard, beneath the turf near which they had 
 stood together, and bad selected for a resting-place ; to this 
 spot she used, when well, to stroll out mournfully in the 
 evening, and to tiiis spot she would contrive to ]ea<l any 
 friend Avho came in the summer evenings to drink tea and 
 went out with her afterwards for a walk.* At length, as 
 
 * The following Sonnet, by Mr. Mo.von, written at thif period of tranquil 
 padoess in Miss Lamb's life, so beautifully einl)odies llio reverential lovo with 
 wliic^i the sleeping and tlie [niiuriiiug were rcganled by one of ;heir nearest 
 friends, that I gratify ni.vseif by extracting it from the ehnrming little vu'.uuis 
 61 jis Sonnets, which it adorns : 
 
 Here sleeps benentli tlii.-' bunk, wire dairies ;;row, 
 The kiiiilliesl sprite ciirlb boKls wilbin licr brenst • 
 In such a spot I would t)ds friinic slioulj rest, 
 
 When I to jdiii my fricud lur hence shab gi). 
 
328 LAST EARTHLY REMAINS. 
 
 her illness became more frequent, and her frame much 
 weaker, she Avas induced to take up her abode under genial 
 care, at a pleasant house in St. John's Wood, where she 
 was surrounded by the old books and prints, and was fre- 
 quently visited by her reduced number of surviving friends. 
 Repeated attacks of her malady weakened her mind, but 
 she retained to the last her sweetness of disposition unim- 
 paired, and gently sunk into death on the 20th May, 1847. 
 A few survivors of the old circle, now sadly thinned, at- 
 tended her remains to the spot in Edmonton churchyard, 
 where they were laid above those of her brother. With 
 them was one friend of later days — but who had become 
 to Lamb as one of his oldest companions, and for whom 
 Miss Lamb cherished a strong regard — Mr. John Forster, 
 the author of "The Life of Goldsmith," in which Lamb 
 would have rejoiced, as written in a spirit congenial with 
 his own. In accordance with Lamb's own feeling, so far 
 as it could be gathered from his expressions on a subject 
 to which he did not often, or willingly, refer, he had been 
 interred in a deep grave, simply dug, and wattled round, 
 but without any affectation of stone or brick-work to keep 
 the human dust from its kindred earth. So dry, however, 
 is the soil of the quiet churchyard that the excavated earth 
 left perfect walls of stiff clay, and permitted us just to 
 catch a glimpse of the still untarnished edges of the coffin 
 in which all the mortal part of one of the most delightful 
 
 Uis only mate is now the minstrel liirk, 
 
 Wbo ohants her morniii!; music o'er his bed, 
 Save she who comes each evening, ere th'; bark , 
 
 Of watch liog gathers drow.sy folds, to shed 
 A sister's tears. Kind llcavon, upon hur head, 
 
 Do thou in dove-like );uise thy spirit pnnr, 
 And in her aged path some ficjwerets spread 
 
 Of earthly joy. should Time for her in store 
 Have weary days and nights, ere she shidl greet 
 Uim wliom slie longs in Paradise to meet. 
 
LAST EARTHLY REMAINS. 329 
 
 persons wlio ever lived was contained, and on which the 
 remains of her he had loved with love " passing the love 
 of woman" were henceforth to rest ; — the last glances we 
 shall ever have even of that covering ; — concealed from us 
 as we parted by the coffin of the sister. We felt, I be- 
 lieve, after a moment's strange shuddering, that the re- 
 union was well accomplished; and although the true- 
 hearted son of Admiral Burney, who had known and loved 
 the pair we quitted from a child, and who had been among 
 the dearest objects' of existence to him, refused to be com- 
 forted, — even he will now join the scanty remnant of their 
 friends in the softened remembrance that "they were 
 lovely in their lives," and own with them the consolation 
 of adding, at last, " that in death they are not divided !" 
 
 THE END.